Waverley Library (Octavo Edition) (v. 1) (1884 07 29)
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POCKET EDITION. we ras — EBL ELS, VoL | 2380 PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, bce, Ni. 40) = THE BROKEN BETROTHAL: ; Or, LOVE VERSUS HATE. ; BY MARY GRACE HALPINE. CHAPTER I. A MAWS HEART AND A WOMAN’S SOUL. > ~ ‘Hw is not coming!” ~ The dark eyes of the speaker were lifted im- | Patiently to the clock upon the mantle, the tp 4 a Year. No. 98 William Street, New York. Five Cents. . * | rr ‘3 . +35 ; te PARDON THIS SEEMING INTRUSION, LADY,’’ SAID THE STRANGER, IN A LOW, SWEET VOICE, ‘*My BUSINESS IS URGENT.” minute-hand of which was traveling remorseless- ly past the hour to which she had been looking forward witn such glad anticipations all the long day. She could not have been much over twenty, her round, full form displaying the graceful contour of early womanhood. The features were regular, though the lips were fuller and the brows too heavy to taka the general effect of the face pleasing, especially in her present mood. Teu, fifteen, twenty minutes passed. The
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ae. _ it, and so didhe, ~~ 2: THE BROKEN BETROTHAL. { . se straight, black brows nearly met, while the gloom that overspread the face deepened to positive anger. sane ‘He bas broken bis word again; he will not come to-night!” : These words had scarcely passed her lips, when the sudden clang of a gate broke the still- ness outside, followed by a leisurely, though firm footfall upon the graveled walk that led to the door, The transformation that it wrought in that lowering face was something wonderful to be- hold; the light, bloom and sparkle that came to it made it hardly recognizable, She wus wv uw avo ve.ore it opened, throw- ing herself into the arms of the man who stood on the threshold with an abandonment of jo in strong contrast with the languid, distract air of her visitor, who received her caresses and murmured words of endearment as something that was his due, and which called for no par- ticular demonstration on his part. He was about the medium hight, elegantly formed, with aface that would have been called handsome by those who like the type of beauty it embodies. It was strongly sensuous, despite a certain air of refinement, ths result af his edu- cation and surroundings, ~ He looked like a man. who would be good or bad as the impulse seized him, who lived for present enjoyment, with scarcely a thought be yon ; With his fair companion still clinging to his hands, he threw himself upon the lounge. “Twas beginning to fear that you were not — ‘‘ Will and Steve Marsden were down this afternoon. I came as soon as I could get away. \ The bright face clouded. It was not business, then, that detained him, as she had hoped, but these gay young fellows, who had not one tithe the love for, the claim on him, which was hers. It was easy to perceive, in glancin from.one to the other, that they both possessed the same. impulsive, undisciplined nature, and that what, at first was a mutual attraction might, in the end, be a source of discord and variance. att ies days since you were here last.” This, together with the tone in which it was spoken, completed the measure of Josie’s dis- content. The cloud ey aes on the brow; all the tormenting doubts, the jealous fears, that had vanished in her joy at her lover’s return, came back with redoubled force. “They have seemed very long to me; the time has been when they would have seemed long to you, also.” ‘ | *‘ And the time has been when you received | me with something else besides reproaches,” Josie was silent; the hardly-drawn breath and _ heaving bosom alone bearing witness to the struggle it cost her to repress the words, burn- ing and fierce as her own fierce, untamed na- ture, which arose to her lips, but to which she dared not give utterance. ' Thisman held her heart in his hand; she knew **T cannot help it! Oh! John, you seem so _ changed, so different from what you were when | 1 Fis you first came to. see me. Do you, really, love me as well now as then?” ; There was something in this passionate out- burst that touched John Remmington’s heart, a heart more selfish and thoughtless than hard and unfeeling. He pressed his lips caressingly upon the fore- head that was resting against his shoulder. “Of course I love you, Josie; the a you complain of isin you, not me. I wish | could see you once more the merry, cheerful girl you were when I first knew you. Now you are jealous without any cause, and miserable at the east disappointment.” Josie lifted her head from the shoulder where it rested. “You don’t understand me, John; it is not these things, in themselves, which so torture me, Your presence is the very life and joy of my soul, but I could endure to be parted from you long abd weary months if I were only sure that you loved me. Itis the loss of your love that I fear. 1 can bear anything but that, any- thing but that?!” There was an uneasy look in the eyes that rested on that dark, impassioned face; the adoring love that this beautiful girl lavished so freely upon him had been very grateful to his vanity, and was so still, But there was some- thing in the fierce vehemence of the passion he had inspired that not only startled him but op- pressed him with a vague sense of fear. To him it was but an episode, a pleasant variation to the monotony of hfs dull ]#e in that out-of-the-way place. It pleased his self-love to see how she hung upon his words, how a frown or smile could bring the clouds or sunshine to her face; and he had gone on from day to day and from week to week, thinking only of the present enjoyment, with not a thought beycnd. But she—she was terribly in earnest. The large black eyes were full of tears, the cheeks pale, while the hand he took was cold and quiv- a an aspen. bi , Josie, what has come over you, that you look and speak so strangely?” _ JT will tell you. Cousin Jenny was here yes- terday. She told me that people were talkin about your coming here so much; that they aed you were trifling with me; that you would never think of marrying a pcor, nameless girl like me.” The man shrunk visibly from the questioning look that accompanied these words, . ste part girl, I have been very frank with you from the first. I am entirely dependent upon my father, a proud, stern man, who would certainly object. very strongly to my marrying a poor girl. My marriage is something neces- sarily so remote that it is hardly worth while to |. dwell upon it now; but when I do marry it will va woman that I love, you may be sure of at. A soft, bright color came into the cheeks at | the caress which followed these words, ‘and _ which she had evidently interpreted as he in- - tended she should, Vague as was all they im- plied, they satisfied her. ' Josie lifted her head from the embrace to which she was folded. ~ ‘ ; “T can wait years, darling, if Iam only sure _
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_It is my opinion tha THE BROKEN of your love. Say fhat you love no one else as . you love me!” ‘‘T love no one else as I love you!” But even as these words Remmington’s lips, there glided up before his mental vision a fair, girlish face; he felt the soft touch of the hand that was laid in his five years before; heard the faint, tremulous voice from the lips of the dying blessing his be- trothal, Half an hour later, Josie stood dow in the bright moonlight, wate passed John | hee the win- | ng the re- | ting form of her lover until it disappeared | i _ tion. in a curve of the road. Now that he was gone, who exercised over | her such a strange and subtile fascination, a feeling of uneasiness and dissatisfaction crept | over her. She had not said to him what she meant to have said, nor had he said to her what she had hoped to hear from him. ‘atherless and brotherless, there had been no one to question him as to the meanin. of the attentions he had paid her all the summer long, and the modesty that was inherent in her na- ture, in spite of all her faults, made her reluc- tant to suggest what the unerring instincts of pen sex taught her should come alone from im, He had been profuse in his professions of love and admiration, but she taxed her memory vainly to discover anything that could be tor- tured into a promise of marriage. Indeed he seemed to avoid the subject of marriage, even in a genera! senso,,turning it off with a jest whenever she led the way to it, as she some- times had, of late, in order to sound him. She had made up her mind that she would have a definite gpbecatit ce that evening, and it had passed like every other; reproaches on her part followed Fe protestations on his, pre- testations which, en out into the sunlight, meant little or nothing.” In the meantime John Remmington took his way to his bacheior apartments at the ‘‘ Eagle,” where he found a letter waiting for him. Breaking the seal, he made himself master of its contents; and looking over his shoulder, reader, we will do the same. “Son Jorm:—If you do not want to lose your be- trothed wife and the rich dowry she will bring her husband, come home immediately. Walter a high opinion. A Quixotic act of his—an account of which I presume you have seen, as it was in all the papers—has dare, this favorable impression. she is more than interested in him. Poor as Walter is, and hard as he has had to toil and drudge to get his education, it can’t be de- nied but what he is a handsome, fine-looking fel- low, with a manly, agreeable way with him, that is very taking, especially with women; and unless you come on, urging be her the solemn claim that her father gave you, there is no knowing what will hap- n. a There is one thing you may be sure of—your cousin is not a woman to fall, like a ripe peach, into any man’s mouth, She is a girl to be wooed; and if - you don’t win her some one else will. “ Another thing, I have lost heavily during the ast yest. T have now only my estate at Brough- n, the income of which barely support me. Go, if you let this rich prize slip through your fin- m- | mington is here, of whom Trene always entertained | BETROTHAL, - ee — to ure, sweet face, which certainly was not of the osie Harmon style of beauty. Perhaps its very contrast to the dark-eyed, dark-browed beauty he had just left, and of which his fickle heart was beginning to tire, was its chief attrac- He could hardly bring himself to believe that age the pale, shy girl who stood with him at the bedside of her dying father, and whose big blue eyes gazed out upon him with a look he never forgot. ‘By Jove!” he cried, ‘‘it is the sweetest, love- liest face I ever looked uron! Surrender beau- aor this, and half a million, to my cousin alter? Not if I know myself!” The early dawn of the following sagt found John packing his “traps,” as he called them, preparatory to taking the first train Hast. According to bis usual habit, he delayed the most oa ange es part of his preparations as long as é. , hen everything else was done, he went to his desk, and unlocking a small drawer, poured its contents out upon it. ) It consisted only of some perfumed notes, — an embroidered watch-case, a few withered flowers, : John glanced at them with a half-frown of impatience and annoyance, and then, as if anx- ious to get them out of his sight, thrust them into a large envelope. As he did so, a long, jetty curl fell from out a folded paper, coiling itself around his wrist. He shook it off as if it had been a viper. How well he remembered the evening he sev- ered it from its sister locks, and all the passion- ate protestations he uttered. The fire had burned to ashes; a new fancy had taken possession of his fickle heart. And with a feeling of contempt at his folly, that ex- tended to the unhreppy girl he had so cruelly wronged, he thrust it among the other memen- toes, and seizing a pen began to write. He wrote half a page, and then, with a mut- tered ‘‘Pshaw!” tcre it up. Commenced an- other, and tore that up, also. Glancing at his watch, he saw that he had barely time to catch the train. } Taking another sheet he scrawled upon it the simple word; ‘‘ FAREWELL!” ; ’ Placing it in the envelope, he directed it to Josie Harmon. ; Then seizing a small valise, he went, down- irs, leaving the package at the clerk’s office as he passed through. : . Though thoroughly selfish, preferring his own ease and comfort to any one else’s, John Rem- mington was not a cruel man, in the ordinary acceptation of the word. He would sooner give pleasure than pain, if it did not require too much personal exertion and sacrifice on his part. . 1 gets, you have only two alternatives, go to. work, or — Pare Tae, ee
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4 THE BROKEN BETROTHAL Os : 7 ay 3 ee nr LL matter that had perplexed him not a little, of late, though the sense of relief predominated. “7 have not really harmed the girl,” he said to himself, as be took a seat in the cars, that were bearing him swiftly away. “I’ve only flirted with her, as I have done with scores of others. If she is so simple-minded as to think me in earnest, it isn’t my fault. She'll marry a better man who will make her happier than ever I could, If I had taken dishonorable ad- vantage of her love, as some men would, the case would be different.” And consoling himself with the thought that he was not an irredeemable vill that there was “‘a lower deep” to which he might have sunk, John took from his vest-pocket his cousin’s picture, alternately feasting his eyes upon its rare beauty, and indulging in gay visions of all he would do when he got possession of the wealth she would bring him. es yl have a yacht, and the fastest horse I can find! Then, as his thoughts reverted to his father’s letter, his face darkened, “T wonder what he meant by Walter’s ‘ Quix- otic act,’ and which was in all the papers. haven't looked at a paper for the last fortnight. Walter was my rival—my successful rival—at school and at college, winning golden opinions from every one, but let him not cross my path in this! If be does, ke’ll be sorry for it to the latest day of his life!” CHAPTER II. ' AN UNEXPECTED MEETING. As Irene Carlton heard the clatter of horses feet back of her, she drew the rein upon her docile, well-trained pony. Perhaps it was the nap bere going to Tower- Hill? The visits of tbe postman were quite an event to the me ay of that lonely, out-of- the-way place. But her first glance at the stalwart form of the rider showed her mistake. There was something in the figure and car- riage of the head that seemed strangely famil iar, but it was not until he lifted the broad- brimmed hat from the bronzed face beneath that she Pi oxi him, alter!” she cried, in a tone of de- lighted surprise. “ Miss Carlton?” repeated Irene, reproach- fully. The smile that touched the lips had a trans- forming effect upon the face, almost too grave for his years. He held warmly, fora moment, the gloved hand extended to him. ... “ Cousin Trene, then.” As the two rode along, side by side, in the broad country road, Irene glanced up at the bronzed and bearded face, wondering at the pope three years had wrought in her compan- ion. ‘‘ How greatly he has improved!” she thought. _ She blushed slightly as she met the eyes fixed tently upon her face. i was thinking how you had altered.” "T was having the same thought of you.” “Time works wonders.” *“Tt does, indeed!” : The tone in which this was spoken, that honest look of admiration, made the roses. bloom still more brightly in Irene’s cheeks If the young man had put all that he felt into. words, it would not have been any more clear, or half sc eloquent. His was one of those ae though stron na- 1 tures, which find it d cult to express their feelings in words. And it is doubtful as to whether he would have done so, in this instance, had it been otherwise. But the warmth, the joy that gave to that lovely spring day such caded bloom and fra- grance found utterance in the tonesof his voice, as he said: F “Tt almost seems as if you came down from the clouds. I certainly never expected to see you in this dull, out-of-the-way place,” “Tt is dull,” confessed Irene, with a half- sigh; I should never have chosen it for myself. e—aunt Remmington and myself—are stop- ping at Tower-Hill,’ ‘*Tower-Hill!” echoed Walter; ‘how did you come to choose that feta It is nearly a mile from the village, and with no advantage that I know of except its isolation and loneliness.” “Tt was uncle Remmington’s choice, not mine. He thought that it would be better for my aunt, in her present state ef health, to be where there was no company or excitement. I did not know you were located at Crawford. Do you not find it dull?” “‘T have been here only a few months. No, I can’t say that I find it dull. I am very busy. There is nothing like having plenty to do to keep away the blues.” As Irene looked at the strong, self-reliant face, she thought he was not one who would be likely to be troubled with the blues. ‘So you are practicing your profession?” The head, with its rings of chestnut hair, was again bared to the sunshine. With alow bow, he said: ; “Tama country doctor; very much at Miss Carlton’s service.’ “You don’t look a bit like one!” laughed. Irene. ‘However, I am glad to find that you meet with so much success as to be in such great demand.” ae The young doctor smiled. “That is according as to how you look at it, I have a good many patients, but they are not very remunerative. In fact, some of them de- tract from, rather than add. to my income. ° Here comes one of them now.” A turn in the road brought a quaint, rustic figure into view, clad in a cotton gown and gingham apron, not over clean, and much the worse for wear. Partly hidden by a faded shawl that was wrapped around it, a baby lay sleeping on her arm, As soon as she saw Walter, she pushed back the sun-bonnet from her head; revealing a face young, and yet so old—young in years, but old with the cares and sorrows of maternity, sharp- ened Py pores and grinding toil. ‘“*Good-morning, Mrs. Brown! How is baby !”
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i THE BROKEN BETROTHAL. 5 * A deal better, thank you, doctor.” 8 if in corroboration of this statement, baby opened his round, bright, wondering eyes. Let me see.” _ Taking the child from its mother’s arms, Wak held it up where he could get a clearer view of the little wan face. ‘ x ‘He is coing famously.” “He hag spells of worryin’,” said the anxious Mother + ‘It’s his teeth, together with what you gave im. Let him have no more soothing syrup; : Mrs, Brown, but plenty of bread and milk, an air and sunshine, and he’ll come out ail right. He’s a fine little fellow, and will live to be a amous man—one of our future Presidents, who knows!” There was actually a smile upon the mother’s f. Seine heghibely ace, as Water laid the child ck in her arms, “Thank’ee, doctor.. I’m sure it’s all your dewin’s that he’s alive to-day. He was a dret- ; sick child when we sent fur ye. I dun know Ow in the world I’m goin’ tew pay ye for’t. ve got some proper nice yarn, that I spun my- Self; an’ if.it so be that you'd like some woolen 80cks fur next winter—” ‘We'll wait till next winter comes,” inter- Tupted Walter. ‘‘Where are you taking the little man?” ‘To mother’s. I’m going to the village, an’ Calk’late to leave him there till I come back. 1S grandma’s ’mazin’ fond of him.” _ “That’s right. Take him out every day, if Possible,” Walter cast a half-apologecical, half-comical look at Irene as they moved on. “This is dull music for you, cousin. But, if ‘is will claim relationship with a country doc- . r, on his daily rounds, you must take the con- 3 uences!” E ‘Indeed, I was much interested in the poor Woman,” returned Irene, inwardly resenting the plication that she was only a fashionable but- rily, which she fancied her cousin considered her. ““‘T am glad we met her. What a differ- €nt look she had when she went on. It almost Seemed like another face.” _ _ ‘Well, yes; a cheering word or a smile has a _. Wonderful effect upon these poor, discouraged Souls, into whose life there falls so little sun- . ee often doing them more good than medi- t “TI see so much wretchedness and ow hat [ am unable to relieve,”’ resumed Walter, after a pause, ‘that I often think what a bless- €d thing it must be to be rich.” ,4rene clored, as she thought how little she had realized her blessedness in this respect. .. 1 am afraid that 1 have thought very little -%f this—as yet.” ‘ in alter smiled as he looked upon the frank, Senuous face. rf ay ou have plenty of time before you, and Plenty of ways and opportunities by which oe ce can make up for all deficiencies in the . bast. ; = be * Ah, but I shall expect your help in regard id to the latter.” ee P - ¢. I shall only be too glad to render it. I know be of so Many cases where a little money judi- ne Slously expended, would do so much good.’ * Dr. Rerhimington made a few brie? calls ay some houses scattered along the road, and then turned up the steep, narrow one that led to Tower-Hill. ; $47 hope T am not taking you out of your way, cousin? .““No; I have finished my route in this direc- tion. All the rest of my patients are beyond.” Irene lcoked at the er, } How profuse most men of her acquaintance would have been in their protestations of the pleasure it gave them to accompany her! said nothing; but there was something in his - look and manner whick made her quite sure that it was a pleasure to him. 4 “When were you in Concord last?” ~~ ‘I attended some medical lectures there last winter.” “ Perhaps you did not know I was in town?” Walter was too honest to dissimulate. ** Yes, I knew it.” “* And never came to me?” Not caring to give the real reason, the rude- 4 ness and discourtesy of her guardian, Walter was silent. Perhaps Irene had some suspicion as to how it was, for she hastened to say: “Never mind, now; I will forgive you this time. Only see that you don’t repeat it!” Irene shook her finger laughingly at her cousin us she said this. They were now in front of the building known for miles around as Tower-Hill, so named from the tower that ran up to quite a hight from the - main part of it. had It was quite pretentious in its design, only a part of it being completed. "The owner dying — while it was in the course of erection, and his» estate being somewhat involved, his heirs never —__ finished it. 4 Springing from his horse, Walter assisted his cousin from the carriage, ‘ee as a serving-man came around from the stables. : *“You will come in to lunch?” Walter looked down into the bright, wistful face of the ker. ‘‘You must not tempt me,” he said, shaking —_ his head. “I have ascore more calls to make i before 1 can lunch. But I shall come—you may : be sure of my ccming. I shall surely claim a cousin’s right to enliven your solitude.” — Attracted by the gay voices outside, a lady had come to the window, and stood looking out upon them, It Walter saw her, he did not seem to do so. As for Irene, she was too uncertain as to what reception he would meet with to make any movement that would require a recogni- tion. “In the name of goodness who was that?” sh inquired, as lrene entered. ree ““Who do you think?’ was the laughing re- onse, Pe Some one you was glad to see, I should say,” ae ia i at ¥ eta ‘> returned Mrs. mire as she looked upon the glowing face of the ker. “His face looked familiar. It wasn’t one of the St. Legers, — was it?” “Tt was Walter Remmington.” bea’ The elder lady’s face underwent a very sensi- ble elongation. . * Y
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er yee ee “Walter Remmin he was in this part of the country.” “Neither did I. Butit seems that he is prac- acy vicinity, and boarding at the vil- e hotel. “Why didn’t ycu ask him in?” inquired Mrs. Remmington, in the querulous tone of self-in- dulgent, habitual invalidism. ‘‘ We don’t have any too much company in this dull place, good- ness knows!” “T did; I asked him in tolunch. But he had several more calls to make, so he said. He seems to be very faithful and attentive to busi- ! I didn’t know that ness.” “He has to be!” said Mrs, Remmington, her nose taking a decided upward turn, “I don’t suppose he has a cent to his name, except what he earns, I remember bim when he was a tow- headed boy, living with his mother in a miser- able|tenement-house on Pigeon’s lane, His mo- ther took in sewing. They were wretchedly oor. I don’t suppose they had enough to eat, lf of the time.” Trene’s eyes fairly shone with indignation, ’ © And where was uncle all this time, and m father—God forgive him—when their brother's widow and child were in such extremity as this? And you—could you not have parted with some of your superfluities to have shielded them from hunger and cold?” Mrs. Remmington drew herself up stiffly. ‘Tt was a matter of principle with me, niece —-indeed, I may say with all of us—not to inter- fere. Walter's father married beneath him, and as people make their bed, so they have to lie on it Mary Evans had no one but herself to thank for all her misfortunes. If she had married a man in her own walk of life, instead of seeking to entrap with her pretty face and sly, artful ways one so far above her, she would have been spared any such experience. — I, Heed one, hadn’t a particle of sympathy for r. “TY know from the best authority that aunt Mary was far too sensible and self-respectin to seek to entrap any man; her husband lov and honored her to the day of his death, and her son speaks of her with the utmost reverence and affection. And even if she were all you say, it does not justify her husband’s relations, wealthy as they were, in refusing to provide for - x “She had only her own obstinacy to thank for it. ‘Your grandpa Remmington offered to give her so much a week, and to take Walter entirely off her hands, educate and provide for him, and she positively refused to let him go. After that, of course, none of us would have anything todo with her.” ‘And I honor her for it! What mother, with ” a mother’s feelings, would give up her child, at | such a tender age, promising never to see or claim him? It was shameful to exact such a condition!” f . Here the lunch-bell sounded, and without waiting for a reply, Irene picked up her hat and gloves, which had fallen to the floor, and ran up ‘her own room. | | ' she said, with some assumption of di THE BROKEN BETROTHAL CHAPTER ITI. MANAGING AN AUNT. Tum next day was Sunday. The weather was delightfully clear and ol sant; and as this was the only opportunity 5 Remmington had for airing her fine attire, she decided to accompany Irene to church. Walter was there, as Irene had hoped, and speak. bytes service was over came forward to er, The two, Irene and her aunt, were just going down the steps. The former paused, but. the latter continued on, her eyes looking straight before her, until she reached the carriage, which’ was sible. Here, in spite of her resolution to entirely ig- nore Walter, her curiosity got the better of hei, and she glanced back to where the two were standing, and upon whom the loftiness with which she swept down the steps was evidentiy quite thrown away. Walter’s hight and position made him very conspicuous. “He, certainly, is very fine-looking,” she thought, ‘‘and has quite an air; almost distin- ished—or would be if he was fashionably p ere she added, surveying critically the cut of the coat, which was not of the latest style; as she expressed it, “‘ ages’ behind the times.” They seemed to have quite forgotten her; a state of things she was not given to encourag- drawn up as close to the entrance as pos- ing in those around her. So there was an addi- tional sharpness to her voice as she cried out: “ Are you not coming, Irene?’ _Thus admonished, Irene came down the steps, Walter moving along by her side with such an assured and confident bearing that made it dif- ficult for Mrs. Remmington to carry out the programme she had laid/down for herself. Walter met serenely that cold, well-bred stare, bowing with an air of mingled deference and self-respect which showed that he was not a man easily put down, “Dr. Remmington, aunt,” said Irene, pur pose. ignoring the relationship between the wo. Then, as if to show that she did not lose sight of it, in reference to herself, she went on tosay: “fT have invited cousin Walter to dine with us.’ Now, though the establishment was nominal- ly in her guardian’s name, and though Irene ac- corded to her uncle and aunt the deference due to their position as her nearest living relatives, the money that supported it was drawn from the well-filled coffers of the young hejress, who, however generous she might be in their interpre- _ tation, had no thought of yielding up her reserv-— ed rights, Mrs. Remmington was well aware of this. She saw that she was ou with all the grace she could muster, “Dr. Remmington is very welcome, niece,” ty, b on the whole more graciously than Irene had expected. ‘I’m afraid my neuralgia won’t be much im- | proved by standing so long in this draught,” she added, with a reproachful glance at her niece. “ Allow me, 6.” ? neraled, and yielded — ut
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“a } ma) aeons. eae * THE BROKEN BETROTHAL, And before Mrs. Remmington had time of | occasion for any further complaint, she foun herself comfortably seated in one corner of the Carriage, Irene beside her, and the object of her Unreasoning aversion sitting opposite, and the whole three on their way to Tower-Hill, ., Few could be brought into such close proxim- ity to Walter and be unaffected by the health- ul influence of his genial smile and manner; gradually the ice began to melt around Mrs, mmington’s heart. Irene listened in amused silence to her aunt’s Minute description of the various symptoms of all her real and fancied ailments, the rehearsal of which always seemed to afford her more Pleasure than any thing else; noting and ad- Iniring the tact with which Walter gradually ed her away from this morbid introspection and which was half the secret of her habitua ill-health, Walter was too honest to feign what he did not feel; he really felt sorry for the pale, ner- vous-looking woman, whose fancied ailments Were so real to her, and exerted himself to amuse and interest her, succeeding beyond what Irene had supposed it possible. She had gone to church with the intention of asking Walter to go home with them, if she had an opportunity; still she had looked forward to is meeting with her aunt with no little trepi- dation. But Walter’s apparent ‘unconsciousness that this lady had not the most friendly feelings for Him, and ready adaptation to the circumstances &round him, soon put her quite at ease, The dinner hour passed very pleasantly, Irene had seldom seen her aunt in such good Spirits. _ After dinner, the three went into the garden, Just bursting into bloom and fragrance. Then they adjourned to the drawing-room, where cof- fee was served, a favorite beverage with Mrs. mmington. 3 After this, there was music. ‘ ene never played other than sacred mhisic on that day—as Mrs. Remmington informed her | uest in a very dissatisfied tone—and as Walter stened to that soft, clear voice, he thought that he had never heard those sweet and solemn . tunes so beautifully rendered, His voice was a rich barytone; and asthe two blended so harmoniously, even Mrs. Remming- | ton, who was reclining upon a sofa, and who Was not partial to that kind of music, could but | acknowledge that ‘it sounded very nicely, very _ cely indeed.” Walter then arose to take leave; pleading his © Professional duties, from which even Sunday d not exempt him. , : rs. Remmington was cotirteous enough to ©xpress the regrets that she really felt at this announcement, saying very gracicusly: “We are necessarily very much by ourselves in this remote place, and I'trust that Dr. Rem- mington will drop in upon us as often as his du- ties will permit.” Irene followed Walter out upon the porch, “Of course you will come, cousin Walter. Want to hear more about the poor people you can best told me about yesterday, and how I help them.” 3 ch . ‘go out every pleasant morning, yousay. TI will Walter smiled as he looked upon that bright, | eager face. ; You would do them the most good, I y> by going among them, and finding out wants for yourself,” HORE: “That is the very pre) I want to do, the very thing I mean to do, you will tell me how and where to find them.” So ; ; ‘Tf you are really in earnest, I willcome and take you around to some of them myself You come to-morrow morning, if you think you will be at leisure. But I give you fair warning that you will not find some of the ye very plea~ sant to enter. It is only the ‘ideal poor, in nov- els, that are always immaculately clean, how- ever wretched their surroundings. In real life, it is too often very different. So, if you_think better of it to-morrow morning, when I call, you have only to tell me so.” Trene laughingly assured him ‘“ that she should not think better of it, and that he ought to think better of her than to suppose if.” — - When Irene returned to her aunt, she found that she had undergone that reaction of feeling to which she was subject. “What could you have been talking about so long on the porch?” “So long!” laughed Irene, “why, I wasn’ there ten minutes. I was asking cousin Walter about some poor people he wanted me to visit.” — “ And you'll g0, I suppose; and get all man- ner of diseases?’ Here Mrs. Remmington raised herself up to a sitting posture, regarding her niece with a look of horror that made her smile. “Yes, I shall go, but there is no danger of that. Cousin Walter would not be likely to take me where there is any infectious disease.” *« And are you going with him ?” “it he comes for me. He said he would do Mrs. Remmington’s mind was too shallow to entertain readily two sets of ideas, but it now began-to be oppressed with a vague sense of un- easiness, especially as she remembered the part- ing ee of her husband. ‘I don’t know what your uncle will say.” “T don’t know why he should consider it’ necessary to say anything.” “But he is your guardian, you know, and might consider it his duty. Grandpa Remming- ton was never reconciled to your uncle Arthur, and the foolish course taken by his widow only served to widen the breach. And now—” ‘““My dear aunt,” interrupted Irene, ‘do let andpa and uncle Arthur rest in their grave gether with all the unhappy differences tha’ estranged them. All this happened beforo I was born; and I don’t see what it has to do with my riding out with Walter, or giving him the cousinly regard to which he is entitled.” «* And then there is—there is John, you know.” Trene’s eyes flashed with unconcealed scorn, — “T know there is. But so long as I don’t in- terfere with his movements, I don’t know why ne should interfere with mine, It you please, 80 I aunt, we won't talk about John.” Mrs. Remmington was not over and above k leased with this rather cavalier treatmentof er only son. ' sh Seo "H¢
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o> -very gentlemanly, indeed, considering.” 4s Co: 9”? “§ THE BROKEN “Y don’t know why. I should think the man your father selected for your husband a person to about.” ; Irene made no reply, and Mrs, Remmington continued: “Not that I have anything to say against your cousin, who seems to be a nice young man; nsidering w. __“ Why, considering his advantages, and—and circumstances.” : “I conceive cousin Walter to be a man who would be a gentleman under any and all cir- tumstances, ouand uncle may ignore your relationship to him, but I am proud of it; and think you will be, some day.” CHAPTER IV. A BRAVE, TRUE MAN. THREE weeks later, at the close of a pleasant day in June, Walter stood upon the veranda of the hotel where he was boarding. He had just returned from Tower-Hill, which, from its elevated position and peculiar form, could be seen from the place where he stood. The three last. weeks had been the pleasantest in his whole life, yet they recalled no. ve peasant thoughts, as could be seen by his troubled face, as he reviewed them. - His last interview with Irene had given him a sudden revelation of his feelings for the fair and Jovely girl, with whom he had been thrown into such daily and intimate companionship as to startle and alarm him. When, how, and where his heart had slip away from his keeping, he could not tell; but gone it had. He stood amazedathis own folly. ‘‘He might as well love some bright, particular star, and hope to win it,” as to think to lure to his arms this beautiful girl, the heiress of half a million, and the betrothed wife of another. _ It was the last consideration that troubled him most. + He knew of the agreement entered into by Trene’s uncle and father, and which the latter had solemnly ratified on his dying bed, for it had been the subject of much comment. What he was in doubt about was whether Irene had ratified it herself, prompted by sincere affection for the husband that had been chosen for her when she was a mere child. She_seemed to avoid speaking of John, and | when she did, it was with little of the manner with which maidens usually speak of an accept- ed lover; but this might be maiden timidity. He had fancied—and a delightful fancy it was —that she regarded him with more than a cou- sin’s love. It was not so much what she said, bet her way of saying it; her look, her smile, i ea with such sweet and happy emo- tions, t, after a moment’s thought, he re- jected the idea as vain and presumptuous, “I will not let another day pass,” was his in- | ward resolve,” without ascertaining how mat- ters are between her and John; and if she loves him, or has given him reason to suppose so, I will see her no more. I will sell my honor for mo woman’s love, however dear she may be!” Leaning over the railing, Walter fixed his: eyes- with yearning tenderness upon the tower se ee el BETROTHAL in the distance, and which was 80 clearly defined against the soft gray sky. He knew that Irene’s room was there, for she had told him so; the one that looked out toward the east. He had often watched it, especially at that hour, his heart stirred with tender and loving thoughts of its sweet and gentle occupant. As he looked at it now, he noticed a flickering crimson light at one of the windows below which struck him — as the sunset glow had all faded from the wes : Just then a horseman dashed hurriedly down the street, crying: “Fire! fire!! help! oh! help!—fire!! Tower- Hill is all in flames! and not a soul to help!” That terrible cry was echoed by a h throats; the alarum bells pealed out upon the air, mingled with the clang and rumble of en- gines, and the hoarse cries of the firemen and citizens hurrying to the scene of disaster. With but one feeling in his heart, one thought in his brain, Walter flung himself on the horse that'was waiting for him below, and urging the noble animal to its full speed soon reached the spot. Pthe light from the burning building mads everything as clear as day for miles around. Upon the lawn in front the terrified servants had gathered around their half-fainting mis- tress, but the form for which he was searching was not there. He laid his hand ee the shoulder of a girl, who stood wringing her hands and sobbing with terror. « é “Where is Irene?—where is your young mis- tress?” .- At this, Mrs. Remmington roused herself. Springing to her feet, she pointed upward. “Oh! God have mercy!” she wailed; ‘‘she is there!—there !” Following the motion of that hand, Walter aa Irene standing upon the balcony far above She evidently saw and recognized him, for stretching out her arms, she uttered a cry that pierced him to the soul, For a moment the young man stood transfix- ed with horror. Then his eyes took in swiftly all the possibilities that were left. There was no hope of reaching her from within; the flames were now issuing from every door and window beneath. Fortunately, the tower was built of rough, uneven stone, one side of which was entirely covered with ivy, the branches of which, har- dened and toughened by age and weather, were easily aan i from the hold they had taken. Giving a few hurried directions to the men around him, Walter .tied a rope around his — and commenced the steep and difficult ascent. Slowly and steadily, his hands torn and bleed- ing, he made his way upward, watched with breathless interest by the crowd below, and who uttered a shout of triumph as he reached the ~ balcony. s The tower was fast becoming a huge furnace, and as Walter felt the hot breath of the crack- ling flames beneath, he saw that there was no time to lose. : | $0 woven and interwoven that they were not
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Ries * re Drawing up the rope-ladder, he attached it ly to the iron railing around es Selene: Then taking a —— silken sash worn by lrene, and whose ends touched the hem of her dress, e it under her arms, and from thence under one of his; tying it so that the knot rested on his shoulder. Then bidding her cling to his neck, so as to’ leave his hands free, he commenced a descent almost as perilous, considering the weight of _his precious burden, and his own failing strength. n looking back, Walter scarcely knew how he reached the ground, but reach it he did; con- Signing the half-fainting girl to the many arms stretched out to receive her. Then the strong pressure upon brain and muscle gave way, and staggering backward, he fell insensible to the groun CHAPTER V. THE UNCLE’S DIPLOMACY. THREE days later Walter lay on the sofa to which he had been confined ever since the fire; though none of the injuries he had received were serious, @ dislocated ankle being the worst, He held a beautiful bouquet in his hand, whose fragrance was not sweeter than the thoughts it called forth of her who sent it. Every day he had lain there a messenger had come from Irene to inquire about him, and bear- ing: we such a Deny, accompanied by a note, in which she poured out all her grateful heart, in words which sounded very pleasant, danger- ously so, considering the feelings he entertained for her, and all he feared. Trene had ben obliged to keep her room, also, ut was gainin_ daily, as her last note inform- ed him. He knew every word by heart, but still his eyes lingered lovingly over it, reading and re- reading it, and succeeding every time he did so in finding some new meaning. “Tf she were only as poor as I am, and free!” he sighed, “I would woo, and win her, too. And even now—who knows?” Here the young man’s mind wandered off in one of those day-dreams; very delightful, in- deed, if one could judge from the tender and dreamy light in his eyes. He was aroused by the en of the porter with a card. He had scarcely time to see that it bore the hame of ‘‘ Charles Remmington,” when the in- dividual in question entered. ““My dear sir, how can I thank you sufficient- ly for the great sorrow from which you have Spared me, us all!” Walter winced a little at the se shake my the hand that had seized‘his. He disengaged » SAyIng: 5 beg pardon, sir, but my shoulder—” ““T beg yours,” interrupted the other. “Very E thoughtless of me; but I know you will pardon t, in view of the emotions t—that over- Power me,” Here the speaker raised his handkerchief to his eyes, eoeercnny. overcome by the emotions | to which he allud ’ Walter looked at him in silence. There was Something so overstrained and far-fetched in this, that he felt instinctively that his visitor Line THE BROKEN BETROTHAL. . "9 a part, though why he should take to do so he could not even guess. was acti the toons Removing his handkerchief from the eyes in which there was not the slightest vestige of moisture, as Walter did not to note, Mr. Remmington continued: “T had a telegram from my wife last evening and started immediately. arrived only an hour since; and after hearing an account of | your rescue of my dear niece nent peril, felt that I could no longer delay in expressing my sense of the obligations under which you have laid me.” ~ 5 As Walter looked at the speaker he thought of the haughty manner in which he had him by when they last met, and a faint smile came to his lip. “You are under no personal obligations to me whatever. You seem to forget that Irene is my cousin, as well as your niece. I could not possibly see her in such mortal peril and make no effort to rescue her,” = **T do not, at least, forget that I am a father.” Not perceiving any connection between what he said and this rather unn asser- tion, Walter received it in wonderin ail ence. Perceiving the effect he had produced, Mr. Remmington continued: “« My heart is bound up in my only son; and I tremble when I think what the effect on him would have been had his betrothed wife per- ished, and in so terrible a manner.” The change in Walter’s face was not unnoted by the keen eyes that were watching him. ‘Of course yon knew that Irene and my son were betrothed?” Walter did not speak for some moments, and then it was with a visible effort. “T knew that some such arrangement had been made for them, when they were children, but was not aware that there had been any vol- untary and formal betrothal, by them.” ““Oh, yes, it’s all settled is as dear to us as SS a could be, and we should not fancy giving herup. As it is, we shall not lose her. “But I am er ie half my errand,” he added, as if suddenly recollecting himself. “Trene made me promise to bring you back with me, and she will be greatly disappointed if 1 fail to do so. The dear girl has one of the most ae woe hearts in the world. The carriage is at the door, and I trust you will come, if you are able.” “T am not able.” : The curtness of this reply was in strong con- trast to the smooth, softly modulated words that preceded it. Walter was painfully conscious of this, say- ing, in a softer voice: ‘I thank you, and her; but it is quite impos- sible for me to go to-day.” : Mr. Remmington looked:at the face that was now lying back upon the cushions of the sofa. “You are indeed looking ill. I sincerely trust that you were not seriously injured#” # ain at his own weakness, brought back the color to that pale face. *T have only a rinse shoulder and iy and these are nearly well. In a day or two, shall be as well as ever,” m such immi-— ; very much to the. satisfaction of her aunt, and I assure you, Irene: Wee, SE AQ? aera rt
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: exe 10 THE BROKEN BETROTHAL. Mr. Remmington had scarcely gone when Walter gave the bell an energetic pull. “Didn’t you tell me,” he said, to the man who answered it, ‘‘ that Mrs. Stone sent for me in great haste, this morning?” ¢ “Troth, an’ I did, sur. Aun’ ’tain’t to be won- dhered at, aither. Three of her fourteen chil- dher is down with the measles, another on ’em has the mumps; an’ as if that wa’n’t enough throuble for a poor lone widdy, wid no one but hersilf to doa hand’s turn, the babby pulls the tay-kettle over on to him. ‘ é a ine! A into the buggy, Dennis, and ring i e door. The honest-hearted fellow looked at the speak- er for a moment. 3 : ‘Sure, sur, an’ ye don’t look fit to stir yer fut i | r smiled. ‘No matter, Dennis. Hard work is the best nedicine for some diseases, and I am convinced abit is the best thing for mine. If you can 0° vith me so as to help me in and out, I shall |O very we “© As he waited for Dennis to harness, his eye fell _ © apon the flowers, which had fallen from. his ) hand, as his visitor entered, and upon which he had set his foot. He held the crushed petals tenderly and rev- erently to his lips. ‘Poor flowers!” he thought. ‘Fit emblems ’ of hopes that bloomed just as bright and beauti- ' ful, but which will bloom no more for me!” In the meantime, Mr. Remmington took his way to_the clergyman’s, at whose house his wife and Irene had found refuge, evidently very well satisfied with the result of his visit, e found Irene standing on the steps. _ Her bright face clouded as she saw him de- ~ _. © ‘gcend from the carriage alone. Cae . ___‘‘My dear : : You forget that Dr. Remmington is a bachelor, | _ “ Wasn’t cousin Walter well enough to come, uncle?” _“T infer not, my dear; inasmuch as he de- clined coming. He begged me to give you his thanks and excuses.” that is out of the question. If he is not able to come here,‘I shall call on him. ‘ Tom, don’t put up the carriage; I shall want it “Mr. Remmington looked as he felt, perfectly aghast at this proposition. rene, what are you thinking of? living alone at a hotel.” ; “T don’t forget that Be saved my life atthe peril of his own!” cried Irene, her eyes and cheeks very bright. him before but for aunt’s ridiculous talk about its not being proper.” “Your aunt was quite right,” was the grave 7. ¢ » response. ‘‘ If you insist upon going, I must in- ou is} on accompanying y ’ Shai ‘I shall be glad of your escort,” smiled Irene. “Though it is not necessary, as you have just called on him, and I know very well how totake care of myself,” f “‘T should have gone to | oe +E. - - > oe nee Mr. Reinmington knew very well that Trene, however yielding on minor points, was not soin regard to what she considered a matter of right andduty, So hemade nofurther remonstrance, but assisting her into the carriage, took a seat by her side; anxiously a in his own mind how he was to explain to her his slight embellishment of the report he had given her. ‘Perhaps Dr. Remmington did not under- stand that we were to leave town so soon?” The eyes that were looking out of the window were turned quickly upon the speaker’s face. ‘‘He understood if you told him, of course.” ‘“*T should not be likely to forget what formed a part of Boe message to him. Nor doI say that he did not understand it.,.I simply infer- red so by his response to it, which was to give you his Thanks and excuses.” Here the carriage stopped in front of the hotel. Without leaving it, Irene sent her card up to Walter’s room. The messenger returned, saying that ‘‘ the doctor had ridden away half an hour before.” Mr. Remmington evidently enjoyed his niece’s manifest astonishment and discomfiture; in fact, nothing could have suited him better than the turn affairs had taken. ‘“You see, my dear,” he said, as Tom turned the horses’ heads homeward, ‘‘how unnecessary it was for a to take so much trouble; your cousin could have come to see you had it suited his convenience to do so.” : It would have been better for Mr. Remming- ton’s plans had he left these words unspoken, as he saw, a little later. mir studied his face attentively for a mo- ment. “There is some mistake, some misunderstand- ing. I shall send my adieux to Walter by let- ter, together with the hope that I shall see him at_my house whenever he is in town.” Mr. Remmington understood the italicized word, as Irene intended he should do. His term of guardianship had expired. The position he still retained was simply his ky courtesy, as he well knew; if he gained any- thing, and he hoped to gain much, it would not .be by open warfare. So he simply said: “A very good idea. Heis notin a to have much time at his own di , but I hope you willadd how 1d we shall all be to | see him.” + In spite of Iyene’s brave words and bearing, | there was an uncomfortable feeling in her heart as she took the pen in her hand to write to’ Walter. _ She was beginning to be disturbed by the con- sciousness that she entertained for him a more than cousinly regard. ? Had she not expressed more in her previous _notes than she had intended, or was it maid- enly? These doubts and fears imposed a constraint upon her that was visible in every line, making her note very different from any of the others. Stilt it was very kindly worded. She mentioned her call, and how very sorry she was to have to leave without seeing him. . Hoped that he would not forget his promise-to on her, Adding: “You must remember sition
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Seem ee TBE DPROKEN TETPROTHAL. —. 1! that when I ask my friends to call on me, T ask Trene was not lookin , did he give tokens of the them to my house.” Half an hour later, Mr. Remmington tapped at the door, saying: _ “Lam going out; and if your letter is ready, Will take it to the office.” ene did not know why she felt averse to trusting her uncle with it; had she been ques- tioned she could have given no satisfactory rea- Son. It was probably owing to the instinct that is said to be the sixth sense with woman. “T won’t trouble you, uncle. We go past the t-office on the way to the depot, and I can mail it then.” Carrying out this programme, Irene saw, Personally, to theanailing of her letter; which We are sorry to beforced to believe is the rea- Son why Walter-received it the next morning, a few minutes after ie ture. % Fe alter was very glad to get it, as it explain- e teous, He noticed the visible constraint in it, so dif- ferent from anything she had formerly written, pwtting on it his own interpretation. . “She fears that I will get too much interested in her,” he thought, as he read it over for the twentieth time. ‘And there was danger of it. ut now that I know how matters are, I shall ‘be on my guard. Call on her? Of course [ e is Shall; § my cousin; though she can never more to me. The lectures at the hospital Commence in September. By that time, I hope to be able to think of her as the promised bride of another.” CHAPTER VI. ** aT HOME.” : Mr. Remmineron was not sorry to turn his back upon Crawford. He had sent Irene to that dull, secluded town to get her out of the way of danger, said danger consisting of attractive young men, who might lay siege to her affections. t, things don’t always turn out as we ex- “The plans of men and mice aft gang aglee.” sion to reflect upon on his journey back. He had the mortifying reflection that he could curl he made a worse move in the game he ng. Had teens two, so formed to interest and at- tract each other, met in town where there was | 80 much to occupy the time and divert the at- tention, it would fave been bad enough; but they had been thrown together for weeks in a Place where they had no other society, and Where everything. around them was calculated to call forth and foster the very sentiment he feared. And then his rescue of her from the’ ‘women were so prone to admire heroism— storm that was ready to descend, at the first: opportunity that offered, upon his wife’s devoted head : “Well, madame,” he said, as soon as they were in the privacy of their own room, “a retty kettle of fish you have made of it! What s the reason that I wasn’t informed of all this billing and cooing?” _ ““T don’t know what you mean,” said Mrs. | Remmington, sinking down helplessly into a | chair. had heard of her depar- | what had seemed abrupt, almost discour- | ‘*T know that my head is nearly split- ting with the pain that’s in it; and I wish, if you have any thing to say, you wouldn’t bellow ” “‘T shall bellow if I think proper, ma’am,” re- turned Mr. Remmington, in a still louder voice, secure in the consciousness that Irene’s room was at the further end of the house; “and I’d like to see you, or any other woman hinder me! After all that you knew, how dared you-keep me in ignorance of all this love-making?” va to Mrs. Remmington, who was really almost ill from fatigue and excitement, now arose to her~ ~ feet. y “Really, Charles, if you will act and talk so outrageously, I shall have to leave the room. I cannot stand it!” _ doesn’t he come and make love to her, himse instead of cored Ea the country for no- ~ body knows what? he won’t, he must expect that some other man will. Does he think that Irene is going to be shut up like a nun, until he thinks proper to claim her?” ; There was more common sense Ps this than Mrs, Remmington usually gave utterance to; and it had the good effect, so far as she was con- cerned, of diverting her husband’s thoughts and anger into another channel. “Tl attend to him, in short meter! I’d write by @ muttered word, or an angry glance, when | to him to-morrow morning, if I knew where —
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tell you.” iy) Se to direct. Do you know where the young scamp is?” : * All I know is that he went away with Hen- Warner. He’s back again; I saw him at the depot, when we got out. He ought to be able to 'Mr. Remmington saw yous Warner the next day, who told him that John was in ano village in Connecticut, as he expressed it, “ get- ting up @ first-class flirtation with some rustic uty. : Warner could not remember his post-office address, but proniised to get it for him. It is not easy for the elastic heart of youth to suddenly relinquish all hope, especially in re- gard to what takes such a strong and deep hold on it. . Walter,had assured himself, over and over again, that from herceforth he should regard Irene only as a cousin, that for him to cherish any thought of ever being more to her was fool- ish and vain. Yet down deep in his heart a faint hope still lingered, which silence as he might and did, was far too precious to be entire- ly banished. So it was with no little satisfaction that he found that business would take him to Concord some weeks earlier than he expected. ‘*T shall call on Irene, as a matter of course,” he said to himself on the morning of his arrival. ** She is my cousin, and not to do so would be unkind and discourteous. And then I promised _ todo so.” 3 With a self-denial that cost him quite an ef- fort, he waited until the second day after his arrival. : The house was on the outskirts of the town, a uare, stately-looking building, standin ae: ee of grounds laid out with unusua skill and elegance, It belonged to Irene, being a portion of the * large fortune she held in her own right, and as Walter ascended the broad stone steps that led to the main entrance, he realized as he never had before the wide difference that lay between in a worldly point of view. _ them, _. “T wonder if she will be glad to see me?” he mr St as the servant, taking his name, usher- ed hu into @ room whose elegant and costly fo patio rae were beyond any thing he had e ‘er seen. This question had scarcely arisen in his mind when Irene stood upon the threshold, the glad look in her eyes answering it even before her lips spoke. As she looked upon Walter, she thought of what his heart, as generous as it was brave, had forgotten, and the grateful emotions it | called forth swept away the barriers of maiden- | ly reserve, : ; They had not met since that terrible night and as Walter lcoked into the eyes, made still | brighter by the tears that filled them, and lis- | tened to those faltering thanks, he seemed to— _ feel the pressure of the arm that clung so close- | ly to his neck, and it gave a tender inflection to a th as he said: Me is ma ‘What you say sounds very pleasantly, dear cousin—too p. raya ,1 fear. That I was SO | fortunate as be of such essential service to you will always be a happy thing for me to re- ‘member, * : : =
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(ee ¢ py 4 - '™ , at el - te It was very well and naturally done; so well that neither of those so inopportunely inter- rupted suspected that she had been sent in b her husband, who had just discovered that Wal- ter was in the house. Walter gave the conventional shake to the two forefingers extended to him, and then turned to the door, «_,a0ing?’ said the intruder, with a laugh, ‘Hope I have not Sigitienes ae away?” Walter had now thoroughly recovered his self- eee Rea n0$ I have greatly overstayed my time Adding, with a bow to both ladies, and a Parting glance at [rene: “T will call again, at-an early day. CHAPTER VIL. THE QUESTION ANSWERED. “ ARE you engaged to John Remmington?” This question had plunged Irene inte a sea of doubts and conjectures which banished for some hours sleep from her pillow. She felt like one suddenly aroused from a ene dream to the cold, harsh realities of e. Was she bound to him? She cast a swift glance backward; recalling the handsome boy of eighteen—for he was 8carcely: more—who kissed her lips, calling her “his little wife.” Three days before, she had followed her father to the grave, whose death left her an orphan, brotherless and sisterless, That title sounded pleasantly to her then—she ven remembered some foolish pledges, on her part—but she was such a mere child, they surely Would not hold her to them? She remembered the sad hour, when, kneeling by ber father’s dying bed, she listened to his last words, his solemn charge, that if her cousin sought her hand, she should not say him nay. She shuddered as she remembered her promise —under such circumstances so sacred. a He had not claimed its fulfillment; would he 0 so? The very idea was repugnant to her. Walter’s question had done more than remind her of what she would so gladly forget; it had revealed to her, too clearly to be mistaken, not 4 her feelings for him, but his for her. hough no words had passed her lips, or his, Irene knew that she loved and was beloved: and not all that le a dreaded, could rob her of the sweet and blissful emotions that this con- Sciousness gave her, The bright sunshine of the following morning drove away any of the fears that weighed 80 heavily upon lrene’s heart during the k oy he elastic naturé of youth asserted it- Self, ; . It was six months since she had returned from Europe, and John had not been near her. It Was clear that he had no idea of claiming the fulfillment of that childish compact, even if he remembered it atall. Very likely he had form- ®d some other attachment, which would make ‘it as repugnant to him as to her. Walter was as good as his word. He called ©n Irene; in fact "he made several calls, but in alone. THE BROKEN BETROTHAL, Ca ae It was a little curious to observe how fond Mrs. Remmington was, all at once, of her niece’s society. There were times when itseemed impossible for her to keep away from Irene. ntii at last, unsuspicious as her nature was, Irene began to see that there was some “‘ meth- od” in the uliar mania that seized her aunt henever Walter called on her, This was a source of great annoyance to Wal- ter, who was anxious to continue the conversa- tion that was broken off''so suddenly on his first: call there. ; . One morning he called with the intention of asking Irene to. take a walk with him. He had no sooner delivered his errand than. Mrs. Remmington appeared upon the scene, ““[Tm so glad to see you, doctor,” she cried; “T want you to tell me if you think this is a cancer?” Walter examined the finger she extended, which had on it a small induration, about. as large as the head of a pin, gravely assuring her that there was no danger of the calamity she seemed to dread. = “Tm so glad! I told Mr. besten a last night, I felt such darting pain through it, that —_ afraid that it was a cancer, or some- thing. : Bf ere are you going, Irene?” “To put on my things. Cousin Walter and I are going out for a walk.” ; “It’s a lovely morning for a walk. I believe it will do me good to go out. So if Dr, Rem- min n ae t mind—” e on ‘But Dr. Remmington does mind,” interrupt- ed Walter. ‘I am going to take Trene to the top of Chestnut Hill; and, as a physician, I strongly object to one in your delicate state of health attempting any such featas that.” = — Irene with difficulty repressed a smile at her aunt’s evident discomfiture at this effectual checkmate. ; ‘* Charles will be mad enough to take my head off!” was that lady’s inward reflection, as she — watched the two as they passed down the wind- ing path that led to the road, ‘ He told me not to let them be alone together a minute. But I don’t see how I was to hinder it. As I told him, it’s John’s fault, every bit of it!” : alter and Irene walked silently along the highway, turning from thence into the narrow, wooded path that led to Chestnut Hill. Irene was the first to speak. : “I have had no opportunity to answer th i bea you asked me, if I was engaged to ohn Remmington.” Suddenly pausing, Walter dro the arm within his, taking a position where he could look full in the face of the speaker. ‘“Is it true?” “Tt is true that there was an understandin between my father and John’s that he shoul have my hand if he claimed it. It is also true that my father exacted a pledge from me. But I don’t believe that John has any idea of doing so.” PN, Walter’s face grew very bright. “Then I may not only tell you of the love that has taken such full and stron on of my heart, but of the hope that is there that do _ Rone of them was he so fortunate as to find her , not love vainly. Js my love vain? Answer me, Irene!” te
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v ae do a ante 9 a uw ed the difficult art of concealing her real feel- ae ae ' ‘THE BROKEN BETROTHAL, Trene blushed rosily at these sepebuors words, | '“ Tf T should say that Idid not love you, Wal- ter, I should speak falsely. And indeed I know of no reason why I should not deal frankly with ' you. But do not say anything, just now, to uncle and aunt Remmington, or to any one, Wait until I have had a talk with John, whom they are expecting now every day. It is my belief that he has found some other attachment, and that is why he keeps away so.” “God grant it! What shall you say to him, Trene?”, “*T shall say that I don’t love him ; and that I “My darling! supposing he will not re- erg Pl A ge: m not going Fieeee an ing of the kind,” smil Irene. shoul be sorry to ’ think so ill of cousin John as to suppose that he would care to marry me after I had told him this. And I do not mean to do so if I can help it. As Irene said this she took Walter’s arm, and the two retraced their way back. As they came in sight of the house Irene, whose face had grown very thoughtful, paused. ‘*In some respects my position will not be a very pleasant one, and I shall want you tostand by me. I don’t believe John cares for it—at least, if don’t look as though he did—but his father and mother have set their hearts on this marriage, and will be sorely disappointed. Of course they will not feel very cordially toward you, but they will not dare to treat you rudely, and you must not keep away on that account. It is my house, you know; and you have a right to come, even “f you were only my cousin.” ‘*My dear Irene, I shall come, as a matter of course; and you need have no fears of my hav- ing trouble with any one. I shall consider it my sacred duty to stand by you under every and all circumstances.” - CHAPTER VIIL. THE TWO RIVALS. : Our next chapter opens at the breakfast- table, around which Irene and Mr. and Mrs. tirely hidden by bey playful smile that accom- Remmington are seated. A tele from John, my dear. He is | coming on the next train.” Mr. Remmington looked across the table at his niece, as he said this, but her aunt being present, she did not take it as anything espe- | cially directed to her, or, indeed that particu- larly concerned her. Though inwardly disturbed, Irene had Jearn- | # ? ings, and her face gave no token of it. She knew that John’s coming would inaugu- | rate the conflict, upon which the happinéss of her whole life depended, and that she would need, not only to be brave and strong, but all her woman’s wit to meet successfully the issue. “Ym sure I shall be glad to see the poor fel- low,” said Mrs, Remmington, perceiving that Irene was not intending to reply. John was always a “poor fellow” with his mother, though as he weighed all of a hundred and forty, her reasons for so styling him were not very apparent. “You do ndt say anything, Irene?” ddr, Kemmington’s secret anxiety was not en- \ ye Bec: a Paty “i | not be very ea — panied these words. Irene raised her eyes from her plate. “TY beg — uncle. You were saying something about John’scoming? I trust that he will consider himself as my guest during his stay in town.” ~ Mr, Remmington was evidently not a little en aback by this. ° “‘ Well, as he is coming expressly to see you, that would follow, as a matter of course,” Irene elevated her eyebrows. “To see me?” “Certainly. I hope you don’t think that he has forgotten your claim upon him?” ‘‘ My dear uncle, I hope you will not give John the impression that I consider that I have any - claim upon him,” Mr. Remmington was too wary to meet the issue thus squarely presented. “My dear Irene, I don’t wonder that you feel hurt at what seems like intentional neglect. I own that appearances are against John. But I am convinced that he can explain matters to your entire satisfaction; and I think that I can safely leave him to plead his own cause.” Just here the housekeeper entered. ‘My son will be here to-day, Williams,” said Mrs. Remmington. ‘You can get the room ready across the hall from mine.” Williams looked at Irene, who nodded. “You can give Mr. John that room, Wil- ered as she met her aunt’s surprised look: “ Thinking it high time that I should relieve you of cares and duties that are rightfully _ mnine, IT have instructed Williams to come tome _ for all orders in future.” This was evidently as unexpected as it was unwelcome. Mrs. Remmington straightened herself up, speaking in a tone of unusual energy and sharpness, < “*T didn’t sup a girl of your age would care to tie herself down so. And I must say, after all the trouble I have taken—” . * Clara!” Checked by her husband’s warning frown, Mrs. Remmington stopped, and Mr. Remming- ton continued: ‘*Trene is of age, and has a right to manage her own affairs her own way. Still I trust that she will not forget the claims of her best and oldest friends, nor that years bring the judg- ment and experience that youth cannot expect to have.” Irene knew that wisdom; but she conversation, —— may be sure that I shall forget neither, uncle. The door closed after Irene, leaving the hus- band and wife alone, who looked for some mo- ments at each other without speaking. It was evident that Irene had more character than they had given her credit for, and would ty hoodwinked or controlled. It was not prewar to either to see the power eeetp out of their hands that they had held so ong that it seemed to be theirs of right, but there was no help for it. ~ “Tt is only when Jobn is master that you will be mistress here again,” said Mr. Remmington, ears did not pine be bring id not care to prolong the
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i il ee el ke i te , THE BROKEN BETROTHAL. ie : “But we shall have to go to work very cau- | tiously to secure that end; if Irene suspects | that we are seeking to control matters, all ish lost.” In anticipation of coming events, and anxious _ to avoid any awkward tete-a-tetes or exclusive | attentions from the new-comer, Irene had in- | vited two schoolmates of hers, Ida Gray and | Jennie peck Sikes to gene a few weeks with | her. Also, Harry and les Vernon, particn- lar friends of John, So when John arrived, fancying, in the arro- gance of his heart, that he had on Hat see and conquer, he found Irene the center of a gay | group, of which, after the first greetings were over, he was onl one, apparently of no more importance in the estimation of the young hostess than any of them. Not that Irene was wanting in cordiality or | kindly feeling toward her young kinsman, but | in her words of greeting, gracious as they were there was a gentle dignity that did not set ill upon her, and which effectually prevented any demonstration on his part not strictly in ac- cordance with the cousinly role she had assigned him. - Without giving him time for any of the pret- ty speeches he had been conning over, ate presented him to her young lady friends, The two gentlemen he already knew. . Then the conversation became general. In a few minutes, dinner was announced. After dinner, the whole party went riding; Irene quietly managing that John should be Miss Gray’s escort, while she went with one of the Vernons. _In the evening, Irene had a general recep- | tion. In the latter part of the evening, Walter came > in, as he promised her he would do.” John was standing near Irene when he camo | up to speak to her, but inwardly determined to | “cut the fellow,” as he called it, he pretended not to see him, 4 But this was a programme more easily plan- ned than carried out. “ John, don’t you see cousin Walter?” Soft and sweet as the voice was, there was a ring in it that arrested the attention of all who | heard it. a The young men shook hands. John, sulkily and with an ill grace; Walter, with a certain | reserve, though with the evident desire that the affair should pass off as smoothly as possible. Irene then presented Walter to the rest of | those ‘standing by, and the conversation again me general. John retreated to the further end of the room, talking with this and that one, but still furtive- | ly watching Walter and Irene. : There was nothing of the lover with either; they having too much good sense to make an public exhibition of their feelings, had they felt privileged to do so. Still there was something in Walter’s look and manner as he spoke to Irene, that aroused a fierce jealousy in his bosom, How dared he look that way at the woman that he had been taught to consider as his ex- ~ elusive property ?—and how dared she allow it? As he stood in the inclosure of the bay win- | Irene, preceded by her dow. his angry and resentful feelings pl-" ly visible upon his brow, his father approached temperament, as could be easily seen by looking into the cool, calm face of the former. ‘¢ Have you abandoned the field so early?” The faint sneer in these words sent a hotter flush to the young man’s brow and a fiercer gleam to his eye. $ A : “T will never relinquish it!—not to him! What is the impudent puppy doing here? He ought to be kicked out of the house!”~ “Take care that you don’t get kicked out,” said his father, significantly. ‘‘ Remember that you are not owner here—as yet |” #8 Lalways disliked the fellow, and now I hate “Hate him as much as you like—only don’t show it; at least, not until you get matters into your own hands. Every time you do, you weaken your own cause. It won’t do for you to despise your antagonist either. He’s a smart fellow; and has, what you haven’t—self-control | and a cool head. You stayed away and let another man get a foothold; and now you have committed. another blunder, and made an un- favorable impression at the outset. Seek an in- terview with Irene after the rest have gone, and see if you can’t remove it. In the mean- time, drive that sullen look from your face, and keep cool.” : Everybody don’t happen to be an caer o like yourself,” muttered John, as he watched father quietly making his way up the room to where Walter and Irene were standing. ‘*How the dickens is a man going to keep cool, I'd like» | to know, when a fellow is making love. to his lady right under his eyes—or what looks mar- velously like it?” me The young man took his father’s advice, how- ever; emerging from his corner, he joined the rest of the company, and for the rest of the eve- | ning was as merry and talkative as he had been sullen and silent. Determined to see Irene a few minutes alone, John lingered until the last. But that young lady was contrariwise minded. As soon as the last outside guest had gone, young lady friends, turned to the door. ook John followed. ‘“‘T have been waiting impatiently to have a little talk with you. Can you not spare moa few minutes?” Ae Irene turned upon the speaker a look of sur- rise, pra It is late, cousin; and I am very tired. Un- less what you have to say is of importance—as I presume it is not—I beg that you will defer it. I told Williams to give you your old room; I hope you will find everything comfortable. Good-night.” John took his way to his room in no very amiable frame of mind. : Thin 5 were different from what they were when his father and mother held undisputed sway there, and he used to pay them flying visits during Irene’s absence. He remembered how_ he had planned alterations in it; for, though it was a fine, stately mafsion, some parts of it im. ‘ The father and son were widely different in _
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oy were too old-fashioned to suit his modern tastes. It did not look, now, as though he was to have any voice or control in anyt Bas From all he could see and learn the young heiress had taken matters entirely into her own hands, and apparently without any more refer- ence to him than if he hadn’t been in exist- ence, His vanity was sorely wounded at his recep- | tion by Irene. Not that she gave him any cause for complaint; her manner could scar be more courteous and kind, but then it was so cool and calm; so entirely different from what he had e ted. : ' She had not even paid him the compliment of being offended at his on goa or even consider- ed that he had neglected her. sleds ’ Had she forgotten her father’s dying injunc- tions, or had she decided to disobey them? . Perhaps she thought that he wished to have them disregarded? If so, he would soon set her right on that point. CHAPTER IX. LOVE-MAKING AND LOVE-ACHING. THE next morning, Irene arose earlier than usual; peeing through the breakfast-room and a the garden to gather some flowers for the table. Her bright face was clouded. “ John’s rudeness to Walter, the preceding evening, not only displeased but made her un- easy, especially when she reflected on the hot, impatient temper of the offender. she would avoid trouble, she must prevent its recurrence. True, Walter had shown admirable self-com- mand, but this might not always be possible. As she stood upon the piazza, arranging her flowers, she heard a step back of her. ‘‘Good-morning, sweet cousin.” Taking no notice of the extended hand, Irene looked gravely at the speaker. “You treated me very rudely last evening, cousin, The mock sorrow that clouded John’s face could not entirely conceal the exultation at his heart. .had noticed the flirtation he had tried to get up with Miss Gray and been offend- of, py St Trene, only tell me in what way, and you may be sure of its not being Je Trene raised her eyes from the flowers she was arranging. ‘“‘T consider any rudeness or incivility to my guests personal disc to me.” - There was a pause; the sudden revulsion in John’s feelings choking his utterance. Trene turned her eyes from that flushed angry face to the flowers, whose fragrance filled air. . “TJ allude to your rudeness, last evening, to Dr. Reteningie Under this roof, at least, it must not be repeated.” % As us anger and disappointwent made J ohn lose sight of all prudence. ; You seem to take a vast deal of interest in | “him!” he sneered.. The disturbed night that Irene had passed had | banished the roses from her cheek; they ndéw 168 THE BROKEN BETROTMAL. ‘ came back, brighter than he had ever seefi them there before. $ “‘T certainly do take a strong interest in the man who risked his life to save mine!” * John saw the blunder he bad committed, and hastened to repair it. : “Tt is natural that you should be grateful; though no man could do less, that was not a brute or a coward. I should be grateful, at least, for the life saved is very precious to me. But oh! I am_so madly jealous! J should have been there! Oh! Irene, why was I not?” The gleam of mirth in the eyes that momen- tarily met his made John feel very hot and un- comfortable, ““T really couldn’t tell you. All I know is that you were not there; and that I consider it very fortunate that cousin Walter was. There is the breakfast bell.” John followed Irene in; feeling, as he ex- ressed it, “‘ that he had made an egregious don- Ke of himself!” , e seemed fated to make himself ridiculous | in the eyes of his cousin; Ng ge when he at- e had temp sentiment, which always sup- to be a strong point with him in gaining he good graces of her sex; priding himself no a little on his seductive ways and effective speeches. It really seemed to him—he chafed at the very thought—that whenever he attempted eny this of the kind with Irene, she was in- wardly laughing at him. The truth was, Irene was not only quick to discern between real and mock sentiment, but had little faith in her cousin’s professions. Nei- ther did she care to encourage anything of the sort in him. John saw that so long as Walter was a privi- leged visitor to the house, and in so much favor with its mistress, he would have to treat him, at least, with outward civility. So he decided to change his tactics. “ll speak to the fellow,” he thought; ‘ giv- ing him a hint how matters are between me and Irene, and see what he says.” So Walter was surprised by a call from him at the office he had opened in the upper part of the town; especially so at the ‘corality of his manner. In the conversation that ensued—and which was mostly carried on by him—John waxed bi! communicative and confidential. © referred to the fire; thanking Walter for the service he had rendered him. ‘‘) hardly dare think,” he said, with emotion, ‘“how I should have felt had she perished in the flames!” Walter winced a little at all that this implied, but he made no comments on it; being strictly non-comunittal. , Nothing daunted by this, and determined to | draw him out, John went so far as to speak of some se paki a he meant to make in the house and grounds, ‘¢ With Irene’s approval, of course,” he added, wns laugh; ‘*for I mean to be a model hus- nd. John glanced at his companion’s grave, im- penetrable face, ‘*T beg pardon, but of course you know that we are to marry—lIrene and 1?”
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1 sgh THE BROKEN BETROTHAL. «a “TI heard your father say so.” Then, feeling that he dared not trust himself further, Walter rages the subject by alludin to a curious ease 0 surgery in the hospi where he was practicing; going into all the de- Ss, and from thence branching out into a mi- nute description of the cases in the surgical. ward where he was daily in attendance, and which he knew would be particularly distaste- ful to his visitor. Determined to revenge himself for all he had suffered, Walter took a malicious pleasure in in- terlarding his discourse with various Latin phrases, together with all the technical terms he could remember; to John’s manifest disgust and Impatience, who soon excused himself on the plea of an engagement, ‘*He’s a detestable prig!” he muttered, as he gained the street; the disgust he felt greatly in- hoes by the thought of the utter failure he made, With this, was the uncomfortable conscious- ness that he had said what Lrene might take ex- ceptions at, if she heard of it. ohn entered his own room, in a more thor- oughly dissatisfied frame of mind than he had ever been: before in his life. “‘¥ wonder what is the matter with me, all at Once?” he muttered. ‘‘ {seem to make a worse muddle of it every movement I make. Either I'm confoundedly unlucky, or I’m not the won- drousl : smart fellow that I’ve always fancied myself.” _ Going up to the mirror, he took a critical sur- vey of the handsome face it reflected. “Pm better looking than Walter ever was, or will be, and I have twice the grace and polish, - €nd yet I can’t win one such smile as she gives him. Confound it! how prettily she blushes when he speaks to her; and how her face lights up as she talks to him. With me, she’s as cool and matter-of-fact as if I was her grandfather! And yet I never cared for any woman half so much before. Half a million, and this fine estate, are no small addition to her charms, but I believe I should be fool enough to marry her if she hadn’t a penny !” When Walter related to Irene John’s conver- sation to him—or rather his talk to him—she smiled, and then looked sober. “T must say that John has disappointed me. I thought he would have the good sense to see that hearts cannot be allotted to this or that one, like merghandise. 1 hoped to be able to avoid any talk, or unpleasant feeling, but he is taking so much for granted that I think I shall have to give him that little talk in private, that he’s been asking for nearly every day since he e. ” Irene smiled softly up into those grave, search- eyes. / ae you afraid to trust me, Walter?” * Not afraid to trust you, darling; but afraid _ to trust to the hope that my life will ever be _. Made so happy as your love could make it. To lose you now |—oh, Irene, I could not bear it!” There was a depth of feeling in this that af- | fected Irene as no words had ever affected her fore. 5 ea My own beloved! you are not going to lose : a a you have not promised yourself to me, rene ‘Not in so many words, perhaps. But Ihave said that I loved you; and with Ghat you ought to be content.” “But I am not.” ‘‘How unreasonable! What more do you want?” ‘ “T want you!” “You have me Deeley trent just at pres- ent, I should say!” ed Irene, as she lodked down upon her imprisoned hands. “T want your positive promise.” -- “T don’t like to give that to you, as matters stand just now.” | 6 wh 9”? Walter had released her hands, and Irene moved a little from him, so that she could look full into his face. “T will tell you, Walter. It may seem ~ perstitious, but this is the way I feel. I can think that it was right for father to exact such a promise from me, at such a tender age when I could not know my own mind, or w ¢ I was paying Nor can I believe. epee I do, that I ought to consider it binding. , it wasmy father’s dying injunction, uttered under cir- cumstances so solemn as to make an impression upon my mind that nothing can efface: and if Jobn can be induced to relinquish his claim, as Tho soaey , it will gettin weight from my heart; can see, by your ty thynk me very foolish.”” * pee’ “‘T don’t think you at all foolish. And nei I must consider your conscience baie” - tive on this point, I can enter very fully into abd feelings. I join you heartily in your wish hat John could be induced to forego a ger 8 in which there is neither reason or heilen. to ee plainly, I don’t believe he will.” . am sorry to say that I think John is mer- cenary.’ Walter smiled. “Have you just found that out?’ “Tf everything else fails, I can As he has been brought te Soh the expectation of sharing my estate, perhaps I oughi to make’ some provision for him.” “Tf I had only myself to think of I should say ive himthe whole. But that would bea wrong you, whose rightful inheritance it is, and who are accustomed to a way of living that I could not afford, at least for some years to come. Do what you will, my dear Irene, with what is al- together ‘heed own; it is you, you that I John has taken pains to spread the story of your positive engagement to him. I have heard it from various quarters. It is not a pleasant story for me tohear; and I trust that I shall not be kept in/so false and painful a posi- tion a great while lo am **- You shall not be; it is not right. I am de- “ matters to a termined to bring crisis. But I want you to promise me ene thing, Walter. You know how quick-tempered John is, and, I am sorry to notice, often rude and over’ On noaccount have any quarrel with him.” - “You need have no fears on that score. Iam not given to quarreling; and even if I was, would not bring your name into anything the sort for the world,” buy him off.
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‘es ‘sought; and he stood inwardly debati | ney 5 18 _As the.door closed after Walter, Irene raised her eyes to the portrait of her father, which | Anne Opposite, _ ‘Oh! father,” she thought, “ surely, could you have known what the future would bring forth, you would not have laid upon er daughter such a heavy cross as this! Had you lived to see this day, you could not have wished her whole life to be so wretched as this hateful mar- riage, you planned would make it!” : CHAPTER X. A WOMAN’S SCORN AND A MAN’S HATE, THE passion that John had conceived for Irene had grown stronger and stronger every succeeding day; as is often the case, the cold- ness and. indifference of its object, the ver eans she took to check and discourage it, add- d fuel to the flames. John had had various attacks of what he call- love, but this was the first genuine feeling of kind that he had ever experienced, and it had its us effect. upon a temperament so warm and ardent as his. Irene saw, with dismay, that he either was, or fancied himself to be desperately in love with her, She had, also, h of various remarks of his, tending to create the impression that their marri was a thing decided upon. _ Perceiving that it was impossible to repress i a ras, she determined to take the ¢ AEA by both horns, and open the subject erself, : _ The two were alone in the library. It was an opportunity that John, had long how he best open the attack a the heart he was ep Apeizone of winning, when Irene turned us: “Twas sprceel 7 euxpaised to hear the story ter, and it brought an angry gleam to his eye. .“T can . 1 guess the name of your informant.” ** Who was it, pray?” : The cool, calm countenance of the speaker | was in strong contrast to the flushed, excited | face of her companion, “ Walter Remmington.” “So you have told him so?—as well as Ida’ Gray, and a score of others? I have given you no authority, cousin John, for any such state- | ment,’ : ohn had now recovered from the suddenness of Irene’s attack — im. “No authority, Irene?- Have you forgotten your father’s dying commands, your own prom- ise _ “My father could not have meant to have his daughter marry where she did not love; and the promise of a child—for I was scarcely more —is of little worth.” _ The, young man drew his breath hardly be- tween, the. shut teeth, while the veins swelled across his forehead. a Oo ee a we. THE BROKEN BETROTHAL. “Then you repudiate that promise? What your dying father so solmnly enjoined upon you, you refuse to do?” Irene was silent; a disturbed, pained look in the soft, clear eyes. ‘There was a condition!—” “That I claimed your hand—and I do claim it!” was the impetuous response, John had en a step forward; Irene re- treating, so as to leave the same distance be- tween them. Her face was paler, but more re- solute. _“‘T paid my cousin the compliment—and so did my father, I am sure—of supposing that he would not wish to marry a woman unless she loved him,” ‘* But you will, you must! Oh! Irene! I love 7 with a strong, o’ermastering passion that as taken possession of my whole being, sweep- ing every thing before it! Surely love so ardent and devoted must meet with a return? Only trust yourself to me, and you will learn to love me; I will be so true, so tender, that you cannot a it!” here was no mock sentiment in this, Fierce, vehement ahd ungovernable as this passion was, it was genuine; and the surprise in Irene’s eyes softened into a look of pity. ‘“‘ Love is not a thing to be learned. It would be wrong, it would be cruel to deceive you, John; I can never love you.” ‘*But you are cruel and most unjust! You have given me no time, no opportunity. Ever since Icame here—and I came expressly to see you, as you know—you have studiously kept me at a distance: you have treated meas if I wasa stranger. And now you coolly say, ‘I can never love youl’. How do you know that?” ‘No matter how; I do know it.” ‘You speak very confidently.” Irene had decided to avow her love for Wal- ter, but her knowledge of John’s hasty and vio- lent temper, and her fears of bringing the two cousins into open collision, deterred her. She would wait until he had recovered, in a measure, from the disappointment and mortification un- der whick he was now smarting. After revolving the matter over in her mind, Trene broke the silence by saying. “We are so diverse in temperament and feeling, John, that our marriage would not be a happy one; I feel that it would be doing youas — wrong as apeett should I consent to it. me day you wil saw it in time to prevent that saddest of all mistakes—a loveless marriage. I would you could see it now. I frankly confess that I wish you had not, by. putting forth this claim—if | claim it can be called—forced me into a ccurse so repugnant tome. As itis, I am compelled to say that I cannot ratify the compact entered into by your father and mine for the simple and sufficient reason that I do not love you, as I feel | that I ought to love my husband.” John looked darkly at the speaker. | “Only one thing could make you so sure of this—your love for some one else?” | The swift, bright color that surged - to the temples, was followed by a sudden flash to the eye, that would have warned John taat he was | going too far, had he not been so enraged by de- see this, and be glad that I- sae Se a Se ee eee
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THE BROKEN & feat, and alf that it involved, as to have no Merc phe for anything else. : ou need not tell me his name, who has so | basely undermined me. It is Walter Remming- ton! the smooth-faced, sanctimonious hypocrite! It is not the first time that his lying tongue has | defamed and injured me, curse him! He will find that he crossed my path once too often! If I live to be a day older—” ‘ ! As John looked at Irene, he hardly knew her, Such a transforming influence had those crim- Soned cheeks and blazing eyes. “‘John Remmington! how dare you use such language under this roof, and to me? Go!” ‘‘Forgive me, Irene,” be stammered; ‘‘ the thonght of losing you nearly drove me wild. | a ive me a little hope—” ithout vouchsafing a word or look in reply Irene passed through the door to which she ad pointed, never looking so lovely and desirable as now, when she seemed further off from him than ever, “On my honor, I don’t know whether I hate or love her most!” muttered the discomfited | man, as he looked after her. ‘‘She angers and | attracts me as no woman ever did before. But | whether it be love or hate, whether I win or lose her, she shall never be Walter Remming- ton’s wife—never! never!” CHAPTER Xt. THE QUARREL. “T TELL you, father, she has refused me, and in words that leave no room for any mistake.” Mr. Remmington looked at his son’s flushed, excited face. ““And then, asa matter of course, you flew into a passion, as you ponte do if you can’t | have what you want the minute youask for it?” “Tt don’t matter about that,” said the young man, sullenly; ‘‘the fact remains the same.” ‘“*1¢ does matter; as any such course closes the door to any further effort. ps nee she | did refuse? Tve known girls to refuse men a dozen times, and then marry them. A woman’s | ‘No’ often means ‘ Yes,’ as you ought to know by this time.” ‘“*Trene is no such woman as that; she knows her own mind, and means what she says. You’d think so, at all events, if you’d heard what she | said tome. She means to marry Waltcr Rem- | go ng as I have told you, all along.” - “* Did she say so?” “She as much as said so, She didn’t deny it. If you don’t interpose your authority, she’ll do too. it, - ‘*My authority, John? You talk very fool- ishly! I have no authority over her. She is legally of age; mistress of herself, and all that she has.” “Your influence, then. You surely ought to | have some. You are her nearest living rela- tive, and she will listen to you, as a matter of c ‘*1 shall use all the influence I have, of course; having almost as much at staké as ro But if you cannot get her to listen favorably to your suit, I don’t kncw how Jam todo it. You have Jayed your cards very ill. Aiter boasting of | your success with women, you fail where ‘suc- & | questing to see him in the — BETROTHAL, 10 . cess Is most important. T must say that I can’t ‘understand it.” . ‘*It is all Walter Remmington’s doings! He’s been lying about me to Irene; I know it as well as if I heard it!” At this moment, a servant tapped at the oor, , It was a m e from Irene to her uncle; re- ‘‘Now is your chance,” said John, follow: his father to the door. ‘Plead for me. of my great love for her; remind her of her fa- _ ther’s,commands, her own promisé; I will wait here until you come back.” . Jobn’s patience was sorely taxed; his father was closeted with Irene over an hour. Twice he went out into the hall; —— b the corridor that led to the library; but thoug he could hear voices, he could distinguish noth- ing of what was passing within. : hen his father at last came out, John had worked himself up into a fever of impatience | and irritation which was clearly visible in the . flushed face and gleaming eyes. g “Well, what is it, father? Whatdid shesay? — Why don’t you speak? ‘You were in there long enough to find out something, I should’say!” . Mr. Remmington’s face was a curious com- pound of disappointment and regret, in which were mingled no little satisfaction and triumph. ' “Can't you Be eon What success did you have?” demanded John, still more impatiently, as his father still continued silent. Mr. Remmington took a seat; John stood leaning against the mantle. Leia ‘Tn some respects worse, in others better than I expected. On the whole, Irene spoke fair, very fair. She understands that her father in- tended that you should share in the estate, and is willing to make a liberal arrangement—” “T don’t want to hear any thing about that!” _ interrupted John, whose blood was now at a fe- ver’s heat. ‘‘That wasn’t what I wanted you to find out. Did she say she would marry me? That is what I want to know!” “She did not,” replied Mr. Remmington, speaking with great deliberation. ‘‘On_ the contrary, if I have any knowledge of the Eng- lish language, she said she would not marry you. Butshe promised to make provision for you; though only on condition that you fully and freely relinquish all claim.” Aes “Which I won’t do” cried John, enforeing his declaration by expletives that we don’t care to repeat. Bt ite noticing this, Mr. Remmington con- tinued: , ‘Of course, John, it is a disappointment to me, and it must be to you, also. But as we have no power to compel Irene’s pp cere it would be the hight of folly for you torefuse the terms she offers. Remember that half a loaf is better than no bread.” ‘«T will be party to no such scheme as that! I’m not to be bought over in that way. I will not relinquish myclaim. Irene Carlton shall never be Walter Remmington’s wife! The scoundrel has laid his plans very cunningly, but. he left me out of his calculation. I have an ac- count with him, and it will be settled, in short order, the first time I see him.” 4 te tw ee i oe Oil al Ae) ee oh
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20 ane THE BROKEN BETROTHAT. Mr. Remmington made no reply to this; he was accustomed to his son’s extravagant way of expressing himself, and knew that his wrath, | violent as it was, was generally short-lived. '. When the tempest burst, which desolated his. whole after life, he remembered these words, | but now he paid no heed to them. John found himself in the open air, Driven by his angry and resentful feelings rather than any fixed purpose, he took his way up-town. | ~.He had gone but a short distance when he | me and Charles Vernon. | “Hello! old fellow?” cried Harry; ‘‘so you | were coming? The last of the boys sent us after you. e had strict orders to bring you, whether or no!” - “ Bring me where?” _“ Why, to the club-room, to be sure! Didn’t you agree to meet the boys there at three this afternoon, to arrange about the excursion?” “So I did. Upon my honor! I forgot all about it. I’ve had some business of my own that drove every thing else out of my mind.” “Never mind; come along now. You are our right-hand man in such matters, you know, and we can’t get along without you. We haven’t decided a thing yet, not even where we shall go. ‘*Who are there?’ inquired John, as they walked along. : “Ed. Wheeler, Will pie hat George Merrill, Charlie and myself. I asked Dr. Remmington to join us, but he declined.” “Tt is well he did!” retorted John, his brow darkening. ‘That is, if you want me to have ps St to do with it. He’s a contemptible scoundrel, if he is my cousin; and I’ll have no friendly or social relations with him whatever.” young men exchanged glances; they knew that there was some rivalry and jealousy between the parties, but did not dream of any such feeling as this. John continued: “You know Ive told you about my engage- ment to my cousin Irene. It has been consider- ed as a settled thing for five years, or more, that we were to be married when she reached her majority. Well, this fellow has been secretly - trying, for months, to undermine and svnplant me, and so break up the match, Supposing a man skould try that game with you, poste, in to your betrothed?’ ‘I’m afraid one of us would get hurt. I'd either give him a sound drubbing, or he’d give meone. Eh, Charlie?” . Charlie smiled. He was older than his broth- ér, anda more careful observer. He had seen enough of his young hostess to doubt whether she had ever cared any thing for John, ‘IT should want to be'very sure that he was guilty before proceeding to such extremities as Aa A “ Hell never fight,” sneered John; ‘he’s too ears. I've tried to insult him half a dozen After the business matter was concluded John sent for wine and refreshments. He was generous and free-hearted; fond of | pied by his cousin's quarrel with such things himseif, and willing to distribute | them to those around him, which made him a general favorite. | | cause of the trouble. © »~ He often indulged in wine, but never to ex- cess, 8o that it could be discovered in his words or manner, but now, to drown his disappoint- peers _ment and mortification, he drank free — much so that its effect was visible in his flus face and repose Haiti. followed by his com- panions, he took his way down-stairs. The club-room was in the upper part of the Clarendon House, where Walter boarded. Hoe | was then standing in the doorway of the main cmeneeeny waiting for the hostler to bring up his orse. The entrance was amply wide enough for him to pass, but with a design that was evident to all who saw it, John brushed past him so rude- | ly as to nearly throw him from his balance. $ ih that intentional?’ demanded Walter, angrily: : “ That was!” cried John, dealing him a qu‘ck blow in the face. Walter turned pale. Had it not been for his promise to Irene, and the evident intoxication of his assailant, he would have given him a Jes- son that he sorely needed, for he was physically the strongest. ; ‘You will besorry for this.” . Who's going to make me sorry?” sneered ohn. “T will, I think that you will be both ashamed and sorry when you are sober,” added Walter, as he went down the steps, around which quite a crowd had gathered. ‘¢- You whining hypocrite!” roared John, mak- ing an effort to break away from Harry and Charles Vernon, who now interposed, ‘‘ how dare you insinuate that 1’m drunk?” ter stepped into his carriage and drove off: white John’s companions coaxed him inside, taking him up-stairs again. He was quite beside himself with rage. “You heard what he said about being re- venged on me, And he’ll do it, too; though it will be in some way as low andsly as he is! He won’t stand up and meet me openly like a man. He’s a coward, as I told you.” The young men persuaded him to lie down upon the lounge, and he soon fell asleep, They then left him, believing that he would sleep away his excitement with the wine he had taken, and which they considered to be the main cause, CHAPTER XI. THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER, Two or three days later, Walter was riding along the dusty road that led to town. The sun was sinking behind the hills; he had been riding all the afternoon, and was beginning to be conscious of being both tired and hungry. ‘ . His thirsty horse pricked up his ears at the tinkle of the wayside brook, where he had so often quench- ed his thirst, and encouraged by the suddenly slack- ened rein his way thither. A lad—for he could scarcely be more—was resting himself upon one of the smooth, flat stones; his dust- meee garments showing that he had traveled some stance, Walter scarcely heeded him; his mind being occu- him, which had en noised about town with various additions and exaggerations; the most unpleasant part of which was, to him, the mention of Irene’s name, as the. ss oe a a
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~“* ® ‘ } + if you please, str, is this Concord?” There was something so Walter turned his eyes curiously upon the k who, now that he had risen, looked taller an eer. He seemed annoyed, almost di leased, at the in- tentness of that , which he showed by the sud- den. ne of the brows, and the lowering to the as vt aN dark, ghtering eyes. . : on,”’ sai alter, on perceiving : “what was it that you said?” _ asked you if I was in Concord?” ““You are within the limits of Concord. The town itself is straight on, about a mile and a al 2 **Do you know if a lady lives there ging of Carlton?” “ A lady lives there by that name, yes,” ““Can you direct me to her house? “Very easily, You will find itstraighton, Itisa large brick house, standing back from the road; the t one of any note that you come to.” Walter glanced at the stranger’s slender form and Pale, wearied face. “You can go along with me; Iam going right past the house.” The stranger retreated a step. . “T prefer to walk, thank you,” he said, in a cold, reserved tone that forbade anything further. Walter rode along. On reaching the top of a hill, he looked back, The young fellow had resumed his seat beside the brook, whose waters were bubbling up over the stones, that formed a partial inclosure around it. Who could he be? He was a stranger, evidently not only unacquainted with the country round abou him, but the person he was seeking. Most likely it-was some one see help, for Trene’s wealth and liberality were well known; she was especially noted for assisting students, in strait- ou circumstances, in their efforts to obtaim an edu- cation. With this thought he dismissed the matter from his mind. The young traveler watched Walter until he dis- appeared over the brow of the hill. Then loosening a small knapsack from his shoulder, he took from it some bread and cheese, and a tin cup; bea and drinking with an avidity which indicated that it was a breaking of a lon ae. ata % € seem rsty; ng the cup into the brook, he drained it twice with # long sigh of Satisfaction. Then removing his cap and loosening his collar, he bathed his head and face in the cool water; the ap- lication of which made the short, jetty rings of 1air curl still more closely around the head. He then took a position further back from the road under a tree. ° The moon arose, and the solemn stars looked down; but still he sat there, his head leaning against the tree, s0 motionless that he would have seemed to be sleeping were it not for the wide-open glitter- ing eyes, which looked straight forward, as though they. saw something else besides the tranquil scene before them, At last he arose, and strapping the ang ee to his back, went on in the direction Walter had indi- cated, He walked very rapidly, and without paus- ing, until he came’ to a house, the lights of which could be seen back of the trees that surrounded it. The grounds were inclosed by a high wall, the gate of which stood wide open, disclosing a broad, d- ing path, lined with trees. e young man stood irresolute; it looked as though it might be the place, but he was not sure, A tow-headed, bare-footed boy was perched upon a post opposite, whistling Yankee Doodle. ‘Can you tell me where Miss Irene Cariton lives?” “T reckon I kin,” responded the lad; “she lives in that house over yander. “T live there too,” he added, with a consequential air; “ma’m is Miss Carlton’s cook." / “Is she at home?” “T guess she is, That's her room, on the east iar in the voice that THE BROKEN BETROTHAL. 21 vowel where that fight is. There ain’t never no fent here when she ain’t tew hum. i you qoaee = ean added ~~ boy, ancing at the psack, w. , Small ag it was, ooked ‘Ss heavy for the ‘slender shoulders. ‘ Be- cause if you be—” d “I'm ‘not looking for work,” interrupted the stranger; “I have as much on my hands, now, as I can well attend to.” “Short as pie-crust,” muttered the urchin, as he looked after the stranger, who, walking swiftly past the gate, disappeared in a curve of the road be- ond. af In the course of half an hour, he returned; passing through the gate, up the avenue to thé house, After looking carefully about, he took his way Lae the room on the east piazza, spoken of by the boy. It was a warm night, and the light streamed brightly through the lace folds of the curtain that draped the open window, and which descended to the floor. Within was Margie, Miss Carlton’s maid, a vain, shallow-hearted girl, who was amusing during her mistress’s absence by trying on the con- tents of her wardrobe. She had arrayed herself in a rich purple silk, trim- med with costly lace, and was ee ee the eee eager its effect, when she a step c er. She suppressed a shriek as she saw the youthful- ness of the intruder. **Goodness me! boy, what do you want?” “Pardon this’ seeming intrusion, lady,” said the stranger, in a low, sweet voice, in strong contrast to that aha , wiry tone; “my business is urgent.” Margie looked at the intruder from top to toe. Making no doubt but what be was one of the many recipients of Miss Carlton’s bounty, she said, with a toss of the head: “Intrusion, indeed! Ishould think it as anintrur sion! If you want food or lodging, why don’t you go round to the kitchen door?” The stranger lifted his head proudly, while a dark flush cr ch eek. “T am no beggar, Miss Carlton. arp eee oF starve before I would touch a morsel The girl smiled. That she should be taken for her mistress gratified the vanity that was the ruling pascion of her na: ture; she perceived that her visitor had never seen’ Miss Carlton, and she determined to keep up the il- lusion, . “What do you want then? Make known your er- rand, and then go,” she said, ina tone that was in- tended to be very stately, but which was, really, nothing but a compound of ness and insolence.» The st: er took a rapid. elem tage rte of the —< er, his eyes welling t face; with the curiosity and interest there gled a deeper feeling, though of what nature it was" a not easy to ; : While he did not, in the least, doubt her identity, person it ne oo i? — was not at all such a as he expec see. : “T have come to give you a message of warning ae you oe ao ma heed. Are you engaged onn mmiDp; n “Supposing lam? How dare you have the impu- dence to come here and ask such a question as that?” cried Margie, who began to enter into the spirit of her role, and, indeed, to quite overact her rt atk mean no impertinence, lady. I have come to ‘ revent the committal of a great wrong, I am Seon Harmon, the brother of the woman he should marry, if he marries any one—if there is any honor and justice in the world, which I sometimes doubt! If you will read these letters you will see that I speak truly.” : x Half-frightened at the turn affairs were taking, Margie took the letters that were held out to her. ~ ‘ f survey e longest on her — was as :
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a... » 22 THE BROKEN BETROTHAL. She could not read writing very well, but by preg out a word here and there, she saw that contained declarations of the most ardent love and devotion. “Mr, Remmington was only amusing himself,” she said, thrusting them back into his hand; ‘‘as gentlemen will, when girls are so silly as to believe em. Your sister ought to know that they never mean no good to girls in her condition.” The young man shut his teeth tightly; the heav- ing breast and the swollen veins across the fore- head alone oh token of the fierce battle that was going on within. “ And this is your answer to the broken-hearted, desperate, maddened woman that this man has so terribly wronged?”’ : ‘*You may tell your sister, from me, that it serves her right for being so silly, and that I hope *twill be a lesson to her!’ said Margie, sharply, who was beginning to tire of the part she was acting, and to fear that she would not find it an easy thing to rid herself of her strange visitor. ‘‘ Now that you have got your answer, go away!” ; dn spite of all I have told you, you will marry im? é Of course I shall! Who and what's to hinder me? It was now nearly time for her mistress to return; and the girl was fearful that her little masquerade would be discovered, and which she knew would most likely result in ousting her from her present snug and comfortable berth. ‘Why don’t fe away, asItold you? If you don’t go instantly ll send for a constable, and have you arrested !”’ The stranger approached the open window through which he had entered, and then, turning round, con- fronted the speaker. * John Remmington seeks you for the wealth you ’ will bring your husband; it can be for nothing else. If my blood and brain were made of cooler stuff, I would let the slow years bring him the og oo he — As it is, I wish you joy of your hus- band! There was something in these words, and the dark look that eaeopenied them, that sent a sudden shiver through the girl’s veins, and it was with a feeling of relief that she listened to his retreating ee é **T think the fellow must be crazy,’’ she muttered, as she hurriedly divested herself of her borrowed | plumes. . “Goodness me! how his eyes did glitter, and how wildly he talked, There wa’n’t the least bit of sense in what he said, but somehow it made me feel sort of all-overish, I’m glad he’s gone, I hope to goodness that he won’t come back again, Miss Irene would be mad ee if she knew what I had done. Nobody saw him but me, and I won’t let on to her that he’s been here,”’ So when Irene returned, half an hour later, she found Margie clad in her own proper habiliments, sitting demurely by the window, “Did you get tired waiting for me?” she said, with — “Oh, no, mem.” Marg ie stood back of her young lady’s chair, un- | coiling the heavy braid of hair, when Irene suddenly | said: rv this - aad a@ young man, or lad, rather—a str. r “No, mem. Was you expecting any one?” ma? Tcdtemasinetonsicid me that he met a lad on the road about sundown, who looked asif he had traveled a long distance, and who inquired of him the way to the house.” “Thain’t seen nobody, mem. P’raps the house keeper would know.” . ; CHAPTER XU A STRANGE SUMMONS, AND STRANGER INTERVIEW. THE next evening, as Walter entered his office, 3 Margie, do you know of any one calling to see | f ae, after a hard day’s ride among the rocks and hills, wee — of his patients lived, he found a note on ais desk, It was a hasty scrawl, so blotted as to be almost Jezible, — after considerable study, he made it Pe. Sor) hs “Dr. Remmincton:—Come to the house known as the ‘old Stone place.’ Don’t fail, or delay; it isa matter of life and death.” ture There was neither date nor signa ¥ On inquiry he found that it had been left by a boy about two hours before. Walter was very tired, and then it was the evening that Irene held her weekly receptions, and he was ‘counting on being there; so the impulse was nee upon him to d un morning. 1 But on recurring to the note again he decided to go. ‘It is evidently some one in presen: need of my professional services,”’ he thought, as he thrust the note into his vest-pocket; “and if itis a matter of life and death, to-morrow may be too late. I shall have time to run into Irene’s for a few minutes after I set back.” : What was called the “old Stone place” was a di- lapidated story and a half house, situated on a lone- ly road, nearly a mile from any other dwelling. It was very old, one of the very oldest in that part of the country, and had not been inhabited for many a day. by One must be hg, 5 ics to seek shelter in such a place as this,” thought Walter, as he tied his horse to the broken fence. : Not aray of light gleamed from the windows, in which scarcely a whole pane remained. A curious feeling came over Walter as he walked up to the door, which was partly ajar, and hanging only by one hings. “Tf l was arich manI should be afraid that this wasa plot to rob and murder me;”’ he said to him- self, with a half-smile. ‘“ Blessed be nothing!” Pushing open the door, he found himself in a low room, whose bare desolation was clearly revealed by the bright moonlight that fell through the curtain- less windows. Seeing a serapaee of light beneath a door opposite he opened it. : As hé did so he was confronted by a figure which emerged from an obscure corner, while a voice said, in a tone of deep, concentrated feeling: ** So we meet at last!” Then, as the one eyes fell upon Walter, he started back, adding: ; “Who are you? and what do you want?” To say that Walter was surprised at his strange greeting is to say little. x On looking more closely he saw that it was the stranger he met on the road, whose countenance and singular appearance were indelibly stamped on his memory. As soon as. he could collect his moti he said: “JT am Dr. Remmington. I was to suppose that there was some one here in need of my pro- fessional services. The stranger turned a sharp, inquiring look upon the speaker. * Are you Dr, John Remmington?” “No; Iam Dr. Walter Remmington. I have a cousin by that name. He studied medicine, but never practiced it. So he was never called doctor— at least, around here.” ‘“Tt was John Remmi m that I wanted to see.”’ The stranger retreated to the window, and stood leaning against it with a wearied air, The unnatural flush had faded from the face, and its pale, dejected aspect aroused a feeling of sympathy in the kind heart, which never failed to respond to the nasa of suffering humanity, in whatever form it might come. “You are looking il. I am a physician; it will er answering the summons afford me a real pleasure to be of service to you?” “T am not ill; and you can be of no service te me, whatever!” f y , is : i ~_. | oo ee ee ee ores 2 *
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Ye seh ee eel le * We know not now, we shall know hereafter.’ % THE BROKEN BETROTHAL. Then, as the speaker’s eyes fell upon Walter, he added, in a softer tone: by ~ “T thank you, sir, but my malady is of the mind— tigen ee wounded heart. Have you any medicine such ?”” ; : ; “Only the Great Physician can heal that,” was the grave response. j The stranger folded his arms tightly over the heav- ing breast. : such Being? If so, why does He Js there allow wrong to triumph, and the innocent and help- less to be trodden under foot?” “In the language of one far wiser than I, ‘ what The stranger looked at Walter; there was some- thing in his face that inspired confidence, and which | da calming effect upon the nervous excitement | evinced by every Jook and — | _ “There is one thing that I must know; and know- | a no matter now! You say that this man—_ John Remmington—is your cousin. Is he going to marry Irene Carlton?” | 7 ter was so astonished at this unexpected ques- | tion that he remained silent for some moments. “T should not like to express any opinion on that | Point,” was the cautious response. “It is so re-| ported.” The effect of these words upon the stranger was . still more startling. Raising one clenched hand up- ward, he cried: i ; “If he does, he will be perjured, perjured, per- jured! A feeling of intense sympathy touched Walter's heart as he looked upon that Bale face, on which there was such an expression of anguish and de- Spair.. “Be calm. If this man has wronged you or any one belonging to you—”’ “Tf this man has wronged me!’ interrupted the stranger, rising from the knees upon which he had flung self. ‘‘ Why wait I for further proof? It is enough! enough!” After waiting a moment, Walter resumed: “The information you seek cannot properly come from me. Is there no other way by which I can serve you?” : By what was evidently a hard struggle, the stranger had regained at least the appearance of calmness. ‘There is. Iwant to send a message to John Remmington. In what way can it most safely reach him, and with the least possible delay ?”’ “Tt expect to see him this evening, If you think | you can trust me, I will takeit to him—or, at least, see that he gets it.” . “T think that I can trust you. Well would it be | for John Remmington if he were as honorable as I believe you to be. I want you to tell him—” “Stay!” interrupted Walter; ‘‘I cannot give your message verbally. You must write it.” The stranger turned to the table, which was the only piece of furniture in the room, with the excep- tion of a broken stool. <3 On this table was a candle, whose rays were flick- aving in the draught of the broken pane, near which it stood. He took a pencil and envelope from his knapsack, but searched it vainly for paper; tiot the least scrap was to be found. “ Observing his perplexity, Walter took a note-book from his breast-pocket, and tearing a leaf from it, gave it to him. Then walking to the window, he stood there, musing on his strange adventure, and the dark mys- tery that surrounded his new acquaintance. tho was he? and what was the nature of the wrong whose very memory seemed to goad him to desperation? assionate, selfish and self-will y he hed That John was L he well knew, but deliberately and basely evil never believed him to be. : “The letter is ready for you, sir.” | voice again arrested his attention. a | bring u As Walter's eye feR upon its superscription, he - started and then smiied. “If I did not know fo the contrary, I should think it my own handwriting.” ; Then, as he oa a side view of the face of his companion, a sudden thought flashed upon him. “Were you ever at Deering, Connecticut?” The stranger turned his head sharply, “Why do you ask me thet?” “‘T taught school there once, and—your fac€ look- ed familiar,” ‘*T was never there.” -- ¢ “ Walter was turning away, when the straager’s “One moment. Have you a sister?” Walter shook his head. é **T am not so fortunate.” “That is as it may be. If you had, and she was wronged, her heart won, and then trampled under foot, would not every drop of blood in your veins cry out for vengeance against him who so cruelly wronged her?” Walter raised his hand upward. sid ee is mine, saith the Lord, and 7 will . Whatever may be your wrongs, put fat from you such bt ore as these; they will o nm you fresh trouble and suffering. Min I do not say that you may not seek their r : that is aaether thing. I -will see that Prone | reaches the person to whom it is addressed. In the mean time, if I can serve fg in any way, I will do s0. You know where I am to be found.” When Walter reached Irene’s, it was late. on After paying his respects to his h who was the center of a gay group, he looked around for John. He was at the other end of the room, talking to Miss Gray. The cousins had not spoken since their unfortu- nate encounter on the steps of the hotel. John was inwardly ashamed of his violence, though he was too proud to own it; trying to justify himself in his own eyes, andin the eyes of those who witnessed it, by seeking to make * appear that he was the. injured party, in which he was, to a great degree, ecessful, = Walter did not believe that John would have made so unprovoked an assault upon him, had he not been drinking, still he did not care to present the letter himself, so he asked Harry Gray, who was passing, to take it to hifn. ! ‘ Desiring to note its effect upon him, he then laced himself in a position where he could watch im, unobserved. : ‘ieee: When Harry gave it to John he was crossing the room. Walter could not see his face, as he read it, but he ~ noticed that he did so twice. Then, puttin ten 4 letter into his breast-pocket, he said som t Harry, who immediately looked toward the bee he had stood when he gave him the let- Lg : On perceiving this, and feeling that if John wanted any information as to how the letter ha ed to pass through his hands, he ought to have it, Walter emerged from the corner, where he stood, to where he knew he could be readily seen by him, _ As soon as John’s gyes fell on him, his face flush hotly, and he walked toward him, with a step and ~ manner betraying strong excitement. When he pe bs Ha the middie of the room,.as suddenly eee ye | his resolution, he paused, going to another part of it. : ' John remained only a few minutes later. The two Grays were standing near the door as he Charlie. ‘Don’t fo " our ex- We shall have to be up bright p os “Oh! I sha’n’t forget that,” was the gay retort; “T wouldn’t miss it on any account! If oh sunset He ea to-night is any sign, we shall have a beauti- iy.’ : : 4 ~ " 4 ge ve
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LOPS kyl ne ee THE BROKEN BETROTHAT mething peculiar in John’s 5. d his wind Lntaatig adverted to He mentioned the incident to his brother, adding: s grey uP Did you notice what a queer look John ? Dr. Remmington was that ‘sort of a fellow, I should say it was a challenge.” _ “It would be sheer nonsense to suppose that," said Charlie, whose tem ment was less excitable and imaginative. ‘‘ Besides, it don’t follow because the letter came through him, that he was the writer of “The superscription was in his handwriting, I’m tive! T tiever saw such a change in any one’s ‘ace as there was in Jobn’s when he read it.” ‘Most likely it was something relative to their rival claims to the hand of our fair hostess. Johnis desperately in love with her. And so is Dr. Rem- ; though he has a different way of showing it. She isa charming woman; and the man will be very fortunate who wins her.”’ ‘That she is! And John is a downright good fel- low, as generous and open as the day! He deserves to win; and I bope he y “T don’t know about that,” said the elder brother, after a thoughtful. pause. “‘I like John; he has a great many ints about him. And some others that are—w: ways make the best Carlton was my sis- “T don’t imagine that there is any danger of that Miss Carlton is ee se Ngo 80 on either side. easily blinded. She will take which of them she likes best—and perhaps neither. It is none of our business. CHAPTER XIV. A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY. _ AN unaccountable agra ge depression weighed upon Walter’s heart, which made the mirth and ‘music of that gay assemblage jar harshly on his nerves, and he left very soon after John did. He had gone but a few rods when he missed a bunch of keys that he always carried with him. It contained not =a his room and office key, but the one that @ desk containing valuable remembered hearing something drop from his calaeas naira Ge ties au amcetod house. He It There was no help for it; eee wey hone was past ihe ron rtunate way home was ea - ouse mond, so it would not take him be beoe pow, ' mess he er sabe of it, he was startl oud report of a pis ; Walter's horse was young and spirited; giving a snort of terror, it began to rear and plunge, ina manner not _ little dangerous in the steep and rocky place where he was. ; After he had succeeded in calming him, he lis- tened. : Not a sound broke the solemn stillness that reigned aroun vainly to discover any inovement in the road ond, 7 Thon, with g reaseuring word to his horse, Walter | » Wout ON, d. Looking cautiously about him, he strained his eyes __ The moon was partially obscured by a cloud, but the outlines of the house were plainly visible, amid the blackness that surrounded it. As Walter looked he saw a from the house and run down the walk to the Whoever it was must have heard the sound of his horse’s feet on the stony road, and which sounded very distinctly in the silence. As it reached the road, it paused as if irresolute which way to go;*then suddenly turning, ran swiftly down the hill in an opposite direction. y Walter’s horse now demanded all his time and attention, As though it scented some mysterious horror in the air, it began to back; plunging from side to side, not even the application of the whip could make it go forward. At last Walter dismounted, and taking him by the bridle, tried to lead him up to the house, but he could not induce the animal to move one step in that direction. At every fresh effort he reared upon his hind legs, trembling in every limb, his flashin eyes and dilated nostrils showing the terror tha had seized him. Pitying what he could see no anpanens cause for, Walter fin turned the horse round, securing him to a tree at the side of the road, He then went into the house, the door of which stood wide oven. On entering the first room, he saw a dark 1 of something oozing from beneath the door of the one opening out of it. : : On taking a step forward, his feet slipped, and in trying to save himself, both hands came in contact with a warm, slimy liquid, and which had the sick- ening odor of fresh blood! Springing to his feet, Walter turned to the window. Horror of horrors—his crimsoned hands were drip- ping with gore! Struck dumb and motionless with terror, he stood for some moments trying to collect his scattered thoughts. Some dark, horrible deed had been committed. Murder or suicide?—which? Shaking off the benumbing horror that oppressed him, Walter pushed back the deor of the adjoining room, which was ajar. Upon the floor lay the body of a man. alter approached nearer, At this moment.the moon burst out from behind a cloud, revealing to his horror-struck vision the white, rigid face of John Remmington! ‘ earing open the vest he placed his hand upon the eart. Though the body was still warm, there was not the faintest motion there; he could have been dead only a short time, but dead he was! : What was to be done now? Go to the family of the murdered man with the terrible gre d th loa the magistrates of the foul murder that committed in their midst? This was what he ought todo, And yet— Supposing his story was not believed? Suppos- is heart grew sick as he thought of John’s fatal ‘quarrel with him, and the terrible position in which he might find himself, The murderer, whoever he was, had fled, and might never be found. Unless he was, suspicion would surely fall on him. Why should he tell of his discovery of the body? — What good would it do? Would it not be better to leave the discovery of it to some one else, rather than put himself in such mortal apex Pic up the mniaeing Ea 8, which he found under the table, Walter left the house; his d a con- fused medley of doubts, fears and conjectures. He finally came to the conclusion that he would say nothing abou: .:. ‘atal mistake!—a.id still more fatal consequences | that sprung from it! P | The gray dawn was breaking before Walter fell — asleep, and then he slept very heavily, }
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THE BROKEN BETROTHAL. B ee ee Sete eee = The bright sunlight was streaming into the room when he woke. : He would have thought his arene experience of the past night to have been some horrible dream, Were it not for what he saw around him. The cuffs of the linen duster, that was lying across a chair, were dabbled with blood, while spots were on various other parts of it. And when he went to draw on his boots, hesfound that the soles were crimsoned with the same horrible stains. With asick feeling at his heart that no words can describe, Walter covered his face with his hands. He shuddered as his thoughts reverted, to the ghastly thing that was lying in the old deserted ouse, Had they found it? If not, when would they? Oh! that he had Had the courage to have told all! But how if was too late. After doing the best he could to remove the tell- tale marks from his clothing, Walter went down to the deserted dining-room. _ Eben, the waiter, was noted for his news-gather- ing proclivities, and his willingness to disburse the same to whoever would tig him. a hearing. Walter saw, with a feeling of relief, that his face wore its usual inane expression, when nothin? was going on, to uso his own words, “worth mention- ing.” Walter, never encouraged his propensity to talk, not considering that he needed any. Now he said: * Any news, Eben!” “Nothing worth speaking of, sir,” replied Eben,. with a doleful shake of the head.’ “Dretfull dull times these.” Hastily swallowing a cup of coffee Walter ordered his horse. He had partly promised Irene, the night before, that he would join an excursion up the river that had been the subject of much talk and anticipation for the last fortnight. Now he felt that he dared not risk the ordeal to which it would subject him. As Walter stood by his horse, adjusting some por- tion of the harness, he saw Charlie Gray crossing the road toward him. “‘Good-morning, doctor. So you are not going to our excursion? But, good heavens! bow pale you are looking. Are youill?” For the first time, Walter was conscious how pale and haggard his face must look, and it did not tend to calm his uneasiness at Charlie’s unexpected ap- pearance. “Tam not feeling very well; I have had a good deal of riding about to do of late.” Charlie stared at him for a moment, and then “T'm looking for John.. He promised to be on hand the first one this morning, and hasn’t put in an appearance yet. I thought that perhaps he had come down to the hotel for something.” “T haven’t seen him,” said Walter, replying more to the look and tone than to the words, ‘‘He may be about the building somewhere.” , Young Gray passed into the hotel, and Water rode away; scarcely daring to allow himself to think until he found himself in the open country, with the town far behind him, John bad been missed, The next thing would be asearch, And then!— . How vividly did his imagination portray the wide- spread horror and consvernation, the grief and anguish that would follow! CHAPTER XV. FOUND ro Balm Partiy to put as many miles as possible between him andthe nee of that dark tragedy, and partly to drive away Crk game thoughts that oppressed him, Walter visi some patients in a rough and mountainous district, several miles from town. On his way back he stopped ata farmer’s for a bowl of ‘bread and milk. y The farmer's wife bustled about, placing upon the table a brown loaf and prestne * pitcher of milk, of which he partook more heartily than he had believed he gat there one of the farmer's sons drove into the yard, : } $ By the parcels of groceries in his wagon it was evi- dent that he had been to town, and Walter looked curiously at him as he entered. ‘“ Here’s the Herald, mother,” he said, tossing a it Cee | paper into the old lady’s lap. £: bey epee 2 stirring in town, Jake?” inquired Wal- ter, as he rose from the table. F ‘ “They’re makin’ a tarnation rumpus *bont a young chap that’s missin’,” said Jake. “ His moter is in highsterricks, an’ nigh about the hull town out lookin’ furhim, There wouldn’t be no such fuss if / should turn up missin’, hey, mother?” “« Who is it?” inquired the old lady. : *“ John Remmington, You ‘member him, dad?— that wild harum-scarum fellow that we saw at the tavern down to the ‘ Corners.’ ” “Tremember him,’ responded the farmer, who was sitting in the doorway, mending a harness. Walter turned to Jake, who was making a vigorous onslaught upon the substantial lunch that nis mother had set out for him, and asked: ‘Had they succeeded in finding no trace of him?" i They hadn’t when I come away, ’bout two hours ago. : ‘*He has not been found,” thought Walter, as he rode on. ' In spite of all the excitement, comments, and ht suspicions it might arouse, he wished it over with, He could not endure the thought of the body lay- ing there another night; and the impulse was mee upon him to go to the nearest magistrate and te him all he knew. He had to go past Irene’s. As he came in sight of the house, he saw a crowd of people approaching it. Four stalwart men walked in front, bearing a stretcher. oo Well did Walter know what it was that was lying so still beneath that white covering! Then, as he shove’ of Irene, and how cowardly it was to leave her alone at sucha time, he urged his horse forward. a By the time he reached the gate, which was wide open, the crowd had passed through it, and out of sight, and tlinging himself from his horse, Walter followed. i The house stood back from the road, on an emi- nence, and as he reached the top, -he saw Irene and several others standing on the steps, trying to pre- vent Mrs. Remmington from going down to the crowd below. “he As soon as Irene saw Walter, she ran down the store, her face pale and her eyes dilatéd with orror, - . ay “Oh! Walter, this is dreadful! dreadful! My poor aunt, it will kill her! Don’t, oh! don’t let down there!” : With pale face and disordered attire, Mrs. Rem- mington stood upon the steps struggling against the detaining arms that were thrown around her. “Tot me go!” she shrieked, “John is hurt!— some' hing has happened to my boy! meaning of this!” bain’ And breaking away, she rushed down the steps, pushing through the crowd that surrounded t murdered man, justas Mr. Remmington drew away the sheet that covered him. . For a moment she stared wildly at the rigid face. Then she threw herself down beside it with a shriek that curdled the blood of all who heard it. “Who has dono this? Dead! dead! Oh! my boy! my boy! it cannot, cannot be!” Here shriek after shriek came from the lips of the frenzied mother, until unconsciousness cam merci- fully to her relief, Pressing through the horror-struck crowd, Walter _ r go I will know the ~
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- Bte ‘ ‘ ———— ae oe —- ced ee ‘praised the head of the fainting woman, until it rest- ed against his knee. The wretched father stood looking at the son he so idolized, like one benumbed and speechiess by the magnitude of his woe. e now sprung forward. “ Murderer!’ he cried, hoarsely, erp | Walter firmly by the collar, ‘‘ how dare you come here?” *“ Priends ana neighbors,” added the speaker, turn- ing round and stretching out his hand toward the hushed and wondering crowd, “‘I call God and you to witness that I denounce this manas the murderer of my poor boy!”’ With her face almost as white as the dress over which her fair hair floated like a vail, Irene now ap- proached, laying her hand on bis arm. “This terrible thing has turned your brain, uncle; you don’t know what you are saying.” Mr. Remmington turned his eyes upon his niece with a look that she never forgot. “T know what I am saying but too well, as you will find. And I know, too, that it was to win vou he did it! But he shall not go unpunished. My poor boy shall be avenged! I will have vengeance, ven- geance on his murderer!” These were terrible words for a man to listen to, however innocent he might be, Walter’s face was very pale, but there was neither fear nor anger there. “God pity and comfort you, sir,’ he said. If those dumb lips could speak, they would tell you how innocent I am of bringing upon you this great calamity.” Walter turned away as he said this. Irene was §ust back of him, and he paused as he saw the mute appeal in the tearful eyes that met his. “Tt will be better for me to go now,”’ he whispered; “T can do no good, but rather harm by staying. In the mean time.if you have anything to communi- ate, write me,” ? As Walter pemee through the crowd he could not be peegntty of the suspicious glances that follow- ed him. : Harry Gray was standing near. As Walter met that searching, questioning look, there instantly flashed upon his mind the letter he had sent by him to John the night previous, His heart almost stood still with terror as he thought of all that might be inferred by it. Couid there be any thing more unfortunate than the network of circumstances that surrounded him? CHAPTER XVI. : A WOMAN’S FAITH. Wires all the pomp and circumstance of woe that wealth gives, John Remmipgton was laid away “in the house appointed for all the living.” moon was in church; and very largely at- tended. 3 Irene came in, leaning upon the arm of her uncle. She was in deep mourning, which hightened, by contrast, the pallor of her face. abe change that the last few days had wrought in the bereaved father touched with pity the heart of every: beholder. His face looked as if they had been years inst-ad of days; his hecd was bowed and his step weak and tottering. . Mrs. Remmington was not present; she was ] ing in a darkened chamber upon the bed from which she never arose again. ; Contrary to the general expectation, Walter was there. He sat in his own pew. -. Two ladies were in the pew when he entered, who immediately arose and took another seat. Walter took no apparent notice of this; taking a seat in the further corner, so that the rest of -it could be at the disposal of any one who wanted to Nery ed it. _ After the serviees, opportunity was given to all who desired it, to pass up.one aisle, past the altar, 26 . THE BROKEN BETROTHAL. a Fin EET 6 aS A eee a where the coffin lay, and down the other, so as to obtain a parting look of the deceased. After the larger part of the crowd had surged rast him, and out the other door, Walter walked up to where the coffin stood, looking sadly upon its oc- cupant, unmindful of the curious eyes that were watching him. Never, in all the glow of health and life, had John Remmington looked so handsome as when he lay in his coffin. The face wore that peaceful and se- rene expression, observed in all those who die sud-. denly from gun-shot wounds. Every trace ef pas- sion and excess had faded; the refining hand of death had spiritualized it, as nothing else could. The dark cloud that was lowering above Walter’s head, in whose shadow he walked, whichever way he turned, soon burst in. all its fury. ¢ On the evening of the day of the funeral, as he was reading an article in the local paper, commenc- ing with the cheerful inquir Why is the murderer of John Remmington still , eres to walk our streets?’—two men tapped at is door. ; Perhaps WalJter surmised their errand, for he look- ed from one to the other without speaking. The elder of the two stepped forward and laid his hand on his shoulder, *Youare my prisoner; I arrest you in the name of the State, for the murder of John Remmington,”’ If the officers had anticipated any excitement, or resistance, they were disappointed. Walter turned a little pale, but his countenance and bearing were as composed and steady as though it was simply a professional summons. “Pray be seated; I will .be ready in a few mo- ments,” The officers remained pee py 3 by the door, while Walter made a few additions to his attire. - ** Now Iam ready.”’ “Then come with us. at the door.” In spite of the precautions used, quite a crowd had gathered around the hotel steps, and a storm of ro a and hisses greeted Walter when he came out. Pat. Maloney sat upon the box. He was a fast friend of Walter’s, and his warm Irish heart was up in arms at the demonstration, “Ye ought to be ashamed of yourselves, so yo We have a carriage down had, to be afther condimmin’ a man before he's thried, even! It’s not I that'll belave it of him, at all, at all! Sure an’ didn’t he attind the ould woman an’ me sister’s three children, an’ nivir a cint' would he take? He’sa jontleman, an’ ye’re a set of dirty blackguards! If it wasn’t fur Yavin’ me hosses, Td git down an’ give ye somethin’ worth howlin And shaking his whip in the face of the nearest of the crowd, Pat drove away. Walter heard the heavy clang of the door of his narrow cell close upon him with a feeling of desola- tion that no one can realize except those who have passed through a similar experience, But after the first shock was passed, he experi- enced almost a feeling of relief that the worst had come, and that there was, now, no more necessity for concealment; he could teli all he knew in regaz t to what was almost as much a mystery to him as any one, The most painful thought in conncvcoa with his trouble was Irene, and the covrow that it would bring upon her. That she loved him he knew; the consciousness of her love had made him very happy; but would it stand the test of such a terrible ordeal as this? Would she believe him innocent, in the face of so many dark and suspicious circumstances? Questioning his own heart, it responded yes; she would have the same faith in him that he would have in her, under like cireumstances. se His heart whispered that she would come fe him , or send him some cheering word, ' a a ae s>. ‘ re “eo, s a
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so oe Vs el. lUra At last a note reached the prisoner in his lone cell and Walter’s heart told him whence it came, It was so blurred and blotted as to be almost illegible. It ran as follows. ‘‘ Dear Love: I have been ill, but am better now, Keep up good courage. I shall see you soon, very soon. IRENE.” . This note had been a good while on the way, con- sidering the short distance it had to come, and bore marks of having been tampered with; but Wal- ter was too overjoyed at the sweet assurance that it conveyed to think of aught els=. F He had not had time to read this precious missive more than a dozen times, when the door opened, ad- mitting a lady, whom he recognized even before she threw back her Vail. Rising, he advanced eagerly toward her, his face all aglow. ‘Oh! my darling! how very good in you to come!” Irene had hitherto been very shy in the expres- sion of her love; but now the sorrow and compas- bor that filled her soul swept every barrier before them. ‘ Throwing her arms around him, she burst into ears. * Did you think I would stay away from you? that I could do so? Oh! my love! my love! never were you half so.dear to m¢ as now!” Walter was strongly moved; holding the sobbing girl closely to his heart, he said: ‘“‘Let Fate do her’ worst now! scorn, imprison- ment; the prospect of a shameful death, these I could bear, but not the loss of your love, The bare thought that perhaps you believed ms guilty of the terrible charge preferred against me, at times nearly drove me wild. But now I am repaid for all, can bear all. But tell me, darling, with all this terrible array of evidence, has your faith in me never once wavered ?”’ Irene was as truthful as the day. “To be quite frank with you, Walter, there was a time when I thought, when I feared, that you had uarreled with John, shooting him in anger or self- efense!” “As God lives! I never saw my poor cousin alive after I parted with him at your house, on the eve- ning of the night he was murdered. I have only to reproach myself for the concealment of all that I discovered a couple of hours after leaving you, and which no one can regret now more than But I meant it for the best. At that time, indeed, it seem- ed dangerous to do otherwise.” Walter now proceeded to give Irene a ful! account of what the reader already knows, to which she lis- tened very attentively; asking, on its conclusion, 4 minute description of the mysterious stranger. “It is very singular,” she said, brea‘ing the thoughtful silence that followed. “If this young fellow is not the real criminal, that he had some: thing to do with the murder is very clear.” Then Irene told Walter of a singular letter she had received a day or two before its occurrence; warn- ing her, if she married John Remmington, that she would repent it to the latest day of her life. Unfortunately this letter was destroyed, though she remembered that the name.signed to it was Joseph Harmon. etkgs A no knowledge of the writer, and no idea, at that time, of marrying her cousin, she had not mentioned the circumstance to any one until now, though the singularity of its tone and purport made a strong impression on her mind. One thing struck her forcibly: that was the strong similarity of the handwriting to Walter Remming- ton’s. The reader will remember that Walter had noticed the same resemblance between the handwriting of the mysterious stranger and his own, and which had seemed like the similarity often seen in the hand of pupil and teacher. n comparing notes, it was evident to Walter that \ | —had I not seen your carri THE BROKEN BETROTHAL. | oy the writer of this letter and the stranger that had crossed his path were one and the same person, But this did not tend to clear up the dense mys- tery that surrounded the whole affair, and which baited all attempt to unravel it. It elicited nothing of importance but the name, and even this might be an assumed one. But the elasticity of youth is wonderful; under the charms of [rene’s presence, the influence of her cheering and hopeful words, oat, the love that spoke so clearly in every look and tone Walter’s spirits rebounded — the weight which had borne him to the earth. And; though after Irene’s departure, something of the old depression returned, especially when he thought of ‘the fearful array of evidence against him, the recollection of all her love for, all her faith in him, gave him courage to look his troubles stead- ily in the face, seeking some way of escape, not for s sake only, but for hers. A CHAPTER XVII. A MAD MOTHER, Irene was met, on her return, by a message from her uncle, who had preceded her a few minutes, and who was impatiently waiting to see her. He arose excitedly at her entrance, “Can it be possible that what they tell me is true e in front of the jail I could not have believed it—that you have been to see the guilty wretch whose hands are stained with the blood of my poor boy?” Drawing herself up to her full hight, Irene looked. steadily into the angry face of the speaker. “No, uncle, itis at true. I have beea to see Wal- ter Remmington, my betrothed husband, accused of a crime of which he is as innocent as you or I!” , “Girl! your betrothed husband is lying in the un- timely grave to which this man sent him! It was to win you that he committed the deed which has left — me childless and desolate! But he shall not gain his purpose. I live but for one object—to bring my son’s murderer to the gallows. him hung will be the happiest of the few remaining days that are left me!” The shocked, indignant feelings at Irene’s heart were plainly visible in her face, but her eyes soften- ed as she looked upon the bowed head of the speak- er, grown so white in the last two weeks. “Uncle, you have suffered so terribly that I can- not bear to add to your sorrow by reproaches, how- ever harsh and unjust I may feel your language to be. I would stake my life on Walter’s innocence; though I own, and so does he, that there are cireum- stances that tend to fix suspicion on him. Of one thing you may be sure, uncle, that dear as Walter is to me, if I believed he had done go cruel a deed, no matter how great the provocation, I would give him up at once and forever.” : ; “Who else could‘have done it? Who else would? With this one exception. my poor boy had not an enemy in the world, Why he hated him, why he — killed him, is clear to every one but you, who will not see it. I repeat it, it was because he stood in the way of his winning you, and with it the wealth he coveted, that John was thus foully dealt with.” “Uncle, you are laboring under a great mistake. Walter had gee Ss gain by John’s death, had he been so wicked as to wish or seek it. always his, as he well knew. Ihave called him my promised husband; he.was as much so before John’s death as he is now. In pledging Walter my hand, lexacted from him not only the promise that our engagement should be kept secret for a time; but that he should claim, in public, only such privileges as I could accord to a friend, to your feelings that I did this. I knew how strongly you had set your mind on my latin beeen and I wanted to give you time to be reconciled to it, What a great mistake this was I now feel.” ‘The mistake you made was in disregarding th» solemn promise made to your dying father, Had. Se z The day that I see — heart was ~ It was out of respect |
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al “ae - tossing penvicosty upon her ne _ ‘sense, Irene. - late day. Besides, why should you want to do so? 28 . THE BROKEN BETROTHAL. ies kept this pledge this dreadful thing would never ave happened. But it is too late to think of this now. -My only son has been foully murdered, and I only live to avenge him! I give you fair warnin that I shall leave no stone unturned to have meté out to his murderer the pmecrpintee! he merits.” -* God grant you may be successful! You will not labor more earnestly to that end thanI. I have a double incentive: to mete out justice to the real criminal, and to clear the innocent, I think that I have a clew that will lead to both.” Mr. Remmington lifted the pale haggard face that was bowed upon his hands. “What do you mean? What have you discov- ered?” “Ido not like tosay more now, uncle; at this juncture it would not be prndent. But this I will say, that Ihave the name and description of the real criminal, and believe he will yet be found.” Mr. Remmington regarded his niece attentively for a moment, and then turned his cyes gloomily away. . “It is some lie, I, suppese, concocted for the ovceasion. Waltor Remmington is the real criminal, and nothing youcan say vil make me believe to the contrary !”’ : Irene made no reply, fe: ling how worse than use- ‘less any further words would be; only the discovery of the actual murderer would convince. him cf his error, and to this end she determine to direct all her energies. With this resolution in her heart, she went up- stairs to her aunt’s room,who had been carried there insensible on the evening of the discovery of the body, and had not left it since. j ‘She met her own maid Pig | out. ‘** How is my aunt, Margie? Is she asleep?” “No, ma'am. She’s very restless and sort 0’ flighty like. She’s been asking for you "bout every five minutes since you’ve be-n gone.” : Trene passed into the room where her aunt was illow, a strange and anxious look in her eyes, as they wandered around the room, . “ Are you feeling any better, aunt?” she said, touching her lips to the hand that was lying on the eounterpane. ‘ Mrs. Remmington spoaker. *Tdon’tknow. I feel strange. You look strange, Your uncle came in a few minutes ago, ie looked strange; so does everything and everybody.” *T would not mind it,’ said Irene, in very much the.tone one would use to a sick child. “But 1 do mind it’ was the impatient response. “T feel as if-you were all hiding something away from me. Why did John go out of town without letting me know, or telling me where he was going? He never did such a thing before,” Trene was silent. It was evident that the terrible tragedy, beneath whose accumulated horrors the brain had given way, had been mercifully permitted to pass fromher mind, It would be a useless cruel ty % recall it.” “Mrs. Remmington regarded her niece suspiciously for a moment. “Why don’t you answer me? You hadn't any thing to do with it, I hope? If you have driven the oor boy away, I will never, never forgive you! as it your uncle that was telling me that you ob- jected to marrying him? Of course that’s all non- You can’t break with him now, at this looked attentively at the Where will you find a finer-looking young man, or one ‘better-hearted? I know he is a little bit fast; but a et sensible wife will cure him of all that; after e’s married he'll settle down and make one of the best husbands in the world, ; ean have against John.. Thore’s many a girl that would be glad enouch to get him.” It was terrible to Irene, knowing all that she knew, to listen to this." _ I don’t see what you- antennae “T wouldn’t talk any more about it now, aunt; wait until you are better.” che * But I must talk,” said the sick woman, sharply. ‘** And how do you know that I ever shall be any bet- ter? I don’t know what has come overme. I never felt as I feel now. Something tells me that this is my last sickness, that I shall never leave this room until Iam taken out in my coffin. And that is what makes me so anxious about your marrying John. L. don’t see why you can’t be married now as well as any time.” : “Will nothing stop her?’ thought Irene, rising from her seat, who began to feel that she could not endure this a great while longer, The nurse now approached, with a spoon and via). “Tt is time for her to take this. Dr. Milier said I was to give it to her once every two-hours.” “It is something to quiet her nerves and make her sleep,’ added the woman, as Irene took the medicine from her hand. _ Irene was alarmed at the wild glare in her aunt’s eyes, and her strange, rambling talk, and knowing what the medicine was, and its effect, poured out a double dose. * wets Remmington took it, exclaiming in the same reath: “T don’t want to sleep! Iwouldn’t sleep for the | world; lest [should dream again that horrible dream, Did I tell it to you, Irene? Idreamed that I saw Jobn dying dead upon the lawn, cold and white, his eyes staring out upon me from the pase lids, and his garments all dabbled with blood. A crowd of solemn-looking people were around him, and voices kept booming into my ears: ‘John is shot! he is murdered)’ : “Then I awoke, and found myself here.”’ Mrs. Remmington turned her wild, glittering eyes upon the pes, tated face of her companion. ‘““Why do you lock so at me, Irene? It was only a dream. It was not true—who could shoot John? Why don’t you speak, why don’t you answer me?” Irene burst into tears. Mrs. Remmington sprung to her feet, “‘T remember it all now!” she cried. in tones of deep, concentrated horror. ‘‘It was true! I did see my y lying out there upon the grass! ‘Is he there still? Letme go! I ell see!” It took the united strength of Irene and the nurse to keep the frenzied woman from flinging herself from the window. Shriek after shriek now resounded through the house, bringing Mr. Remmington and the doctor to the scene, who were together in the library. The paroxysm was too fierce and terrible to last long. ough pale, and trembling in every limb, Irene remained until the poor sufferer was lying up- on the pillow in the deep stupor of the strong reac- tion that followed. She then went to her own room, for the rest so greatly needed. But many times, in the years that followed, did the recollection of that wretched mo- ther struggling in the arms of those two strong men return to scare her in her midnight visions. CHAPTER XVIII. A STRANGE BRIDAL. Rev. Mr. Goopsprep sat in his study by the open window, alternately revolving in his mind the sub- ject of his next sermon and watching his two little grandchildren, who were sporting in the garden, He was a white-haired, venerable-looking man, whose countenance bespoke a goodness and benigni- ty which made it very pleasant to behold. He was aroused from his pleasant train of reflec- tions by a gentle tap at the door. **Come in.” : The door immediately opened, admitting Irene. *“T hope I am not intruding. The hall-door was: open, and finding no one in the sitting-room, I came directly up.” : ; Taking Irene’s handin both of his, the good old: man led her toa seat, — ; ae
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ee et ee eee re Pat! : thinks—but you are wrong. THE BROKEN BETROTHAL. _—- _ “You did quite right, my dear, Iam very glad to See you. Mrs. Goodspeed is in the garden, I think.” _As Mr. Goodspeed looked more attentively at his visitor, a serious expression took the place of that pleased and friendly smile. “You are seekers) pale and thin. No wonder, no wonder, my poor child! Yours is indeed a dark and heavy sorrow!” , That compassionate look and tone were too much for Irene’s self-control; she struggled silently, but unsuccessfully with the emotions that overpowered her, then bursting into tears, she sunk down sd the hassock at Mr. Goodspeed’s feet, and laying her head against the knee on which she had so often sat in her Boppy childhood, sobbed forth: “{tis heavy indeed; farheavier than you think!” The kind-hearted old man was greatly moved. He laid his hand tenderly on the head of the sobbing girl. “The Lord comfort thee, as He alone can. * He loves whom He chastens,’ and* does not willingly _ afflict or grieve the children of men.’ You surely Dave not forgotten where to 1ook for aid and com- ort?’ {rene had sobbed herself into comparative quiet- ness; raising her bead, she smiled faintly into those mild, compassionate eyes. i ‘“T should have profited very little by all your in- structions if I forgot that.’ ‘“You have been much in my mind of late. T called yesterday, but you were out. How is your auat to- | day?” “She is more quiet. But Dr. Miller gives us no hope of her recovery.” : “Poor woman! What a warning itis to us of the danger of disregarding the divine injunction, ‘Make not unto yourselves idols.’ ” Irene assented to this, but it was evident by the far-away look in her eyes that her thoughts were elsewhere. ; ‘* Papa Goodspeed, I have come to ask a strange thin of you.” This was what Trens always called him when a child, The old mansmiled. “Tt will be a far stranger thing, my daughter, if I fail to serve you to the extent of my power.” * “You know that it has been a settled thing be- tween us two that, when I married, you should per- form the eeremony.’ [have come to ask you to re- deem that promise.” Mr. Goodspeed was so shocked and startled by these words that he could not speak. Had the loss of the manhe had always considered as her future husband turned her brain? “I know what you think, what every one else John would never have been my husband had he lived. I could not do him not myself so great a ‘wrong as to marry him when my heart was another’s. My hand was pledged to Dr, seo oe three weeks before John’s death. Snd now that he is suffering this most undeserved shame and sorrow, and seemingly every heart is closed against him, I wish to redeem that pledge.” ‘* You astonish me beyond all measure!’ “And shock youas well. Isee that plainly. Do you remember the high terms in which you spoke to me of Dr Remmington ches he month ago?” “‘T remember not only that, but my astonishment and sorrow when I learned the suspicious cireum- stances that connect him with his cousin’s murder. Even now, [can hardly believe it possible.” ‘It is not possible! He is innocent. I will prove to the world my conviction of it before the setting of another sun! And you must help me to do this?” “My child, don’t be hasty in the matter. Con- sider, what will the world say—the world that be- lieves bim guilty—if you take such a step as this!”’ Irene arose to her feet confronting the speaker with flushed cheeks and kindling eyes. ‘“‘What care I for the world? My world is in the a narrow cell where lies the husband of my choice. T promised to be true to him through good and evil report, and I must keep my vow.” “No man can honor and appreciate the noble sentiments you utter more than I, but can you not be true to him without becoming his wife, at least until this dark cloud has passed—if it ever does?” “Tn no other way can I be to him all that he needs at this trying, this terrible hour. In no other way — can I prove to the world how truly I love and home ; him. I will be his wife before the day closes, even if Thave to get a stranger to perform the mai ceremony. You baptized me when an Free, SN have been my spiritual guide and teacher from that day to this, aad it seems most fitting that youshould> officiate when I assume one of the most sacred of all human obligations; and I did not think you would refuse me,”’. - * Irene’s voice faltered at the concluding words, and her eyes filled with tears. The kind-hearted old man was evidently greatly disturbed and troubled. “T have not refused ier But your request is so strange, so unexpected. This is a serious matter, dear child, and I must have a little time to think it over. I will have a talk with the young man; and then, if I can bring myself to believe it right for nie to do so, I will comply with your request.” Trene’s carriage was at the door, and in a few min- utes the two were on their way to the jail. The good old man was a frequent visitor to the jail, and Mr. Brown. the jailer, to whom he was well. ‘nown, experienced no surprise at seeing him. On his making known his errand, he took him to Walter’s cell, while Irene passed through the gener- al reception-room to the back part of the building, where the jailer’s family lived, with whom she was on the most friendly terms. Mr. Goodspeed was with Walter over an hour. When he returned, he found Irene with the youn- gest of the jailer’s children on her knee. ; Putting the child down, she arose, ‘ Mr. Goodspeed’s countenance indicated strong emotion, ; : “Strange and inscrutable are the dealings of God with the children of men! I have had a long and confidential talk with Mr..Remmington; he has told me all the particulars of this mysterious and unfor- tunate affair, and I must believe him to be the inno- cent victim of a combination of circumstances the strangest that’ ever came to my knowledge, -1 feel it my duty to tell you, however, that the evidence against him is strong, and if you take the step you . contemplate, the consequences may be more pain- ful than you imagine.” Trene’s cheek paled slightly, but her voice did not falter, as she said: “T have thought of the dread alternative to which youallude, but it does not deter me. His widow I | may be, his wife I must be.” “Tf you feel thus, my daughter, God forbid that I, or any one, should stand between you and him.” It was a strange bridal, and that dark and narrow cell a still stranger place in which to solemnize it. But never did more true and loving hearts take upon themselves its solemn obligations, As Mr. Goodspeed pronounced the benediction, the rays of the setting sun streamed through the high, narrow window, falling brightly upon the bowed heads and clasped hands’ of the newly-wedded pair. = Trene looked up, smilingly, eyes. of: See! my beloved: the sun blesses our union! Let us accept it as a hap yy auzury of the joys that are in store for us, when these dark and troublous days are ended. ; : 18 “Said I not,” she added, turning to Mr. Good- speed, ‘that I would be Walter’s wife befcre the setting of the sun? No one can gainsay the right of: the wife to stand by her husband’s side, or separate her from him, 5 “Whom @ d@ hath joined,” was the low and solemn response, “it is not in the power of man to put asunder!’ into her husband's Sipe (ts
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Pt. * Cae r 30 CHAPTER XIX. AN UNEXPECTED WITNESS—AND HOW IT ENDED, THE morning arose brightly and clear that was to give to our hero life and liberty, or a cruel and shameful death. ; ; During all the weary weeks that intervened, Irene had worked pep ie in her husband’s behalf, scarcely allowing herself time to eat or sleep. She had retained for him the ablest counsel that money could procure, Mr. Cameron, the chief and ablest of these, three _ in number, was strongly impressed with the convic- tion of his client's innocence, though there were strange and suspicious circumstances that it pe zled him as muck as any one to reconcile with that belief. He was not slow to perceive that everything de- pended on finding the mysterious stranger who had vanished as suddenly as he appeared, and who had kept himself so secluded from observation. But the most patient and thorough inquiry elicited little that could be of any practical use. A man answering to his description had called at a farm-house on the outskirts of the town for a drink of milk; another had seen him sitting by the road- side. Another, having occasion to go by the old, deserted house where John was murdered, a few nights before it occurred, bad noticed a light at one of the windows. ; As it had the reputation of being haunted, he hur- _ Tied past with all possible speed, and had forgotten the circumstance altogether until reminded of it by the tragedy that followed. The strong, and indeed fatal, resemblance between ‘Walter’s handwriting and that of the letter the stranger had intrusted to his care, together with the indefinable feeling which he had, at the time, that he had seen him somewhere, induced Mr, Cameron to make inquiries in varicus directions. Walter had kept writing-school in several of the towns adjoining the Ce ee where he graduated. In one of these a family had lived by the name of Har- mon, who had children of an age to attend, but they had moved away, no one knew whither. Mr. Cameron took a more than usual interest in this case. His long practice in the criminal courts, had not hardened his naturally kindly and sym- pathetic nature. . No one brought into personal contact with Walter could fail to_be a perdi with the truth and in- -tegrity that had hitherto characterized all his deal- ings; and the courage and cheerfulness vy ‘th which he bore the hardships and discomforts 0: his posi- tion, the good-sense and good-feeling he evineed awakened an interest in Mr. Cameron’s heart tha strengthened with every succeeding interview. At bret, in common with many others, he believed that the prisoner had committed the deed in the heat of passion, and under strong provocation, ad- vising him to plead guilty to manslaughter, as the wisest course he could take. Young and full of life, all that this implied sent a *hiver through Walter’s veins; for a moment his courage faltered, but it was only for a moment. “T honor you for your frankness, and were I in your place, I should, no doubt, take the same view of the case that you do. But J cannot plead guilty toa lie, If I live, it must be with no such stigma upon my name as this. If Ldie upon the scaffold, as die I may, I shall die protesting with my last breath my innocence!” ‘ t was not these words only, but the look and tone in which they were spoken that carried with them such strong conviction to Mr. Cameron’s heart. “You may be certain that I shall make every effort to save you from so terrible a fate, and hope I shall succeed.” “God grant you may; for there is one’’—here, for the first time, Walter’s voice faltered“ whose life s bound up in mine, and on whose heart your fail- _ ure will fall like a crushing blow!” The lawyer's subsequent interview with Irene THE BROKEN BETROTHAL. deepened to painfulness the interest he took in the case. Her youth and loveliness, and, above all, the heroic devotion with which she clung to her husband in his evil fortunes, aroused a strong ag of ad- miration in his heart, mingled with pity for the sor- row that he feared was in store for her. There was something sublime in the faith that pi a ay not only in her husband, but in his a : id Mr. Cameron, in order {to pceere her for the worst, suggest any doubt as to this, repelled it. ** Walter is innocent,” she would say; ‘‘God would never permit so monstrous a wrong as this!” Mr. Cameron had feltnd along, that nothing could clear his client but the diseovery of the real criminal, and as all the efforts he had put forth had failed to lead to the discovery of the Hatitost clew, he by no means shared in these sanguine anticipations. In addition to all his other discouragements, he | had to breast the tide of public opiniou, which, from the first, had set aenely. against his client. This, together with the deep interest taken in the ease by all classes, was very apparent the first day of the trial, it taking the greater part of it to impannel a jury. The murder, and all the strange, mysterious cir- cumstances that surrounded it, en the one absorbing topic of conversation for weeks previous- ly, and the court-house was crowded; people coming for miles around to witness the trial. st was a profound bhusb when the prisoner en- tered. Though somewhat paler and thinner, those famil- iar with his face did not see in it the change they had anticipated. ; rg ie accompanied her husband, taking a seat be- side him, s Her romantic marriage, which had been blazoned by the papers from one end of the Union to the other, together with the eens beauty, that was supposed to be the powerful incentive to the crime, made her almost as much an object of interest as the prisoner. There was a time when Irene would have shrunk from an ordeal. so painful to a proud, sensitive na- ture like hers, but now there was room for only one thought in her heart, and that was the danger that menaced the being dearest to her on earth. Irene was hardly conscious of the full weight of the evidence against her husband until she heard it solemnly rehearsed in all its. details, from the wit- ness-stand, The encounter between the prisoner and the de- ceased on the steps of the hotel, had been witnessed by several; and though John was clearly proven to be the aggressor, the unfortunate language used by Walter bore very hard against him, Young Vernon testified to receiving the letter from the prisoner and giving it to the deceased. This let- ter was produced in court, being found on the body of the murdered man: the crimson stains upon it eausing a thrill of horror to run through the veins of the-dense crowd. The signature and concluding part of it were torn off, but it was evidently a.stern and imperative de- mand that he should meet the writer at. the old de- serted house where the murder occurred, As we have before stated, the handwriting was startlingly similar; and when the note-book was roduced from which, as the reader will remember, Walter had torn a leaf, and it was found to fit exact- ly, a murmur ran through the court, and not a per- son in it, with the exception of the devoted wife, whose confidence in her husband’s innocence never once faltered, had any doubt of the prisoner's guilt. To counterbalance all this Mr. Cameron had little to bring forward except abundant proof of the pris- oner’s. strict. integrity. Indeed, the many instances that were related of the tenderness and goodness of his heart, especially to the poor, among whom he had a large practice, constrained people to feel that, She indignantly -
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es platy a uctlies he eeee, - an innocent man to deat THE BROKEN BETROTHAL. his love for his beautiful young wife, combined with S fear of losing her, had, for the time being, sub- merged his whole nature. In no other way could they account for the act so entirely at variance with his whole previous life. The accused was allowed to testify and speak in his own behalf Very carefully did he go over the whole mass of the overwhelming evidence against him. He went back to the time when he first saw the mysterious Stranger on the road; he related minutely his first and second visit to the deserted house, his ag for going thither, and all that he saw and eard. ; “Tt is my sincere and solemn conviction,” he said, in conclusion, ‘ that this stranger, whoever he may , committed the crime of which I am accused, and t which I have to suffer the awful penalty. I lame none of you for believing me guilty. I can ut acknowledge that the evidence, though purely Circumstantial, is strongly against me. But the Searcher of all hearts knows that I am innocent; and to Him ”—here he raised his hand ‘upward ‘1 commit my cause!”’ The prisoner's youth, his fine personal appearance, _ the earnestness and solemnity with which he ap- pealed to Heaven in attestation of his innocence, produced a visible effect upon the audience, if not the jury, and many an eye moistened as they thought of the probable fate of the speaker. Mr. Cameron’s plea in behalf of his client was a masterpiece of oratory. Wisely ignoring facts, he confined himself to a strong and earnest ap eal to the feelings, with the hope, as he afterward acknowl- paged: of modifying the result that he felt was inevi- able, With the summing up of the judge and instructions to the jury the case rested. The jury were out only half an hour, and the grave look upon their faces, as they filed slowly in, Showed what their verdict was, even if it had not been a foregone conclusion. The foreman’s voice faltered, and his eyes were Wet with tears, as he said: ' “Guilty, with a- strong mercy.” Through all these terrible hours of suspense, of al- ternate hope and fear. Irene had sat beside her hus- band, her left hand clasped in his right. Her loving, unselfish heart thought of him, and him only. As these words fell like a heavy knell, upon her ears, she struggled silently for some moments, against the deadly sickness that overpowered her. Then bending ber head, she whispered: , ; “Courage! beloved; we shall not long he parted!” A’scornful and derisive laugh broke-the solemn hush of that crowded room; falling like an electric Shock upon the nerves of the excited throng. It proceeded from a woman, who pressing through the crowd of officers and lawyers, now stood within the bar. Mounting the witness-stand. shé threw back her vail, revealing a face, so young, and yet sv old, so fair, and yet with a wretched, despairing exp cession, oH ap upon every feature, that made it terrible to ook upon. a> bare vs Those black, glittering eyes, flashed around a look that was at once scornful and defiant, _ Another Jaugh, and still another, burst from the ips. Then stretching forth her hand, she cried: pane is time — this wretche¢ os ee ond ‘ nh! just judge! oh! wise jury! you have condemne Just Juda hi It was / that shot John recommendation to emmington!”’ The packaty, whose manuer had betrayed strong _ agitation, now sprung to his feet. \ THE END. oe 31 “Tt is the mysterious stranger!’ Saved!—thank ~~ God! thank God!” : The woman’s eyes softened as she looked upo the face of the speaker.,. * You are right; I am the stranger whom you met in that old, deserted house, and twice besore that. You were kind to me; and and cruel as my heart has grown, I could not you perish. Besides, life is nothing to me now—nothing! The witness now turned her eyes upon the judge, and from thence to the jury. : me “IT have been here every day since the trial com- - menced, All that the prisoner has testified to is true, of which [can furnish ample proof. .I wrote the letter about which there has been so much dis- pute and question- wrote it, as he has told you, on a leaf torn from his note-book. It is not strange that our handwriting should be similar, for he taught the first characters that I ever attempted to orm. ; “The disguise I wore you will find among some bushes back of that old house. d ‘With this’’— here she drew a pistol from beneath her cloak—‘“‘I tcok the life, a thousand times dearer to me than my own. God knows I meant not to do this; but his refusal to do me justice, the taunts and reproaches that he heaped upon my head, mad- dened me. A moment later I would have given worlds, had they been mine, to recall the rash act.” After a moment’s pause, the witness continued : “T have come forward to clear the innocent, to, deliver up the life that is forfeit. But it must be in my own way. I will die as he died. Thus I cheat the gallows!”’ A sharp report rung through the court-house, and with the blood gushing from a wound in the chest, Josie Harmon fell forward upon the floor. There is now little more to tel] Walter was honorably acquitted; the truth of this late confession being proved beyond the shadow of a doubt. The tide of public opinion now turned so strongly as to almost take the form of an ovation; but Walter - turned from all the testimonials of renewed corfi- dence and regard that were lavished upon him to the one faithful heart that had believed bim inno- cent when every one else deemed him guilty. “Said I not,” cried Irene. in reply to Mr. Good- speed’s heartfelt congratulations, ‘‘that the God, in - whom you taught me to trust, would not let me trust in Him vainly?" 3 The good old man’s eyes filled with tears, * According to thy faith has the Lord dealt with, thee, daughter. To him be all the praise.” Mrs. Remmington died a few days later—happily oblivious, to the last, of the bereavement whose shock occasionedit. Her husband survived her only a short time. He did not go, however, until he had seen and acknowledged the injustice he had done bis nephew, toe p — Harmon’s self-inflicted wounds did atal. : She was tried for the crime she confessed Ct mitting, being acquitted on the ground of insanity, ~ She was removed to a private asylum, where ‘She. : maintained at Irene’s charge, who often visits er, Though very wild and ungovernable, at times, under kind and skillful treatment her malad subsided into the mildest, though most incurable type. ; And what of Walter and Irene?‘ They are living in their beautiful home, surrounded by loved and loving children; happy in each other, ® and happy in the happiness they are able to impar to all around them; remembering their dark days only to enhance their gratitude to the Giver of all good for all His mercies. :
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