Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 145) (1882 08 22)
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$2.50 a year. Entered at the P md Class Mail Rates. August 22, 1882. No.145, VoL. VI. PRICE, 5 CENTS Two Girls’ BY MRS. MARY REED CROWELL. CHAPTER I. THE WIFE’S PLOT. AN apartment in a residence on Madison avenue; an hour before the early winter sunset; and a regally-beautiful woman, alone amid the elegance and luxury and style of the palatial abode. A woman whose matchless grace well accorded with her beauty of face and form, and whose elegance of toilette suited perfectly the surroundings. Just now, her fringing lashes, black as mid- night skies, swept their curving fringe over her marble-white aici and as she eagerly read and re-read the short, coarsely-penned letter | that she held in her jeweled hands, there was | just the faintest possible expression of anxiety on the full, red lips that were ever so slightly parted. “Fifty thousand dollars, my own private fortune, to go to my adopted child, Edna Silvester, pro- vided she is not married before her twentieth birth- day. Her death or marriage before that time will revert the legacy to my husband, Grandon Saxton.” Visbhp SIS (ObbIA A $$ ‘YOU TELL, IF YOU DARE! That was what Mrs. Grandon Saxton was reading as she sat there among the fast-gather- ing shadows of that November day; this u- tiful woman, Grandon Saxton’s second wife, | who was reading her predecessor’s informal | testament. She folded away the paper, and placed it in her pocket-book, then leanéd and twisted a diamond ring on her finger, her eyes gazing through the plate-glass windows into the bloom of the conservatory beyond. “ Fifty thousand dollars” to be Edna Silves- ter’s—the girl she hated more than any mortal on earth: the frank, high-bred girl whom her saw reflected in his eyes some of the anxiety | she knew was in her own; and then she arose | from her low hassock, and swept over the car- back in her chair | husband’s first wife had, in her own childless- | ness, so cherished; Edna who was forever prov- ing a rival to her own daughter, Lenore. t was a very annoying thought to Mrs. Sax- ton that this interloper should be thus favored, and not only in this one instance, but in another | that laid especially near her heart. She was deep in her reverie, when her hus- | band came into the dim room, ‘“‘ Tsidore! I had no idea you were here. Were | you enjoying a cozy half-hour by yourself, with | confess it is less her appearance than a nameless your thoughts for good company?” ‘‘T was thinking of our Lenore, and Mr. Au- drey, and— Edna.” | She looked up at him as she spoke, and she pet, her trailing skirts making a shimmer of rightness, and seated herself in a chair whose cushions served as/a foil for her beauty, then bade Mr. Saxton draw his chair near her. “Let us talk it over,” she said. ‘‘ There re- mains an hour, nearly, before dinner, and we may as well dispose of the question.” ‘“Tt seems to me there can be very little to settle. The case is simply this,” and Mr. Sax- ton crossed his legs, and Jeaned back in his chair, with his elbows on the arms of it, and his fingertips lightly touching each other. “First, it is our desire that Lenore, our only child, shall marry Oberdon Audrey, which, on account of the superior attractions of Miss Edna Silves- ter, seems very improbable.” Mrs. Saxton’s reply came eagerly, quickly: ‘‘T am sure Lenore is much prettier than your first wife’s protege, Mr. Saxton. Lenore is a ‘ rfect brunette, a most exquisite little Hebe, It* is not Edna’s beauty that attracted Mr. Audrey.” ‘‘ Edna is very pretty; though I am free to charm that somehow seems always about her. Only yesterday Mr. Audrey remarked to me what a fascinating girl Edna was,” YOU'LL RUE THE DAY IF—”
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— 2 ** And Mr. Audrey will never be able to appre- / ciate Lenore so long as Edna is before his eyes, beggar though he thinks she is, and a nameless waif. Did you ever care for her?” Mr Saxton shrugged his shoulders. “Not particularly, lam afraid. The truth is, Isidore, there bas always been too much candor. frankness, independence about Edna for me. I infinitely prefer Lenore’s style.” “And Lenore is our own—and Edna Sylves- ter shall not thwart her nor me, Mr. Saxton,” and her voice took in its cadence a peculiarly low, intense key, that always meant she was very much in earnest, and she rested her eyes freely on his face. ‘‘ Mr. Saxton, Edna shall not again have the opportunity to outshine. our daughter as she has done in times past, ‘uncon- sciously,’ I presume she would say, in that haughty way of hers, if I would condescend to take her to task.” “Well, and what are you going to do?” Mrs. Saxton met his inquiring eyes, smiled, | and answered: “Tt will be a very simple thing to do, Mr. | Saxton, considering whom we have to deal | with. Itis just this: you will decide to give Miss Edna another year’s schooling at Mount Eden, which, though we know it is unnecessary, | and which she will doubtless dislike, she will consent to in accordance with her ideas of duty. Once there, Mr. Saxton, my word for it, she will not darken our doors again. How I shall | accomplish this I may tell you.” Mrs. Saxton’s eyes were wen gy with a | brilliancy strangely at. variance with her quiet, | repressed tones, and her husband knew by the way she twirled her rings, that there was more | inside that scheming head of hers than she saw | fit to tell him. / He smiled approvingly as she ceased speaking. | It was a very sensible matter-of-fact way of | removing Edna and her attractions from Le- | nore’s way as well as from Mr. Audrey’s atten- | tion and admiration, and he signified his entire | willingness to assist to bring about the greatly ) hoped for state of affairs between Lenore and | Mr. —— But—and an unpleasant sensation occurred to | him as he deliberated upon it—what did his wife | mean by saying ‘‘ Edna would not darken their | doors again?” Did . Saxton mean to close them on the | sy forever, when she sent her off to Mt. Eden? | e hardly felt eee rere f about that. He al- | ways intended to do well by his dead wife’s | hapa he had always done well by her until | is own ry Lenore, suddenly—it seemed | suddenly to him, as he thought of it now—de- veloped into a fashionable young lady. their girlhood days Edna and Lenore had been like sisters—so far as their intercourse was considered. They never could have been like | sisters on the grounds of similarity of tastes, views, appearances or actions; and the very characteristics that made Edna so different from Lenore were those that made Mr, Saxton | not only dislike her, but, what inwardly an- noyed tly, feel a contempt of himself and a for her and her sweet, pure, frank wa; Yes Edna should go in to Mt. Eden. He knew his wife spoke rig when she said there | would be no trouble with Edna about it; she was too tho y a girl of principle to refuse to obey so suitable a chp yr And Mr, Saxton pee rm a as a salve erence, which somehow misgive so annoying! that Edna should have @/ooniplate rencwal of her wardrobe, and a princely supply of pin- sheep to the slaughter.” She er in her thoughts And, altho’ offered her other there kept the feeling he exp geste Bf ring home. yi Jop open ression of spirits. , Mrs. Saxton went up to her own room, after | TWO GIRL’S LIVES. her husband had gone, with a slow, thoughtful tread, that was soft and noiseless as a cat’s, She locked her door after she entered, and then went to the pier glass that was let in the wall between two of the front windows, and stood looking earnestly, critically at the splen- | did reflection. “Can you do it, Isidore Saxton? Are you as brave of heart, as strong of soul, as you are fair of face?” She was asking the question of herself; and for answer a mocking light brightened her eyes, asif defying all weakness. *T can carry it through. I will carry it through; and if Edna Silvester doesn’t rue the day she was born, then I am no prophetess!” She began removing the golden pendants from her dainty ears; then, as if the thought had | just occurred to her, walked to the speaking tube, and called through it: ‘*Ts Rachelle there? Send her to me.” Then she returned to the dressing-bureau, and contined what she had been doing. It was not more. than five minutes before a low, respectful knock sounded on the door. ‘*It is you, Rachelle? Come in; I am wait- ing.” A small, thin woman, with a. footfall as soft as snowflakes; with deepest, coal-black eyes, that produced the strangest effect as they glow- ed and smoldered under eyebrows of densest whiteness. Her hair, fine and soft as corn silk, and white like her brows, was. banded plainly and smoothly from her face, and drawn to a French knot at the back. Her attire was scrupulously neat; a black al- paca, made plainly fashionable; a white linen collar, cuffs and ruffled apron. Her manner was quiet, ladylike, but it somehow suggested a suppressed excitement. She seemed like a woman who had seen terrible scenes, or who kept fearful secrets, ous enemy. This was Rachelle; who was Mrs, Saxton’s maid, so far as public position in the family went; who was an old friend and confidante ac- tually. Rachelle knew Isidore Saxton as no human being, not even Mr. Saxton, knew her. As a girl, Isidore Raleigh’s dreams of am- bition were confided to Rachelle Hunt. Her later struggles to marry a man who could sur- round her with the wealth her soul asked for its price of happiness; her quiet, thoughtfully plan- ned, skillfully executed efforts to secure what she desired; these, each in their turn, had been eonfided to Rachelle, and Rachelle had been ever the disereet, far-seeing friend, whose as- sistance was invaluable, whose advice was not to be scorned, And so, when Isidore Raleigh married Mr. Saxton, she kept her promise to her friend, and got her the position of maid; a ition Ra- chelle quietly accepted, with no false pride, or with no foolish envy that Isidore, as r as herselj, had managed to secure all the elegance of the Saxton mansion: CHAPTER IL. THE WAYWARD BEAUTY. A SWEETER-FACED girl than Edna Sylvester was rarely to be found; and yet, with a beauty far below that of Miss Lenore Saxton, as Mrs. Saxton had truly and proudly declared, Edna’s attractiveness depended on a certain charm of manner and f independence of character, that were as native to her as her dainty, high- bred ways that Mrs. Saxton would have given worlds for her daughter Lenore to possess. Edna had wearied herself ask- That she was a born lady was evident to aig if not to her- of jealous perse- cution by Mrs. Saxton, and latterly by Lenore, for by him and his both been told and re- Mrs. Saxton, in her return to Mt. Eden to en- Edna had been thinking -gladly, of her past and , because she was rather weary study; gladly, because she had her home as much as she expected her vacation. : . Saxton had heard her quiet as- ad gone out of her room with a wild a see how easily her heart to thway before her, Edna leaned her nead on or who would be a danger- | icked up by Mr. - ej her hand, and ‘sat looking .out on the leafless trees of the park. Pale What made Lenore @islike -¢her’ so? jonas she never had given her occasion, unless, could it be possible, Lenore was jealous of Mr Audrey? A faint smile curled her lips at the utter_ri- diculousness of the idea. She knew that Mr. Audrey’ was nothing to her, and never would be, in all probability; certainly neyer, unless she learned to carefor him more and very dif- ferently than she did then. To be sure she thoroughly liked him, and ad- mired him for qualities that should command every true woman’s respect; and they were great friends too, sufficiently intimate to call each other ‘‘ Edna” and ‘ beatlon,” when to- gether alone. But she was heart free as yet, and that was why she could not make herself believe Lenore was jealous on account of Oberdon Audrey. Her reverie was beginning to develop into a weariness of soul, when there came a light, springy step along the hall, then a tap at the door, and then an entrance. ‘“T knew I’d find you here, Edna, so I came up. It’s awfully lonesome down-stairs, with mamma busy over her,stupid.housekeeping ac- counts,’and papa not yet in from his office.” A clear, girlish voice it was, with a shade of impatient recklessness in its tones, that con- trasted. very forcibly with Edna’s, so quiet, frank, ladylike. Edna offered no especial welcome, nor did she manifest any particular displeasure at the in- trusion; and Lenore chatted and laughed and looked out the window with an exuberance of spirit very delightful to experience, judging by her bright, piquant face. ‘“‘T presume you will be very gay, this winter, while I am at Mt. Eden,” Edna remarked, half- bitterly, half-anxiously. Lenore did not seem to note the spirit of the remark. Indeed I shall be! “e Gay? Why, there’s no | end of fun in New York, in winter, and papa says I shall do exactly what I want to.” Edna made no reply, but Lenore’s words made her fairly shiver. For her to do as she chose, involved a series of madcap escapades, that not even Mr. or Mrs, Saxton dreamed of; silly adventures, foolish flirtings at the matinee, on the cars, or more culpable misdemeanors when traveling, that Edna had both seen and been told by Lenore, in moments of enthusiastic confidence. Often Edna had remonstrated with pretty, piquant Lenore, when she would insist on way- ing her handkerchief at some dashing young man with bold, admiring eyes; and once when Lenore was actually in the act of answering an admiring stranger who plead for the honor of her acquaintance by letter, Edna had, by her unwonted yehemency and resolute will, so frightened Lenore, that she had desisted, and so saved herself—ah! only one knew what. And now, her one safeguard was to be torn away, and Lenore Saxton, with her witching beauty, her reckless care of consequences, her impulsive eagerness for excitement and ro- mance, was to have her own way! ti It was little wonder Edna’s heart, burdened though it was with troubles of its own, felt an added pang of sickening pain. 9 ‘Lenore, oh, be careful! I beg you be cau- tious; and when you want any escort it be your father or Oberdon. me, Lenore.” Her dark, gray eyes were full of hi er pose, her cheeks just flushed with a delicious tinge that only rare excitement could conjure, and Lenore, looking in wonderment on her, was se- eretly amazed at her earnest in But she , merely laughed, This time in on ‘* Promises are not for me. y a moment I intend to give up + pea and turn Quaker, why, you're y mis- taken, that’s all. Coming down to dinner?” She sp lightly from among the scarlet cushions as the bell rung, her as care free as a child’s; her shiny brown 6yes dancing with merriment. ; Edna turned away from her with a thrill that was almost contempt, for her carelessness, « f am going in a moment. Don’t wait for me.’ Lenore suddenly stopped in. the middle of the room, her face losing its archness, her eyes glooming even angrily. “See Edna Bliaeter, I know what you are going to wait for. You intend to waylay papa as on ie asa and tattle about me. ut if you ” f , etl Her face betrayed her senti better than words could amt ressed er ‘*‘T have no idea of ‘waylaying’ your father,
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Lenore,” Edna returned, in quiet hauteur. ‘‘If I choose to warn him against your conduct, I certainly shall do so, whenever and however I desire.” Lenore’s face fairly paled. “You tell if you dare! You'll rue the day if—” But Edna walked quietly past her, into the hall, and descended to the dining-room. , While Lenore, trembling with rage, stood looking after her, vowing terrible revenge in a vague way; and so of the two women who sat down to break bread at the same table with Edna, both were enemies; and the man who should have protected and cherished her, gazed at her pale, high-bred face, and cursed the hour she had fallen in his hands and home. CHAPTER III. WHO WAS THE spy? Tue lights in Mr, Saxton’s parlor were turned down to a delicious twilight radiance; the warm atmosphere was laden with faint perfume from the conservatory adjoining; while from the dis- tant music-room came strains of sweetest melo- \ dy; conjured by Lenore’s skillful fingers, who, as she played, little thought whom she entertained, and how. Edna Silvester had dressed herself in her black silk traveling-dress for that last, formal evening at home. 6 was attired very plainly, almost to severity, and yet Oberdon Audrey, when he looked at her from the opposite end of the large oriel window, thought never had she looked fairer than in her plain costume of black, en- livened only by the narrow embroidered linen collar and cuffs, and the set of heavy gold jew- elry she wore, e was looking at her v sat, half-wearied y leaning her head against the curve of the tete-a-tete, that nestled so cosily within the window. She had drawn one scarlet satin curtain so that any one entering the room would scarcely see her; and there she sat, so fair, so girlish, so utterly alone. They had been conversing on indifferent topics, listening to the witchery of the music, and enjoying, uncon- sciously, the quiet of the hour. Now, when Ed- na’s e, proud face sunk back against the vivid-hued cushion, and Mr. Audrey noted the sad longing in her wistful eyes, there came such tenderness in his heart for her that moved him to lean suddenly forward and kiss her. Edna started; her cheek surged with blushes; then she turned her grave eyes in full inquiry upon him. “T could not help it, Edna!” out of the full- ness of the heart—‘‘and I can’t bear to see you looking so sad; especially when—when I would be so supremely happy if you would give me Seer to kiss you as often as I pleased. day dear, haven’t you seen for a long while Bit / earnestly as she love you?” © e his seat for one on the tete-c- tete beside her; he took one of her hands in his, and waited for her to answer him. / At first Edna seemed bewildered; she looked at him with surprise in her eyes, and a question- ing expression on her parted lips. ions Oberdon! what can you be thinking o The words came half unwillingly. He smiled at her sweet shyness. “Shall I tell you what I am thinking of? That Edna Silvester is the sweetest darling in all the world, and that I will be the happiest man living if she will give herself to me. look at me, and tell me you will be my wife!” The tears sp: to her eyes. ‘‘ Oh, Oberdon, lease don’t! Indeed I can not! indeed I never ave thought of such a thing!” “Think of it now! Oh, Edna, surely you will not disappoint me so?” For a moment she snatched a glance, and saw how white his face was. ‘You would not have me say I cared for you when I don’t—I mean the way you wish? a friend I ean love you, Oberdon, but oh! forget you asked me to be your wife.” Her voice was of womanly sympathy, and her beautiful eyes, fri by their tear-pearled lashes, looked pleadingly at his. L He made no answer for a moment; his mouth twitched under the heavy black mustache that comers it, and Edna saw how his eyes seemed Et oe ae, eeeipion, I can not com- prehend why, . Iwas so sure you would wanted : so; I ee ae this is a ier own heart was beating fast, andit gaye a Se ee « TWO-GIRL’S LIVES. thrill of anguish when she saw the power her simple word had over this lover of hers. She knew he had a grand heart; she knew he was a thorough nobleman in principle and action; she knew—now that he said so—that he loved her; she wanted some one to care for her so. .. It suddenly came upon her—this temptation to accept Oberdon Audrey’s offer of marriage— not because she loved him, for she did not, but because his arms would be such a quiet retreat for her whom no one else seemed to want. Should she give herself to him, and let his great love for her’suffice for both? Perhaps in time to come she would learn to care for him as he cared for her; should she risk it? Audrey saw the flush come to her face, usual- ly so pale; he saw the glitter in her eyes, the stern Se re i of the dainty red lips. ‘* Oh, Edna, you are reconsidering? You will let me take you? Edna, my darling, only let me prove how good I will be to you!” ' “Oberdon,” and his name sounded almost in a gasp from the sorely temptéd girl, “‘I can not, If I loved you I would say so; but I dare not oa my hand where I can not lay my heart, Yh, I wish EF could, for your sake.” Then he knew—he who had studied her so— that his sweet dream of love with Edna Silves- ter was over. “Let me say good-by, then, and go away where I can fight down this horrid trouble. And, Edna, pueer: me if ever trouble comes, =, SS ‘“‘ Perhaps ‘you will allow us to congratulate you on your remarkable good luck in securing an offer of. marriage from Mr. Oberdon Au- drey?” The offensive tones jarred on Edna’s ears; she lifted her head proudly, and looked Mrs. Saxton full in the eyes—full of malicious anger. ““T do not comprehend you,” she returned, quietly. ‘No? One would think a person so capable of maneuvering—” A sudden, loud, sneering laugh from Lenore interrupted her mother. ** And she said, only this afternoon, that she and Mr. Audrey were only friends!” Edna met Lenore’s gaze with the same ond silence that scorned to explain a truth she w was sacredly confidential; and yet, her eyes began to flash at the vile insinuation of ‘‘man- aging to secure an offer!” «We will let the subject drop,” said Mr. Sax- ton, stiffly. ‘‘ And we will make our adieus to- night, as the carriage will take you away before we rise in the morning.” He extended his hand, and said “ good-by;” | his wife bowed coldly; and Lenore laughed and And that was her ‘‘good-by!” while here and there, won- nodded, her thoughts were rovin, | dering who told of Oberdon’s offer; wondering and you need me for any thing, you will send or tellme. Promise, Edna!” He drew her face down to his breast, and held it there while he looked, as if he never could stop, down in her pure, sad eyes, at her red quivering lips. Then he kissed her, over and over: on cheek and brow and hair; then he held her off at arm’s length, with that hungry, pitiful gaze in his black eyes. ““You promise me, Edna, that if ever i bot friend, a protector, a counselor, it shall ¢ ‘* Indeed, dear Oberdon, it shall be you.” He suddenly strained her closely to him, | pressed a long; long kiss on her mouth, and as abruptly left her. Still the strains of the music went on; still the warm, perfumed air floated around her, but Edna was not the same Edna. A master-hand had touched the sealed fountain | in her heart, that, true to its all-unconscious al- legiance, sprung forth at the summons. A lover’s kisses had touched her lips; a lover’s clinging arms had embraced her, and passionful words fallen on her awe-struck ears. She sat there, in the twilight, stunned, dazed | by it all. Oberdon, her friend, her brother— ce gee her lover—Oberdon, her discarded suitor. Then a swift, sharp pang went shooting a her newly-awakened heart; poor, poor Oberdon! how it wounded her to grieve him so, who had always been so gentle, so kind to her. Poor, dear Oberdon! how splendid he looked with his face all love-lighted, pleading his cause so eloquently; and whet he held her against him, raining kisses on her flushing face, how his a ata! had gone straight to her woman's eart And Edna felt her heart throbbing with a sensation that was painfully delicious; while away down deep, came softly, slowly, the won- dering question, self-asked, ‘‘could she have possibly been mistaken? Then, of a sudden, the music ceased, the gas was turned on in blinding brilliancy, and Mr. and Mrs. Saxton and Lenore were there with her. So the episode ended—it was the first actual event in Edna Silvester’s pure, girlish life: she had acted as her conscience told her was best, at the moment of decision: and now, after the momeént had passed, and her decision had gone irrecoverably forth, if her woman’s heart sud- denly awoke from its eighteen years of slumber, it was hardly her fault. And yet, had Edna Silvester acted contrary to her pure, noble instincts; had she accepted Oberdon Audrey because of the restfulness he could give’her, and she so wanted, this romance would never have been; for on her refusal hung the happiness and misery of others beside her- self, whose woof and warp of life was so singu- ae and fatefully to be woven in the webs of ers. Now that Mr. Saxton and his wife, and Le- nore came in upon her, Edna resolutely banished her reverie, and began talking gayly as_ she could, when she noticed a white wrath on Mrs, , Saxton’s features, that was mirrored, almost as plainly, in Mr. Saxton’s, and indicated by sur- ga eat ie was but had not long to w: to have it Cepiainet” ™~ sate who knew. CHAPTER. IV. THE BEAUTIFUL DRAGON’S TRATL. No one in the grand house on Madison avenue missed Edna when she had gone, or cared whether she were happy or, miserable at Mt. Eden; if possible, Mrs, Saxton’s dislike of her had acquired fresh impetus from. the hour she heard that Edna had received an offer of mar- riage from Oberdon Audrey. ~ Rachelle had heard Edna and Oberdon; not accidentally either, because she was constantly, at Edna’s heels, consequent upon Mr. Saxton's commands. Edna’s refusal of Mr. Audrey’s offer did not in the least ameliorate Mrs, Saxton’s unfriendli- ness; rather, it fired her jealousy still hotter to think Edna had the opportunity to reject what it was her ambition to secure for Lenore, Now, after Mr. Audrey’s proposal, the very contretempsshe had tried to prevent, . Saxton. was more convinced than ever that Edua was well out of sight, because she knew, with her keen, intuitive perception, that even if Edna had refused Mr. Audrey, she could not but help regret the rejection, in all probability re- ceive another which she would accept. It was a very thing, then, that Edna Silvester was well away from the handsome house on Madison avenue, where there. was so much and to spare—except for her; that she was so well removed, not only from sight but from hearing; for at Mt. Eden no correspond- ence was allowed whatever. It certainly seemed that all things were work- ing for good; and Mrs. Saxton, as she sat before the grate in her dressing-room, toasting her slippered feet, smiled triumphantly in anticipa- tion of the time when her ambitions would, be | crowned with gratifying success. She was very anxious to secure Oberdon Au- drey for Lenore; she and her husband had com- pacted to leave no stone unturned to accomplish the desirable parti; but, knowing the girl’s will- fulness, her waywardness, and know there was always a strong possibility of her refusal to marry the lover of Silvester, Mrs. Saxton had long ago decided on another eligible gentle- man—and one of the two suitors Lenore should en giving the preference to Oberdon Au- Tre ~ For an hour Mrs, Saxton had been sitting there, absently caressing her shapely white hands, or twirling the flashing jewels on her fingers; and Rachelle Hunt, from the side win- dow where she sat mending one of Lenore’s late i up in curious Mrs. Saxton broke the silence at last by the — that plainly indicated the tenor of her mec nS “Not to-day. I think he hardly cares to come since Miss Edna went away.” A sour expression crossed Mrs. Saxton’s face ere she replied. “We'll teach him that Lenore is as good as (nil Edna's 6 ntomntitie fault Sal ts ave ts) Ss CO ntil he sees. with my eyes how rice Me sadece, we eo ge ‘ smile did not escape on, Rachelle’s face thag A i n° ae
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4 ——— TWO GIRL’S LIVES. ‘*-You are incredulous?” “Tam. I know Mr. Audrey too well to think he will be swayed from his allegiance to Edna Silvester for a moment. I think he will attri- bute your language to the true motive.” Mrs, Saxton flushed a trifle. “Well, J think not, and at all events I shall leave no stone unturned to abuse Edna to him. He shall forget her, or—” Her suddenly commen lips finished her threat quite as forcibly as any words could have done, Rachelle carefully went on with her delicate task; and Mrs. Saxton leaned back in her chair again for several minutes. Then a low laugh, | with forgetting her so soon, so easily. She felt as if suggested by some sudden recollection, es- | a satisfied sort of comtempt in believing that caped her. | Mrs. Saxton was trying, and very vainly, to ‘IT was so amused to see Mr. Saxton_the day | heap added insult to the one perpetrated before I suggested we should send Edna to Mt. Eden | she left home, Then there gradually began to in.” develop in her feelings, one of dull, dumb pain Her bright eyes wore in them an expression | that Oberdon could even pay the least attention strangely at variance with her light pleasantry. | to ay, one, after he had declared he loved only She studied Rachelle’s face so intently that | herself. Then, somehow or other, she wished when Rachelle looked suddenly up and con- | she could forget him, and Lenore and every- fronted her, she started and flushed as if detect- | body; she wished she had only one friend in all | ed in a guilty act. the wide world to whom she could go with her “Perhaps Mr. Saxton thinks, as I do, that | home-sick, heart-sick cares. True, she had | there are more reasons than one for sending a| promised Oberdon to let him be her friend, al- | charming young girl off to boarding-school.” ways and ever, but if it was true that he was | She said it so quietly, with such greens yr becoming devoted to Lenore Saxton, what need suggestiveness, that Mrs. Saxton could have | had he of her friendship? struck her. But was he really attentive to Lenore? Mrs. ‘““T am not sure I comprehend you, Rachelle,” | Saxton’s statements she could not believe; and she returned, haughtily. ‘‘ You do not mean | so between doubt and fear she alternated, until to insinuate any thing? one day, in her usual weekly letter from home, Gers Poe wedding-cards—Lenore’s and Ober- on’s the night Oberdon Audre love for her, and she had told him she could not | accept it. Since then, Edna had passed through | strange experiences; and not the least distress- ing was the news that Mrs, Saxton positively made a point of telling in her short, periodical letters, of Mr. Audrey’s continual intimacy at the house; of his drives and rides with Lenore, | of their engagements for theater and opera, and of the on dit that somehow was rumored of its looking very like ‘‘ a match.” At first, Edna smiled in contempt. She, who knew Oberdon so well, would never credit him She spoke rere eagerly, and seemed to fairly hang upon the answer so long eins For Rachelle folded up the completed task, It was hardly what one might call a blow to wrap its dainty, filmy whiteness in a satin Edna; and yet it hurt her, wounded her to her damask napkin, and laid the precious parcel in | heart’s core, that Oberdon Audrey had forgotten the boudoir safe under lock and key, before she | her so soon. ventured on a reply. After that Edna sought to forget it all; and “T do not mean to insinuate anything, Mrs, | she succeeded, she thought, aided by a certain Saxton. You have known me, and I you, long) gentleman who lived very near Mt. Eden Insti- enough to warrant plain nity between us, | tute. What I mean—rather what I know is, that Edna| This Garnett Fay was the nephew of the court- Silvester is not to inherit her fortune, or have a| ly old og! who lived on the adjoining eer chance to secure her a lover, if you can help it.”| to Mme. Flyaway; a stylish, handsome fellow, She looked Mrs. Saxton fully in the face as; whose blue eyes and handsome hair, added to a she spoke in her low, unexcited voice; and Mrs. | genial air and gallant devotedness, attracted Saxton’s face never changed a muscle as she lis- | attention. tened. Only by a oe red light that seem-| For several weeks he had passed the window ed to emanate from her black eyes did she give| of Edna’s room, night and morning, on his way token of the intense interest she felt. to and from the rural depot. At first he had “And you, Rachelle, will help me win both) only glanced carelessly in, and Edna had merely for my child?” thought ‘‘ what a handsome man.” Later, his “ Have I ever refused you any thing? What) gaze was a trifle more marked, while perfectly shall I do? I have spied on her up toher depart-| respectful; and then, one bright afternoon, ure, and now—what?” when Mme. Flyaway and her elder pu ils were “T hardly know what, myself. I know or) playing croquet on the lawn, and ok ies. Fa care nothing ‘beyond the fact that I would give | and Garnett had passed by, and paused to iedon a thousand dollars to know Lenore was Hana the game, what else coul Mme. do than intro- Silvester’s triumphant rival.” duce the ladies and gentlemen? Mrs. Saxton shivered a little, and held outher| And soit began. Day after day the two had hands over the blaze. met; from acquaintance to friendship, and “You would have forty-nine thousand left. | now—” Rather an unequal division.” On Edna’s lap, as she sat by the window, Rachelle looked steadily in Mrs. Saxton’s eyes | looking out on the wintry landscape, there was as she awaited the answer. lying a letter from Garnett Fay, and this is “JT will givé you a check for five thousand in| what it said: Seaeemm reece ee rca ite rr | Mine Retire ees olasice a fib ies r > ’ ruest a n She laid her cool hand on Rachelle’s; her eyes ond cabins in return, poo te fn to love iam, an were full of a concentrated light that made them | be my own? Ever since I knew you, Edna, I have appear as if they radiated instead of receiving | loved you, and while I know you have expressed no : preference particularly for me, stillI am presump- tuous enough to hope you will make me proud and happy by accepting me.” To Edna, this letter seemed very manly, very | Straightforward; and, as it lay in her passive | hands, she wondered what her duty was in re- gard to it. _Onice before she had refused an offer of mar- riage; and though now, as she watched the cold twinkling of the stars, and she was constrained to admit it had been an unwise thing, she knew that with it, and him who offered it, she was forever done. She was so lonely; never before had she realized it as here at school again; other al had parents, houses, friends; she had less than nothing. She so wanted one—only one near one, dear one, with whom to talk, to whom to go, | who would make her interest theirs. Did she love Garnett Fay? It seemed as if the Fates were making a plaything of her heart; it. Her breast heaved in short, quick motions, and | Rachelle felt a muscular spasm of the clinging | fingers. , “You will give me a vacation when I ask for it, and pay my expenses?” A smile accompanied her quiet request. ‘Whenever you ask it, as long as you please, and as much money as you want.” Rachelle nodded her head carelessly, in accept- Ace, “Consider it settled; and the subject dis- missed until—” A eall from below summoned Rachelle to Lenore; and Isidore Saxton sat in the darkening twilight, singing a sort of mute jubilate in her | eart. ——_ CHAPTER V. THE TEMPTED HEART. THE long winter evenings around Madame Flyaway’s study-table were slipping by, slowly aS We and not very delightfully, at least to Miss Sil- coats it first toward Oberdon Audrey, then | vester, who, aS head pupil in the Mt. Eden In- back to her again; then at Garnett Fay, this stitute, had enough to a6 in assisting less fortu- , handsome lover of hers, whose blue eyes could nate ones. rompt to avail hold such intense devotion; this lover, who was lem: her assistance, to discover all , all tenderness, ali adoration. for themselves what Edna had discovered for! No; she answered the question bravely as she answered it once before. She did not love OTe had West two’ pabniths now, since Edna's re- Garnett Fav any more than she had loved Ober- | who were more | turn to Mt. Eden, two long, w months since ‘Cod tall het oF ce | | cold-hearted? More probably never | affectionate, womanly nature, such as her ide | cluded her logic, it was, with ' her light form more heavil don Audrey. Atleast, not asshe firmly thought. a woman should love, who gave herself to her husband for aye. Would she ever experience such a thorough- ness of affection? Had she not Lacey become @ warm al test glory? d have another woman always possessed as her Aghin, was it wor 4 she sho offer of marriage, an to change her condition while she might? for, the very contemplation of going on through life: as she was then going, made her heart sink. So she reasoned—she, who was yearning so for a soul mate. And then, when che had con- the verdict—‘I marry him!” CHAPTER VI. NETTING THE BIRD. “How can I thank you, Edna? how can I rove my delight at your consent? Dearest, a ifetime can only contain the gratitude I feel.” Garnett Fay had met her, very a to her, on the road between the Institute and the village, whither she had gone to make pur- chases. He caught her hand and drew her to his side | as they walked along. ‘* Your note, though short, less sweet than yourself, Edn: He looked down in her pure eyes, and on her cheeks, that flushed under the ardor of his gaze and language. “ T could only tell you my final conclusions, Mt dpa I again “Mr. Fay” Hy ! [am never . Fay” to you. Remember!” 4 4 He smiled at her, disarming thus his assump- tion of fo Cpe “FE try to remember; only first, lepb me tell you my reasons for accepting your offer of marriage. After you learn them you may reject me. b) She smiled at her own words, and looked up, half-timidly to him. It was so strange, so sweet, to have some one to talk towho really was so sweet; only a.” “‘ Reject you, my darling! never, though you acknowledged you took me to get rid of my im- portunities.” i As he spoke he stooped his head and kissed her white forehead. ‘‘ But when I tell you I want to learn to love you very, very dearly; when I confess I am marrying you ause I am so lonely, so miser~ able—you do not recall what you have said?” ‘““Not a word of it! You are still just the sweetest, truest, bravest little girl I ever saw, /and your frank confession only makes me ad- mire ou more, and love you the better.” “Then, Mr. — then, Garnett,” and she raised | her shy, sweet eyes truthfully to his, “I am your betrothed wife, I will try to do my ag & and I am sure you will never have occasion to find fault with me,” Her voice was softly solemn, and she leaned those words once spoken e drop there and pinned her faith forever In silence they walked slowly on under the bare, leafless avenue of elms, intent om their private Caughts; and when they reached the gate that led to Mrs. Fay’s grounds, Garnett paused. ‘Edna, when shall we be married? You will not make me wait long, will you? There is no reason why it need be postponed at all.” He was caressing her hand that was incased in its thick gauntlet. c “Mme, Flyaway will object, of course, Other than her no one cares.” There was a wail of sadness in her words that would have touched the heart of her worst enemy. “And Mme. Flyaway need not be consulted. Marry me at om0e-=00-1gAE my darling, and let me b you to aunt Ella. She will love you; and with me to stand between you and the world, will you care for aught beside?” Edna’s heart was throbbing so wildly; it was all so strange, so unreal. Married! married that very night! One act, and thereby separated from | the loneliness and the uncared-forness of er life! It was very sudden, this proposal; she had ht to learn more of Garnett Fay, of his anchor was it not better for her f' .
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the old lady; and Edna had heard Mme, say of what a remarkably fine family they came.” While she was mentally discussing all this, Garnett stooped toward her. “‘T am tyrannical, dearest. You shall be my bride to-night. Meet me, little one, at this spot, at eight o’clock, and I will be here to take you ; to the village church.” He ctesed her and let her go. She watched him away, and then, with strange forebodings walked slowly up the Institute walks. Alarge, regularly furnished apartment it was, upholstered in pale yellow satin; with a bright coal-fire burning in an illuminated stove that reflected its ruddy light most cheerily in the dusk that had already fallen. The red beams plainly disclosed the open piano, with its piles of new music; the cozy lounging-chairs and sofas that were arranged so tastily and invitingly in | fire-lighted nooks, by the large malachite cen- ter-table that stood under the chandelier, or dotted here and there beside tiny tables where one might lay one’s sewing, play a game of chess, or examine the magnificent revolving stereoscopes, as fancy dictated. By the long French window that faced the road leading to the side-entrance, a lady s “ intently watching, as if for the expected ap- pearance of some one who had been detained on the way. , She was not a young woman, neither to be called old; perhaps the convenient term “old maid” was the best that could be applied to her, as regarded her appearance, rather than her manners. She was slightly under the average hight, with a graceful, well-rounded figure that was admirably dressed in a black silk dinner toi- lette. Her eyes must have been black, judging from the jetty hue of her hair and eyebrows, whose perfect smoothness and massiveness sug- sted the skillful art of the hair-dealer rather han that of Nature. The thick, green glasses she wore—Miss Fay acknowledged to be grow- ing nearsighted and weak-eyed as she grew old- t er—utterly defied investigation of what was be- neath them; but one little cared to know mcre of Miss Fay, after her charming conversation once won one; that was enough to engage every whit of attention. . Since the Fays had come to this cious, elegant place—‘‘ Sunset View ” they called it— it was astonishing what friends they had made, what prestige they had Ree in the vicinity. Miss Fay—‘‘auntie” her handsome peghow called her—laughingly and frankly admitted she was too old now ever to get married, and so she had centered her hopes, ambition and affec- tions on ‘‘her boy "—Garnett. j It was evident they were rich—their sur- roundings, their servants indicated that. It be- came very soon patent they were highly re- spectable, for they bore letters of introduction to the village minister, the physician, and Mme. Flyaway—the three magnates; and the letters were from Mr, Grandon Saxton, of Madison avenue, whose name was as good as gold. Edna Sylvester had only learned this latter fact very lately; the evening after she parted from her lover at the gate, and promised to meet him at eight o’clock. Quite accidentally, amid all her misgiving, she heard at the Institute, from Madame’s own lips, that Mr. Grandon Saxton indorsed the new neighbors at ‘‘Sunset View.” And then Edna felt she could trust any one so recommended. All this while, ever since Garnett Fay had one out to meet Edna, on ber way home, Miss his return. And now, after an hour's tireless ee 5 he was coming; she saw him raise his | rat to Edna, and watched him hasten up the path to the entrance. , He came ‘in quickly, with a bold, vigorous step, and bringing the freshness of the cool win- ter day in his garments. He laid aside his overcoat—a heavy beaver, edged with fur, and trimmed with elegant frog buttons—on the hall rack, hung his hat beside it, and laid his gloves on the tiny shelf before he came into Miss Fay’s immediate presence. When he entered the room, it was with a smile on his face whose triumph could not be mistaken, ‘Garnett! you are successful! I can read it in\ your eyes,” “Yes, Ihave succeeded. Edna and I'are to be married to-night, at eight o’clock.” a His tones were quiet enough, but beneath was im} a suppressed excitement that, for the moment, ‘ seemed to communicate itself to the lady. vivid crimson spot suddenly burned on her cheeks, and she turned abruptly away from the window and swept up to Garnett, standing di- ' rectly in front of him, ay had waited and watched at the window for | TWO GIRL’S LIVES. ‘No! ‘You surely do not bring me such glo- rious news as that? A look of anxiety, lighted by hopefulness, was on her face; and then she removed her lasses, that no one in the neighborhood save i nephew had ever seen her without; and then one saw how intensely black were her eyes, and how bushy and inky were the brows, how jetty the lashes. “Tt is glorious news, isn’t it? I never before | earned fifty thousand dollars so yee and so leasantly. ’Pon honor, auntie, I could fall in ove with my pretty little Edna without the least trouble, were it not for my other attrac- tion—‘ Jessica,’ you know.” Miss Fay’s lip curled. . ‘* Will you never have done with your boyish flirtations? Iam tired of hearing of this ‘ Jes- sica.’ How do you know but that she is some | brazen girl—of course she is no lady, or she never would have made your acquaintance as she did.” ** Not my acquaintance, auntie; she never heard of Garnett Fay. She is corresponding with ‘ Lord Ulmerstone.’ ” , He laughed, and leaned back lazily in his chair, looking as Miss Fay thought, handsome enough, and graceful enough to win any girl's heart. “ “I think my Jessica is rich, auntie, because she says—” She waved her hand impatiently. ‘** Don’t talk of her again. What will she, or any other girl be to you after you are married to Edna Silvester? Garnett smiled oddly. : ‘“* That will make no difference, auntie mine. You see I must love somebody, and it will not be my wife,” ** While you willingly accept her fortune.” Miss Fay said it dryly. ““Exactly. Fifty thousand ’ll last quite a while, and Edna is a nice little girl enough.” ‘* She is a noble girl; altogether too good for | you, Garnett, and I can’t see why een don’t care for her, since you have made her believe so; she loves you, I know.” ‘* No, she don’t,” he returned, quickly. ‘She confessed that, and several other misgivings. So you see we will be even on one score.” Miss Fay walked slowly up and down the lon room, where the flashes from the fire made weir shadows of her moving figure. She seemed thinking deeply ; and Garnett watched her lazily for several minutes before he arose from his chair. ‘‘T’d like some dinner; and at a quarter of eight I want Jerry with the brougham, at the side door. I’ll bring Edna back here, auntie. Her room is ready?” Miss Fay bowed assent, and Garnett gave her his arm into the dining-parlor. “Have Marshalls set lunch for us, auntie, will you? and at half-past eight be ready to congratulate me.” 6 threw her a kiss as he went up-stairs to make some change in his toilette. He stood before his dressing case, carefully combing his luxuriant blonde side-whiskers, whose curling points rested on his broad breast; he was looking very well he.thought, and hesi- tated before he exchanged his black vest and necktie for white. ‘* Fifty thousand dollars! Well, I have come to the conclusion it’s worth it, if it does come in Edna Silvester’s hand. I wonder what my piquant little Jessica would say if she knew er adoring ‘ Vivian’ was preparing, like the innocent lamb he is, for the slaughter? But Jessica will not know; and the delightful little episode can continue as before.” He arranged his narrow white. satin bow to his satisfaction, and selected: his gloves; then began his colloquy again: “JT wonder where aunt Ella learned all this regarding Miss Silvester? She knows her well, and yet Edna can not recall my auntie’s name; she will recognize her, of course, when I pre- | sent them.” : : He had drawn on his white glove, and stood admiring the shapely hand. “Tl take precious good care of that fifty thousand—and Edna; likewise Jessica,” He sauntered leisurely down-stairs to find the coachman awaiting him in the He en- tered the carriage; Jerry mounted the box, and Comets Fay was off to be married to Edna Sil- vester. CHAPTER VIL DECEIVING AND DECEIVED. As Edna Silvester had predicted, her de ure from Mr. Saxton’s house faye free rein to Lenore’s pitiful tendencies. This was the fact — TE aa tor three especial reasons, and Lenore herself recognized them as such, Edna’s presence had been a sort of negative | safeguard over Lenore from the fact that Lenore was afraid of her father, and she knew Edna | would not shrink from the task, were it ever so painful, of acquainting him with his daughter’s | conduct if it seemed heinous in Edna’s honest | eyes. TK gatli besides the removal of this bridle on | her recklessness, Lenore missed Edna more than she had thought possible. She found that Edna had been an entertaining companion, even while she was a fearless mentor; and Lenore, quite naturally, desired something or some one to take the place left vacant by Edna. But the chief reason—the source of Edna’s eatest apprehension—was her own inherent ove of excitement; the restless longing after romance, adventure, that she had drawn in with her mother’s milk. And this unfortunate taste, added to a vanity as deep-rooted as the breath she drew, and a liking for the society of gentlemen—a fashionable and deplorable fault to be met with every day—all this combination of characteristics had tended to make of Lenore Saxton, with her wonderful beauty, her extreme self-assurance, and her remarkable tact, a most egregious coquette. So she had flirted, to her heart’s content; flirted until the novelty even of breaking vows was an ennuye pastime, and she sighed for fresh fields of conquest, new modes of warfare. And thus it came about that she ‘‘ answered an advertisement” that, to New York’s shame be it recorded, appeared in the columns of a prominent popular paper. It must ie admitted, pityingly, that Lenore hardly had a thought of what she was. doing beyond the insatiable desire for novelty an excitement. She, in common with many a girl who will read this—and for whom this is written, that they may accept Lenore’s expe- rience for themselves, and avoid the first. step to the ery she found; Lenore, as other giddy- headed girls, thought there surely was no harm in a private correspondence with a strange man who advertised himself as rich, with plenty of leisure, a disposition for romantic friendship, and an admirer of strictly brunette beauty to whom he appealed for correspondence; and ace signed such an exquisite name—Ulmer- stone. A very captivating letter, Lenore wrote him —arch, piquant, and altogether charming; one that any man could not have helped being | pleased with. She signed her name “‘ Jessica; and so the correspondence was inaugurated a week after Edna Silvester had gone back to Mt. en, Lenore was deepily interested in Ulmerstone’s letters, written in such a splendid hand, with such faultless capitals, and small, correctly- shaded running letters. The envelopes and sheets were stamped with a monogram, “ V. U.,” wreathed in immortelles, and above it was a crest, the crest of the ancient family of ‘‘ Ul- merstone-Vivians,” who had come over with William the Conqueror, and who lived now in England in their palatial castle. e—this Vivian of hers—was traveling in America for pleasure; he thanked his good fai and all presiding deities that he mei his charming Jessica—spiritually met, of course— before he returned to the baronial halls of his ancestors; and he hoped the day was not dis- tant when he would receive her sweet consent to let him visit her, and physically see what he had so long known, his dearest friend, Jes- sica. About these letters there was just a tinge of | romance that suited Lenore admirably; and not for a moment did she doubt the truth of an as- | Sertion her ardent admirer made. Daily she | thought of him; hourly, I might say, until there | was but one person in all the wide world to her, and he—a stranger she had never seen. To do them justice, Mr. and Mrs. Saxton had |not the slightest idea of the condition of af- fairs. Mr. Saxton delegated the care of Lenore | to his wife, and she in her immense pride for her daughter, never for a moment supposed she was not perfection, through and through. So, unsuspected, un, ded, Lenore Saxton allowed the first love of her girlish heart to go forth, gradually, it is true, but strong in its slow growth, toward this lover who had won her with his pen. She had never even seen his picture; she hard- ly thought what kind of a. BY must be; she, had asked him of course t he looked like, and when he banteringly returned that he was | neither ‘‘fair nor dar’ sort of mongrel whom every one offered th bad for ugliness,” , She felt, with a thrill of satisfaction, that he 5
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% od 6 ‘must be handsome to afford such wholesale de- preciation of his charms. Contrary to most girls’ habit, Lenore had taken no one to her confidence; alone she en- joyed her delight, and alone she risked. she was absent-minded, it was not sufficient- ly marked to excite her parents’ remark; but one evening, when she came down to dinner, her mother at.once noticed. her flushed. cheeks and sparkling eyes. melt suspect Mr. Audrey has been here while I was out driving; is that so, Lenore?” Her mother smiled over the low, silver sugar in. A deeper tint darkened her daughter’s cheeks, and her lip just curled the least in the world. ‘“‘Mr, Audrey! How many times must I tell you, mamma, that I wouldn’t give that for Mr. Audrey?’ She spoke with a vehemence unusual for her, _ then lifted a tiny chip of egg-shell in her nger. r. Saxton just glanced up from his coffee he was slowly sipping; and her tother’s face in- stantly relaxed from the fond arch smile into a cold reproof. ‘You need not be so emphatic, Lenore. Be- sides, ’'am not sure that Mr. Audrey cares suf- ficiently for you to warrant such a rash display of temper.” If Mrs. Saxton thought to surprise Lenore into a confession of any act, she was disappoiated, for Lenore said not a word further on the sub- ject, but went on quietly with her fried ortolan and pineapple fritters. But Mrs. Saxton observed the excitement, so intense and still kept so determinedly down, that manifested itself in Lenore’s scarlet cheeks and bright eyes, and, asthe girl gracefully but decisively excused herself from dessert, her mother wondered what was the occasion of it To tell the truth, such demeanor rather an- noyed Mrs. Saxton. She impassive behavior that locked within its unde- monstrative arms the emotions that were glow- ing and kindling beneath; she liked, for in- stance, Edna Silvester’s cool manner that so ef- | fectually misled one. To be sure she had no idea of what it was that was so working on Lenore; or, if she gave it a thought, beyond the one that it was not Ober- don Audrey after all, Mrs. Saxton charitably ascribed it to some passing girlish flirtation; | smiled serenely at thought of Lenore’s beautiful face and Hebe form—and forgot it all in the all-absorbing interest she took in another direc- | tion. Affairs were progressing finely regarding Ed- | referred the cold, | na Silvester; Rachelle Hunt bad asked and been | P granted a three months’ vacation. The sum of money she demanded—large, unseemly large though it was—Mrs. Saxton had unhesitatingly | given her for current expenses. And now, | when Rachelle had been gone nearly the_ entire | three months, when letters came regularly stat- | ing that all was well, and especially when Ra- | chelle had written in her last, most heavily un- derscored, that ‘‘ Epna SILVESTER would never trouble Mrs. Saxton again,” it was little wonder | that in her satisfaction on that account, other and minor matters slipped by; even if it con- cerned her darling Lenore. And Lenore? Her step was quicker than was wont as she went up the velvet-covered grand staircase, from the base of which to the roof of the house was a large, octagonal opening, whose covering was richly-tinted glass, that lent subdued luster over. the costly paintings and statuary that were arranged in the gallery on the second floor. A rosewood railing surrounded and closed in the gallery, and against the carved panels | Lenore leaned, in flushed fatigue, after her hur- | ried ascent. She stood there a moment, then drew from her ket a letter, so short that it seemed im- possible to be the cause of her agitation. She read it the twentieth time. “My dear little Jessica,” it said, in its elegant | handwriting, “how delighted [am that Fate has ordained our meeting. Very unexpectedly I find I have urgent occasion to be passing through Jersey City on Thursday night; will my charming little unknown meet me at eight p alook at the depot of the Pennsylvania R. R.? Wear a suit of entire black; I will know you thereby if a dozen others | worethe same. And I, little Jessica, will make | known to you your admiring VIvIAN.”’ _ And this was Thursday! and it was six o’clock by the diamond-crusted little watch at her belt! And he was so near! , Was it any w she fairly trembled with nervous excitement? And, knowing her as we | | lecture that evening; and, sitting all a | her room, she was thinki “do, was it any wonder that she donned her black cashmere street suit, rich in its elegant adorn- ment of costly lace? She wore her jetty boa and muff; she fastened a black lace vail over her velvet turban, with its shiny ebon feather—and went to her fate. Not secretly or silently either. She did not creep out the grand entrance, as though a thousand avenging angels were on mt track, or skulk guiltily past the open parlor oor. She deliberately summoned Satan to her aid, a: went in to her parents with a lie on her ips. ‘‘Mamma, I want the carriage this evening. I am going to Jennie Slater’s.” Mrs. Saxton looked up in languid surprise. “To Jennie Slater’s? to Jersey City this bitter night? What for, Lenore?’ “ Oh, tableaux, I think she said,” So she went off, through the illuminated vesti- bule, down the marble steps, and into the warm, close carriage, whose lanterns were almost shamed by the glitter in her black eyes. CHAPTER VIII. THE STEP IN THE DARK. At Mt. Eden the pupils, with one exception, | were assembled in their various study-rooms, around the long green-baize-covered tables, guarded at both ends by watchful, silent teachers. Throughout the building, aside from these class-rooms, the lights were burning dimly, with two exceptions—one was in Mme. Flyaway’s private parlor, where, this evening, she was en- tertaining two or three friends, and the other in the window of Edna Silvester’s room, in the | third floor of the massive brick edifice. Edna, being a pupil of the ‘‘ extra” class, that only numbered a half-dozen, had easily secured | an excuse from attendance on Prof. pera gt p one in ing, and planning, and wondering, till her head fairly ached. This step she was on the verge of taking wor- | ried her, while at the same time it offered the only release from her lonely, loveless life. She knew in the depths of her heart, that she | | did not entertain for Garnett Fay the feelin she wanted to entertain toward her husband. But, she argued to herself, should she permit that romantic creed of hers to step, a second time, between her and the new life she so wanted to begin, simply and only because she knew it would be unlike, and could be no worse than the old. If Oberdon Audrey had only been true to the rotestations he had made! If he only had waited a little; but he had not really loved her, or he would have waited, if for years, in the hope of her changing her verdict. Vell—and now, sitting so deliberately down, | and facing her future, with all its probabilities and possibilities, things she would stretch out | her hands, of her own free will, to take or re- ject—Edna realized, more keenly than she had done before, that she committed a mistake when she refused Obergon Audrey. It was a consolation, however, to know she had erred on the side of judgment, and what | she conscientiously believed was duty to herself and him. Now, for the last time, provided she married Garnett Fay, Edna permitted herself to acknow- | Jedge that she cared more for Oberdon than she wanted to, under the circumstances; he, Lenore Saxton’s betrothed; she, Garnett Fay’s. She did not love him yet with all the vital TWO GIRLS LIVES. | standing when she determinedly crushed it un- der foot—might not the same lesson come to her after her marriage? - Edna _ knew that, if rape ig and admiration and respect on her part, as she felt for her lover, were as promptly and constantly met by the same affection, thoughtfulness and considera- tion he had evinced since she knew him, she would, in all probability, be won by him. And so, in the still and quiet of the darkening winter night, with the wind wailing bleakly around the bare school building, Edna solved the knotty problem of her destiny; and while her inmost heart, her noblest, best nature arose in a revolt, the tumult was promptly met and sub- dued by the potent forces of on and Duty. That the Fays—especially Garnett—were re- commended by her adopted father was a weighty influence in her favor; and so, with a long sigh of positive relief that her decision was made, Edna arose from her seat to prepare for her marriage. Once or twice the unusually plaintive moan of the wind conipelled her to instinctively pause | and listen to its dirge-like cries. She had heard the legend that lost souls ride the winds of dry storms, and by their pitiful voices seek to warn erring mortals to avoid the path they followed and were led to everlasting unrest. But Edna was not superstitious. The onl thought that occurred to her was that it would be well for her to dress warmly, as the night promised to be intensely cold. She put on a light-gray Irish poplin dress made with a train and overskirt, elegantly an elaborately trimmed. Over the waist she wore a black lace basque; she cefully knotted a black silk velvet sash, lined with white silk, at _her side; a set of rare point lace lay in filmy grad | stormy wistfulness that gathered and darkened | derstand, bore her compa: beauty at throat and wrists; and the beautiful darkly-golden hair was combed back off her low forehead, over a Pompadour roll, falling in a dozen thick looose curls at the back, touching | her shapely waist. She was so fair to see; so inexpressibly lovely with that grave, troubled light in her eyes that. would gloom there despite the firm, set expres- sion on her mouth; and as she stood several minutes before the small glass that hung over the washstand, it seemed as if the ual in her eyes was the token of the blackness of the darkness that was soon to overtake her. But no one was there to tell her. No one was near to warn her, and only the wildly shrieking wind, whose burden she could not un- ny on her fatal way. Her hands were cold and trembling as she wrote a line on a sheet of French note, perfum- ed with heliotrope, and bearing the initial “8.” in a maze of oh} leaves. It was only this she said to Mme. Flyaway: “was married at eight o’clock. Mr. Fay andI will be pleased to see you at ‘Sunset View.’ j ( Epna.” She knew madame would not see it until the hour came to visit the dormitory, when, sein, the gleam of light under the door, she woul come in, and—learn all. _ 7 By her watch, Edna saw it was five minutes of the trysting time; she had arranged her room before she dressed, and left her trunk packed to be in readiness when sent for; 50, all that remained was to wrap her scarlet blanket- | shawl around her, and tie a white cloud over intensity she believed herself capable of exert- | ing toward the ideal some one, somewhere—and a vision of Oberdon’s pleading face and earnest, impassioned eyes was conjured unexpectedly to her; but, by the dull, despairing pain that thrilled around her heart as she realized what a gulf separated them, and what a wide chasm that gulf would be in a few hours, in all human probability, she knew she had trifled—and so In- a it the good that Fate had offered er. Then, taking it for an a ought she re- | ject the,present, perhaps last chance of redemp- on from her pitiful bondage? : She knew she could take to Garnett Fay a life as pure as the frésh-fallen snow from heaven. She was prepared to render him all the a, all the great friendliness she really felt for ‘ She knew she would be a true, loyal wife to him, and in his protection, his cherishing care, his thoughtful affection, she must, surely, be t. conten ht she not learn, later, as an- And then, mi other lesson had begun to come to her under- ' have mattered, for it was not un her hair. She was not nervous now; her hour of tremor and indecision was past, and she W down the three pair of stairs as firmly and carelessly as when the bell summoned her to dinner. No one met her in corridor or room; if any one had, even madame herself, it would not. usual for Miss Silvester to spend an evening in the village 9c- casionally, E At the door that commanded a view of the class-rooms, separated one from the other by glass partitions, Edna and gave a yearn- ing look, with that feeling at heart that all stu- dents will remember, when they bade good-by to school. Dim and ghostly the class-rooms lay in the uncertain moonlight, for the scudding clouds now revealed the round silver globe; and, phan- tom-like as wéll, the memory of the sharp strug- gles, the little disappointments, the unsatisfied ongings, the impatient teachers, the imperfect recitations, glided silently and forever from the halls of s ERC : _ Now, when she was leaving it for an untried life, there came to it has come to us all, some time, in some form—only remembrances of brightest spots, greenest roses in the desert; and, with Grav thet filled with tears, she step
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out from Mt. Eden’s sheltering roof—into what? If she only had not! if she only had staid, and waited! And yet, she meant to do right; afterward, it was her one comfort to know, be- yond the shadow of a doubt, that she meant well. Now, drawing a long breath, full of wintry keenness, she hurried on to meet her lover. She had no thought for any one in the wide world now, but Garnett Fay. She had left everything for him, and for him, now that all things were left, she would bring all her sweet youth and its wealth of purity and trustfulness. Just outside the rustic gate that defined the limits of Mme. ph bitty grounds, Edna saw a carriage standing, and heard the impatient paw- ing of horses’ hoofs. And then, Garnett Fay walked rapidly out of the shadow to meet her. CHAPTER IX. THE REVELATION, “T BEGAN to fear you would not come. I was afraid you had repented. You are very cold, dearest.” , He drew her gloved hand through his arm, and clasped it with his own. ‘* We will hurry to the carriage. I wish now I had ordered the close coach, but I did not think it would blow up and so soon. But we will be home before long.” He was hastening her to the brougham; and as he talked, he looked down in her face, so pure and fair in the moonlight. “Have I kept you waiting very long?” she asked. ‘I did not mean to.” Garnett smiled at her earnest inquiry. “Waiting! I should say you did keep me waiting; an age, it seemed. I suppose it was actualle five minutes, and that is why I won- dered if you had repented. You do not regret your decision, m darling?” ati They were in the brougham now, es rap- idly over the frozen road; and as Edna looked in her lover’s face, when he asked the question, she wondered if he loved her so entirely as to worry over the idea of losing her? If it was not his love, his anxiety on her account, what caused that expression in his eyes, that eager- ness for an answer that was denoted by his im- tient waiting. A little blush crept up on her face before she answered him. ‘‘T did not repent, Garnett. I hope I never shall.” She bent her grave, sweet eyes on him with such utter, pleading confession in their depths, that a twinge of positive remorse swept across his mind as he thought how much he knew she would regret it; how little, personally, she had won him. But now, strange thoughts were busy at work within his brain as he rode beside his betrothed bride to the altar. He marveled that he had never before thoroughly appreciated her sweet, womanly refinement, her childlike confidence in him. He would forget ‘‘ Jessica ”—if he could, and there was no doubt of that—and make him- self worthy this girl bride, who, all unconscious, was bringing to him a means of living in the comfort he so liked. So, when they alighted at the door of the small village church, and walked up the aisle to the humble altar, Garnett Fay felt a better man, for the silent influence of this girl who leaned on his arm, than he had felt in many a ay. tt was only the work of a few minutes, and the marriage ceremony had united them. Only a few solemn words, but it forged a bond stronger than iron, heavier than lead. The certificate, previously made out, needed only the name of the one witness—Jerry, the coachman. This was bunglingly made; the pre- cious paper consigned to Garnett’s vest pocket, and they were ready to return. The coachman whipped his horses into a gal- lop; the brougham rattled and bounced over the frozen show and in ten minutes they drew at the brilliantly-illuminated entrance of unset View. . a , From within, glowing in the bright light, Edna could see the elegant adornments, and the warmth, and the comfort; and a thrill of sud- den, sweet content stole over her. In an unusual impulse—she was not a person of impulse, generally—she turned to Garnett as he out to assist her down. Oh, Gare tt, I will try, indeed I will, to de- serve i ore nent eae and touched her lips lightly. “a e It wad all the answer he made, but the strangeness, sweetness of the name touched Edna. TWO GIRL’S LIVES. She brushed away the springing tears, and accepted her husband’s offered arm up the steps, and into the warm hall. ‘“‘You had better let me show you your dress- ing-room, my dear, before we m poe in the parlor. Take off your shawl and nubia, and arrange some flowers in your hair you will find there. I want aunt Ella’s first impression to be od.” O dna assented willingly. She, too, preferred her husband’s relative to see her at her best; and, how inexpressibly sweet it was, to be com- manded so lovingly; how it suited her whole nature to obey such commands. Garnett conducted her up the velvet-carpeted stairs, through the wide, warm, lighted hall, and showed her the suite of rooms intended for their use. ‘ : Then, with a parting kiss, and an injunction to wait till he came for her, he left her to pre- herself for the introduction to his aunt a, Left alone, Edna drew a low-cushioned rock- ing-chair beside the open fireplace, and sat down to warm herself, and to herself oes the new, strange thoughts and feelings that had taken possession of her. Was it possible she was his wife? could she really be married? and this was her home, and his? she, mistress of so much elegance, who, an hour before, was a poor school-girl, educated by the charity of Grandon Saxton! True, all her life long she had been accus- tomed to luxury in its most luxuriant forms; true, this house, these surroundings were infe- rior to those at Madison avenue, but then, there she was made to feel she enjoyed them merely on sufferance; here, they were hers and her husband’s. Sitting by the fire, in the center of the front room, she could look through the three apart- ments that constituted the suit. The furthest was the bedroom, and Edna saw how freshly white was the linen, ruffled and braided so elaborately; a gilt and white china set was on the marb yon ge washstand, and on the dressing-case, each side the swinging mirror, on the marble-slabs, were rfumes glove-boxes, and a jewel casket. e was light ahr aagd plain, like a sheet of emerald velvet, The central room, small and covered with a Persian drugget, was the bath-room; the one she was occupying, and the largest of the three, was her sitting an ee son A velvet carpet of bright rose-pink and gray covered the floor; chairs of gray damask wit ink puffings, low footstools, a small book-case lled with new publications, an upright sewing stand of bamboo, vases of hot-house flowers. pictures of beautiful landscapes, curtains of pink, made this room a little gem of rooms. Happy tears were surging to Edna’s eyes as she thought how she could enjoy it all; how she would love Garnett, so handsome, so gentleman- ly, so kind. And then, fearful lest he would come and find her still et La for accom- partying him down-stairs, she at once began ar- ranging the flowers she selected from the bou- quets on the mantel. She was still standing before the fire, idly ar- ranging the tuberoses and orange buds, when she heard her name pronounced in a voice at once strangely familiar. She looked around, but there was no one in the room; she walked through to the last room of the suit, but failed to find any one; then, re- turning to the mantel again, listened for its re- petition. In a second she heard voices; undoubtedly from below; and her name diMinctly uttered in that same familiarly strange tone. ‘There has been a horrible blunder, Garnett. I shiver with sick dread when I think, that for nothing, you have irrevocably joined your fate and Edna Silvester’s.” Her husband’s voice made answer quickly, eagerly. ma What do you mean, aunt Ella? Do you call the dower of fifty thousand dollars ‘she brings me ‘ repr ¥ te ; ‘But, it is a fearful mistake, Garnett. I never knew till too late—not ten minutes ago-- that the money reverts to Mr. Saxton in case of Edna’s marriage. Fool, dolt that I was not to be suitably informed on that one all-important point, when all minor matters have been so feli- Citously arranged, even to the forging of the letter of freendeaotion from Mr. Saxton” An inarticulate sound that resembled mingled | ne and disappointment, came from Garnett’s ps. “‘ How did you find this edifying news out, at the eleventh hour? Do you know it to be so?” | | | a fearfu | stepped in. TPO NEE By a, ; ; — fos? **T can show you a copy of Mrs. Grandon Saxton’s will—the first Mrs. Saxton, of course. She left ee properties in various places, and @ number of bequests and legacies; Edna had fifty thousand for her share so long as she re- mained single. I suppose the condition arose from the fact that as Saxton was not happy in her marriage relations, she feared her adop ed daughter would hardly be. Hence the at- tempt to keep her a spinster.” ‘* And you swear you neyer knew of this curi- ous condition until too late to save me froma fate it alone reconciled me to?” “T swear it, and Ill prove it. Yesterday I telegraphed to my lawyer, M’Cowan, for a copy of the will, intending, so soon as Edna was your wife, to prove her identity, and enter into negotiations to have the money—eyen more than fifty thousand, since interest has been add- ing for eighteen years—paid to you, as her law- representative. Then, and only then, I learned the true state of affairs, when the docu- ment came, to-night, when I knew the ceremony was already said.” Garnett walked ‘rapidly up and down the room, several seconds, while an ominous silence reigned. “So it seems the promise you made to the prenns Mrs. Saxton, that you would dispose of er predecessor’s adopted foundling, will be me and youb ‘a .y e spoke in tones of biting scorn. * oa. Sylvester is no more, Garnett. Mrs. Garnett Fay is another personage altogether. Money or no money, I have kept my part of the contract,” “Yes, you have, beautifully! Itisa pity you did not literally follow Mrs. 5 m’s directions and ‘dispose > of her something as the first Mrs. S. was—” ‘‘Garnett! remember walls have ears. Be- sides, now is not the time to bewail what has been stupidly and unfortunately done; it is the 7 ns for ere action as to the future. I, of course, s rop my pretty mask yclept ‘Aunt Ella Fay,’ and return to New York a the somber attire usually worn by Rachelle Hunt.” ‘And I, I presume, must endure fhe honey- moon with my charming bride! By Jupiter, what an ass I have made of myself!” “Edna is a lady, Garnett, if she does not know it, and the fortune she has would carry her vay Fate only, you see, Mrs. Saxton in- tends appropriate it, through her husband, ree Lenore, now that she will believe Edna is ““T wish to héaven she was dead!” he retorted ing “The idea of my being tied to her, when I could have barely endured her for the money’s sake!” Evidently his good thoughts had fled before his disappointment, and he and Rachelle sunk inte moody silence. While up-stairs, where, through the ventila- ting apparatus covered over with only the Brus sels drugget, Edna heard every word! At first a wild bewilderment had seized her, that began with the sound of Rachelle Hunt’s voice; then a deadly pain in head and heart—a sickening, shivering despair, mortification, righteous wrath—held every power and faculty, | every nerve, in a tense, straining grasp. She heard of her fortune for the first time; she learned how Mrs. Saxton wanted her dead; she learned the suspicious suggestion of her dear dead adopted mother’s murder; she found what chasm of bottomless mire she had He hated her, despised her, recoiled from her because she was poor; he—and the name seemed scorched in letters of molten fire on her brain—he was her husband! But never—never would he have it in his pow- er to taunt her with it; never would she be more to him than she was at that moment. She would fly from him in utter horror, contempt, shame. With trembling fingers she pinned her shawl around her and tied the bridelike scarf around her head. With softest footfall she glided down the stairway, and past the parlor door where she heard his footsteps as he paced me to and fro in the long room. She opened the hall door and stepped out in the eerie night, where the wild east wind was blowing, and the heavy clouds went scudding weirdly over the setting moon. Out on the frozen ground, in the bitter cold— and where should she go? Not again to Mt. Eden. She thought of the note lying on the toilet-stand, and a hot flush of crimson e rose on her face, from forehead chin. Past the rustic gate she walked as fast as her
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feet would carry her; down the narrow road toward the little village station. She knew the train for New York was due in a few minutes; she knew, once in the great city, she was at home and comparatively safe. There was no one in the dimly-lighted little room, save the ticket-agent nodding behind his ' window; so Edna sat down and counted her money. She was a prudent girl, and as Mr. Saxton, in addition to an excellent wardrobe, had added a handful of bills, as a sort of salve to his twinging conscience, Edna found she had lenty to last her until she could form her plans om the future. Now, her one object was to get away from Sunset View; away from her hus- band, who, she knew and realized with a shiver of terror, could claim her anywhere if he so chose. And suppose, after all, the money—and Edna had grave doubts of this—could be inher- iimd as well’ married as single, and he should want her again? The firm way she compressed her lips, the flash of her quiet eyes, the flush on_ her face, be- tokened her new-born aversion to him who had caused the sudden change in her sentiments. She hated him with the strongest feeling she ev- er had experienced; and by the quick choking way her heart beat, and the way she started at every sound, she knew she feared him and the power he could undoubtedly exert over her. If he missed her before the train came! oh, would it ever come? and then, just as she began despairing lest he would fo up-stairs and find her flown, and, so naturally, seek her at the de- pot, the train came thundering by. She would not buy a ticket at the office; she dreaded lest the agent might remember her, while now he had not even seen her. She pre- ferred to pay double fare to the conductor, and, with her money in her hand, to a cent, so there need be no parleying about change and thereby draw momentary attention to her, Edna sprung into the car, and walked down the aisle to a gloomy half-seat, occupied by a big burly wo- mRdna had just cowered down between the window and the woman’s shadow, when the car door opened, and in the flickering ray of light from the solitary kerosene burner that hung near the door, a recognized—Garnett Fay! CHAPTER X. THE DOOM OF A NIGHT. ‘WELL, what are you going todo? You prom- ised Mrs. Fay you would call for her in a few minutes to escort her down-stairs. She is wait- oo impatiently.” . Fay—we will drop the mask, and call her by her name—Rachelle Hunt, bright eyes on her nephew’s face, so white with conflicting emotions, and so set and stern under the new developments that had occurred. He scowled at the title his aunt had given Ed- na. Yet, how could he gainsay it? She was his wife, and no power short of Death or a Divorce Court—twin black angels—could undo it. Yes, Mrs. Fay was ——*- and, no doubt, impatient of his delay; while he, what exquisite meditations were his! “You want to know what Iam going to do? | Listen, and I’ll tell you, and then I am going to introduce my bride to you. I am going to leave her here at Sunset View, and J am going to pur- sue the same course I should have done if I nev- er had seen her.” ‘* And will you tell me what course that is?’ ‘Certainly,” and Garnett smiled grimly. ‘For one thing, I am ing to see my little ‘ Jes- sica.’ If I like her, why—” Rachelle frowned, and was about to answer, when he prevented by further words. “ There's no need of you manifesting any holy horror, ma tante; you have got me into a scrape, and I am going to get out of it the best I can. You sent for me from Philadelphia to aid you in ‘disposing’ of Edna Silvester, which for little consideration of her fortune, I gladly undertook. Now that she is di of by merging her into Edna Fay; and thus strictly keeping the letter of the law with your ogre although mighty different from the way she meant—you very coolly ask me, after g me in trouble, howI am going to get out of it? then, on 7 sige, Bac misthod, which is far less reprehensible than your way of in- , and returned, coolly. fixed her | TWO. GIRL’S LIVES. | But how can you be divorced? what possible and go on, and on, till I find her. I ‘verily be- e? Besides, Garnett, surely | lieve I hate ound can you she is the same as before you found she was pen- niless.” ‘““Which makes a vast difference,” he said, lightly. ‘‘ Well, I'll go up, I guess,” Carelessly, slowly, Garnett ascended the stairs. He went along the corridor, and bapped lightly on the door of the room where he had left her. Hearing no noise, and receiving no answer, he jushed the door slightly ajar, and entered the ag apartment. e low chair stood unoccupied by the fire- place; on the mantel lay several flowers, select- ed from among those in the crystal vases, but Edna was not there. Thinking she probably had stepped into one or the other of the remaining rooms, he called her name. No answer following, he stepped hastily through—to find them empty. He paused, in utter amazement. —why? where? Then he sat down in the little rocking-chair she had so lately oceupied, to unravel this new, sin- gular ion be He knew she had not gone down-stairs; she would have come to the lor had such been the case; then, what was he to make of it? and with a sharp, queer pane, returned for a second ‘the same sensation of unworthiness of her he had experienced in the carriage, opposite her pure, sweet face. Of course, had she dreamed of what had tran- spired below, it would have been an all-sufficient excuse for her to take French leave. But she had not heard. How could she? And at that identical moment there came from regions somewhere below, apparently from the floor between his very feet, a sentence that startled him, from the sharp distinctness with which it sounded. It was only his aunt Rachelle giving a triflin command tothe parlor maid; but the fact o his hearing it, up there, set Garnett’s wits to work. He tore up the Brussels rug; there lay, what he never had suspected the existence of, a | circular ventilator, that disclosed the fancy cen- ter piece on the ceiling below. And thus, Edna had heard; consequently, naturally, had fled from him. He was both relieved and chagrined. He was Lie and mortified—the one, that the present ifficulty of either plainly stating the case to her, or farther acting a lie for her benefit, was so summarily dispensed with; the other, that | Edna had received such an impression of him | from his own testimony. Not that he cared pices | that it was Edna; had any woman heard him, it would have been | the same, so great was his self-esteem. She had gone—of that there was little doubt; | and now that he came to think of it, of course she had returned to Mt. Eden. In fact, where else had she to go? | ‘He unfolded the marriage-certificate from its new, fresh creases, read it over, and carefully aoe pa it among his papers in his memorandum- Edna flown | “There’s no telling what may happen,” he | said, with a grim smile. ‘It may worth | diamonds some day, to me.” He turned down the light, and sauntered | down-stairs to the parlor where Rachelle await- | ed. | “She's flitted, auntie. | that d between us.” Rachelle’s face turned a shade paler. |_ “No! Andall my plans have come to nothing! | What shall I tell Mrs. Saxton?” | She seemed to be talking to herself, as she | walked to and fro before the fire, her silken train She heard every word ully. | Garnett watched her a moment, keenly, then /went to the hat-rack in the hall, and donned | overcoat and fur cap. | ‘Choose your own way, my astute auntie. I | am going to catch the train, if [ can, and off to the city. Shall I say good-by? You'll not see me in a hurry.” “ es, -by,” Rachelle spoke mechanically, hurriedly; she was thinking of other things. | He walked, almost ran to the station. “Choose my way? Then, before I will go ‘pack and tell Mrs Saxton I have failed, I trail Edna Silvester and track her to the death!” She walked ee from the window to | the fire, then back to the window again. “To-morrow I'll start. She’s not at Mt. Eden, whatever Garnett thinks: om Pll begin there. her, myself, when I think how she’s vexed us all.” Poor Edna! no home or friends to fly to, and a pitiless avenger on her track! Crouching, almost cowering in the dull gloom of the car, she watched, fascinated, the hand- some blonde countenance of her husband, as he stood ag the conductor. Would he see her? was he rher? The thought was horror, yet, tf he saw her, and chose to claim her, how could she help herself? She was his by law—his property—his possession. e train was slowing up as it reached a way station, and as several passengers bustled in and out, it occurred to Edna to leave the cars here. True, she had paid her passage to New York, but the loss of the money was no consideration compared with the still horror she experienced in riding in the same car with him whom she de- spised so. She slipped out between two men and reached the platform, crowded and jostled by eager, im- patient travelers; she hurried into the warmth and light of the ladies’ waiting-room, and heard the train move slowly, heavily on. She drew a long breath of relief when the last car, with its red lanterns on the réar platform gleaming like two lurid eyes, disappeared in the distance; she entered the waiting-room again, and learned for the first time that the town in which she had stopped was a large one. It mattered little to Edna; she was a stranger in a strange land, whose one hope was to cut the bonds that bound her to Garnett Fay. She sat quietly down to wait until the next train came which would carry her on to New York; sat down wearily in the now-deserted waiting-room, jo plan and wonder what she had better do. he wondered if she really was the heiress of fifty thousand dollars, with its accumulated com- pound interest. If so, how could she get it? She remembered the name of the lawyer who had furnished Rachelle Hunt with a copy of the will; it was M’Gowan, and she sto it care- fully on a shelf in Memory’s hall for future use. But, ad interim, should she seek employment as teacher, child’s nurse, companion? what would be best suited to her? She felt there was no need of immediate action; only she did not intend to let her hoard of money dwindle too much before she began to reple How w and heart-sick she was as she sat there! How revengeful Destiny seemed to be to her, who always strove to do right? Was this sore trial a judgment for her marry- ing a man for whom she had not entertained true, abiding affection? A footstep at her side aroused her. She turned and met Oberdon Audrey’s eyes! CHAPTER XI. THE STOLEN INTERVIEW. Tue carriage that bore Lenore Saxton through the crowded streets, threaded its way among the vehicles that filled the streets. Down Broadway to Courtlandt it went, in springy comfort, straight down to the gates, that, e- opened, led to the ferry-house. Lenore spoke to the coachman as they entered | them. “We will drive over to Jersey City, Mike. You can let the horses stand in Montgomery street at the depot. I want to see a friend a | moment.” That ride over the river was an eventful though quiet one to the giddy girl, who leaned back among the chocolate cushions with the air of aqueen. She was going to meet Vivian Ul- merstone, this stranger who had won her heart! Would his face follow up the impression his let- ters had made? She was fairly trembling with nervousness rurtling softly, ber bright, terrible eyes flashing | “2” Mike opened the carriage-door fon ‘her. ‘to alight; but, she called all her pride to her aid, and, knowing she was looking her very best and he must be an exacting lover who would not admire her, she walked across. the Space from the ferry entrance to the ladies’ sitting- room. Several ladies were there, and one little child was playing on the oilclothed floor. Lenore drew the rocking-chair near the large stove, and tried to be patient until the train should be in. She had waited several minutes, and then, when there had come no train as yet, and when she was least expecting tS @ gentleman came and walked up to her chair, extending his gl hand, and raising his seal-skin cap. “Miss Jessica, | am sure? Allow me to intro- duce if—Mr. Ulmerstone.” A of rapture over Lenore; she | arose, threw back her vail, and saw the hand-
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| TWO some face and elegant figure. of her correspon- dent! A flush of genuine pleasure surged over her face. “And you are Vivian? I am so pleased to meet you.” , He retained her hand a second, while he care- fully scrutinized her piquant face. : ‘Shall we promenade the platform, Miss Jes- sica? I regret I only have a half-hour to spare, but I take the Washington Express at 9:15. “You received my letter, I see.” “Oh, yes, and so surprised and glad. But I understood you were coming in to Jersey City by train. I was waiting for it when you came.” They were sauntering to and fro on the long platform, and Lenore was regen | on his arm, with a sensation of exquisite delight she had never known before. “Did you not observe the date of my letter? I wrote it very hastily on the train, coming from up the river, down, and mailed it at a way-station.” He leaned his handsome head nearer to Le- nore’s flushed, brilliant face than was necessary for him to do in order that she might hear. “Then you are going on to—where did you sa ro” more asked so. innocently; and he smiled because he instantly fathomed her. He had not said where he was going; but he told her now. “To Philadelphia. How much pleasanter it would be if we were both going, instead of my enduring the long ride alone.” “T should be glad if it had happened that apa and I were traveling that way. We often o.7 But the deepening glow on her cheek intimat- ed how slightly ‘inAesirable “ papa’s” company would be. “We must make the best of this precious half- hour, little friend,” and he pressed lightly the tiny, hand on his arm. “You promised long ago to tell me all_ about your at name and residence, so that 1 may come and see. you—and bend your dainty head lower, little Jessica, while I whisper if my ad- dresses would be agreeable to you?” “T would so like to have you come, Vivian— Madison avenue, number—’ The sudden escaping of steam near them drowned the number Lenore spoke. But, he caught the aristocratic locality, and smiled un- der his mustache. “ And your name?” His voice was so sweet, so gen Mes of ties eoaner ow jfhore had fancied is eyes sho wear. yet a good angel Warten her not to disclose her name, ‘“T- would rather not tell you, indeed, Vivian, Wait, and I surely will some day; and then—” Lenore laughed, and her cavalier saw a blush on her pretty face. ; “You have a doubt about something, Jessica? If you want. it relieved or verified, tell me.” “ Well, I was going to say, how dol know you aré not tanrried? Are you, Vivian?” Her foolish heart was beating at a rapid rate as she ventured the question. if he was, Lenore felt all the brightness of life was forever cimmed to her; if he was not, she might win him for her own. She knew she could, and she would. A sharp glance shot from her eyes as she tle, his eyes so asked the question; then, a laugh he intended should be very mirthful but which, to less in- rienced ears than Lenore’s, sounded forced and joyless. ‘“‘ Married! what elf put such a notion in your head? If I was married, do you think, Jessica, I would dare trifle so with you?” And Lenore believed him—this handsome stranger, who had sworn vows of sacred fideli- ty to Edna Silvester not twenty-four hours agone. ? She believed him, because he looked so shocked at her suspicious query, because he an- swered her so readily, so gravely, so earnestly. The interview was not prolonged further after this than mutually exchanged promises of fur- ther correspondence, and a readily-complied with {invitation to meet again, this time in Cen- tral re rd the Rink, when he returned from Philadelphia, 1 The Washington Express was fast filling with aniv ae Sivan passengers, and Vivian only had time to w a parting word in her charmed ear. ‘ Little ae wy! I shall not soon for- t to-night. Next time, when I come, I shall ve something sweet to tell you.” hand warmly, gave an ar- He pressed dent look in her all-too-conscious eyes, and left her. mild Seated in the Pullman car, with his _seal-skin cap pulled over his eyes and comfortably fixed for a voyage, Vivian Ulmerstone, alias 1etti Fay, smiled, and thought: ‘ A little managing and I'll fix it. She’s my | : Matis | That something is, I see in every word, every | look of yours. Tell’ me, and I will help you, style to a T. on avenue, hey?” CHAPTER XII. A WOMAN’S HEART AND A MAN’S HONOR. Mr. AUDREY’s first sensation upon coming so | suddenly in Edna’s presence, was genuine aston- ishment; his next, that depicted itself on»every feature of his face, was keen delight. ‘*Edna Silvester! Is it possible? What kind fairy summoned you from Mt. Eden to meet me | here?” He had walked rapidly across the space that intervened between them, and extended his hand in warmest cordiality. His handsome face—Edna recognized with a nameless, ago- nized thrill of her heart how very fine it was— | was all alight with a joyousness that proved, | beyond cavyil, how truly glad he was to see her. | Perhaps his face was a little paler than when Edna saw him last, or it might have been the | flare of the lamp that made the pallor. No mat- | ter which it was, what business had Edna tonote | it with such solicitous care? What was Oberdon red k the betrothed of Lenore Saxton to her, the wife of Garnett Fay? her head, a deathly trembling in her limbs—all answered the pitiful question; and the interpre- | tation was she had discove late, who was the keeper of her affections; and every fiber of her being rebelled against her hor- rid bonds, as against her will, inst her reason —but in such sweet accord with all her pure heart, she acknowledged this man her lord and r. And he called her Edna Silvester! She was not Edna Silvester—she was Mrs. Fay; and fora second she felt like screaming at him, that, by so doing, she might relieve the awful pent-up misery in. her soul. She had not spoken a word, save necessitous inquiries, since she fled from her husband, al- most from the altar railing. And now, when this dear, only friend was standing before her, holding her cold, shrinking hand in his own, whose close-clasping fingers were so full of ex- uberant vitality—this best, dearest friend, who was looking at her with eyes that somehow re- minded her of a scene, not so long ago really, but that seemed ages back, coating tat hours by their burden of misery; now, should she con- fide it all to him, from first to last? What a fool she was to harbor such a sugges- tion! what did Oberdon Audrey care for her now, or for anybody, but. Lenore Saxton, with her black eyes and scarlet lips? And so, when, after a moment of uncertainty, while he held her hand so kindly, she spoke, it was with a low, weary voice she could not, for the life of her, help. “It was no good fairy, I fear,Mr. Audrey. I am very tired, and, I fear, going to have one of my headaches.” _ She withdrew her hand, and leaned back again in the seat. Oberdon had stared at her a second in conster- nation, She had called him ‘Mr. Audrey!” a name he had never before heard on her lips. Was she angry with him still for his presump- tion one evening, not so very long since? He saw how excessively what a fire was glowin brought her from Madame away’s to that place at ten o’clock at night, and the wind ris- ing, and a storm fast brewing? *‘T hope you are not going to be ill, Edna,” he answered, so gently, that she could hardl hold her lips from quivering. ‘‘I am glad happened here so fortunately,” he went on, seat ing himself beside her; ‘if you have any com mission in which I could be of the least service, I beg you will command me,” She turned her head slightly away. How kind, how considerate he was, and she had, by her own dumb act, put all his kindness and con sideration away from her forever. No, he had helped forge the bars that divided them; Edna kept constantly forgetting, and ceaselessly remembering that he was bound to Lenore of his own free will. , “Thanks,” she returned, quietly, ‘“‘ But Ihave no further business here than to wait for the train to New York. Iam going to the city.” Edna spoke very quietly, very decidedly, yet she knew ret how Oberdon would take it. “To New York! to-night! alone!” e she was, and | in her blue eyes; her | hand, po, hae! been so c anon And, whathad | y GIRL'S “LIVES. ie — —— Then, all the astounded enthusiasm flyin from his voice, he leaned quite close to her, an ke in a low, confidential tone, whose | sive command Edna felt in brain and heart. “My dear Edna, what is it that is amiss? you know you can trust me—who never can cease loving you so.” The words leaped on her ear like’a hot ava lanche. | He loved her so! he—another woman’s betrothed. She—another man’s wife! For a moment her blood rushed in mad frenzy through her veins. Her heart pulsed in a verv delirium of joyful agony when his voice, his dear voice said those words; then—a horrid, blinding, deafening sense of her utter inability to listen came over her. Surely, this intense ecstasy blended with such exquisite pain—surely, this was the sudden up- rising of the water from their long-sealed foun- tain. This was love, at last, at last, too late! Involuntarily, she turned her white; anguish- stricken face toward him. ““Oberdon! for Lenore’s sake, don’t talk so to me, please.” She put forth her hand, as if to thrust him away, but he would not be ot per He: pri- | soned it and made her look at him. ‘“‘And what has Lenore to do with me, or you, Edna?” A dreadful sinking at her heart, a dizziness in | oa | cord. too late—oh, too | “ Aren’t you engaged?” Her lips formed the question of their own ac- t sounded as unexpectedly in her own ears as it did to Oberdon. “Engaged!” he repeated, incredulously; then | a brief, half-amused smile flitted over his face, and he leaned his head to Edna’s mouth. “T never was, and never will be engaged to any woman in the world until my one only dar- | ling takes me for her own. Will she?” ’s breath came in short, quick jerks. He “was yet free to win her, and she—oh! Heaven, what had she done? Why, why had she not | derment of his sorrow, waited?’ “Oh, Oberdon! Oberdon!” She wailed forth his name in a piteous cry, whose burden he could not but know was love.” Wonderingly, b san with a sudden radiance of new-born hope lighting his face and eyes, he searched her face inquiring] ““My Edna, my darling! Te was Joa 1¢ was looking so strangely pale, so rigidly set in every feature that, in mi a he grasped her arm. “Come out on the platform, dearest! You will faint; the room is very warm and close.” ° She felt his strong, gentle hold of her; she knew the keen night air was blowing a refresh- ingly cold gale on her, and she realized, too, with a pang worse than death, that she had no right to be leaning against Oberdon Audrey— that she was Mrs. Garnett Fay. . She struggled up from his encircling arm that was so loth to let her go. But she broke from him; and then, urged by one wild resolve to tell it, and lessen the pain of the blow by its sharp quickness, she wheeled round so their faces might meet. His, overflowing with love, all ra- diant and glorified by the sudden sweet revela- tion that had come to him; hers, and white, as if sore sickness had set a thereon ; with wild, weird eyes, whose blue gleams were shot with lurid light. “ Oberdon—don’t, for God’s sake! I am a The voice was ing; the words came quick sharp; and then, with an inarticulate cry, as if stung by a dart, Oberdon receded a pace from her, echoing her words: “ A married woman!” She bowed her head, in all its golden glory, as if to accept the torrent of reproach she knew Didar 1 was not to | married woman!” | she deserved at his lips. But the reproach never came. He only stood quite still a moment, looking as with fascinated eyes on her proud, beautiful head. Then his answer came, low, quivering, agonized: ““May God help us both!” o- For several u:inv.tes he seemed to forget her; | | and, wrapt so completely in the stunning bewil- a lifted her face and | watched him battling with his murdered love. How wonderfully strange it was, this awaken- ing from a sleep, that now proved not to have been a sleep at all—rather a nightmare, full of | troublous visions! How fateful it was, that she, _companionship and a who with her woman’s heart so yearned after i > te ipa for asiotber cast away the cup put to her lips for otk which was so bitters and then, when the first, resweetened, came to her thirsty mouth, she | dare not drink! -
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or wo en hy AE How brave he was! how grand he was! and how her whole soul, despite its shackles, went out in one wild worship of him. To thus love; to be thus loved; to thus know she had a heart, as other le had, seemed for a moment worth the pain the knowledge brought. She was wan- dering away in a labyrinth of reveries when his voice recalled her. . “T want to a a question or so. Will ou tell me, Edna, that you forgive me for of- fering you an affection you did not need?” His voice was low, but it never faltered. “T will not tell = any untruth. I did need —I do—oh—oh! Oberdon, if you only knew!” Now, the tears once unstopped, she clung to his arm in a pleading passion of sorrow, whose violence shook her frame as the rough wind bends'the delicate reed. “Tell me, Edna. Iam your best friend.” If he felt any heart-qualm, his even, kindly tone did not play the traitor. And then, walking up and down the long cold platform, with the shrill sough of the wind in their ears, and the wintry landscape, now dim and gloomy, now spectrally wan in the oc- casional glimpses of ats 4 moonlight before their eyes, and with a chill, heavy despair in their hearts, Edna told him all, and Oberdon listened. tened. Then when she had finished, he paused in their weary promenade. A treme end of the platform, that looked afar into the open fapher’ where they could see, a mile t away, the scin on the a reverie. At last she had seen Vivian Ulmerstone, They were at the ex- | ating gleam of the headlight | TWO GIRL’S LIVES, and he had come up to her wildest expectations. ““T would like to hear that at home, Miss Le- nore. Tome, music must be enjoyed as every He was handsome, refined; stylish and chival- | pre else is; and only at home do I really, thor- rous; what else was there for her to desire? She never knew, nor gave a thought, to the i- bility of his being an adventurer, beyond the one suggestive question she had so bluntly asked him, and so honestly believed. Even when he had asked her for her real name, and seemed to take it quite as a matter of fact that ‘‘ Jessica” was an assumed one, it never occurred to her that his—‘‘ Vivian Ulmerstone ”—was assumed as well, for the simple reason that he had told her, in one of his letters, that he had given her his true name at first. A gentleman had little to lose, in comparison with a lady, in such esca- pades as their correspondence, and while he ad- mired and honored her for her ladylike delica- cy in suppressing her true name, he would glad- ly acquaint her with his. Thus it came to pass that she accepted and trusted his name; and of him and his name she sat and thought through the gayly-lighted ave- nue, as they drove up it, turning at length into me nade aristocratic street where Jennie Slater v Lenore made her call; marvelously short, | CORAEESEERS. the importance she attached to it in er word, ‘ home,” to patient Mike, lapsed amon back avenue, She descended, and would have gone straight | to her room; but her mother met her as she nt’s presence; and then, with the single | the warm cushions, and never moved, | scarcely, until the horses stopped in Madison | Yy enjoy an g.” more ne it would be exceedingly stupid to play for such a curious listener; =. bowing carelessly, began tumbling over a pile of operatic selections. Buta light kindled in Mrs Saxton’s eyes, that was reflected on her round cheek. ‘Lenore would only be too happy to please her father’s friend. y dear, are you in tune? I would like to hear this.” She had risen from her seat on the low French lounge, and rustled across the Moquet carpet to the music-stand, where, from a high heap, she selected one and laid it before Lenore. It was “ Dearest,” and Lenore’s especial aver- sion; nevertheless she sung it, and sung it well; and then vacated the piano-stool, and retired to the bay window, to scan Mr. Carlingford and think of Ulmerstone. At nine o’clock the footman brought in coffee and lemonade, and some dainty Charlotte Russe, and while Mr. Saxton and Mr, Carlingford dis- cussed their refreshments by the grate, Mrs Sax- ton and Lenore conversed, in their low, cooing whisper. ‘My dear child, since you positively have de- clared you would have nothing todo with Mr. Audrey—” “You also mean since Mr. Oberdon Audrey has ceased his calls here, even after the rumor you set afloat of an engage—” Lenore had playfully interrupted her mother; mneching locomotive that would take = w life. to her ne and now, quite sternly, Mrs. Saxton brought her sentence to a close. ‘Since, I say, you refused to accept Mr, Aud- rey as a suitor, your father and I have been ar- ranging another affair that promises a thousand fold. better than the first. And you must be obedient, Lenore.” ‘Come in just as you are, Lenore. We have I swear to you never to mention it again until a guest, and I am especially anxious that he the time comes when I can do so in honor; I ask | should see you at your best.’ : -you—once for all, Edna—do you love me?” | The implied compliment that she was looking It was almost solemn, this appeal, direct to so well, and the fact that Vivian had seen her her inmost soul. There was aD perms in his as she looked then, helped to make Lenore ac- . | passed the drawing-room door. ' ‘*T want you to tell me this—only this, Edna, - * * ‘ : 2 | , r in his eyes; Edna aright when cept the situation gracefully. Besides, she nev- | It was seldom Mrs. Saxton troubled herself f py the roud intention of the -~a who ér lous an Copontiticiny of making as indelible an to insist on any thing, and Lenore knew how would know, from principles of purest motive, impression as possible on the gentlemen gene- ve much in earnest she was, and how utterly if he had a right to work for this one he loved. | ra y. foolhardy it would be in her to thwart, from a believe God will not misjudge me when I| . She followed her mother in; all sparkle in her the outset, the plans she guessed at with quick say, with all my heart, I do. But this must eyes, and her witching, gipsy face eloquent intuition. Men ce forever,” with beauty. With a glow of pardonable pride, So she nodded yes, and daintily sipped her She drew a long breath, as if the subject were Mrs. Saxton presented her. | lemonade while she listened. done with, as she said, forever. “This is our daughter, Mr. Carlingford. You ‘This Mr. Carlingford is very well off, owns “Thank you, Edna. From this hour I shall | would hardly recognize her?” a splendid place up the river— Ellenwood,’ he be the best brother sister ever had. Youshall Lenore bowed, and looked up to see a nd- calls it—and is a widower. He has several tell me your plans, and I will help you, and | ly-handsome gentleman regarding her with eyes times expressed a desire to see you, which leads Heaven will hep us both, I know.” wherer evident admiration was blended with — father and I to think you can manage it The train slowed up, disgor its passengers, | saciness. our own way. : ‘ and took up harden ren ages dna. He| He bowed in & grave, courtly way, and then Mrs. Saxton, though speaking in her low, secured her a seat, and then was arranging his extended his hand cordially. pleasant way, was scanning Lenore’s face traveling blanket for himself, beside her, when| _‘‘ Can it be possible little Lenore has grownso? eagerly. ‘ her light touch fell on his overcoat sleeve. The promise of her baby days has been more, ‘Then, my dear mamma, my way will be a “ Please, Oberdon, go in the smoking-car; *| than fulfilled.” very short and easy one—to have nothing to do wish you would.” He looked from her beautiful face to Mrs. withhim.” | : ' iD Her pure eyes were very earnest in their | Saxton’s, so like it in its maturer perfection. And delivering this presumptuous little opinion, vt ing wistfulness. “Tcan hardly realize that my oldest girl Lenore lifted her black eyes half defiantly to } “Tf you say so,” he said, after a moment. | would have been a young lady like you, Miss her mother. : hy yi: Only I wanted to hear where “ou were going Lenore. You remember my baby, Mrs. Sax- | A little gasp of incredulous surprise from Mrs. when we reached New York.” ton?” : . Saxton preceded her prompt reply: She shook her head sadly, firmly. His Woe = just a — yore heed Saget ° Vie on An res heres Rp: Did rt not i gage, smiled brightly, | with a curl of her upper lip, thought w atade- say, if Mr. Carlingford hono ou with an so peers ae 94 ine : rightly, lightful topic for a drawing-room a dead bab offer of marriage, you must assege it?’ nd down the ai ‘‘T'l] see you on the ferry-boat.” : She watched him Mow ig the door with a proud, pitiful smile; and t beside the window and let the hot tears drop unrestrainedly. en, when the dark- | ness had hidden him, she drew down her head | was, who, from what Mr. Carlingford said, | must have been dead almost as many years as she had been alive. What had her mother meant when she whis- red so enthusiastically and confidentially at he door of the drawing-room? Who or what was this undeniably elegant gentleman? A something horribly suggestive of her own werlessness in such hands as those fair ones | that my with the icing on the cake, flashed across the girl’s mind. “* You said he is a widower—he has children?” It was her consummate tact that led her to in- stantly divert from the main subject. “Tt is best, it is for the best,” she said, inly. | : ‘Tt brig hard at abi 4 os big per me, but I dare not risk it. I mu rom him d she ; as I did from another; not in rfee f horror, in glory there was in his heavy gray hair, brushed | intensest hate, but because—because I love him over his forehead in a loose, ceful way, and | too well to stay.” off his temples, and then clustering in short The train sped on through the darkness, and waves around his finely-shaped head. His beard when it thundered into Jersey city, Edna slipped (a full suit he wore, mustache and heavy, long out ere it had fairly pha? 4 And when Ober- whiskers) was silver like his hair, and Lenore don Audrey went looking through her car, saw what proud gravity, mingled with tender cant through the whole train, then in tho depot and firmness, was expressed pom mouth. His eyes ) : finally in hot haste, abourd the ferry-boat, were dark, expressive, thoughtful; his attire which was just starting off, a Fay was rid- : ing up Pavonia avenue in the horse car that was | f to e her toa hotel, at the other end of the town, where she could stay until she positively made her new arrangements. ‘He has two little girls, two beautiful chil- dren. That would make no difference, Lenore,” Lenore laughed outright. “Fancy me playing the devoted step-mother! Oh, mamma!” Mrs. Saxton looked annoyed. “You could do it, my dear. It a quarter the trouble I had with Edna vester.” . Lenore was thinking of the vast difference between becoming the wife of Mr. Carlingford, or Vivian Ulmerstone: she hardly could have heard Mrs. Saxton’s remark, for she asked a question quite foreign from it. “‘ What is there about a child of Mr. Carling- ford’s that is dead that still affects him so? You were talking about it just after I came in.” Mrs. Saxton glanced across the spacious room Lenore watched him as he conversed with Mrs. Saxton; and she thought to herself what a It would not be Sil- that of a well-to-do man. y - Mrs. Saxton’s pleasant, insinuating voice dis- pelled the mental inventory Lenore was taking. ‘“* After you lay aside Psa wraps, my dear, I | wish pe to play for Mr. Carl ngford. And then I am sure he will be so kind as to continue his charming narration of his life at his beauti- —_ . CHAPTER XIII. ful suburban residence.” and saw that her husband and guest were dee ; THE NEW FACE BY THE FIRE. _—— quietly removed a hat and Pvt ly engaged igtiaeeeine: the condition of affairs ‘ i i ffice and rung to have them carried away. en,in in stree ui Bagh herent sights WERE IEP” | See intintbable ora s0 graceful, so thoroughly “Tt was his oldest; it didn’t dio, it-was lost ) depo’ ¥ a @ piano, and when it was only @ : . Carlingford says ,are youwarm! Iam ready to go up Self-possessed, she sab Cow conden ; 4 : " ; a without further solicitation, a lle it.had just learned to walk, and must have tod- f to Jennie Slater's now, Ne. — Jersey avenue, played, 5 . ’ ry: a Me. tee yard) coli -wauheust Rene: : near Sow’ ra, you remember.” : pee beck amo a permi herself to fall They never heard of lier afterward, though a | Mr. Carlingford listened with keen, critical Lenore ‘ small fortune was seat, and no stone left un- into a most delightful | attention.
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a course, if was a worse blow than Mrs. Car ord into a decline, when her twin daughters were born, lingford is unfortunate,” rejoined Lenore, lightly; ‘‘ but it offers no excuse for his boring us with his affairs.” She walked over to the “tube and summoned a servant to remove the remains of the refreshments, so that Mrs. Saxton had no opportunity to offer the demur on the end of her tongue. : For half an hour, perhaps, Lenore remained in the room, laughing and chatting with Mr. Carlingford, and recognized—with a thrill of roud elation, that was so natural to her—that ee bright eyes and witching ways were insnar- ing him, as they had captivated Vivian Ulmer- stone before him. Not that she cared for enslaving this elderly lover—for he was be gil growing to be that beneath the charms of her beautiful face. Mere- ly for the pleasurable excitement of the task, and the triumphant satisfaction it gave her to have demonstrated again and again the fact that she was irresistible. That was all, but it was enough to set his nerves all a-tingle; and when he retired to the grand guest-chamber, an hour later, he could not sleep for thinking of Lenore Saxton’s bright, dark face, with its haunting, dusky eyes. And so unfolded a new leaf in the volume of their fate that was one day to terrify them all who read it. turned. death; it that ended, CHAPTER XIV. A BAFFLED QUEST. AS the train that had conveyed Edna Silvester —we shall call her so still, despite the Fate that had changed it—and Oberdon ai Jersey City crawled slowly into the re twas Mr. Audrey’s first duty as well as delight to gather his luggage hastily in his hands and e his way fom the smoking-car to the ladies’ car, where he had seen fiana comfortably en- sconced, He had arisen from his seat a little in advance of any other passenger, and was well out of the car before the aisle was jammed; but in the second car, through which he hoped to Pe - as easily, he found himself wedged in, and com- pelled to make his exit as slowly as the others. He did not mind on any other account than his impatience to get to Edna; and when, after several minutes, he succeeded in reaching the third car he found it, too, had disgorged its pas- Sengers, and among them Edna. e felt somewhat astonished that she had not waited for him; then he experienced a sensa- tion of chagrin that he had not been more ompt; and, actuated by these combined mo- ves he hurried out upon the platform to over- take her among the crowd hastening, as if a. individual life depended on it, to the erry. He could not discern her | the throng, and he knew how soon he could have told her by her queenly, rapid walk, even if she had not worn so odd an attire—a scarlet and a white blanket shawl, and a white cloud over her head. He began to feel uneasy. Lovv could he have missed her so awkwardly? of course she was on the ferry-boat, by this time; three-quarters of the train was already aboard; so he dashed down his little green ticket, rushed through the narrow entrance to the big barn that led to the slip, and into the ladies’ cabin of the ‘‘ Hudson Civy.” by. He scanned every face as he walked more leisurely through the aft saloon; then, not see- ing her, and becoming more anxious with each moment, he quickened his pace, resolved, if she were not somewltere forward, that he would re- eye, just as some gentlemen passed h the swinging doors. His face lighted up; he felt such a horrid load lifted from tieart, and he pressed through the ae of men inside the doors, and toward the right beacon of his hopes. A pace se ted him from the lady, when she turned suddenly to avoid a keen, blast, as well as to speak to her escort. ; : And then Mr. Audrey saw it was not Edna. A dumb him through and through. He could not go back, for the boat was yards from the dock, and fast he iknew by the “ thrill” of the engine. TWO GIRL’S LIVES. He rg bag testi — and i d e as 1e question again, an answ it.as often and differentl Po. time. He concluded she must have been left in Jersey City, probabl while waiting for him. In the ladies’ room, doubtless. He reproached himself bitterly for not having looked in there, as he passed so near the door; and by the time the boat had landed her passengers at Courtlandt street, he had determined to return on her, and certainly apologize to Edna for his retype 6 It seemed an age before the ‘‘ Hudson City” was off again, and in reality it had been an hour and was now nin in The lights burned ghostly as they swayed to and fro; there were only a few passengers on that trip, all men, and not a dozen of them. Mr. Audrey looked at his watch several times crossing the river. It was such an uncanny hour for Edna, all alone, to be waiting for him but he consoled himself with the thought that she was a brave, ladylike girl, who too en- tirely on her dignity to er ill sprung impatiently over the chain, and on r the dock before the boat bum ; he almost | ran across the lonely, dimly-lig' , and into the inclosure, and then into the ladies’ room, To his utter consternation it was vacant. } ; rather stran ) 43 —_ should be the only actual cloud that marred the horizon. , Of course, Oberdon wondered where she was, with all the pain curiosity is capable of ; but, co- with wonderment, was the positive knowl- that she was perfectly competent to take care of herself. He was in a glow of excitement as the coupe drew up beside the marble carriage-mount. ‘* You may wait,” he said to coachman ; and then went up the high flight of brown steps, and rung the silver gong. CHAPTER XV. A GIRL’S RESOLVES. THANES to a very slight uaintance with the proprietor, Edna Silvester had no difficulty in procuring a room with light and fire at the American House, in Jersey City, despite the hour—it then was almost mid- night—at which she applied. nce- safely locked within her room, she turned down the gas, and, drawing aside the maroon-colored curtains, sat down beside the | window in the brilliant moonlight that flooded ] | Then, and only then, it rushed across his mind | that Edna had purposely fled with her quixotic notions of what was proper. At the first realization of this fact, Oberdon was inclined to resent Edna’s conduct; there, in ‘| the overflowing tide of love and compassion that sur, the leather-cushioned seats, completely smitten by this unexpected blow. minutes he sat there For perhaps twen thinking over, as calmly as he could, the mar- velous chain of events in which he had been prisoned that night since the sun went down. He was very heart-sick over Edna, lost, then found, and as suddenly lost again. And yet, why should he grieve over another man’s wife? Ah, the question was answered in the samé breath with which it was asked; and the answer was that Edna was not, should not be the wife pe aey ee edy He of Garnett Fay. True, a moment’s ceremony had given her the privilege of wearing his name, and him the right to claim her before and in defiance of the Whole world. de on this villain; if once he was within arm’s ength—! e never could forget the name, as melodious as the owner was vicious. It was not acommon name; ‘‘Garnett Fay,” it was burned on his memory until the day’ of-reckoning. He arose from his lonely seat slowly, as a man does who is worn from fatigue; he Met ge Be i hg the ferry-boat and returned to New ork, He had decided to begin his quest for Edna when the dawn broke. first step would be to the Saxton mansion, to learn if there could be, by any strange chance, news of her; and, at all events, he would acquaint the famiby with her unhappy misfortune. He stopped at the first hotel he found, the *‘ Merchants’,” and ordered a room, and fire; and then, when the city clocks were tolling three, he bp Ne for a fitful, uneasy slumber till day- ght. At eight, he arose, and, after a careful toilette, had his b ast, and then a smoke. By that time it was ten o’clock, and he ordered | But—if once he should set his | over his heart, he sunk down in one of | a coupe, and was driven to Madison avenue. | The morning was clear, and fearfully cold, and as he rode along, in the fresh, bracing air, he tlt encouraged and even gay. ii take was Edna; it w yal Of course he could matter of time, and not a fortnight at furthest. | All he need do, if the Saxtons had no informa- tion to offer, was to get a good private detective on her track. Then, while one-half of the business was goin nicely on, Oberdon thought that he himse would attend to severing by a divorce the bonds that bound her to a villain. And another task he must assume; he would find out about that money. To say the least, it was a most sin, will, and if there was law and ce in New York, Edna should have her rights. Altogether Oberdon was very hopeful and quite enthusiastic in the joyous winter sunlight, and the only thing that marred his bu 7 / was the trifling thought that, in all probabil- | ity, it would be days before he could see Edna © was impatient; all lovers are impatient un- | der circumstances, and, dering the state of affairs that then existed, it wasthe most | natural thing in the world that this impatience ) the tall houses and dingy sidewalks of Mont- gomery street with actual beauty. But the airness of the night was lost, to an extent, upon Edna; her exciting series of adventure since she ate her tea in the refectory of Mt. Eden had so thoroughly stricken her, first with intensest pain and horror, then with a great, though momentary, ecstasy, that, between the two sen- sations, she hardly knew how to compose her- self sufficiently to sit quietly down. In the train, the swift, jarring motion was in such perfect unison with her nerves, that she calmly endured the ride; but now, when all Nature was so peaceful, so unnaturally quiet after the storm of wind that had raged in the early evening, that for the moment, under the relaxative condition of both mind and body, Edna was strangely, fancifully restless. To sleep was simply impossible, tempting as the low with its marseilles counterpane and square linen pillows looked; and though her head was aching in a dull, distressful way. d be better to obtain what rest she could in the low, cushioned arm-chair she had drawn to the window. So she removed her dress, and undid her hair, and then, wrap- ping her shawl about her bare shoulders, cud- herself in the most comfortable position. On the morrow, she must literally begin her new life; and already she had concluded to ex- amine into the situations offered in the Herald the ensuing morning; and as that was the first step decided on, and on the issue of which she was obliged to wait before she could tell what ob: fa do, she dismissed the subject from her mind, Then, there were all her clothes at Mt. Eden; and Edna’s cheeks flamed as she remem- bered the little note left on her dressing-stand. What tantalizing demon had impelled her to thus flaunt her misfortune in the eyes of the whole world? But, it was done, irrevocably. She could not recall it. Mme. away knew, ere this, that she was the wife of Garnett Fay, the niece-in- law of Mrs. Saxton’s servant! And Edna smiled involuntarily to think how Rachelle Hunt would resent such a title. She must have her clothes, and she saw no way to get them but to telegraph for them to be sent—where? If she waited until she entered on her new | duties, it was obvious that her whereabouts would not remain a secret, as she fully in- tended. No one—not even Oberdon Audrey— should know where she was; her fate was to hide from her fate; to fly from her lover, be- _ cause she loved him, to fly from her husband, because she despised him. It was hard on poor Oberdon, and it was hard on Edna, that it must be so; but if it had been a pang severe encnieh to have sundered soul and body, Edna Silvester would have borne that g, because it was duty; and we have seen ow sternly conscientious she always aimed to be. Therefore, she must not wait to have her trunks sent to her new locality. Better to have them sent at once, to the hotel, where no re- mark would be , and from which place she would have them conveyed at her pleasure, Fi would be about calling, in re f and -- ger ee id be received. What ference, and Edna wanted So she arranced these¢ asso k wood) UCL CCT
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' — 42 was, should she, or should she not, go home be- fore she left thevicinity? If she went, what good could come of her visit? She knew Madame Flyaway would not fail to inform the Saxtons; no one could know whether she were single; married, or dead; she supposed, from what she overheard at ‘‘Sunset View,” that the fact of her forfeiting her for- tune—supposing there was any to forfeit, which she was inclined to think must, be true, on ac- count of the trouble Garnett had taken to marry her, and the chagrin he ifested at learning his blunder, as well as the fact thatif any one knew, it would be Rachelle Hunt, who nursed her adopted mother on her dying bed; granting that the money had been hers, and was legally lost by her marriage—bitter mockery though it was—Edna knew Mrs. Saxton well enough to be confident that lady would secretly rejoice at the fact, and regard itas the next thing— . ion YI 4 ‘sideration; the only remaining one to decide’ LIVES. terview.” She gathered up her work, and bowed to Oberdon; but he hastily restrained her. ““You will be as interested as any one, Miss Lenore. You, as well as your mother, will be astonished to learn that—Edna. is married.” He gave his information in a tone of voice that did not betray to the two listeners a tithe of what he felt; and he, in turn, was surprised to. see the way in which his news was received. ‘‘Oh!” said Lenore, as she languidly let her- self sink into her chair, and then glanced at her mother. Mrs. Saxton’s lip curled. “So I learned, ten minutes ago. Madame Flyaway has sent Mr. Saxton a telegram an- nouncing the marriage of Miss Edna Silvester ‘and Mr. Garnett Fay. I assure you I had noth- after the runaway “disposal” she had commis- | sioned Rachelle Hunt to accomplish—that could happen. By this marriage, Mrs. Saxton was directly benefited, though that was the last in- centive to Rachelle Hunt when she accepted her mission; by it, she secured the money for Le- nore, h Mr. Saxton, and at the same time removed forever out of Lenore’s way a bP a ganin rival. Saxton,’ both from policy and motives that were perfectly natural and correct, would acknowledge the marriage, Just as naturally | she would politely inform Edna she would not, of course, regard the mansion on Madison ave-| nue as her home any longer; and that she must, of course, look to her husband for future sup-| rt. aid all the world would maintain Mrs, Sax- ton’s opinion. If Edna asked about the money, Mrs. Saxton, now that affairs were unalterable, would tell her it was true she had been heiress to the fifty thousand dollars, and that it was always in- tended for a pleasant rise on Edna’s twenty- first birthday; that it was expected that Edna. as a dutiful young girl, would have notifi them of any engagement of marriage, and then n warned of what she would lose; but now as the deed was done, the die cast—Kdna could see Mrs. Saxton in imagination, and knew the line of defense she would take. So then, since Edna knew she would leave the house no better than she had entered it, she de- cided, after very little meditation, to stay away from it; She had made up her mind to visit Lawyer M’Cowan’s office before she left New York; he would know at once, probably, the nature of her affairs, And thus Edna systematically disposed of her stumbling blocks, the best she could, with no one to guide her but Him to whom she more than once lifted her heart in entréaty for light through the darkness, for strength to bear the heavy burden laid on her young life. And the light was given her; and the strength to endure, and endure bravely. Her long train of thought had made her more calm and quiet; now, when all need of mental effort was over, a pleasant restfulness stole over her; her sad, brave eyes closed, and a slumber sweet as a baby’s on its mother’s arm, sealed them until the sunshine, brilliant as liquid gold, bathed her into a refreshed wakefulness again. CHAPTER XVI. A WOMAN’S TRIUMPH. As Mr. Audrey anticipated, both Mr. and Mrs. Saxton were att home when he handed his | card to the footman, and was shown into the | warm, stmshiny morning room, where Lenore and her mother, in faultless breakfast wrappers, sat ee some pretty, trifling work in their nds, They ted him warmly, and Mrs. Saxton cordially insisted upon his removing his over- coat, and remaining to lunch. “Mr. Saxton will be delighted to see you; and we have a friend with us, whom I am sure you would be pleased to know. He is in the library with Mr. Saxton now. Mr. Carlingford of Ellen- wood.” Oberdon bowed; he felt bound to listen to Ifrs. Saxton’s light gossipy talk, although he “was impatient to introduce his own subject. ‘Fe not the honor of knowing Mr. Car- “Bay future oa ean 10 _— a, This morning he an hour’s nce oO Mrs. Saxton. He something cularly important to of.” ~ Le nore laughed prettily. -“ | ing whatever to do with it.” She assumed her most frigid tone; and Au- drey, nonplussed for the moment by the unex- pected turn affairs had taken, only wondered if she thought he accused her of complicity. “Tt was very sudden; I was terribly aston- ished; I thought, I hoped she might be here—” He paused suddenly, wondering if it. were rudent thus to divulge all facts; and then, rom the curious glances of the eyes so closely searching his face, he realized he had gone so far in his remarks that some sort of explanation was certainly due, And Mrs. Saxton helped him to make it. “Mrs. Fay here? o, Mr. Audrey, when she so unfeelingly took advantage of us all, and married, without advice or consent, a stranger, a perfect stranger, she forfeited all right to this house forever. I am sorry, very sorry, that since you wished to see her so very much—” There was a smiling scorn in Mrs. Saxton’s rest black eyes that did not altogether suit Mr. y. ‘You need not insinuate any thing, my dear madam. If you choose, you may say, outright and with perfect truthfulness, that I am crus ed to earth by this marriage of the only woman I ever loved, or ever can love; and when I tell fae she has been entrapped by a villain, whose ife were I to meet him, would not be worth a snap of my thumb and finger and from whom | my poor Edna fled within fifteen minutes of the ceremony, perhaps you can imagine a hund- redth particle of what I feel.” If Oberdon had intended to produce a stupe- fying effect on the ladies by his first announce- ment, he was more than successful now. nore’s sewing drop from her hands, her shiny-bright eyes took in q perfect storm of as- tonishment. rs, Saxton was_too deep to per- «mit such unmistakable signs of her utter amaze- ment, but Oberdon saw in her face plain tokens of it, and a gleam of malicious satisfaction as well. She was the first to break the silence; she did it in a cold, indifferent voice. ‘Well, Edna can censure no one but herself.” And,that was all the sympathy Edna ever re- ceived; and Oberdon resen ® implied ac- cusation, hotly. ‘ She can not censure herself, because she has not been to blame. She acted, as she has always done, from highest, purest motives; and the punishment should rest, and will one day rest, where it belongs, on Garnett Fay’s head.’ Oberdon was so thoroughly in earnest that his very enthusiasm but served to silence the two women; and in the-silence that ensued, broken only by a soft rustle.of the curtains that divided the apartment from the conservatory beyond, each thought their own thoughts. nore su- remely indifferent to the entire affair; never owing, never fearing the terrible complica- tions the Furies were weaving for her. How she would have shrunk and shivered had she seen the future—her future—spread before her as it was to be; and instead, she sat in the munlige', dressed in her regal purple dress, and sewed, and smiled, and cared naught. ‘“‘So Edna was married, and the money se- cured, and the witching face forever removed from aeeton hating eyes. It was very good,” Mrs. Saxton was saying that over and over, during that five minutes of silence; and her face, so proud, so beautiful to see, lighted with a radiance almost dazzling. Everything was fair sailing now. All at once, the had cleared of every cloud; and she felt relieved, actually delighted, that her and Rachelle Hunt’s plans had been thwarted. Rachelle was not returned yet from her un- known trip, and Mrs. Saxton was impatient to her news that would so astound her. aust ening was good that Mrs. Saxton und k to do—only, a white face and weak, | thoughts, risé, somehow, eve | her yee and the question that, self-formed, had Rachelle Hunt to perform?” So Mrs. Saxton’s thoughts ran on in their pe- culiar groove, none suspecting them. Oberdon sat gloomy and still. By some sin- gularly sudden influence he had lost all the spirits with which. he had started on his call an hour earlier; and the only reason he could or did assign was the chilling effect of Mrs. Sax- ton’s and Lenore’s demeanor. A long silence reigned, in which the ladies seemed fully oceupiec with their own thoughts, and in which Oberdon felt he had nothing more to say. He was about to make his adieu, anil beg an excuse from lunch, when Mr. Saxton and Mr. Carlingford entered from the library. f course, salutations and an introduction followed, and the gentlemen naturally discussed the principal ‘subject under present considera- tion—Edna’s marriage, Mr. Carlingford listened politely, offered oc- | casional remarks, and appeared quite uninter- ested. In ten minutes he joined the ladies at the windows, where Lenore greeted him with her most winning smile. It was second nature to her to mt forth every effort to attract gen- | tlemen, and in this particular case she was suc- ceeding admirably. ‘*] am glad you don’t wish to discuss such a stupid subject. Now that Edna is married, what possible good or ill can come of talking about it?’ ‘‘That is very true, Miss Lenore, and yet, when you remember what a_blow it is to Mr. Audrey, surely you can suffer him to com- plain.’ Mr. Carlingford watched her face while she istened, and saw a swift shadow pass over it. hen she raised her eyes, full of softness and. sweetness, to him. “You are right, dear Mr. Carlingford, and T am very, verycruel. I think, I know, if I were in poor Oberdon’s place, I should die with an- guish. Mustn’t it be terrible to have one’s love crushed out so?” She was thinking of Vivian Ulmerstone, and hence her dark eyes grew hazy with the — of her affection for him, yet she cast such a fleeting glance at Mr. Carlingford’s face tha sent his noble heart beating faster than was its wont, that lighted his grand face with a proud, tender radiance, —- Could it. be possible she could care for him? she, this young, graceful, witching girl—he, with his gray hairs, and his fifty years? He was. so humble in his estimate of himself, so utterly unconscious of his splendid attractiveness, that it filled him with awe and bliss to entertain the idea that Lenore might possibly learn to love him as he had pinaeey learned to worship her. Here, at least, would be a wife for him, if so be the Fates granted it, who would not marry him for his money, for she had plenty herself; it would be all for pure affection’s sake, and on her side such wonderful condescension. A little melodious laugh from Mrs. Saxton disturbed his delicious reverie. “‘A penny, Mr. Carlingford, for your thoughts? I am sure waar bor es be of Ellenwood, and the little girls. d that reminds me, have you | sent to the office yet for answers to your adver- tisement? I presume all impecunious governess- es for miles will respond.” “Surely, then, my chances of a selection will be good,” he returned, gayly. “TI shall not learn who wants to teach my little May and. June until I return to Ellenwoed. I had the let- ters directed there.” , “What splendid fun it will be to read them, Mr. Carlingford! Ienvy you the task.” ‘‘T wish you would share it, Miss Lenore,” The challenge and its acceptance occurred so: uickly that Lenore’s exquisite blush and Mr, arlingford’s ardent language happened simul- taneously; and then, with her wonderfully hap- PY tact, Saxton covered the confusion that elighted her so. ‘““We would be too happy to accept your v kind invitation to yep i think I may safely promise you a week, in coming.” “4 Ear ingford wed. ¥ . | Mir. | “J 'shall bear it in mind; I shall be very much | honored and I know Ellenwood will please you. | Besides—” he turned to Lenore, ‘I am anxious for you to see my darlings, and pet them as I ap ou can do. They get so little woman- 0. | y (Your governess will see to that, Mr. Car
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a ————— . once, ca = - ee ons a ar eg A SS — es ee be : ; ; TWoO~-GIRL’S LIVES. 13 fineford, doubtless. It is quite a send toa | says) in a divorce followed by a wedding. As yet, | one o’ them tic Englishers poor Jerry pri. i young girl—the position at Ellenwood however, she is wrapped in a perfect maze of mys: declared pen hed of him todos it was very ery. rsh ae ea Jouvable. eee eee oe So much for Edna. Regarding ‘Sunset View,’ poet nes iment = is Aver d eer reg M: Saxton lau héd: she intended ¥ ] Mrs. ‘Ella Fay’ has been obliged to start at once | #0und a good ey ieee aban. Pocen. y - TS. f en, ee ee ery pleas-'| for England, and paid the landlord a quarter's rent | OVer it—leastwise, it took Jerry Carnachan antly and properly to ‘‘sound” Mr. Carling-'| to be released from the year’s lease, he to sell the | im less ’n a day, notwithstand— t ford, and when he became very grave all at | furniture that I fully infended as your bridal pres- It flashed over Vivian (we will follow his bent) she knew, with a delight she could hardly restrain, that there was little danger of any one’s gaining an ascendency over him while he believed Lenore was eligible. His answer, so quietly expressed, so gentile- manly, strengthened her opinion, even if it slight y reproved her. I shall endeavor to secure a lady for my children’s instructor, who would thoroughly re- spect my wife, when I take her to Ellenwood.” And, while Mrs. Saxton swallowed, for her daughter’s sake, the noxious rebuke, Mr. Car- lingford looked at Lenore’s sweet face, with its fiushed cheeks, and downcast eyelids, whose silken lashes lay on the pearly cheek, Just then Mr. Saxton and Oberdon arose, and despite their urgent invitation, Oberdon refused to remain to luncheon. He bade them a courteous adieu, and left their presence with a bitter vow recorded in his heart that never again would he break bread with them until circumstances so changed that Edna Silvester was an equally honored guest. And, as he realized how wide a chasm divided the possible time from the miserable present, he smiled drearily. A morning gone and no nearer Edna or Ed- na’s interests than when he started forth; but, as he re-entered his coupe, he resolved never to give it up, and ina tone almost tyrannical he gave the order, ‘‘ To ——.” It was the headquarters of a noted divorce lawyer. CHAPTER XVII COVERING HIS RETREAT. ‘VIVIAN ULMERSTONE,” or preferable, Mr. ‘Garnett Fay, was enjoying a quiet smoke in his room at the Girard House, theevening after his personal interview with Lenore Saxton at the railroad depot. He had arrived at Philadelphia near midnight, the night before, attended to some trifling busi- ness that awatted him, and then, toward even- ing, returned to his hotel to go to the theater-or the billiard saloon, as his inclination led him. But, to-night there was no evidence of his going out, clear and fair though the evening was. He had removed his boots and dress-coat, substituting slippers and a dressing-gown; he had lighted a cigar, and placed several others convenient; he had drawn the one gentleman’s chair his room afforded in front of the table underneath the gas, and near the register; and thus fortified, commenced his evening’s work. The task was—to read the thick letter that lay tnopened on the marble-topped table, and to de- cide upon the course he intended to take regard- ing not only Edna, his wife, but ‘‘ Jessica,” his a carefully slit th h hi © y sli e envelope with his pen- knife, and opened the daintily -perfamed seet, settled his head comfortably inst the cush- ioned back of his chair, trossed his legs, smoked his cigar, and read. And this is the letter: “ MapIson Avenux, Tuesday Night. “My Dear NEPHEW:—You will be surprised, I know, when you see the date of my letter to be *home:’ I arrived since dinner, ha g left ‘Sun- set View’ at noon. Why I write is to tell you, first, that I warn yu to be cautious; your name has come to be a ho 1sehold word with the Saxtons, and the sooner you iind and use another, the better it will be, not only fur yourself, in case of unfore- seen emergency, but on my account—if it ever comes to Mrs. Saxton’s ears that you are the nephew she knows I have! : “*So, my dear on I shall anxiously await thenew christening you will be sureto give yourself; then and only then you are free to go into the worl again. Happily, no one knows your personal de- Seription but myself and Edna. ow, nephew mine, what shall you do about Edna? Supposing ou do not know aught of her, I will tell you that, nall probability, she is hiding; how I know is, ‘because on the night of her flight, she fatefully met on old lover—Oberdon Audrey by name—to who ‘in her extremity, she poe Pr her ——— an who, [ gather from my _ informant—Mrs. §., of course —swears eternal fealty. (By the by, my dear boy, you would hugely enjoy hearing Mrs. 8, re- hearse romantic story for my benefit; you ‘would positively laugh to see her listen to and ac- cept my, account of my efforts to ‘dispose’ of = a Ne apy 80 kindly forgive my ineffectual at- mpts. ' sight of roy story. Itseems Mr. Audrey — lost She escaped him purposely, my word for it. oy, what a jewel pen eve lost, oney or no money!) and has ‘started off hot foot, on @ romantic quest for her, which will end (Mrs. 8S. ent, and retain half for his pains, the other half to be deposited in the Mt, Eden bank, subject to my order at any future time, ‘‘So much, then, for ‘Sunset View,’ as well as Edna. Every tie is severed, even to Madame Fly- away, who came on the morning after the event, dressed in her robes of ceremony, to rebuke or con- a as she perceived best. I wish you could ave seen her when [ coolly informed her the bridal pair had gone;—(I did not specify how, or when or where, you may rast assured.) id I say every tie was sundered? You can cut the last knot yourself by assuming another name, and destroying the cer- tiflcate af ave. Why should you not destroy the only evidence that binds you to one from whom it is advisable to be unloosed? Why should you not start anew, afresh, and make a place and a position for yourself as Smith, Jones or Brown! You have a busimess—a paying business, if only you will stick toit; take my advice, my boy, and start over again, and when you achieve success again, through my advi e, instead of giving me the credit, remove the blame for what has been unfortunately done (as we thought for the best), from (for the last time), “ Your Aunt ‘Evia.’ ”’ Garnett read Rachelle Hunt’s letter over the second time; only his smile of self-satisfaction noting his approval of the worldly wisdom she gave him, without stint. It pleased him, every thing but one, in this let- ter; and that was, that Oberdon Audrey was in love with—his wite. It was a strange commix- ture of sensations, thoughts, views Garnett Fay experienced as he laid down the letter after he had thoroughly read and digested it. First, granted Edna was his wife, what busi- ness had she and this Audrey with each other? He felt a pang of genuine jealousy shoot through his heart as he remembered Ednia’s sweetness, —_ womanliness—everything that a man ought to ask. hen he curled his lip with scorn to think how he could compare her with ‘‘ Jessica,” his bright, sparkling friend, who, unless he was mistaken, had sufficiency of wealth if he only could secure her—and it. Of course he would destroy the certificate; and in a strong impulse of the freedom he would thereby obtain, he took it from his memoran- dum-book, tore it in pieces, and then held them in the gas-flame till they burned to ashes. He smiled as he sat down again. ‘A free man—after I’ve attended to the child- ish old minister, and bribed Jerry, the coach- man, never to disvlose the seeret he had wit- nessed,” He took a lead-pencil from his pocket, and wrote on the envelope of his aunt’s letter the name Vivian Ulm zstone in his elegant hand- writing. = Why not?” he said, inwardly. ‘Why isnot that as — a name as any my kind aunt sug- s¢ Certainly more euphonious, if less brief. nett Fay, good-by forever! Mr, Vivian Ul- merstone, entre!” He bowed to the handsome, trium: t face that smiled at him, with its brilliant, conscious blue eyes from the mirror of the dressing-case; and then, as calmly, as indifferently as if he had decided what coat to wear, resumed his smoking. His ci finished, he unlocked his portable desk, and, after several minutes’ thought, dashed off a letter, “Grrarp Hovss, Friday Night. like a lightning streak; for once, Destiny was | favoring him—the one witness was dead! | ran | mig “My astute auntie will be happy to learn she can command her dutiful nephew. e deed is done, or, rather undone; G. F. made his exit; advice all accepted and heartily thanked for b: “ Most obedient VIVIAN | He laughed as he signed his name. A, thing my beauty at the depot did not make me admit mine was an assumed name a be Mrs. U. of a verity if I can persuade er,’”’ He sealed and directed his envelope, and rung to have it mailed, at the same time ordering a brandy ‘‘straight.” “*T need a stiffener,” he rea as he leaned cushi Following out his ©, he went back to Sunset View, 20 aleguised in his Spanish skin and jet-black hair and heavy whiskers that Ed- na herself would not haye known hi He nents — <cvey, the serene who had been hired fr ve) repared to si- lence him. But, when the es -s Mr the inn, with a co , and a perceptible lengtheni of the face, “hoped aithe Anes Hheve ye asn : He could have shouted for joy in his moment of unexpected triumph. Jerry dead! his hush- money a clear gain! and the main thought in his mind, next to gratitude for this cheaply-ar- escape in one direction, was, that he t learn that this disease, ‘‘ that was around a good deal,” might find, if it had not found al- ready, a victim in the decrepit old minister. Such, however, was not the case, as Vivian found when he called at the parsonage to ques- tion the clergyman, whom he found walking with his cane in the winter sunshine. In ty Re his oily questions Vivian learned that ol . Robbins remembered the marriage without the shadow of a doubt; he remembered the handsome bridegroom, and the stately, reti- cent bride who had sighed when the words were | said; and he had kept his own private ve hon the marriage-certificate, signed by Jerry hachan. Vivian asked to be allowed, as a great privia lege, to see “his friend’s” wedding-certificate ; he could hardly believe i# unless he saw it; he was astounded, astonished, wonder-stricken, to think Garnett was married; he must see for himself, ere he carried the news to his friendg at home. What more natural than that? Mr. Robbins would permit this gentleman to see his little book wherein he kept his private certificates? and what more easy to do, than, when Vivian, book in d, open at the ese that records the fact of his marriage with | Silvester, suddenly called the old man’s atten. tion to some passing object out of doors, talking volubly the while, with one sharp jerk, to re- move the leaf and thrust it in his vest pocket? Then he looked at the page opposite, when Mr. Robbins turned his head, shook his own as if he almost doubted the evidence of his own senses, and gently closed the book, and re- strapped it, holding it in his hand while he ex- is great obligation, and only laying it P h | down whdh he said good-mornin He insisted on accompanying Mr. Robbins to the sunny walk where he found him, and, pay- ing him a last compliment and bidding a lasi eu, rushed off in time, and not a second toe soon, for the down train that carried him and his theft safely away from Sunset View. ° Once in the smoking-car, he carelessly tore the precious paper into pieces, first assuring himself it was the one; then he thrust the frag- ments in the stove near his seat, and watched them burn. He had done it—or undone it, which was it? It made no difference, so long as he had suc- ceeded in what he undertook, He was free, free as the air, that blew in his hot face; his brain fairly whirled as he i there was never more anything to prevent him from ng money—Jessica if she had money, although her pretty face had bewitched him, re ess of money. cl get Me a Spl ee er ne . and see what it would lead to, and so he rode New York, with the dye on his face only a little lighter than the dye in his heart, to wash off the = eres Nae other. seoanits agen t the ci e changed entity wi clothes and his di use. Vivian Uimerstono wrote a note to “ Jessica,” whom he proposed to marry, While, strangely paradoxical as it ny seem, he kept wondering what business Mr. Audrey to care for Edna Silvester. CHAPTER XVIIL THE ANSWER TO AN ADVERTISEMENT, Ir was nearly nine o’clock when Edna awoke from the sleep that .greatly refreshed her, both bodily and mentally ; she stirred the fire, opened one of the windows from the top to let in the pure, fresh morning air, and then lolenrcde be gan her eet h " me , e€ arran: er hair without an FDA, except its own lustrous richness; At remo’ the frill and ruffles from throat and wrists of her gray dress, and took off the sash from the pel, gcc — peg = mn oeerber pela and gave her a do to buy her a plain linen collar ae cuffs from a Indies rni store near by. , ' While she waited for the necessary ad to her toilette, she ordered eee her room, and sat down beside the fire 0 over in,
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‘craven fearfwln 14 her mind again the programme she had planned, several hours before. ‘Yes, it was prudently arranged; she was content, after the test of sleeping on it, to adopt and carry out her self-proposed line of conduct, | And first, she would read the Herald; without a moment’s delay, she rung for it. She took it ost eagerly from the boy’s hand. Among all those columns of “ Help wanted” wasit possible no one wanted her em Her hands fairly trembled as she opened the sheet and sought what she needed. There were plenty of seamstresses wanted ; and children’s nurses, and lady’s maids, and in- valid’s companions, but over all these Edna pope looking for something nearer her wishes, ot.that she would have scorned the humblest position, when once she realized none higher could be obtained; but her first effort should be for what she felt most congenial to her. Her courage flagged just a little to find no ad- vertisement suiting her among the three col- | umns; amd then, her eyes suddenly caught the | last of:them. all. It was a short, terse notice, asking for a resi- dent governess, for two girls of seven; the sal- ary was go required, and the letter to be addressed to ‘‘ Mr. Carlingford, Ellenwood-on-the-Hudson.” It was just what Edna wanted, exactly; ‘ El- lenwood,” she had never heard of it before, and if it was unknown to her, why not as well un- Saas to the two men from whom she must ide? But—the references! Edna smiled bitterly at the idea of her having no references; she, who was so capable, morally and intellectually, to guide these two little girls. But, references or no references she would not let the chance sli by 3 she would Bo personaly; and see this Mr. Carlingford, and he might—an Edna realized as well that he might not—give her the position. This decided, Edna felt quite like eating the toast, and the coffee, the broiled chicken, the omelette and Guard jelly she had ordered. Breakfast over, she found it. was ten o’clock by her watch; she put on her linen set, and sent for an Appleton’s Railway Guide by the cham- bermaid who had done her errand. By the Guide, she learned the location of El- lenwood, and found it was an elegant private | place, with a depot of its own; it was thirty miles up the river, and the next train would leave in an hour, ; It gave her barely time to meet it, for she had one or two imperative errands to do; so she con- cluded it was advisable to hire a close carriage hovh for the privacy and speed it would affor er, Leaving word that she would want her room again that evening, Edna started off in the cab that awaited her, to perform her errands. The first was to the Western Union Telegraph office, in Exchange place, where she sent the message for her trunks to Madame Flyaway—giving her name with a trembling tongue, and after a mo- ment’s thought, as simply, ‘‘Edna, American liouse, Jersey City.” lime. Flyaway might use her own discretion ; > to the surname; all Edna wanted of her was Lor luggage. Then she drove to a millinery store on New- ark avenue, where she bought a plain, becom- ing hat—a black velvet witha silver-gra# wing, and a silver-gray tissue vail, that was far less conspicuous than the white cloud she had fled in.. Then she purchased a waterproof cloak, with, a round cape, and tiannel, and.a pair of gauntlets. Thus attir earance, she re-ente the carriage, leaving ier searlet. shawl and white nubia with the obligms shopwoman, until called for in the even- ing. y this time she had only time to be driven over the ferry and up to the Grand Cen- tral Depot, which she reached none too soon. As the train whirled along through the sun- | shiny, wintry landscape, Edna began to grow nervous. at reason had she for supposing this Mr. Carlingford would hire her without a reference, save the honesty that shone in her facé? It was a romantic goose-chase, if a goose- chase can be romantic; of course, there were dozens, scores of worthy young girls who could give most satisfactory evidences of capability, 5) te character. . d she—a married woman, going as a girl to seek this situation! Edna's cheeks flamed, and her eyes Fen with salty tears,“it was hard, very hard she had a clear conscience, and she would not let such ess thwart her when she was honestly attempting to honestly gain a living. od—five hundred dollars; reference | hard-lined with blue | , and xery much altered in ap-| TWO GIRL’S LIV | Hy the time the brakeman. shouted ‘‘ Ellen- wood!” Edna’s nervousness had flown; she was her own quiet, self-poss self again, and she pty. te eed down the steps to the platform. only one who alighted at Ellenwood, The little station was desolate, save for a lad of sixteen who was locking the door, and was about to hurry away until the next train, which was three or four hours distant. Of him Edna inquired the way to Mr. Carling- ford’s, and the time the next train down stopped | at Ellenwood. | of white marble, standing on a slight eminence that extended, in a succession of low terraces, to the river’s edge. : Large trees, now leafless and weird-looking, surrounded the house on all sides; a broad gra- veled walk extended from the wide iron gates, that stood hospitably open, to the foot of the flight of griffin-guarded marble steps that led to the long, wide, columned piazza. Wide-spreading grounds, laid out in lawns, ves, promenades; fountains, sealed by the icy breath of winter; choice floral treasures, risoned in thick straw protectors; rustic ar- fom covered with leafless vines; stat stand- ing cold and ghostly in the sunlight; little sum- | mer-houses, and a picturesque chapel, modeled | like a Chinese mosque, all told Edna what a very paradise of beauty Ellenwood was in the summer-time. At first she thought no one could be at home, so desolate and still it all lay under the wintry sky; then, like a sudden flash of warmth into bitter coldness, she saw the inside shutters of one of the windows of the second floor open, and between the brilliant crimson curtains there ap- peared a face and a warm-hued dress. Of course, then, some one was home, and ladies; and so Edna started briskly up the foot- th that led from the depot steps tothe en- rance to the Ellenwood grounds, She was conscious of unceasing espionage from the face at the window; once she glanced that way, and saw, what she had not discerned at a distance, that the lady was very pretty and as refined as fair. Edna at once concluded | it was the mistress of Ellenwood; and, with the softening blue eyes impressed on her memory, hoped she woul with her rather than the advertiser. She walked up the “Were flight of steps, | and rung the silver bell, and then stepped inside the large, square vestibule, which was divided from the hall by double walnut doors, with | stained glass panels, | In a second, a pompous man-servant, in plain, | unmistakable livery, opened the door in answer | to her summons. ‘Can Isee Mr. Carlingford? I have called upon business.” | Her sweet, clear voice, her frank address | her lady-like presence, her thorough] refined | face was not without its effect upon the know- | ing footman. e bowed, and showed her into a room on the | left side of the immense hall. | Kdna found herself in a small reception-room. very similar to the one at Madison avenue; i was deliciously warm, rather dimly lighted, and was slightly redolent of hot-house flowers, It was pleasant and seémed so natural to her that she hardly knew how long it was before she heard steps approaching. 7 She certainly supposed it was Mr. Carling- ford; but the footman entered alone. 6 T ‘Mr, Carlingford begs you will see him in the library.” Of course Edna acquiesced, and followed again through the hall, with its soft warmth, | | the pristine-hued light that came from daintily- | stained windows, up the broad walnut stairs, covered with Persian velvet carpet, through a uare corridor, where the foot sunk in the rich | pile of the carpeting, and into a room in the center, and front of the house. Edna saw at one glance that the library was not a whit less splendid than the other portions of Ellenwood. She saw a green carpet, like a sheet of moss, on the floor; shelves filled with | books from floor to ceiling on every side, with deep French windows at short intervals dividing the shelves; she saw the dark gleam of bronzes, the white glitter of statuettes; she saw a lon: oval study table, with a student’s lamp, littered with papers, and beside it, in a swinging green rep arm-chair— 4 ‘Mr. Carlingford, miss.” CHAPTER XIX: TWO GLEAMS OF LIGHT. Epna bowed, gravely, as the footman men- | He pointed to a large, imposin mansion, built | have the important interview | | tioned the gentleman’s name. Mr. Carlingford rose, with the instinctive reverence a gentleman , always pays to a lady. “T am an applicant for the position of gov- erness; I saw your advertisement, and came to offer my services.” Her voice was perfectly toned, and she threw aside her vail as she spoke. With a curious start, as he casually glanced at her, Mr. Car- lingford stepped nearer her. A little blush at his pointed consternation om beholding her brought an instantaneous apology. ““T sincerely beg your pardon. I was so—so —astonished, so shocked at a resemblance be- | tween you and a dear one that is dead. I ma ask you to be seated; and name, please?” na gracefully seated herself in a chair near her. Her name? should it be her own, or, for safety’s sake an assumed one? A second de- cided it, ‘* You may have my name, certainly. Iam | Miss Vandeleur.” He bowed, and Edna, with’a thrill of delight, was glad she could so conscientiously accept the consent of her truthfulness that his courteous. bow implied, Her name was Vandeleur by just as good a right as Silvester, and surely more her rightful one ‘than Fay. She had been christened Edna. Vandeleur Silvester, by her adopted mother, who would not own her own name, Saxton, | from some odd vagary; and Edna, never ad- miring the long, though musical title, had drop- |" ped the center one when she was yet a little girl. Not a soul in the world knew her name was Vandeleur; what then more appropriate, more + truthful than that she should aubositetingly | adopt it in her time of need? r. Carlingford resumed his seat, still keep- | ing his eyes, as if fascinated, on Edna’s pure, pale face; yet their scrutiny was so grave, so respectful, and withal, so intense, that she could. not feel insulted by it. ‘‘Miss Vandeleur,” he repeated, after a mo- | ment, ‘‘I expected to be pERred to by letter, | and I eame down from New York last night for | my anticipated mail. My advertisement has | been in three successive days, and you see the result.” He smiled and pointed to the scores of opened. | letters scattered on the study table. A little pang of despair shot through Edna’s | heart; and it mirrored itself on her face, ‘* There can be no chance for me then: and no | one needs it more than I.” | Her eyes were full of tears that she would not ' let fall; and Mr, Carlingford saw the tight, al- | most fierce clasp of her gloved fingers. He was interested, deeply, in this beautiful | girl, who seemed more anxious than his corres- | pondents—for she had come personally--and who ooked so like—yet unlike, as he saw her longer —some one ‘‘ who was dead.” | ** Perha) our chances are better, Miss Van- deleur. I think a personal interview is decided- ly best, but I dreaded it. What would I have | done had I been obliged to see the writers of all these?” | But Edna could not reflect the merry smile on his nobly chiseled face; she was thinking, bit~ | terly, sadly, of the ‘‘ references” there must be | in all that mass of correspondence. | ‘*A personal interview is best, Mr. Carling- ford, and I came to Ellenwood because I knew, if I depended on a letter alone, my one ho was hopeless. I want the tion—oh! Mr, Carlingford, you, in the midst of comfort, of shelter, of friends, at home, can not know how I ' want it. And I haven’t a reference in the world, but I am honest, I am decent, I am a good schol- ar. Oh, sir, what will I doif I am refused when I have not a friend, no parents, no home?® Now, the tears stood on her long, thick lashes; and she half arose from her chair in her eager pleading for this haven of rest, this asylum of security. Her face was pale as death, and her eyes shone, even through the mist that clouded tiem, like the brightest stars. : Mr. Carlingford listened gravely; his hand trembled on the arm of the chair, and he watched the motion of her red lips, the involun- tary bending of her queenly head, and remem- bered that once, years and years before, anoth- er, as fair, as sweet, as pure as he could have sworn this girl to be, stood before him and begged a favor of him. It touched him, despite his seern silence. asi “‘ Miss Vandeleur, it would be a’ Tous. | thing if I were to place my little motherless Fe interrupted him with a sharp exclama- on. “Have they no mother? I thought I saw a lady when I came. No mother!” A faint flush crept from her shapely throat to
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her white temples. What construction could be a on her ardent language? could Mr. Car- ingford, for a moment—oh! could he, possibly, think she was interested because—because the children were motherless? And a quick, ey came almost simultaneously with the lush. It did not escape Mr. Carlingford’s keen eyes; and, with a rare, delicate intuition, it was plain as daylight to him. And the ) sleem of mortified anger, the blush of wounded delicacy, won the position of gov- erness for Edna against the yards of references on the table! ‘““Miss Vandeleur,” he said, in his pleasant, winning way, that was a strange mixture of sweetness and sternness, ‘ you will allow me to speak very plainly to you? You are a child, compared with my fifty years, and a word from me can do no harm, surely. 1 see just what you are; a lady, whom Fate or Fortune has thrown into the crucible to make a more perfect cre- ation of. I know you are suitable to guide and teach my little girls; they are your charges from this moment. And I also know, Miss Van- deleur, that you have a trouble, a secret trouble. Rest assured that never, until you have proven us to be friends to you, and you a friend to us, will we seek to know it; and then, I can prom- ise sympathy at least.” He held out his hand, cordially; and Edna took it, silently, and with a dumb thankfulness she never forgot. A second after, her voice, low and sweet, found utterance, “I can only prove my obligations by my ser- vices. I will Ye faithful to the little ones’ minds and bodies and souls, and because of my great, dreadful trouble, I shall the more appreciate your kindness.” - Thus the mysterious hand of Destiny forged a new link in the chain that one day would bind in crushing fetters—who? ; Mr. Carlingford walked over to the silver speaking-tube and said something in a low tone . 1at escaped Edna. Then he turned around to er. “I will take you to see my little girls, Miss Vandeleur, and introduce my sister. You will stay with us, I suppose, from now?” “‘T must go back for my trunk and settle my hotel bill before I Sis i my dutiés here.” ¥ Somehow, Mr. Carlingford was loth to have er £0. “But one of my men can go for the luggage and do your business, Jt looks like a snow- storm; you had better remain.” : They had gone across the large square corri- dor, hung with numerous oil portraits of the Carlingfords, for generations past, and Mr. Carlingford tapped lightly on a door that was ajar, and then, followed by Edna, entered. It was the largest room she had seen yet at Ellenwood, with a floor of inlaid wood, polished brightly, and covered with gay druggets in various places. A small piano occupied one alcove; a raised dais, three steps high, ran across the rear end, on which were a large desk, and an arm-chair. Two small desks and two tiny chairs were placed opposite the platform; on the walls were maps, pictures, and juvenile drawings. Crim- son moreen curtains hung at the four windows, and Edna recognized, sitting beside the cheeri- ly-blazing fire, the lady she had seen at the window. ‘ Beside her, one on either knee, were two little girls, so exactly alike, yet so entirely different, at Edna involuntarily sped in the center of the room. Mr. Carlingford smiled. ““You are not the first, Miss Vandeleur, who finds it difficult to reconcile the fact that blue eyés and yellow hair can so perfectly resemble brown eyes and brown hair. Annie, this is Miss Vandeleur, the new governess. Miss Vandeleur, my sister, Miss Carlingford.” a bowed, then glanced up at the graceful, delicate woman who had come toward her, . “My dear Miss Vandeleur, I am glad to know ou. You will make yourself perfectly at ome, I trust, with us. ay, come here, darl- ing; come, June, and see Miss Vandeleur. ron't you kiss her?” b i. out her hands to the beautiful chil- dren, who came to her unhesitatingly to be - And Edna kissed them with a strange swelling at her heart. As she released little blue-eyed May, she turned toward Miss Carlingford, and caught her eyes angently fixed on her ag = “1 much questioning surprise as Mr. Car or me evinced, Pa, nd, er face ed, and Miss Carlingfo seeing her agitation, came bravely forward. . TWO GIRL’S LIVES. **T did not mean to embarrass you, Miss Van- deleur; but you are so very like—” What she would have said Mr. Carlingford prevented. ‘‘ Ring for some one to show Miss Vandeleur her room. She will want to rest’ before lunch- eon. Edna had only a second in which to decide | before Miss Carlingford pulled the tassel at her | elbow. Should she return for her trunks or | not? would it not be best to settle her own busi- ness with the landlord? besides, she wanted her bundle she left at_the store, and she wanted, po: i Lawyer M‘Cowan about that legacy, i ible. he turned toward Miss Carlingford, just as that are hand touched the tassel. “*T will not trouble you. I would much rather return,” she said to Mr. Carlingford, sweetly. ‘*T have several little commissions to attend to, and to-morrow I will come to stay.” € answer, so quiet, was decisive; and Edna | said her adieux, and descended to the entrance, | accompanied by Mr. Carlingford. ‘You will not disappoint us, child?” he said, almost pleadinely, at the door of the vestibule. And Edna turned her bright, thankful eyes to him as she answered him: “IT would be disappointed far more than you — could be. Already, Ellenwood seems ike home,” ‘And, so singularly, it seems to me we have always known you, Miss Vandeleur.” Edna’s step was light and free as she returned to the little depot, where the boy was again, and where she felt so peculiarly at home. She bought her ticket, lowered her vail over her face, now flushed with the quick frosty walk, and entered the train when it ee. sa In less than an hour she arrived at 42d street and 4th avenue, where she hired a hack, and was driven direct to Lawyer M‘Cowan’s office. She found it to be a dull, cheerless place, on the shady side of a dingy street; with ugly furniture, and two homely clerks, copying for dear life. Indeed the one and only bright spot was Mr. M‘Cowan himself, whese twinklin een-blue eyes and jolly round face inspi lana with confidence at a glance, Without reserve, she told him her story—that is, all except her future intentions. She asked him regarding the legacy, and found to her in- tense amazement that the money was not for- feited in case of her marriage. r. M‘Cowan had informed a Mrs. Fay to the contrary; he would inform any one as well, for such were the conditions of the will. Every one was to suppose Edna Silvester would lose her fortune by marrying, and then the man who married her would certainly be no fortune-hunter; she would thus secure a husband who would value her for herself. Mr. M‘Cowan had received orders, years and years ago, before the first Mrs. Saxton died, to never disclose the secret except to Edna herself. on her own inquiring; and here she’ was, led bwin. strange ways, to unravel another thread in the web of Fate that was slowly clos- ing around her. **And you know me so well?’ she remarked to the lawyer, as she was about departing. “Ever since Mrs. Saxton brought you here from where she actually bought you of an old hag for a hundred dollars cash. The Saxtons lived in the country then.” Somehow, it seemed to Edna she had found a | friend; 2nd when she had arranged with him to still keep her fortune as he had for years, until she came to claim it, she went away, lighter of heart than she had been for days. CHAPTER XX, VIVIAN’S DISCOVERY. ARRIVED at New York, and a note dispatched | to ‘Jessica, Station D,” Vivian Ulmerstone re- signed himself renee to await the end of the scheme he had fully arranged in his fertile | brain. He was not a very patient man; apt not only to rush at conclusions, but fully as given to hur- rying to an accomplishment whatever project he had in view. To him, obstacles offered no impediment in fact. The greater the hindrances the more he enjoyed combating them; and, what to most men would have Seen insuperable difficulties, Vivian Ulmerstone easily accomplished. Such characteristics as Vivian Ulmerstone possessed, while they made a deplorably un-. rincipled man of him, could they have been rained and carried from their perverted uses, | would have given their possessor high rank among men of skill, and large executive ability. parental ~ ——— _ = 45 But Vivian Ulmerstone had covered up his back-tracks, and now, free-handed, free-footed, except for a queer little jealousy, that some- how kept rising in his memory, he swore to win the pretty — girl, who, he knew, with his crewed, een insight into human nature, was only waiting to be asked to share his des- tiny. essica was very pretty—very; he decided that languidly, as he rode up Broadway in a Madison avenue stage ; she was stylish, educated, and belonged to the ‘‘ upper ten,” most assured- ly. But who was she? : Then, even his calloused heart beat a little faster than was its wont, as he saw, glancing carelessly through the window, Jessica descend- : | ing the brown-stone steps of an imposing resi-~ dence, just as the stage rode by. She dia not see him, but he watched her close- ly. He saw her consult her tablets, that she held so daintily in her -kidded rs; he saw her spring lightly into the little coupe, and be driven off: ; and he saw, too, on the silver door- plate, the name: ‘‘GRANDON SAxTON.” Then he pulled the check-strap, and was about to alight, when a sentence from one of his fellow-passengers caused him to change his mind very suddenly. “You saw Miss Saxton, Carroll? What a pretty girl she is.” ‘* And as rich, or will be, when the old man dies, as she is pretty.” ‘*She’ll not inherit it all, will she? I think I heard M’Cowan telling a young lady client this morning that a Miss Edna Silvester came in for | fifty thousand or so. A curious case that of Lenore Saxton’s adopted sister. “T presume you ought to know, if any one does, being buried alive in old M’Cowan’s office, these ten years.” “Well, I do flatter myself I know a little. At any rate there will be a decidedly agreeable surprise somewhere, for the legacy, supposed to be forfeited by Miss Silvester’s marriage, is not forfeited at all; a queer trick of the t Mrs. Saxton’s, they say. And the bonds and consid- erable ready money only await the lady’s sig.” ‘Her husband’s a lucky dog—hey? Going to get out here, are you?” And the two- men alighted, leaving Ulmer- ae in a state between rage, hope, and unbe- ief. Granting it was so, what had he done? De- liberately torn to atoms a fortune of fifty thou- sand dollars! He bit his lip fiercely at the baro supposition, and rode on and on, not knowing where he was going, until the stage brought up at the termi- — nus. Again, as long as he was free of her, here was as fine a chance as ever a fellow had; a beauti- ful girl, of an aristocratic family, with plen of wealth to back her, and her husband, doub ess, “ Lenore Saxton,” her name was, then, daugh- ter of Grandon Saxton, the rich Wall street banker, and adopted sister of—no, not his wife —of Edna Silvester. Surely there was a visible finger of Fate here; Surely an unusual commingling of parts that crossed and uncrossed very strangely. He walked down Madison avenue, Mr. Saxton’s mansion, and back to his hotel, where a note awaited him, brief, but very sweet. ‘* Dear Mr. Ulmerstone,” it said, in its beauti- ful handwriting, and Ulmerstone smiled as he thought he detected a slight uncertainty in the letters, ‘‘I just received your unexpected and welcome letter, begging an interview for this evening. I shall be in papa’s box at Niblo’s to- night, alone. Will you come? Ask for Mr, Saxton’s. Yours, L. 8.” It was the first time ‘‘ Jessica ” had intimated her name, and here, at once she mentioned her father’s and subscribed her own initials. There was no decision necessary in the case; without the shadow of a doubt he would go to Niblo’s, and, amid the crash of the music, the | glitter of the lights, ask Lenore Saxton to be his bride. * Precipitate, was he? impulsive? perhaps; bu an acquaintance, even by mail, of a few short | weeks, seemed a lifetime of knowledge and friendship to such a disposition as he possessed. He flattered himself, and truthfully, that he thoroughly knew Lenore Saxton; all hay roman- tic ideas, all her petty weaknesses, childish van- ities, as well as her virtues of strong, constant affectionateness, when she had bestowed it. That she had already bestowed it, and w him, Ulmerstone little doubt, and t, when she was once enlisted, heart and soul, in his cause, she would be true to him, despite even influence, he doubted still less, . ome
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loved 46 TWO GIRLS “LIVES. . “ite "; beat i | ‘Yes, he would marry her; there was not a ‘soul in the broad universe to utter a disclaiming voice, and with the Saxton money, and allied to the Saxton name, he would find the position he had long looked for. And think his acute aunt Rachelle had never hinted of the existence of a young, beau- tiful girl in the family of her mistress! to think, when they had jested about ‘‘ Jessica,” neither -of them dreamed who it was! Rachelle Hunt would not offer any objection; indeed, Ulmerstone rather supposed she would secretly rejoice over an alliance of the house. of Saxton with one of her kin; and as long as there never would be a word lisped regarding the re- lationship, no one but themselves would, or need | be, the wiser. it was necessary for Vivian to see Rachelle Hunt, and explain the existing condition of af- fairs; so, before he started for Niblo’s that night, he penned a note, merely requesting her to call at his hotel, the ensuing day. Then, after carefull and mailing his letter, Vivian Ulmerstone light- ed his cigar, and walked up Broadway, to the decisive interview with Lenore Saxton, CHAPTER XXI. WOOING BEHIND THE GAS-LIGHTS. In her room, flooded with brilliant light, Le- nore Saxton stood behind her dressing-case, carefully, critically surveying herself, from the elegantly-arran crepe puffs, braids, and curls, black as Egyptian arranging his toilette, | attraction for. Lenore. Pretty faces, bewitch- ing smiles, and charming toilettes, did not com- | mand her attention any more than the glances from the actors, who were not slow to recognize her own beauty. The curtain had fallen on the first act, and Lenore sat. there, still alone, with a feverish glow on her cheeks and a red gleam in her dusky eyes; she sat nervously tapping on the edge of the box with her kidded fingers, wondering, hoping, fearing, praying. eh then—a voice directly over her shoulder sent the blood fairly leaping along every vein. ‘* Lenore!” ‘Oh; Mr. Ulmerstone!” A. mutual smile, a warm pressure of clinging fingers, and, happy almost to ecstasy, Lenore | leaned back in her chair. ‘“*T was so afraid you would not come,” she said, ingenuously, with a glance at him from the dark eyes she yailed so quickly. ** And would you have cared if I had not come?” The sudden paling of her face answered him; | then the warm blood surged over it again. hair, that was a marvel of | night, to the train of her dark-corded, pan colored silk, that was relieved, at throa wrists, by narrow linen collar and cuffs. Her eyes were bright as diamonds as they met and ‘You know best,” she said, half laughingly. ‘‘ But how did you learn my name—Vivian?” She added his own in a sweet, timid way that was irresistible. ‘Did you not subscribe ‘L. 8.” And I knew it was not Lillie, or Louise, or Laurie, or any of those utterly characteristic names young ladies delight in. the poem— *** Whom the angels call Lenore.’*’ He smiled down in her happy eyes as he re- | peated in a low, thrilling tone, this pretty piece their reflection in the mirror, in approving sat- | isfaction of her appearance; and what wonder was it that the a crisis in her fate, and s every nerve of her body. Had he not said when he parted from her at their first personal interview, that at the next he had something to tell her? And what could he have to tell ee but his love, that she was so blessed with? she felt that she had known him for years; and, whether or not, Lenore decided deliberately she would accept him and marry him, trusting to time to gain the necessa and she meant money by t t. Yes, she loved him, heart and soul; she had liked him remarkably well when she read. his first letter; there was a vim, a dash, a tinge of the man-of-the-world in it, that suited her curi- ous temperament remarkably. writing attracted her, and she was a girl to be won by just such trifling things. Then, when her own eyes—eyes that were | keen to criticise, to appreciate beauty of form, | and grace—when she really saw him, it needed no more than Vivian Ulmenstone’s handsome | blonde face, and elegantly worn clothing, and courtly air to complete the conquest. And now, all this perfection was waiting to | be laid at her feet; unknown, an entire stranger, though he was to her and hers, it made no dif- ference to Lenore, she was going to marry him. Of course, there would a fearful storm about it; Lenore knew how more than anxious her parents were that she should marry Mr. Car gford; and while she had deliberately al- lowed the gentleman to suppose his attentions were agreeable to her, and while she actually enjoyed her flirtation with Mr. Carlingford, she never for a moment forgotten Ulmerstone, never for a second swerved from her self-sworn ence She fastened her purple kid gloves, adjusted | the narrow gold bands on her small, plum wrists, took up her fan, her opera-glass, and her ba handkerchief, and went down the grand r case, The doors on either side the hall stood open, | and she glanced carelessly in, seeing that Mr. and Mrs, Saxton had already departed to a stu- ' pid reading at Steinway Hall. At the door the carriage waited, into which she was assisted and driven to the theater. Tt was nearly time for the curtain to rise, and the loud, sweet music of the orchestra made srery nerve tingle as she swept up the aisle to Mr. Saxton’s box. She pac barely time Shain’ eae and A range her programme, an just her skirts in a sragett part cloud around her, before the bell ed, the curtain rose, vian not here! The pang, at her heart told her how madly she im, thus to suffer at a tardiness that might only be momentary; but, whether he was Even his hand- | were viet to-night was to be | e knew it, felt it in | of romance, so very different from the matiter- of-fact truth of having heard her name mention- ed in a ’bus by two young fellows. But Lenore did aot know that. She believed every syllable this lover of hers said, be it ever soimprobable. In truth, the nearer ideality and romance he reached in his conversation, the more Lenore admired and appreciated. “You are very correct at drawing conclu- ) | sions,” she said, when he finished with the line True, she had never seen him but once; but | parental blessing; | from Poe’s ‘‘ Raven.” ‘*? know I am; and there is another conclusion which, though I dare not say I have actually ar- rived at, still, Iam more than hopeful it is cor- | rect,” The piccalo in the orchestra was tinkling the | sweetest music Lenore thought she had ever heard; else why the strange bliss that was brood- ing so calmly over her? ‘ And you, Lenore, are the oracle I shall con- | sult, Tell me if a certain darling Jessica loves | me as I love her?” It was well that the sudden crash of music came just then, for it drowned the little ecstatic cry that burst involuntarily from Lenore’s li Vivian did not hear the sound, but he saw the red lips breathlessly apart, and the radiant as sent in her dusky eyes. ‘Oh, Vivian! you know she loves you dearly, dearly!” ‘« My darling!” Their hands met in a lover’s clasp, below the level of the box; and, when the curtain rose again, Lenore Saxton was engaged to Edna Silvester’s husband, a And when may I come to ask Mr. Saxton for out ' . Ulmerstone waited for her tardy answer with more anxiety than he displayed. Not so much | to hear that he might come as soon as he chose, | but because by her answer he could tell if his opinion of her was correct; thatshe would brave all for the man she loved, even the just wrath of her parents, By the kindling of the black eyes, P | and the slowly-dawning smile on her mouth, he forecasted her answer. we ‘“ What use would there bein coming, Vivian? I am sure papa will refuse me to you, because—” ‘* Because what, dearest? That I am an un- known, a vagabond, who dare aspire to the hand “Oh, Vivian! you a vagabond! Indeed, you are more than worthy of all papa could give you, only—only—you know—” She nee unable to utter the grand objec- tion; and Ulmerstone came to the rescue. “Is it, then, that some other equally appreci- ative suitor, whom papa cordially approves, is in the way?” ; She blushed rosy-red. “That's the very reason. Papa and mamma are both determined to have me marry Mr. Car- lingford ; he’s very rich, you know.” . didn’t know, and Ido not want to know | of Grandon Saxton’s daughter?” anything but whether my Lenore will marry | me.” “a Then I remembered the maiden in | onty late, or altogether absent, the pe oe no | She stole her warm gloved hand to his own, and let it remain there in so perfectly restful a repose that there was no need of a verbal an- swer. **TIn spite of papa, and mamma, and this rich Mr. Carlin ord? Vivian’s blue eyes were eloquently challenging her for the answer his low, tender voice ed; and the vehement reply actually startled him for a second. “Tn spite of all the world, Vivian! I love you, and no one, nothing, shall hinder me from being your wife, if you wish it.” ‘““My own darling! ¥ I wish it! As if I would not risk my very life to win you; and to pe ve it, Lenore, I am going openly, boldly, to r. Saxton, tell him that I love you, that you love me, and ask your hand in marriage.” Lenore’s bright face paled. “But he’s sure to say no! All the induce- ments you could offer would not persuade him.” | . Vivian seemed fairly to revel in the conster- nation on her piquant face; he smiled proudly | at his utter conquest of this girl. | “ Well, and granting all that, my darlin, | there remains but one course open to us. I shall | have done all an honorable man can do; and then, if your father refuses it, we must take our happiness in our own hands,” he looked at her, his meaning occurred to | her forcibly. He loved her so truly that he | would marry her clandestinely; she would en- joy the romance of an out-and-out elopement; collect her jewels and perhaps be obliged to sell | them, true novel fashion, to pay the expenses of the honeymoon; probably be immortalized in the columns of a certain sensational paper whose reporter on such topics she knew, and who would not fail to describe Miss S——’s beauty, etc., ete. It would be too delightful! and a smile of an- ticipatory delight flitted over her face. Vivian saw it, and read it at a glance, and Lenore did not think the mutual smile from his eyes meant anything different from her own thoughts. Really, Bimerstone was deciding that an “ hon- | orable” offer for Lenore’s hand, although he knew he would be refused, would be the best course to gg for the reason that the Sax- | tons would be all the more likely to forgive | them (and whenever, in song or story, did an | only child sue in vain for the parental blessing, forgiveness and—the inheritance?) and receive them with open arms. “T will see Mr. Saxton to-morrow,” Ulmer- | stone said, as he bade Lenore good-night at the - i, door. ‘* You will hear from me during And Lenore rode home in a perfect ecstasy of | delight. CHAPTER XXII. THE NEW LIFE. It was nearly dusk when Edna reached her hotel in Jersey City, and entered her room, so warm and cozy and quiet. She sunk into the low rocking-chair before the fire to think over the strangely unexpected success that had come to her in the hours of that short winter da On the table still lay that morning’s © iter- ald,” from which she had eut Mr. Carli pe advertisement; and as she remembered _ her en- | agement at Ellenwood, and the pile of letters | She had seen on the hb table, she felt a thrill of happiness in every fiber of her frame. She thoroughly liked/Ellenwood; its air of elegance, style, quiet, Seemed as native as the | air she breathed. She liked Mr. Carlingford, | with his grave, sweet courtesy of manner, equal- ly removed from familiarity or coldness; and ere was something, a vague, half-painful, half- pleasurable emotion that she experienced now, sitting by her lonely fireside, as when in the apartments at Ellenwood, both Mr. Carlingford and his sister had dropped such strong, yet evi- dently distressful hints of her resemblance to some one. It seemed to Edna it must be thé de- ceased Mrs. Carlingford she unfortunately, for them, was so like; and Edna, while she felt she | owed no little of her good fortune to that fact, hoped and intended as far as she was able, that no uncomfortable recollections should arise therefrom. It was very pleasant for Edna to think, that, | like fienwood as she did, and the Carlingfords, still, there was no positive need for her going. It was now very sweet, too, for her to realize she was free to— . Free! oh, the horrid, norrm chains that would burn into her very soul, cover them as she would with flowers; and, of the aoe known good fortune that was hers | Edna felt her bonds the tighter, and the need of | hiding from her fate all tlie keener. > re 4
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| { ts) Ww. , that her lord and mas- Ps Bb iy! Whe ethers Fay, and alwa would be—glad as he might be to have so y otten rid of her under circumstances supposed 2: exist, would be fully as delighted to claim her, before, and by means of, any court in the land, since she would, as he first expected, bring in her hands so fair a freight. ut the chances were that he would not learn the exact condition of affairs; yet, she was not sure; and not sure, surely unsafe. And Ellen- wood, in its aristocratic exclusiveness, was a better retreat than the ‘wilds of an African junsle, were Fay or Oberdon,to attempt to seek od Poor Oberdon! she felt she would have given worlds to see him, hear k, tell him all her good news. But it could not be; as from her husband, so from. her lover she must hide herself; and while safe and comparatively con- tent in her school-room, let them both seek her near and far, if so wig f willed to do. Her reverie lasted long into the darkness of the evening; then she rung for dinner in her and Pe ‘‘J will re-label them,” she said, quietly, while her cheeks flamed at the innocent deception she felt it necessary to repeat. ‘‘They are fora friend of mine, Miss Vandeleur, at Ellenwood.” She quickly wrote the labels, had them pasted over the old ones, and at once expressed to her new home. She seemed to breathe more freely when they had actually gone, and ate her dinner of roast turkey, cranberry-sauce, fried egg-plant, and grapes, with a healthy relish long a stranger to er. After dinner she sent the chambermaid for the parcel she had left at the furnishing store in the morning, then undressed and retired, and slept soundly until morning. fter breakfast in her room, she ordered and paid her bill, and called a hack to carry her to the Grand Central. It seemed to her that now she had severed every tie that bound her to her old life; even in name—and she asked herself whether, in the sight of God and humanity, she was not better entitled to the name she had decided to be called by, than the one given her by a ceremony that ‘was only a ceremony. And she had cut adrift from the leaden-footed past, the immediate past, that was none the less | weighty that it had been so short. She thought. in her pure nobility of mind, that’ she could Jearn to be content with what goods the gods rs her; she wanted to drink the cup given to er lips without, like a nauseated child Loreen an ugly face over it. She believed, in hone truth, she could learn to regard her life as a peculiarly isolated one, even from the tempta- tion of friendship with Oberdon Audrey. And there hung the only lingering doubt she was kmh tee Ria her new life. Could she for- get him so utterly as to insure herself the calm peace she wanted so to feel? Yes; she theught, she hoped— And just that minute, glancing earelessly ter the window of her carriage, she saw a face that sent her blood boundi g madl through her veins, that made her r-en ary, tingle, her heart almost leap to her hroat. Alas, for her brave heart! alas, for the con- uest of pAPED OVE specpsal land — Fd t brief, passin ot Oberdon Au ’s gard, Fandibeby 2 worried, face, as he hurried along with the crowd through Broadway, sunk back ‘among the ae and cried for very sharpness of agony and love. ; She did Jove hin: she did: no matter whether she were bound or free; and, in the fetters, or unshackled, her soul’s lord was Oberdon Au- drey. And to have to bury this love, once so freely offered, and so Pa refused—to bury it and carry her dead to Ellenwood with her! — But the cab rattled on, and Edna dried her oye and doubled her vail over her ice, fearful ; “the bright morning sunlight would betray the traces of her agitation. ’ She gained her seat in the ber and rode swiftly to the new life; this eae wi a ivings as to her success in great, gran ae that lay, like a monster castle, in the win- ter sunshine. sea onr bem ce re Se her the day before, an roug pen Mary ped la caf Henn the lit- of shter, owed by tle girls, May enh Fee dressed in scarlet. me- rino dresses, with white fur cloaks and turbans, looking like little winter fairies as they came His face lighted at sight of Edna;'he raised | his hat courteously. ‘*Miss Vandeleur! I am glad you have ar- rived. May and June have been expecting you since breakfast, when your luggage came. If you will take Miss Vandeleur to the house, chil-. dren, it will be the best thing Hy can do, She is‘cold, and aunt Annie has hot coffee ready.” Edna thanked him, and told him that though she had already breakfasted, a cup of hot cof- fee with Miss Carlingford was to be desired. fe then, she and thé'children went to the ouse. At the entrance Miss Carlingford met her with a warm of the hands and a kiss full of sisterly affection. “‘ My dear child, welcome to Ellenwood! Comie right In, and take off your wraps.” And by the blazing fire in her own room, so | large, elegant, convenient, Edna actually rea- lized to what a haven of rest she had; in God’s providence, béén directed. The Carlingfords were her friends. ‘She knew it, else why their delicate, kindly attentions? or was it the way of the world for their employees the way she had been treated? It was very sweet to Edna to be thus regarded. Hers had been an empty life, until of very re- cent days; altogether void of those charming home courtesies that make life so attractive, so worth cultivating. Here at Ellenwood, it seemed, even from the few brief glimpses, as if a subtle charm held every member of the house- hold in a sweet embrace; a sense of refinement, murest affection, self-sacrifice, from Mr. Car- knew, in the quiet, calm and serenity, the best for her wounded spirit was to be found. Very pleasantly the days came and went. Duties in the school-room, romps out of study hours, long walks in the grounds, delicious even- ings among the books in the library, where she was welcome as birds in spring. These innocent amusements constituted Ed- na’s life at Ellenwood. She did not care to go out with Miss Carlingford;,she had no inten- tion of seeing, or being seen by, two pairs of eyes, she felt were on the lookout for her, in all probabilty. Aside m her exclusiveness, there was a great deal of gayety at Ellenwood. Dinners, evening dances, grand sleighing parties, and en- tertainments for the children; and, in her room Edna would listen to the music, and the sound of footsteps, and wonder if it was possible she had every cared ene to participate in such frivolity, and—this with a certain tightening of her heart-strings—was it possible she ever again could dance from very lightness of heart? CHAPTER XXIII. TWO SUITORS AND A DISMISSAL. LENORE came down to the nine-o’clock break- fast on the morning after the memorable even- ing in the theater-box, with a radiance on her face that was noticeable, piquant and gay as she always was, As she entered the room, looking so’ beautiful in her pale A cashmere morning-robe, that swept from throat to feet in a long, graceful train, buttoned its entire length with gold squares, Mr. Saxton arose from his chair beside the re r, and laid down his morning ge ent “T have not kept you waiting, have » papa, mamma? [am so T am sure. She glanced from Mr. Saxton to Mrs. who sat quietly, patiently, on a low hassock be- side her husband; the two had evidently been the o letter that Jay in Mrs. Saxton’s hand. “We waited, not because you were a trifle tardy, but on account of the oun scum importance Miss Lenore has attain daughter, with all my heart I congratulate you.” Mr. Saxton bent toward her, and lightly kissed her forehead. - , Lenore looked inquiringly at him, then at Mrs. Saxton’s pleasant, approving face. Yes, , we highly approve your choice. in conversation, and the subject seemed | You inight have known our consent was readily obtainable,” . A rush of vivid color surged over Lenore’s ple to treat | ingford to May, characterized them, and Edna ed. My 17 face: Vivian had not been tardy in her hand; and, strange to say, his suit favorably granted! Lenore’s 6yes filléd happy tears; this sudden much bliss; what would saw her? ‘*Oh, mamma! how'can we ever thank you? ae you dear, darling old papa!” he wound her arms around his neck, and kissed his cheek again and ‘again. ‘“You see we knew what was for the best, Ie- with ood fortune was too ivian say when he nore, now. But the coffee will not improve by further =, Sit down, and listen to your | suitor’s model letter.” ore tzok her seat, almost in a maze of as- tonishment. Even Vivian’s letter—and how } delicate of him to consult her father by letter!— was a model. She could not eat; joy and an appetite often are at variance; but'she sip her steaming coffee, and:toyed with a morsel of broiled salmon. Mr. Saxton drank his cup of coffee, and while his egg was boiling, read the short, gentlemanly note. o “My dear Mr. Saxton,” it said, ‘‘ you will be | surprised, doubtless, at this unexpected proposal I make forthe hand-of your daughter, Lenore. | I think I do not flatter myself when I say sho | lovesme; I khow I am correct when I affirm I love her. May I, with your consent, ask of her her consent to be my wife? I need not say with what anxiety I await your answer.” ah ort, |‘ Dhat’s what DP call a model letter. | terse, and to the point.» Any girl might be | groud of such a lover.” Lenore was trembling with actual delight. ‘Shall you say yes, papa? Oh, I love him it would kill me if you refused !” Mrs. Saxton smiled indulgently. ‘“ My darling, you shall not be refused. You | have won for your husband the man of all: men we preferred; and whom any young girl should | feel proud to marry. You do yourself justice, a ear, in — Mr. seam amen De aire sharp, sudden ery burst fro nore’s li that turned palely blue. , or ‘*Mr. Carlingford! Mr. Carlingford! Is that letter from him?” She arose from her chair, and pointed to the open sheet. Mr. Saxton gazed at her in un- an pe bewilderment that was equaled by his wife’s silent surprise. 50, 4 5 Saxton. ‘What does it all mean?” she asked Lenore, sternly, as she handed her her smelling-salts, “Tt looks very suspiciously like another jover.” ** Another rl!” Mr. Saxton repeated his wife’s words angrily. ‘‘ And if there is another lover, what possible difference can it make? Le- nore is to marry Mr. Carlingford.” Lenore’s color back at the a words. All her sudden crushing disappointmen and sorrow fled before the antagonism Mr. Sax- ton’s language produced. ** No,” she returned, very quietly, but with a certain decisivness her parents had long ago learned was folly to combat. ‘‘ No; I shall not Mr. Carlingford. I have another lover to w I am engaged, and whom I shall marry.” Sorabede, gradual glitter areeotey in Lenore’s eyes as she delive her fiat; and then, having partially gered the way for Vivian Ulmerstone’s waters vomit yoy i er digni e a silence reign- ed in the breakfast parlor for several eeaeee, Then Mr. Saxton broke it. “Who can it be? What shall we do about it? You know as well as I that any attempt. to coerce Lenore will result in the most ignomini- ous failure,” Mr. Saxton was angry} his wife saw that b the way he crushed the etter in his hand as we as by his harsh language. She, herself, was | vexed terribly. ‘* Of course she shall marry no one else, And to think what Mr. Car ord will say when he | finds himself re e, the owner of Ellen- | wood, whom an ight be roud to wed, whose first wife was an lish lady of rank, Lord Cambridge’s daughter, was she not?” ; There was a perfect wail in Mrs. Saxton’s | voice as she enumerated the attractions that had failed to impress her daughter. Saxton sat moodily gee yx looking across the through iw, > : * Another lover! - Some fool who has been cursed | Ser woman in America wras thus of ;
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- t 8 = ' ’d like ten min- utes’ interview with the young chap; he’d find the Saxton name and Saxton money wasn’t to he had for the asking.” And as if some fateful fairy had dovetailed affairs that morning, there came that moment a ring at the door, followed, two minutes later, by the footman, with a card on a silver salver. Mr. Saxton read it aloud, gruffly. “ Vivian ULMERSTONE,’ ‘* Sounds like the rascal we're talking about,” | he said, as he withdrew from the room, polish- ing his glasses on his white silk handkerchief, and wearing on his countenance an expression of severest virtue. As he crossed the threshold, he saw a well- dressed, self-assured young man arise promptly from a dos-a-dos, and courtesy, bowing. ‘Mr. Saxton—Mr. Grandon Saxton?” “ Yes, that’s my name. And you are—” He was determined to give this fellow no van- tage-ground; so he would not even pronounce his name, but pointed, with a sniff of supreme indifference, to the card he had carried with nim. ‘‘T am Vivian Ulmerstone, sir. I have called on an errand of gravest importance, and I beg your. kind indulgence for only a very few min- utes. He politely placed a chair for Mr. Saxton’s conventence, but it was almost rudely scorned. ‘*T have five minutes to spare, exactly. Pro- ceed, sir.” He opened his watch, and laid it in his hand; then fixed his cold eyes on Vivian’s face. Vivi- an could have knocked him down, so insolently patronizing was his air, but he remembered his role, and began to play it precisely as he had re- hearsed it. ‘*Miss Lenore has, perhaps, spoken of me. On her account and my own I have come, as an | honorable man, and a suppliant to you for the | = favor of your consent to our marriage. xy her, and. am prepared to do my duty. by er. He never blushed, even under Mr. Saxton’s rolonged, unwinking stare, followed by an om- inously unpleasant silence, broken by Mr. Sax- to m. “ te poet all?’ ‘The odd, terse question, so purpose ut to insult, almost marie Vivian reo “Aes ‘“That is all,” he said, curbing his pride with an almost superhuman power. Mr. Saxton peered over his glasses a full sec- ond, then slowly snapped his watch-case shut, and returned it to his pocket. “Time is up, sir. ou can’t have her. Good- morning.” He gave a little nod, that Vivian could not brook. His face suddenly i: and he stepped immediately in the way of Mr. Saxton’s exit. ‘“T have made my claim as any gentleman should, and I demand to be treated as a gentle- man, Iam a recognized suitor for your daugh- ter’s hand; and, as the man she has honored by her own free choice, I consider myself en- titled to more courtesy than you have deemed | Your daughter's happiness PO ' expedient to show. involves more than you seem to realize.” He looked worthy any cause, thus’ bravely urging his claims; and even Mr, Saxton, behind his glasses, saw that Lenore’s choice did credit to her taste, at any rate. ‘Sir, you have my answer. My daughter is not in a position to any young man who lappens to take a fancy to her mcg 6 face and her father’s money. I don’t know who yoware, aud I don’t want to. You may bea gambler, or a tract distributor; it’s all the same tome, You ean’t have Lenore. She is to be marriéd very a8 to a gentleman in every way her equal.” With which parting shaft, Mr. Saxton walked unconcernedly from the room. Vivian heard the quiet order he gave in the hall. ‘** Attend Mr. Vivian Ulmerstone to the door, Mike, at once.” And Vivian took his hat and walked to the door, with a smile on his handsome face he in- tended should mask his feelings, And it did, completely, and when he thrust a dollar greenback in the footman’s palm, he knew he had made a powerful friend, to be reserved for a not far-off future contingency. All in all, he was not disappointed with his _ futile interview. He had the same re- sult, though without the accompanying needless insults, the memo kis of which served to increase and thereby show the Semis old with Lenore me gentleman how uscless his refusals had been. vance, with a suave | | He had previously decided to Lenore 8 positively, of the e, He took it for granted, with the easy self-as- | surance of aman of the world, that even the pompous father of his only daughter would be lad, some day, to come to terms with a son-in- aw, who, after suitably asking for his child loved her enough to make a runaway match of it. But, looking on the very darkest side, Ulmer- stone could see in a life with Lenore Saxton no /such blank future as he had anticipated with Edna Silvester, for the reason that he liked Lenore better, so far, than any woman he ever seen. walked leisurely down ison avehue, he made up his mind that he would post a letter to Lenore within an hour, with entreaties—he smiled as he thought how needless they would be—and instructions to meet him, fully i. pared, at the place he should designate, hat very evening. And Mr. Crenidens Saxton should have the de- lightful satisfaction of knowing how very au- thoritatively his pompously insolent treatment been regarded, He had said to himself, a half-hour ago, that, even if Mr. Saxton never relented, a life with Lenore would not be so uncongenial as one with ‘| Edna, whose pure, sweet refinement was so far above his appreciation. But, he found himself suddenly wondering how could he and Lenore live on nothing? His aunt Rachelle had said, truly, he was master of a well-paying trade; as a superior draughtsman, Vivian Ulmerstone could earn his hundred dollars a week, by expending only a healthful amount of labor; but a life of tread- mill routine, even for so fair a remuneration, was not what Mr. Ulmerstone liked, and what | he did not like, he was morally sure not to do. Hence, this difficulty . rose, mountain-high, when once he gave sober thought to it; and, / naturally co-existent with this reflection, came | the one that he had let slip as good a chance, | monetarily, as Lenore, on the day he had de- stroyed all proof of his marriage to Edna Sil- | vester. Then, at the time, he was elated over his coup de main; now, when no human power could nes | Edna in his power he, like a spoiled child, | gan to long for his forfeited toy. , _ A stinging memory that she loved not him— | who sont not endure to be second in any one’s affections—even when transient—but this auda- | cious Oberdon Audrey made him feel jealously / uncomfortable, and the remembrance of her ure, fair face, with its wistful eyes, its proud, _high-bred expression, came vividly before him, with the mental query, had he done wisely, | after all?” He wondered where she was—she and her | fifty thousand dollars; whether she utterly | hated him; whether he could possibly find. her. And with these thoughts, this oddly-com- unded man—a genius 3 his way, capable of so much better things, doomed to such a bitter | end—went on his way to arrange his t with his wife’s adopted sister! CHAPTER XXIV. THE WARNING WORD. | THe doors of the Saxton mansion had barely closed after Vivian’s departure, when Lenore | was summoned, more peremptorily than she re- membered ever to have been called for before. She recognized her father’s hand on the bell, by | the series of short, angry jerks that. made the | cord fairly snap; but, justly wrathful though | she knew Mr. n would be, judging bo from his manner at the breakfast-table, and the Yes, thinking of Lenore and her father, as he | unfavorably short interview he had with her | | lover, Lenore was in nowise abashed or dis- couraged. She had made up her mind tom | Vivian’ Ulmerstone, and she determinedly, al- 'most doggedly, went down the stairs to the lib: , _ The enemy were in full force; that is, Mrs. ton—whose cool, contemptuous indifference Lenore disliked even more than her father’s plain, blunt manner—and Mr. Saxton sat in | their customary places, in silence and ironical | respect. Tal Lenore well knew beforehand, she found | her father rest | able fray; Mrs. nm calm, collec | ous, but with an inexhaustible fund of combat- ive policy stored in reserve. } me. marry Mr. pare en! and I shall an eager for the inevit- | Ulmerstone, notwi ding the ungentleman- ge ted) courte- | ly manner in which him an tis a reply to the letter I read you this morning. If you desire it, I will read it.” He made a motion to take it; but Lenore ges- tured a negative. ‘There is no need, papa. I presume you have said what you ple , and the simple fact of my knowing it can make no difference.” ‘“*Exactly, my dear.” This was said in Mrs. Saxton’s smooth, pleasant tones. ‘ You could not have expressed the fact more correctly. The ped to Mr. Carlingford is what, in bo your father’s and my judgment, is the very best decision we could make, for your future happi- ness and welfare.” A little white spot began to gleam on each of Lenore’s cheeks; she tapped the floor with her slippered foot somewhat saucily. * And all we need, Lenore, is for you to sigm ham name below my signature, that Mr. Car- ingford shall know you freely accept his offer.” She felt their eyes fairly burning on her face; she knew this was the gauntlet, thrown directl at her; she knew, now, her colors must be bold- ly unfurled, for and all, She experienced a slight thrill of excitement that made every nerve quiver, and then—she drew the line be- tween good and evil; she cast the die that made her choice between parents, who, if perhaps too heroic in their treatment of Lenore’s infatua- tion, were, in their own way, indulgent and. kindly thoughtful; a thousandfold more deserv- ing her loyal obedience than the man, the stranger, and still the lover, for whom, with whom she would risk her future, for weal or woe, When she spoke, her tones were fairly elec- tric with suppressed, well-controlled nervous excitement; she addressed her father, directly: “You might have known I would not have signed any such document. _ Even if I did, what a burlesque it would be! You know I would not marry Mr. Carlingford with my free will and consent; if you do not yet know that fact, I tell you now.” ‘ As she finished, she compressed her lips reso- lutely, and coolly awaited an outburst; it came, from Mr. Saxton: . . ‘Then, by Jupiter, a shall marry him with- out your consent! and if there is law enough and power enough, in New York city, you shali see that skulking, adventurous scoundrel, who has dared to cause this domestic difficulty, put where he can trouble neither you nor me, again. You hear that?” “Thear,” she said, quietly; then Mrs. Sax- ton’s voice, such a contrast to her husband’s, in its sweet, me cadences, but so fraught with malignant rage that, for a second, Lenore actually shivered: : “You forget my dear, how your refusal will appear to Mr, Carlingford. e are all aware how you enco him; indeed, at the time, your marked appreciation of his attentions was. a source of expressed congratulation among us all. ou will not wish to lower yo in 4 Mrs. Saxton smiled; she had laid her snare, and now triumphantly waited for her daughter to be caught in it. But Lenore was as wise as her astute mother—thanks to that mother’s training. “ee remember you did advise me to veges this eligible middle-aged party, mamma; an if my Pestle: little flirtation with him was lit- erally accepted, why”—with a shrug of her shoulders—‘‘I cannot see that J am to blame. I have flirted often enough before, and no one objected.” rs. Saxton bit her lip. ‘* That’s neither here nor there,” said Mr. Sax- ton, gruffly. ‘‘ Keep to ine Be t.° As I said be- fore, you are to marry Mr. Carlingford; and if you will not sign your name—even your initials, anything, it shall go as it is; and, according to my urgent wish, Mr. Carlingford shall see you to-morrow.” Lenore’s lips curled; she arose Loong from her chair, and looked her father full in the face. “You may send it or not, as youchoose, It will make no difference to for I shall not marry Mr. hour ” “6 ‘But—” %
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ee. S Mr. Saxton rose excitedly to his feet; Lenore calmly interrupted his remark: : A There is no need to Prolong this interview. At breakfast I supposed [had fully decided the matter; now, I must a iy refuse any further discussion on the distasteful subject.” Like a queen of tragedy on a Broadway stage, she literal swept from the room, her ver r- ments cabling angrily, as they brushed their rich drapery over the Moquet carpet. “Tl see! T’'ll see if a child of mine dare upset all my well-laid plans. She shall marry Car- lingford, or—” , . Saxton paused for want of a sufficiently threatening alternative. ‘‘ Shall you send the acceptance?” Mrs, Saxton asked, suggestively,. wu He snatched up the letter, put it in the en- velope, and rung the bell violently. ‘‘ Here, have this mailed at once. d’ye hear?” Then, when the footman, with stolid face, and wily inquisitive mind as to what was up, hac gone with the precious letter, Mr. Saxton nodded emphatically to his wife, ‘'That’s the way to do business, and, my word for it, when she sees Carlingford here, fully ex- pecting her to regard him as her husband, she ll ive in. Depend upon it, she'll give in when she At once, ve in. earns we mean what we say.” But the lady smiled, almost contemptuously. “Ts it possible you know Lenore no better! My word for it, unless she changes her mind from some external influences, you nor I can ever make her marry him.” __ E Mr. Saxton nodded again, sagaciously. * Very well, we'll see.” “Yes,” returned she, oracularly, “‘we will ” “ Lenore, MY DARLING; I need hardly tell you the success—or rather the failure—of my inter- view with tone father; in a few words, dearest pot ea abe M ates he} ear? roe - = an ordered me from his roof, under whic new you were waiting for the verdict. “But, Lonore, you remember we on our plan in case of this anticipated result; you know you promised to be my own, come what might. And now, dearest, I shall keep you to ..) promise, at once, because, by waiting, what will be gained? *To-night, then—does my promptness startle you, darling?—will you come to me? I shall be in readiness, at the place where we met, to claim my bride. .“* You will come, Lenore? At the Pennsylva- nia Railroad depot, to-night, at eight o’clock? “T need not ask, I know, for you will be ween —m ¥e will age be ih train to ashington, be marrie e hour we arrive and start on our blissful bridal tour. ’ wisi ars Cea oper tens, are Me fim ou int of mine. our go - o mn sense will teach you what to take, what to eave, ‘Then, my own, till eight o’clock Ak ck id au revotr. ie Vimersione. Feaa the note hastily over after he payee MD t in the envelope, and sent it e . “Tt is very good, quite to the point, and cer- tainly devoted. If she only takes the hint re- FOO . Ttear my misesble hence! dollars, A e Y Misera dollars, the remains of dear ‘ auntie Fay's? noble , ner- osity in providing for Edna Silvester’s wedding- ee. not make very luxurious Lenore’s ridal trip. He lighted his twenty-five cent cigar, with as much nonchalance as though he were sole heir to Stewart’s little fortune. ‘“ By-the-by,” he said—he had a way of solilo- quizing, half audibly—‘‘I wonder what's the reason I haven't heard from aunt Rachelle on the subject under consideration? I should have <9 an are way, A eee ph sep what she can have say © L x nce, un- less she has the forethought to inclose a comfort- pre check on the Broadway Bank, payable at sight. ; : He seemed determined to enjoy the last of his bachelor privileges, for he remained in his room during the day, reading, smoking, packing his ortmanteau, making some changes in his toj- ette. _ At four o'clock, the hall-boy tapped at his door, with a telegram, which, when he read, had a curious effect on him. It ran: “On no account m L. Sure to be disinherit- ed. It can be made all right with E—. 1 was eor- rect from the first.” “Laas It was signed “ R. H.,” and when r he uttered something like a curse; then Se ————E Oe es — 19 TWO GIRL’S LIVES. vexedly to and fro for an hour, with knitted brow and sullen face. CHAPTER XXyYV. THE ARRESTING HAND.. ‘On no account ma L.”; the telegram from Rachelle Hunt said that, and Vivian natur- ally wondered why she was so peremptory in her commands. She gave her reason—that Lenore was sure to be cut off from the parental legacy, which, to both Rachelle and Vivian, was a mighty reason, potent to do or undo, any thing. Of course—and Vivian utter’ forgot his lofty flights of romantic duty—of course, he would not be anxious to marry Lenore, with all her beauty, and style, ean without her for- tune, = more than Edna, tion. en, granted that Rachelle’s informa- tion was correct, and that she always was correct was plainly implied in the concluding sentences of her telegram, Vivian Ulmerstone had got himself in a fix, out of which he saw no possible extrication. ged to run off with Grandon Sax- He was en ton, the millionaire’s, daughter, to whom the penitent wanderers would ultimately return, to wide-open doors, arms, hearts, and check-books; but to elo with merely a pretty, disinherited girl, simply because they fancied they cared for each other—was folly without measure. Even Edna, and a life with Edna, could not have been much worse. But, “it can be made all right with E.”; and ‘“E,” had the money after alli—Edna, his own bashful wife, whom, but for his confounded blunder in so éffectually destroying the only proof of his marriage, he might have that hour claimed. What an intricate labyrinth he seemed grop- ing through! How, at every turn, new devel- opments upstarted, utterly confounding all past revelations, relentlessly preventing future confi- dence. Who was he, anyhow? or, as he asked himself more plainly, who did he wish himself to be? Edna Silvester’s husband, or Lenore Saxton’s lover? And then, with a rush of Satanic suggestion, there occurred to him a thought, that, in its sudden force, its full measure of utter pitiless- ness, its bold, plausible, horrible front, made him, callous man of the world though he was, blush redly in sheer shame. And yet, and yet, why not? Edna’s husband, when he found her; in the interim, Lenore’s lover. What easier? What more natural? the one would not interfere with the other; the elopement could oe as arranged, only— the difference that ‘‘ only” made, was a differ- ence that, force itself as it might upon his sym- pathy, his Be gam his honor, Vivian Ulmer- stone would not contemplate. He had made up his mind, suddenly, as he always did; he was aided by all the worst ambitions of a naturally depraved soul; he would act as pleased him alone, and the consequences must take care of themselves. It was almost frightful—the ease the care, the indifference with which he finish his few preparations for this journey of his, that, bad as it was according to his first arrange- ments, was —- compared to the later ones; then, his hotel bill paid, his luggage sent by an expressman, he started forth, handsome, smiling, to take a foolish, headstrong girl by the han and lead her in the first steps of the path tha’ kept on to his own destruction and hers. Yow, that this clearly-defined purpose had ob- tained possession of him, Ulmerstone began, in- voluntarily, to lose his respect for Lenore—this girl who was risking so much more, so infinitel much more than she knew, for his sake. e began to think none too well of her; he looked at her through his own morally perverted vision, and found her what she was—a silly, ro- mantic, headstrong, passionate girl, not abso- lutely, literally erate but who reckless] trifled with all that a modest woman holds sacred, that a severe critic would hardly be at fault in calling her, at least, of unenviable dis- position, morally speaking; that, with a proper guiding hand, might have been trained, like a wayward vine, into all that was fair, useful, admirable. Strange thoughts, these, to have had place in his heart, as he walked to and fro on the for- ward deck of the ferry-boat, waiting till it should touch the dock, and he might p the chain and go to Lenore. _He was sure he would see her within the sta- tion waiting-room; he was so confident of her qpeying his commands, that there was not a doubt to disturb his calm serenity of mind as he leisurely across the dark ferry-house to the entrance of the depot. minus her small por- | | } The first face he saw as he delivered his ticket —he had purchased two first-class, to Washington, in New York—was Lenore’s, ra- iant, piquant, beautiful. He raised his hat with a courtly grace that sent Lenore’s poe bounding—she was so af- fected by such trivial accomplishments—then hastened toward her, offering her his arm. “My darling! you are true as steel. I knew you would not repent, any more than myself.” ‘*Repent what? That lam to be your wife? How strange it would be if I could not surmount all difficulties for that/ I shall never repent, Vivian.” She was singularly calm and composed; she leaned on his arm with a perfect restfulness, a complete merging ot herself into his especial protection; and Vivian Ulmerstone felt the ‘pressure of her fingers on his arm, the slight weight of her body beside him; he saw the dark, tender light in her eyes; he heard her aver her confidence in, her great love for, him; and yet, he never repented. For fifteen or twenty minutes they prome- . naded beside the train; and Vivian suddenly re- membered Lenore’s luggage. “T brought nothing—but myself,” she said brightly. “‘I have some money with which f shall buy what I need; papa gave me my quar- ter’s allowance yesterday.” Vivian would have given anything to have learned the amount of the millionaire’s indul- gence to his only child. “How fortunate for you! and how little he expected what use you would make of it. I presume he is the soul of generosity to you.” It was a sly hint, and Lenore accepted it, un- consciously, ‘* Papa is generous; he has given me five hun- dred dollars a quarter for a year or two, and I never spend it all. I had over a thousand dol- | lars in the bank when I drew it this morning.” Vivian’s cheeks glowed with delight. A thousand dollars! a trip to Europe that meant, after the tour to Washington. e was in luck, after all, even to the comparatively small num- ber of passengers on the cars; in the coach he took—the Pullman palace car “ Starucca ”"— there were only three beside themselves—a young man, in traveling attire, almost disguised in his seal-skin cap and high, fur-trimmed over- coat collar; the others, two elderly ladies, one of whom seemed quite an invalid. Ulmerstone’s quick, scrutinizing glance on the occu of the car was satisfactory to him- self, for, with a look of relief that no acquaint- ance was on hand to play the spy, he gave Le- nore a seat, in the center of the car, on a com- fortable, low, velvet-cushioned rocking-chair, beside a marble-top table. He was sure of a delightful tete-a-tefe, at all events, during the long ride. The ladies were entirely occupied with themselves, and he saw ata glance would trouble no one. The young man, wrapped so closely in his heavy cloak, somewhat. closer than Ulmerstone cared for; yet, he seemed fatigued, and even sleepy-look- ing, for all there was a gleam in his black eyes Ulmerstone noticed the moment he saw them. However, he was a perfect stranger, and strangers never paid much attention to other strangers’ affairs. And so Ulmerstone dismissed the thought, and settled himself in his chair, to entertain and be entertained, The train started, sped on faster and faster, through Jersey City, the Deep Cut, out on the dreary meadows, mto Newark, off again, past scattered farm-houses, isolated siturbad resi- dences, into Elizabeth, Rahway, New Bruns- wick, and then off into a long, swift ride before the next nage iP s-place—Trenton. All this while, Ulmerstone’s handsome head. had been bent in close proximity to the back of Lenore’s chair; a low, murmuring conversation kept continually up, varied by an occasional. low, melodious laugh from Lenore’s lips. She was very happy; perfectly content with this lover of hers, whom she believed to be as loyal as she was. She had proved, implicitly, her confidence in him, never, for a moment, dreaming he was so foully untrue; never doubt- ing but that he was —- and sdigea to marry a daughter of Grandon Saxton, for whose hand other men had sued in vain. : Her future was as _ bright, to her, as sunlight. | Of course they would be forgiven: ‘was there | ever a novel where they were not? They would go back to i avenue, and her father ! would be so sorry for the way in which he had spoken to her husband, and Saxton would at once appreciate his style, his handsome face, his address, They Soe be so happy. And rstone watched her radiant face, with its rare variation of expression, her vivid crim- son cheeks, her shiny eyes, and thought she
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20 TWO GIRL’S LIVES. really was a ts Ifttle thing, only he rather / mination, hé thought he would givé it up of his feared he might tire of such exuberant beauty and spirit by and by. For the present, he thought Washington a lace, and Willard’s a good hotel; | very tag after that, Europe for six months, on a modest scale. The train was slowing up at Trenton as he arrived at that conclusion, and he leaned toward Lenore to tell her his plans for the con- tinental tour, when the car-door opened, and a policeman, in full uniform, walked through the p to him, and laid his gloved hand heavily on hig shoulder. ‘““You are arrested, sir, by order of a tele- from Mr. Grandon Saxton, Madison ave- nue, on charge of abduction of his daughter.” Ulmerstone muttered an oath, and sprung to his feet, while Lenore, white as death, sat mo- ‘tionless in her chair. The young gentleman in the seal-skin cap arose and bowed courteously to Lenore. ‘Miss Saxton—if I can be of any assist- ance—” She started at the familiar tones. “Oh, Mr. Audrey! Oh, what shall I do?” CHAPTER XXVI. STRIKING TRAIL. Ir Lenore had been thunderstricken to hear Oberdon Audrey’s voice, Vivian Ulmerstone was no less astonished and chagrined and en- raged to discover their traveling-companion. e turned with a scowl to Audrey—this | man who had crossed his path at such an in- auspicious moment, this man he had heard of ‘before as the lover of his wife. He had hated him with an Miche tet | jealousy before; now, | he could have throttled him where he stood. There was a marked difference between theSé | two men, whose paths had indeed crossed _in such strange intricacy. One the husband of Ed- na Silvester, handsome as an Apollo, with a ma- | lignant devilishness stamped on every perfect | feature; with a cold glitter in his blue eyes, and a dumb wrath on his mouth. The other, in his | superior moral strength, his calm, dignified de-| meanor, his proud assumption of the rights of a true gentleman as he offered his services to the stricken, mortified girl. Tt was only a second they confronted each other; Ulmerstone looking on Audrey as his rival in one case, his witness to his sm in this | resent one; while Audrey, to whom Lenore’s | over wasa perfect stranger, viewed him as such, | never dreaming him to be the Garnett Fay who | had wrecked Edna’s feng ores who was the! one, only barrier between him and earthly bliss. | Only a brief second of silence; and Ulmer- stone tn it: “fT understand I am your prisoner? Have the laws been changed for my individual benefit, | or have previous elopements been winked at?” | A shadow of a smile flitted over Audrey’s | ace. | “Neither, Mr—? You have no one to censure | or give credit to but myself. At Newark, [| telegraphed to Mr. Saxton, bidding him send | instructions to the police at Trenton.” ““You—you? By heavens, you shall pay for | this! You shall answer for this—you—’ But the train moved slowly on, and the firm hold on his arm by the officer warned him ef | the inglorious termination of his schemes. ‘Lively, if you please,” the policeman said, | and Ulmerstone had only time to spring from | the platform, and the train, with Lenore and Au , glided on, away. ‘‘T have instructions to detain you only so jong as the young lady requires to get beyond | your reach. When the train crosses the Dela- | ware bridge, you can consider yourself at | liberty.” Evidently the officer’s sympathies were on | the side of the lovers, for he smiled and winked as he spoke; but both these pleasantries were jost on Ulmerstone, who was looking at the | darkness into which the train had disappeared, with a frown on his forehead, and a stern, set | jook in his eyes. He vied to recover himself at the sound of | the friendly voice. “Thank you. It is rather a ing pear sep to both the young lady and myself. Do you think the train is over in Pennsylvania yet?’ ‘The man consulted his watch. *‘Hardly. However, as you want to return to New York, doubtlessly, you had better pur- chase your ticket inside now; the Kensington Shanes De due in several minutes.” | days, he had caught tone decided it was best to return to New York. Oberdon Audrey would be there, | own accord, rather than run the risk again. | He would start off, now, on a new track; he | would find Edna. So he bought his ticket, took his seat in the train when it steamed into the station; fixed himself cozily in a seat, leaned his back against the cushions, and thought over his affair, till he fell into a doze, only awakening when the cars entered the gloom of the Jersey City depot at et He had bestowed scarcely a thought on Le- | nore, he was so thoroughly selfish, and he was so completely used to caring only for himself. Besides, with all his wickedness, if he had really loved her, he would not have given her up thus | easily. But, sentimental as he had felt about | her, at various times, he had never actually | loved her, with an affection stronger than death. It was his misfortune—this inability to attach himself constantly to any one; this same deplorable trait of character was manifested as | well in his roving, rambling habits that led him such a vagabond existence, as in the remarkable ease with which he first won Edna, then al- lowed her to escape him; then flirt with Lenore, and give her up as readily ; and then, because circumstances favored, to seek out Edna again. Not that he loved her a whit more than he ever did. Really, he always experienced a sense of abashed inferiority when he contrasted himself with her, that of its very nature was proof posi- | tive that he did not love her; for love knows nothing but equality; and Vivian Ulmerstone | knew Edna Silvester was too good for him. But this very knowledge, added to the fact that she had eluded him, gave him a fictitious enthusiasm regarding her; and as a spoiled » | child, accustomed to ag A for, and get what is ? especially intended it shall, on no account, have, so he wanted to claim Edna as his wife, and en- joy, for his reward, not only her wealth, but the triumph he knew he would be obliged to achieve before he did claim her. He had not the slightest idea where she was. He had never caught sight of her since the moment he left her in her dressing-room on their marriage-night. She had vanished as ef- fectually as if the earth had opened and swal- lowed her. How to begin his quest he could not tell; but he determined on consulting Rachelle Hunt; she would know; she knew every thing, it seemed to him. Arrived at Jersey City, the thought occurred ?P to him that perhaps the friendly police-oflicer at Trenton had telegraphed to Mr. Saxton of his return, despite his apparent sympathy, and the parting cigar at. the car door; and Ulmer- stone accordingly prevented any such possible contretemps by alighting from the rear end of the train, and quietly making his way across several railroad tracks, through Prospect street. and so came into Montgomery street, withou having passed the ticket-taker at the lawful exit. He walked up to the American House, and, | by a strange coincidence, was shown the room occupied by Edna Silvester only a few nights before. e was in no mood for sleep when he locked the door after him, his nap in_the cars having sufficed for the time being. He walked aimlessly up and down, from the windows to the bedstead at the rear end of the room; from the bureau to the rocking-chair, where Edna had sat through those dreary hours of mental contest, He plunged his hands in his pockets, stretched his legs at full length, and delivered himself to that rascal Audrey, would have to say to Le- nore, and wondering if, now he was off the carpet, she would not be made to marry that elderly party she had told him of. It seemed to him very probable that such would be the case; and he wondered why it was he did not feel as hatefully jealous of that Mr. — Mr. — he forgot the name—as he did of Oberdon Audrey. There was not much danger of his forgetting that name; and he decided the reason he was not jealous of him, was, not that he loved Edna tter than Lenore, but simply because he had ¢ claim on Edna that no man on earth could eny |! And this Oberdon Audrey was his wife’s lover! Hiswife! He had fallen into a fashion, very lately, of regarding as his wife one whom he had taken such pains should never be able to prove her relationship to him. Of very late imself anticipating the time when he should have found a, and made it up with her. before long, and he wanted to see him, onl once more, And yet, with this Oberdon Audrey in the y. Besides, now that the first of | way, he hardly hoped to have her reconciled; the programme had come to such a sudden ter- | this ‘man Audrey, who seemed a very spirit of ; tween him and the utter loneliness of the hour; thinking what | revenge, who had won his wife’s affections, who had delivered Lenore Saxton from a fate she never had dreamed of. Well, even this bold unscrupulous man of the world really thought it was the best thing that could have happened to Lenore, anyhow. She’d cry a little, doubt- less, and miss a few meals, and then—marry that other suitor and settle down into a model matron. So Ulmerstone thought, and yawned, and stretched his shapely limbs, and then his listless, roving eyes caught a glance of a bit of bright ribbon under the edge of the bureau. It was pretty; it was gay, it was his favorite color, and he remembered once telling Edna Silvester she looked so remarkably well in this very self-same shade of pink. She had had little dashes of pink on the night of her wedding; he especially remembered a small loop of pink satin, lined with black lace, with a tiny oval button of gold in the center; she had wornit in her hair, rege He stooped carelessly to pick fH up, and started as he saw it fully. It was precisely the same he had been men- tally recalling; lace, gold button and all. Was it the identical article? had Edna been here—in this very room? Nothing was more possible, more natural. Had he alighted al- ready on a clue? He was not listless now. With the ribbon bow in his hand, he resolved to search the room as if for a lost treasure. He ransacked the drawers, the wash-stand, the wardrobe, but no trace of any presence ex- cept that of thelaundress in the shape of freshly- ironed towels, rewarded him. Yes—there were one or two other items he saw, but they could be of no use, possibly. One was a hair-pin, another a button off a_ boot, another a Herald, rumpled, and a week old, He sat down again in the chair, thinking earnestly. Like a flash it occurred to him—the paper; why not? some advertisement marked, perhaps that might direct him; some personal, addressed to—mayhap himself! | He eager] searcher the columns through, and | allhe found—or did not find—was the adver- tisement Edna had cut therefrom. | But, granted she left it—and it was more than likely she was the last occupant of the room, or the hair ornament would have been discovered and appropriated—it was a clue. He copied the date on his tablets, resolved to urchase a copy of the same morning at his earliest opportunity, and then follow it up and learn what came of it. Early the next day he sent for the required paper and he found the re: advertisement to be for a governess, for a Mr. Carlingford’s family, at a place called “‘ Ellenwood.” He was morally sure it meant Edna. But, to further satisfy himself, he learned of the cham- bermaid, for the consideration of a dollar, enough to unmistakably convince him he was on the right trail. CHAPTER XXVIL CAUGHT FROM THE GULF, Tre train bearing Lenore Saxton and Ober- don Audrey had gone miles before Lenore broke the painfully-awkward silence; and then, with a face blanched to a frightful whiteness, as she lifted it from the marble-topped stand, she looked up at Oberdon, still standing in respect- ful silence, where Ulmerstone had left him. | “Mr. Audrey, will you explain it to me? | Didn’t you say it was your doing? Why did you come befiween us?” Audrey had prepared himself for a perfect tempest of furious wrath, and was consequently astonished at Lenore’s unnatural, almost stolid calmness. But that beneath her composed ex- terior there boiled a sea of fire, he knew by the occasional quiver of her blue lips, the dart from her black eyes. He had risked all that he expected would be hurled upon him, for Lenore’s own good. As he had explained, though not freely, to Ulmer- stone, he had telegraphed from Newark, feeling very sure this escapade of Lenore’s was an es- capade of the very worst type; feeling con- vinced from Vivian Ulmerstone’s looks that he was nota good man, and therefore, his being with Lenore Saxton, at that time, in that place, boded no to any one. Granted there was to be a marriage—even at the first stopping place—Audrey reasoned such & marriage would be offensive to the Saxtons, and that Lenore and her lover knew such to be the case; hence the elopement. He knew there had been no marriage; he knew the wishes of Lenore’s parents regarding Mr. Carlingford’s suit, and, pene ere was no special love be- 6 Saxtons, yet he deemed it —— an imperat snare into - was fast cl Thus, at of Lenore, self under lover, concisely { for instruc The resu defrauded snatched Oberdon - irl until ork to ] thority fi arrived. And all what she he did ex When lips. Mt And Audrey, as to giv Oberd taken a every fé “T an when y 1 assure
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an imperative duty to save Lenore from the Snare into which she was walking, and which was fast closing around her feet. Thus, at the risk of making a harmless enemy of Lenore, and the greater liability he laid him- self under of being hated dangerously by her lover, Mr. Audrey interfered; telegraphed in concisely plain language to Mr. Saxton, asking for instructions. The result has been seen. Vivian Ulmerstone defrauded of his iniquitous expectation, Lenore Snatched like a brand from the burning, and Oberdon Audrey the appointed guardian of the irl until the arrival of the first train from New ork to Philadelphia, where Oberdon had au- thority from Mr. Saxton to detain her until he arrived. And all this was what Lenore wanted to know, what she asked Audrey to explain, and which he did explain, kindly, promptly. When he had finished, he saw a sneer on her lips. ‘“And you really sup , for a moment, Mr. Audrey, that I care so little for Mr. Ulmerstone as to give him up for this?” Oberdon answered her very gravely; he had taken a seat opposite her, where he could watch every feature of her expressive face. : “Tam sure you will not regard him so highly when you take time and coolly think it all over. Lassure you, Miss Saxton, no man who would entice a young girl away as this man has you, would make a good husband. Besides, what proof have you that he intended honorable mar- ria ” scarlet stain flew over her face. ““Mr, Audrey! how dare you insult me so? As if his word is not as good as gold.” Her voice rung high and loud, and at the sound of it a pained, pitiful look crept into Au- drey’s eyes; pain and pity for this foolish, ro- mantic giy]. 0 om wool not say a word to wound you, Miss Saxton, and I think you know me weil enough for that. I put a plain question, and a very natairal one, and my motive was to show you how very improbable it was that this man real- ly meant all he said. Jf he wanted you for his wife, Miss Saxton, how easily he could have had the ceremony performed before he. left the cr ” ae spoke gently, almost tenderly, and even to Lenore, who was so averse to listening, words carried conviction. But she would defend him to the last. ; “He did not want to be discovered; we did not dream of this—this—cruel interference, and from you.” typhi “But, Miss Saxton, had you been his wife for only five minutes, you néed not have f detection. As his wife, you might have defied other authority than your husband’s.” Was that true? Vivian have known that, and, knowing— ! Lenore felt the tute of Audrey’s quiet, strong argument, in spite of herself; she wondered; then began to doubt. And when a woman once actually doubts her lover, he may as well say good-by to her. For miles and miles neither of them spoke. Oberdon thought it best, now that he had said what he felt he should say, to trust to any latent ser le of right in Eeoten to develop his riendly advice into a lesson for her welfare; and Lenore, driven into self-communion, rode on in silent sorrow, shame, wounded pride that it had.ended 80 inglo i , and yet recogniz- ing vaguely within her souk: that it was better than w Audrey had intimated. Oh! ten thousand times better than to have been caught in a snare, even if held by Vivian Ulmerstone’s dear hands. Much as she loved him, implicitly as she trusted him, blindly as she had followed his guidance, and with all her wildly romantic ideas, she would never have willingly lent herself to such a crime as now be- to dawn on her mind. With all her repre- ensible faults, Lenore Saxton deserved some credit, and it shall not be withheld. d yet, she was unutterably miserable, un- spea! peaee pointed. In a moment, at once cut off from oo the wife of the man she loved, deprived forcibly and ignominiously of his ma oh transferred to the care of one she once sought to enslave, and riding on to meet a justly-indignant father—what combina- tion of circumstances could be imagined more It was after eleven w'clock when the train reached Pilladelphia, and Oberdon escorted Lenore to the es’ waiting-room, where he wovided her. with a comfortable seat, and brought ber’ a cup of coffee and seocming oyster stew. , The next train in from New York was due at ‘ TWO. GIRL’S) LIVES. one in the morning; and to relieve thé tedium of the interval till Mr. Saxton should arrive, Ober- don bought several papers from the news-stand for her to read. Thus, as pleasantly as circumstances admit- ted, Lenore and her “‘ jailer,” she mentally an- athematized him, waited till her father should come: Should she preserve the cool, half-sarcastic defiance that had characterized her interview with him only that very morning? It seemed weeks ago to Lenore, measuring the time, as she did, by the depth of her suffering. Or would it be better for her to be penitent, and meet him as a wayward child should, who is sorry and wants to be forgiven? Lenore was looking at the subject from all sides. Was she defiant, in her very heart? and the untoward circumstances that had over- whelmed her, she yearned for sympathy, though she knew she would not get it.” And yet, a real kind word would have sufficed. sorry that she had given up all things for him? and was it within the range of ibility that a love so strong, so devoted, could die so soon? No, she was not sorry that she had loved him that. But—but—and a little shiver of pain thrilled her—she was glad if she had been saved by Oberdon Audrey; she did repent that she had been so bitterly mistaken. To think he had deceived her! But, had he deceived her? how did Audrey know—and then she felt herself forced to adopt his argument, even though it gave her such a heart-wrenching a strong, stanch protection: and she inly decided to be governed by his greeting to her. She heard the train steam in, and saw the She asked herself if she was penitent? if she | loved Vivian Ulmerstone, how could she be | —that she still loved him; she would not regret | in. P Taking it all and in all, she was anxious to see | her father, whose very presence would be such | Si ed, horrible as it was, Lenore knew he méant. every word he said. She knew almost asstrong as life, certainly stronger than love, was Mr. Saxton’s determination to marry her to Mr, Carlingford. She was weary, heart-sick, heart- sore; deserted by the only love on earth ‘she cared for, and realizing, so keenly, her situa- tion; with golden promises on one side, luring her to a destiny that, while she compared it unfavorably in love’s light, yet charmed her, almost unconsciously, when she viewed it dis— | passionately, reasonably; on the other side, vague horror, vague fear, vague thankfulness. She was torn with conflicting emotions. She knew she did not love Mr. Carlingford; she wondered if it were possible she could care for Vivian Ulmerstone, when both her father and | Mr. Audrey described him, without any collu- the self-forced answer was, that humbled by | sion, such an undeserving rascal, and when she herself was somehow bound to look at his con- duct in the same lights presented her. Of two opinions she was confident; with two ends in view she resolved to act. The one opinion was, there was nothing repulsive in the idea of ac- cepting Mr. Carlingford as her betrothed lover. He was a man we might have been proud to win, and had not Ulmerstone taken previous possession of her affections, Lenore told herself she very probably would have loved this grand, splendid man. But, with these distinct views concerning Mr. Carlingford, and directly on the back of all that Vivian had done—or rather had not done—in opposition to all that had been said in his disfa- vor, Lenore felt, deeply, that she loved him; she realized that his hold on her had been too strong, too powerful for her to throw lightly off; and, no matter how he had acted, or how wicked his a had been, she had been hon- —— she = — loyal. uch were her decisions regarding the dispo- sal of her affections; the way in’ websted she | should bestow them, for good and all—the ends thronging crowd of bustling passengers, and she | heard, after a moment, her father’s voice, in low, quick tones, as he addressed Audrey, just beside the door. ‘* Lenore is here safe?’ ‘Here, and safe,” Audrey returned, cheerily. “Thank God! My boy, Pll never forget your | kindness, never.” His agitated voice touched Lenore; she forgot | his harshness, his sternness; in her utter Joneli- ness, her wild, doubting fears, her sudden cut- | ting off from the supports she had leaned so fondly on, -his familiar tones sounded like a | burst of music. . She sprung from her chair to meet him, with hands outstretched. ** Papa! oh, papa!” He caught her almost fiercely, and kissed her. “You naughty girl!” But the reproof was not very severe, and Le- nore knew she was forgiven. CHAPTER XXVIII THE NEW TROTH, SomMEWHAT to the rise both of Lenore and Mr. eh g Mr. Saxton expressed his determination of returning the first train; but both Lenore and Mr. Saxto only knew the reason, which it was not neces- sary to explain even to the friend who had proved himself so serviceable, __ Mr. Saxton was determined as ever that Le- nore should accept Mr. Carlingford; he had himself given his written consent, and intend- ed, in the face of Lenore’s attempt to frustrate his design, to make her final obedience the price of pardon. { moments they had privately, promenadin gloomy dgrge's Pree He assured her er- stone was a Villain, an adventurer, who never meant marrying her; else why his wait until at Washington? He told her both himself and her mother were ready and anxious to forgive and forget—on these terms, and these terms only. 1 : would be the wiser regarding her inglorious es- capade, and Mr. Audrey was much a gentile- man to bruit it about. That if she refused to agree to see Mr. Carlingford that morning, and refused to accept him suitably, in a manner with which his fastidious taste could find no ible fault, which should give rise to not the faintest shadow of a suspicion—then, Mr. Saxton discarded her forever. Unless she gave him her word, then and there, te do as he requir then and there he would wash his hands of her forever; then and there, at that lonely midnight hour, at a railroad depot, a be in a strange city, he would leave her thre to herself, oe as it seemed, arental as it sound- to New York by | m | a trying thin / He had told her so, plainly, the few | the | she had in view when her plans should have ma-- tured were these: In consideration of her unpleasant position; the threats if she continued self-willed; the ad- | vantage to be gained in one way if she yielded, induced her to decide to agree fully to Mr. Loree at ie ea tee of a Rb one ad- itional favor—that the marriage t not oc- eur within three months. To this Mr. Saxton concurred joyfully; three months’ time was short enough to prepare a Madison avenue belle for her wedding with one of the wealthiest and most influential of New York’s retired business men. That point decided and secured, Lenore had nothing more to say: all that was left her for consolation was the other end she had in view, the mental reservation that if, during the three months of probation, she heard from Vivian Ulmerstone, of his unabated love, his undying loyalty—if he made her, and insistéd on the im, mediate solemnization of, an offer of marriage, she would aecept him, and throw Mr. Carling. ford, be the results what they would. Not a very laudable reservation, nor very truthful, Lenore admitted bitterly; but under the circumstances the best she was capable of. And with a still more bitter soul, she wished she would learn that Ulmerstone was true. It was . for her to have to doubt him; and the doubt, although she did not know it, was parent to the decrease of love. The ride home again, alone with her father, after they had bidden Mr. Audrey ae , was more cheery than Lenore thought co have been possible. But Mr. Saxton, having accomplished his double purpose, that of rescu- ing his daughter from Ulettone’s hands, and pledging her word to be Carlingford’s. bride, was overflowing with quiet jollity, and his infec- | tious, satisfied delight more than once madé Le- isposition to | at no one in all the wide world | nore smile. At home, Mrs. Saxton received them in her dressing-room by gaslight, with a dainty break- fast waiting on a little gas-stove, and Lenore’s wrapper and slippers ready for the traveler. Lenore had braved herself for one, at least, sneer; but to her satisfaction, Mrs. Saxton met her as coolly asif she was belated from the opera. ‘Lenore, dear, come by the fire. Are you not ready to perish from the cold?” That was all; and it was enough. Mrs. Sax- ton knew it was suitably arranged, and Lenore knew her subjection was su ed to be com- lete. And it was—unless rstone came to er rescue; if he loved her, he would. If no | word came, then she would know it was all true of hi Lenore laid aside her , and sipped the chocolate, and ate the hot. eh and then retired to her room to catch a nap to be . fresh and blooming at nine o’clock.
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22 she ever would be that again; she thought, as she crossed the threshold of her elegant room how different her return was to what she h meagyet it; how vastly altered her return from er going out. Her cheeks were fairly scarlet with shame; big tears, drawn from the wells of mortified, outraged pride, no less than the foun- tain of wounded love, stood in her eyes as she looked at the piteous traces of her preparation and flight not twelve hours before. On the dressing-case lay a hair-pin—she re- membered how she had originally intended to fasten a curl a trifle higher, and desisted in the act, recalling a remark from her lover, that she became so well a low coiffure. She saw, through misty tears, a tiny scarlet bow, discarded, lest by its varied beauty in her dark hair, she might attract notice that would be distasteful to her lover; and now—now—he | for whom she had dared all things, was as wide- ly d from her as earth and sky! omanlike, and tired, and discouraged, Le- nore threw herself on the outside of the bed and gave herself up to the luxury of a good ery, in which all her feelings found copious vent, and which relieved and even lightened her burden. Ulmerstone would write! She knew it, she felt it, and in the meantime she would not carry a long face and have no rong agree She would have a good flirtation with Mr. Carlingford, she would do this, and that, and the other, all the while waiting, watching, hoping. So this singular girl reasoned; this girl whose faults were so glaring, whose bottommost prin- ciples alone redeemed, in some light measure, her grievous errors. The full light of the winter’s morning fell athwart her bed when she arose, undressed, took her customary bath and semoses a bewitching morning toilette in which to receive Mr. Car- lingfor he early breakfast at half-past eight was partaken of as usual. By no word, or sign, or slightest reminder was Lenore made to remem- ber what she was not likely ever to forget. Mr. Saxton sipped his coffee and ate his broiled quail on toast with a tranquillity that was beautiful to behold, speaking occasionally of the desirability of Ellenwood as a residence, and the improvements, where such were possi- ble, that the owner contemplated making. Mrs. Saxton, while she utterly ignored the faintest hint of actual affairs, arranged with Lenore for a long, delightful shopping tour at | noon; especially to look at the set of rubies Le- nore admired in vain, at Jewel’s. Lenore was secretly amused at the diplomacy of her parents; but she never signified aught but teful satisfaction at their kindness; and ate her toasted cheese and tomato-sauce with quiet relish. Breakfast over, Mr. Saxton adjourned to his library, and Mrs. Saxton retired to her house- | that so conveniently needed | keeping accounts attention at suitable times. To Lenore was left the task—the privilege she was supposed to consider it—of receiving and dis g of Mr. Carlingford. Not that there could have existed in his mind any pos- sible doubt of his fate, since Mr. Saxton had signified his consent; but, of course, the ratifi- cation of her father’s wishes by Lenore herself would be very pleasant. Yes, Lenore determined it should be pleasant. Her share of this business should be the perfect semblance of maidenly demeanor; Mr. Carling- ford should never dream that what he got in return for his devotion was the ashes of a hope deferred of another, So Lenore, in a black silk wrapper, trimmed with palest blue velvet; with a tiny blue bow in her jetty hair, sat down with idly-folded hands to await “his” coming. He came just at nine. Lenore heard the gg manly tread, the cheerful, bold voice at e door; her heart gave a strange throb of jealous rage as she thrust away a thought of another’s reception, and then—she arose grace- fully from her low divan beside the register, and went half-timidly, half-hurriedly, across the t to meet him. He had extended his hands the moment he crossed the threshold; his splnndid face lit up with a glow far too ware y its object; he took her hands in one of warm and passed waist. She raised her dark eyes to his a second; he bent his face with mute, solemn questioning toward her; then, as if seeing all he looked for e other arm around her slender closely to him and kissed her mouth. in the dainty, radiant features, he drew her ' “Fresh and net Lenore wondered if ae with healthful vitality, | TWO GIRL’S L Wee. My own darling! How could I ever have doubted you were so entirely mine?” _ Lenore averted her face. How could he be so blind, she asked herself; then thought how strange she never had seen such intensity in his eyes; what splendid eyes he had! And so he took her; he, so grand, so good; she, so utterly unworthy, who was destined to lead him down to such dark wastes of waters. CHAPTER XXIX. THE CLOSING OF THE COILS. THE a of Lenore’s self-appointed probation came and went with what seemed to her, in- credible swiftness. The costly cluster diamond ring on her forefinger had told its story to those | whom Mrs. Saxton had not told, and congratu- lations were forever on the tapis, plentiful in- termingled with visits from who brought messages of love from his sister, of childish i gp from the children, | respect from t | ae. ph Lenore should have been happy. She ad- mitted to herself that, kind as a one was, attentive and thoughtfully considerate as Mr. e resident governess, Miss Van- in her not to oe at least, a reciprocity of feeling. She had learned of many admirable traits in her loyer’s character; she found him to be very far above her ideal, so that at times his superiority of worth was almost painful to contemplate. Under other circumstances, than the foolisnly morbid determination to be true to Vivian Ulmerstone, Lenore could not have helped giving the whole love of her heart to Mr, Carlingford, and by so doing, and thus raising her standard so far beyond its ordinary level, she would have made, or been made, a better woman, with such a one as Mr. Carlingford in sympathy with her. But she would not love him because of her foolish adherence to her idea that Vivian was not the base, false man his conduct and his silence proved him to be, for out of the three months she gave herself, two had flown on, and brought no tidings of her derelict suitor. She had become discouraged; she had very ivy wed arrived at the mournful conclusion at he was a deceiver; she had given up all hopes of him, even when she went regularly every day and inquired for a drop-letter for ‘* Jessica””—thinking he would prefer the old name, for various reasons, She had fully as slowly come to regard Mr. Carlingford as actu- ally to be her husband—simply because Vivian would not let her be his wife; while relatives, friends and lover dreamed on in blissful igno- rance that Lenore was not perfectly content. So the winter, with its neenee ne at the Christmas-tide, and its social jollity at the New Year, and its sleighing-parties, and dancing- parties and skating-parties wore on and away, and melted into the very lap of early spring; and still in forlorn misery that one word would have altered, Lenore lived on and.on, until— It came one bleak, gloomy morning, when the avenue was sheeted with glairy ice, and the frozen rain beat stingingly in luckless pedestri- ans’ faces. It came—a letter addressed in Vivian Ulmer- stone’s well-known handwriting, that made her | heart leap to her throat as she almost snatched it from Mike's salver, and flew to her room. She sat down to regain some composure be- fore she opened it. Was it redemption for her, or—slavery? Whichever, it was his hand who signed the warrant. She never would forget that. | After several minutes she summoned courage | to read it, and she read this: “My Dranest Lenorr—Have you been wonder- ing, and watching, and waiting? I have been fight- {ing and trying to conquer all these weeks, and the victory I have achieved is—to write a farewell word to her who is nearest and dearest, who once was— ““My darling, you never will see me again. Be- Aaa the signature of this letter, you never will ear of me again. I shall hide my diminished head, while you, whom I ever shall love better than life, will forget me when you are the wife of an- | other. {donot reproach you—how can I? You will not censure me that I sever all ties between us, when I think of you being the wife of any one not me! “ But, the past is irreclaimable, the future utterly out of our hands, Only the present is ours—mine, | to do with, and I use it in writing this short, inco- herent good-by and a blessing from | “Yours, ever and only, “VIVIAN,” And Lenore, poor, erring child, cried till her Carlingford was, it was worse than ungrateful | | Mr. Carlingford?’ r. Carlingford, | | the inevitable whirl! of | her last maiden days. head ached over his soft effusions; and she be- lieved every syllable that came from his ready pen as truly as she had loved and trusted the words from his oily tongue. But it was only the topmost.stone in the sar- cophagus she had been building, for nearly three months aback, for her wounded love; and now, when she read the ‘ ood-by forever,” it was the suitable death-knell, she thought, that corresponded with the wild, weird day. After that, she plunged almost madly into Gaycties that celebrated fter that, she cared more to talk seriously with her lover, and hear all about Ellenwood, and Miss Carlingford, and the beautiful twins, and their stately gover- ness. It pleased Mr. Carlingford, this sweet, half- ref interest Lenore took, and he never tired of telling her every trivial little gossip of the home | 80 soon to be hers. of polite | ling, ve |; no “You will love sister Annie—every one does, and she is so anxious to greet you, my dar- I hope she will care for me, if only a little, And little May and June, no one has attempted to prejudice thame against me. Their governess would not, would she? Miss—Miss—who is she, ‘ Miss Vandeleur is too thoroughly a lady to inculcate such principles. lam sure her mo- | tives are to secure for you a deep hold in their hearts; and if they love you as they do her, my darling, one of you will surely be jealous.” ‘* Jealous! of Miss Vandeleur?” Lenore laughed scornfully, and Mr. Carling- ford at once understood what she meant. ‘You will find Miss Vandeleur a perfect lady, my dear. She is at once refined, educated, and beautiful in her own way. You need have ear regarding accepting her as a friend and companion.” A little flush came to Lenore’s cheek. ‘*T shall be jealous, Mr. Carlingford, on your account, rather than the children’s, unless you cease praising this poneen: The surest way to make one woman hate another is to hear her praises eternally exes It was Mr. Carlingford whose turn it was to | crimson. ‘** You cannot mean J care for Miss Vandeleur as I care for you, Lenore?” He spoke so frankly that she felt herself com- pelled to smile. ‘* Certainly not, Mr. Carlingford, only—” ‘‘ Certainly not,” he repeated, quietly. ‘‘ I re- gard Miss Vandeleur as a valuable addition to our family circle; sister Annie loves her dearly, and the little ones regard her as an elder sister. She seems to me like a daughter.” Lenore lifted her bewitching face. ‘““Now you want me to tell you you are not so very venerable, don’t you?” But this subject of this wonderful governess who rejoiced in the good graces of the famil at Ellenwood, rather preyed on Lenore’s mind, and at length she came to dislike the queenly, graceful girl, whose calm, statuesque beauty was as provoking to her to contemplate, as the sound of her patrician name—Miss Vandeleur— was to hear. Mr. Carlingford had said, too, there was the usual little romantic mystery around her, She courteously refused their confidence, and had | never even offered to tell them her Christian name; and the Carlingfords were not people to indecorously press upon such reserve. So long as Miss Vandeleur performed her duties as satis- factorily as she had been doing, and certainly not when they all respected and loved her so, would she be discharged from Ellenwood, be- cause she was reticent on the subject of her own affairs. Lenore felt a little thrill of contemptuous scorn hs she recalled this, that she had gathered from Mr. Carlingford, from time to time; and in her heart she made up her mind that this Miss Vandeleur should never ride over her, as she seemed to have done over the others. It would be no rapid task, nor an easy one, to dethrone Miss Vandeleur, after three months’ triumphant reign at Ellenwood, but Lenore made up her mind determinedly that she should be uncrowned; and herself, the bride, the fu- ture head of the house, would make it her es cial business to see that she was not superseded by this governess, who always wore black— Lenore at once declared, simply because it was becoming to the artful minx. | she, She would not declare war to the knife—not Her policy was very different from most ple’s; and her tactics those an outspoken, Convabanindee woman would scarcely have a proved; but they suited Lenore, because - asia Ame B.e0, Sic
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$$ : TWO. GIRL’S LIVES. invented them, and could admirably carry them out. No, she would begin with smiles and kisses and insinuating confidences, and when she had completely wrapped the girl around her finger, fling her off, as one would a viper. It was perfectly natural, very easy, and really gave quite a zest to the future of her life at Ellenwood; and somehow it seemed to compensate Lenore for some of her own griev- ances to know there was another woman who had t troubles, whom she intended to tor- If she had known how strangely their paths crossed and recrossed! If she had saw been , aaa the most fleeting glimpse of what her uture, and his future, would be, because of those crossed and recrossed paths! But, in blind ignorance, she went up to her marriage; laid her hand in Mr. Carlingford’s, and swore to be true till death did part them. In after years she remembered how mocking the solemn charge was, and how literally, aw- fully true it came to be; true—she true!—she who, away, away down in the sanctuary of her heart, dared marry one man and love another. philosophize as she might about it. CHAPTER XXX. FACE TO FACE, Epwna’s three months at Ellenwood had flown as if on enchanted pinions. In many respects she regarded them as the happiest she had ever spent, and had it not been for the hanging cloud forever over her head, she would have been care- free as a child. She liked Ellenwood thoroughly; its appoint- ments, its liberal hospitality, its friendly kind- ness; and until she had learned that Mr. Car- lingford’s marriage was very close at hand, and that his bride was Lenore Saxton, it had seemed to her that Ellenwood would forever be her — Not ee there was any need of ber now, . Carlingford had itively forbade another word on the subject, Wwith that sweet authoritative way of his that delighted Edna so. Miss Annie had begged her to let the leah make no difference; young Mrs. Car- lingford would doubtless be only too glad to have her retained, and would learn to love her as they did. Edna smiled to think of Lenore’s loving her; but she could not urge her departure against such opposition, and so she decided to remain and see if Lenore would turn her out.: She had known of Lenore’s probable coming to Ellenwood as Mr. Carlingford’s wife, before she had been a fortnight among them. ‘ae first, she was stricken speechless with the a wi that Mr. Carlingford could ever con- escend to care for a girl as shallow and vain, and, in a measure, unprincipled, as she knew Lenore to be; but, incredible as it a to at lege per oor oe = fact, and she wnt pe ° \ i a contempt for litem? r = 2 ic palit _ But when she learned, later, from his own lips, how reste ood, and modest, and wo- manly, he believed, knew his betrothed to be; when she saw the hundred little silent tokens of a true attachment to his girl-bride, Edna pitied him from the depths of her woman's heart. She longed to save him; to have him see her as she was; but it was hardly her province to appoint herself disenchanter; and so the days wore on and on, until this grandly glorious day, when Lenore had been Mr. Carlingford’s bride a month, and the bridal pair were expected at Ellenwood by the next train. The home-coming was desired to be perfectly Bae: only one carriage was ordered to drive he travelers the few yards from the depot to the entrance; two days later the grand recep- tion would occur. From the schoolroom window Edna could see the horses to the Ellenwood barouche, pawing and rearing their heads in proud impatience; and she thought of the triumph, the wonder she would see in Lenore’s eyes when she recognized in Vandeleur the foster-sister who had lived under the same roof so many years. . had counted the cost of Lenore’s coming before she decided to remain and meet her. As @ natural consequence, Lenore would explain who she was, and tell the story Edna had hidden so long; and Edna preferred that Lenore should do it, rather than herself. As to the Carling- fords knowing her pitiful story, she was willing pt ow to do so; . had often felt it was —_ , wful return for i an bilthoos'to bar all their kindnesses co i She was sure of their sy y; she knew erself, and that no that they loved her for vious mistakes and misfortunes could break e friendship that existed. She knew the Carlingfords would be aston- ished that she never had said she knew Miss Saxton, when her name had been so often dis- cussed; but Edna knew they would appreciate her reticence on that point as on others. This uiet confidence of hers made her content; and she sat watching for the train, with only a sad yearning at her heart that her life, as young and healthful as Lenore’s, was so widely differ- ent—the one apportioned to lonely self-reliance perpetual self-restraint; the other, to all that was desirable and enjoyable. There were times, and this was one, when every fiber in Edna’s being cried out for Ober- don Audrey; the contemplation of Lenore’s happiness with Mr. Carlingford awoke a tender- ly sad envy, and forced the question—why was she so fated to walk such gloomy ways? She would not give way* to her consuming thoughts. She had her duties to attend to, for the reception of Mr. Carlingford. She was to see that May and June were properly attired in | their white cashmere dresses, trimmed, one in pink, the other in blue; she had promised to at- tend to the removal of any withered flowers in the bridal-chamber, and replenish with fresh ones from the conservatory. ; She threw off her spiritless me cre with an effort, and with a woman’s parc onable pride paused before the little glass to take a criti survey of her toilet. She saw a tall, graceful girl, whose slender, faultless figure was well dressed in a black silk of rich elegance, whose dainty laces and queen- ly train lent a genuine style to her toilet; whose dark-gray eyes, with their heavy lashes and jetty, curving eyebrows, were in odd, pictur- esque contrast to the marble-white face, with its scarlet lips—the only dash of vivid color about her; whose small, proud head, with its coils of glossy hair, its one long, thick, half- curled tress trailing below her waist, set firmly on her round, white throat. She saw that she looked well, and she experi- enced a thrill of pride that it was'so. She looked in at the nursery, and saw that Jessie, the maid, was performing her toilet du- ties + ene me! then went into the magnifi- cently-appoin apartment Mr. Carlingford haa arranged for his bride. _It was hung in dainty, creamy white silk, with silver fringe, over alight blue damask, and Edna realized how like a queen Lenore could feel as she entered this saloon, royal in its elegance and costliness. The flowers, late plucked, were still fresh and fragrant; there was not a yellowing leaf or a loosening petal to remove, and Edna knew the | — act performed would be to greet the ride. She had heard the whistle of the engine sev- eral minutes before; then the hasty roll of the earriage wheels; and now she knew Mr. Car- lingford and his bride were within, judgin from the monotonous flow of scckmaciesioneh murmur. Should she go down, or wait till she should be sent for, like the rest of the servants, to pay her respects to the new mistress? Yes, she would wait, she decided, a little scorn- fully. She would not exceed her prerogative; she was a hired servant, and Lenore Carlingford | should not find her’ashamed of herself or of her | position. She had only a few minutes to wait. Bessie, the nursery maid, had taken the children down, several minutes before, and now returned with Mr. Carlingford’s respects, and would she be so kind as to come down? Very slowly, calmly, without a ruffle on her silent, grave face, or a faster motion of her heart, bh a where Miss Anna was waiting at the oor. Mr. Carlingford crossed the floor to meet and welcome her. smiled. at her earnest, low, congratulatory words. Then he drew her disengaged arm through his, and thus convoyed, she went up to Lenore, who arose, half languidly, without rais- ing her eyes. ; “Miss Vandeleur, my dear. Mrs. Carling- ford.” Lenore made a tiny bow, and Edna extended her hand. ** Mrs. Carlingford—Lenore—you have my best wishes.” Then Lenore looked hastily up; her ladylike languor vanished; and the hand with which she caressed little May’s curls, paused as if she were petrified. ba ie Silvester—I mean Mrs. Fay—you here, you dna went down, and into the drawing- | He shook her hand Meche and | a =. Edna’s face flushed scarlet at the hated, lawful name, ‘“T am here, Mrs. Carlingford; an injured woman, who had no home until she found this.” Mr. Carlingford looked on in speechiess sur - prise. The recognition of the two, so entirel unsuspected, the partial revealing of the secret, so sudden, so mysterious, had en him com- letely aback; while Miss Anna looked from Fdna to Lenore in perfect amazement. CHAPTER XXXII. MRS. FAY, LENORE was the first. to break the silence; | and her voice was almost harsh as she realized that this was the girl she intended to crush, | this the girl who had won Ellenwood in three | months. ‘“T cannot trace any analogy between Miss | Vandeleur, the governess of my husband’s chil- dren, and the wife of Garnett. Fay, whe left him within an hour of the ceremony,’ Edna’s head was slightly bowed while Lenore spoke. Now, she raised. it, in grave ere: “Because in the seventeen years I lived un- der your father’s roof, endured simply because | I was a beloved adopted child of his dead wife, you never knew that my middle name was Van- deleur—Edna Vandeleur Silvester.” Her simple explanation was a relief, even to Mr. Carlingford, who had felt unpleasantly at the curious aspect affairs, suddenly assumed. He turned to with a pitying sympathy in | his face. ‘* My poor child, we feel you have more claim | on our love than ever. I long ago heard of | my wife’s family misfortune, but never for a moment supposed you were the one. Lenore, | my eg + assure Miss Van— no, Miss Ed— and yet, hardly miss; we will call her Edna, may we! Please tell Edna, my dear, how we sympathize with her.” He stooped and kissed his little ones, and then asked them and ‘ Auntie Annie” to come and examine sundry tempting packages he had car- ried to the library. It was a delicate management of the affair, this leaving Edna and Lenore together to settle their explanations, and as saw him de- part, she thought how more than good he was. ile Lenore had revolved the subject in her mind with her usual impulsive rapidity, she saw that her husband fully e her and Edna to be friends, even as he hoped she and Miss Vandeleur would have been, She ag the position Edna had gained in the family, ex- actly as she had pictured Miss Vandeleur’s situa- tion, but there was not this jealous dislike of ‘only Edna” that there had been of the ‘‘ beau- tiful, statuesque girl;’ to Lenore she was only Edna, and never could be more. Besides, she rather liked Edna, in spite of their girlish an- tipathies; it would be lonely at Ellenwood until she grew accustomed to suburban life, and would really be a comfort to her. : Again, she scented the romance with a relish; this romantic history of Edna’s that she knew Edna would some day tell her; she knew, too, that in Edna’s ears she might some day pour her own sad story, and thus sympathize with, and comfort each other—these women whose life in- terest centered on one man; whom ene hated, whom one loved! In a second, with her quick in- tuition, Lenore decided on this course; and the moment they were alone she reached out her hands to Edna. ‘‘ Edna, sister! Mr. Carlingford is right; we do love you, and sympathize deeply. 1 was so taken aback, so completely surprised, that I hardly knew what I said. You will forgive me, Edna, and please love me a little.” , She spoke in her sweetest tone; Edna listened gravely, wondering what great change had | come over Lenore, that she was so mild, so gen- tle; and little faith as she had in the inexplica- ble change, she was: not one who could resist it, ‘*Lenore, | have nothing to forgive. Ihave had everything to endure, and I have learned to take gratefully any kindness offered me.” ““T wouldn’t have you leave me, leave Ellen- wood, for any thing. I wouldn’t have dreaded coming half as much had I expected to see a fa- miliar face.” “ Dreaded coming to Ellenwood!” and when Mr. Carlingford was with her, and it was her | home, her very own, for all her life! It seemed, an ivalent to saying she dreaded being with | her husband, and that certainly meant Lenore did not love him. Edna had repeated Lenore’s words in an in- | audible tone of voice that made her blush un- sy eavathohatomier bebe langua fs p much stress on or misconstrue my meaning, I bes she mary
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TWO iGIRL’S Le laughingly. “T dare say T shall like it well enough when I get. used to it. Suppose you show me my room?” Together they ascended the stairs, covered with a pile of velvet, so deep, it seemed like walking on heaps of moss; through long, wide corridors, with some rare statuette in every niche; past huge windows, whose tinted panes made gorgeous shadows on the floor as the sun- shine glinted through. Lenore admired everything with a languid, listless politeness that was a new trait in her character ; and even the splendid silver and cream bedroom suite elicited nothing beyond a raising of her eyebrows, and a murmurous little expression of satisfaction. es, Edna knew there had come a great change over Lenore; her actions, her peculiar admission, her odd offer of friendship to herself, all told Edna that Lenore Carlingford was very, very different from Lenore Saxton. What was the cause of this alteration in a dis- position so exuberant, piquant, independent ? | Surely the married life of a month had not so toned her down; certainly the fatigue and ex- citement of a four-weeks’ traveling tour could uot account for it; and above all, Edna knew Lenore was not disappointed in Mr. Carling- ford, for the simple reason that he was not the rman to come short of any expectations placed upon him. So Edna found herself thrown almost violent- ly back upon a suspicion that had rushed over ler the moment Lenore remarked she had dreaded coming to Ellenwood, as the only rea- son she could give to account for Lenore’s cu- rious views and actions. And the ugly suspicion that had occurred to her was—the remembrance of a stranger Lenore had hinted of dimly, months ago; a gentleman correspondent, whose advertisement she intend- ed answering at some future time. It was barely possible, Edna thought, that Lenore had become acquainted with, and fallen in love with, some such stranger, and as a nat- ural consequence, felt the disappointment very seculy when compelled to marry Mr. Carling- ford. But all this was only a suspicion, and Edna felt she had no right harbor it. If Lenore had any trouble, and chose to tell Edna, she would accept the confidence and try to lighten | | | your presence at Ellenwood, under such very | singular circumstances. However, I am very sori'y for you.” Edna could hardly repress the curl on her lip; she could not at all diminish the blush that surged over cheek and brow at the half-con- temptuously-uttered name. ‘Thanks, Mrs. Saxton, for your very kind and certainly unexpected sympathy. But to prevent future mistakes, please remember I do not, for obvious reasons, respond to the name you gave me.” Mrs, Saxton raised her eyebrows with a calm incredulity that almost crazed Edna, ‘Indeed? At the same time you can not deny any one’s right to address you by ae Ly naime—whether you respond or not, Mrs. elaborate politeness. Edna flushed, and turned She added the last two words with maliciously | abruptly away, to come counter to Mr. Saxton | as he was crossing the room. He paused, nodded, then—it seemed to Edna so—made up his mind to do what he had pre- viously decided not to do—recognize and speak | to her. ‘Quite a curious thing, eh? How do, Edna? Glad you’re so comfortable. I don’t suppose you had any news from that husband of yours?” His loud, careless tone jarred harshly on her ears; but it did not arouse that tiger of hatred in her as did Mrs. Saxton’s unendurable hau- teur. She answered him, in a low, cold tone: ‘I know nothing of the person you men- | tioned, sir. I am comfortable, very; thanks to Mr. and Miss Carlingford.” Then, catching one of the twins’ attention, she beckoned her. ‘June, dear, you are looking for me? AmI wanted in the housekeeper’s room?” June put up her hands and drew Edna’s face down among her golden curls. ‘* Bessie says there has been some one waitin, for you in the library ten minutes. She told | me to hand you the card.” Edna took it carelessly; she often had casual friendly calls, and merely wondered, as she turned her eyes to read it, who would be so singular as to call on such a day. But she gave a little gasping cry, away down in her throat, when she read the name; her limbs tottered under her asshe slipped the crowd to meet— out trom the burden. She left Mrs. Carlingford in her room, and went up the stairs to her own. That evening was passed in quiet rest around the fires, and the next day Mr. Carlingford oc- cupied in literally introducing Ellenwood to its mistress; showing her its beauties, its conve- niences, its comforts. The day after was one of bustle and pleasant excitement. That evening Ellenwood was to be thrown open to two hundred guests, and all the festivities incidental to a wedding reception were arranged for. Mr. and Mrs. Saxton came up from New York by an early afternoon train, attended by a maid and valet, with a trunk full of toilet finery. Edna had shrunk from meeting them, with more of dislike than fear; and even when Le- nore told her it would occasion no surprise to her parents to meet her, as she had written and told them the evening of her arrival, Edna‘ wished herself permitted to avoid them during their brief stay. f course such a proceeding could not be thought of for a moment. When Mr. Saxton | and his wife came she must meet them, speak to | them, and—it was one sweetly bitter drop in the cup of dissatisfaction—perhaps hear of Oberdon Audrey, his whereabouts, his condi- tion. She had not dared inquire of Lenore; but, she could bravely ask Mrs. Saxton, who knew they two had always been such good | friends; never knowing that Oberdon had told | the Saxtons how he loved her, how her mar- «hee had crushed him to earth. is faint hope of learning a whisper from Oberdon lent a delicate tinge of rare color to her face, and made her very fair to see, as, in her trained silken dress, of lustrous black, re-_ lieved b blue ribbon at her throat, she moved through the grand old house with her watchful step, seeing that all things were in readiness. She met Mr. and Mrs. in the same quiet, though more reserved manner that she had shgwd toward Lenore. It was not until the | customary gathering of the family and guests | in the drawing-room, for a half-hour previous to dinner, that she saw them. There she only bowed to Mrs. Saxton, who nearest the door as she entered . Mrs. Fay, “J was quite surprised | or how to meet him. a bow and long ends of pale china- * Garnett Fay! CHAPTER XXXIL THE WIFE’S TRIAL. GARNETT Fay! the man of all men she most hated, feared, despised, from whom she had fled in outraged womanhood not very long ago, from whom now, as she stood leaning aginst the | marble Neptune in the hall at the foot of the shrunk stairs, she dread. Under the same roof with her; an invader of her privacy, the thief of her only comfort—her solitary retirement. How had he found her? how learned her retreat? what had he come for, what did he want? She felt a sick, dizzy horror creep over her as she realized his power over her; that he had only to proclaim, and all the world, even Mr. Carlingford, could not assist her. She was his wife; she said it, over and over again; yes, she was his wife, and all the tears of a lifetime could not drench out the pitiful fact. She had not the slightest idea what she should do or say, She seemed, after that cold thrill of horrid agony, to have been sud in utter repulsiveness of 'denly petrified; and she walked slowly, wearily up the stairs, ape ye, his card in her fingers in | q : ‘ | tened, not divining the triumph in his soul, that very bitterness of sou At the library door, she never paused to think; she pushed open the door, and walked in and met him, for the first time since their wedding hour, face to face. He arose from the chair in which he sat with the same easy grace Edna remembered, looked steadily at her, then bowed deferentially, while | Kdna, you left me very unceremoniously; I fol- lowed ‘within half an hour, and have never éeased the search night or day till I found you. And this is the welcome my wife gives me!’ His voice lowered to a mournful key only smote her heart with new fright. He did mean to claim her then; he called her his wife. She strove to subdue her wild repulsion; she essayed, hardly successfully, to address him: ‘“‘T cannot be your wife, versation I overh that induce forever put a barrier want me, you wanted—‘ Jessica; you did not want me, you wanted the money you thought I had, and learned too late I had not.” He kept his mocking blue eyes on her face while she spoke, thinking the while how won- drously lovely she had grown to be. When she ceased, he said: ‘Am Ito regard it as a favorable sign that you are just the least bit jealous of—” Her eyes fairly blazed then. “Jealous? J jealous of you? “Mr. Fay, do not add insult to injury.” Her voice was clear enough now, and rung | out high and sweet in its honest scorn. He smiled almost sneeringly. ‘Ten thousand pardons! I might have re- membered there could be no possible room for | jealousy in a heart so loyal to Mr. Audrey!” He watched her narrowly, and his eyes gleamed with a sudden anger when he saw the awice blushes deluge her fair face, neck and ands, ‘‘Mr, Audrey has proved himself a true friend of mine. As such 1 shall always regard him. | Besides, he or his affairs are not possibly con- cerns of yours.” ‘“No? Permit me to acquaint you with a fact of which you seem in total ignorance, that a gentleman assumes, generally, the affairs of his wife’s friends as his own friends!” Her ruddy flush vanished before the implied doom of his careless, meaning words, ** And let me acquaint you with the fact, Mr. Fay, that no gentleman would attempt to claim as his wife a woman whom he knew, in his very soul, despised him as—’ She paused, fearing to utter the words; but he coolly took up the mcomplete remark. ‘As you despise me, you mean, I presume, Mrs. Fay? Very well. I regret exceedingly | your unfavorable opinion of me; but hope, when time and a more intimate acquaintance shall lend their aid, to have it cha chasm, nevé tween us; 4 my money, er gray she sat a her noble mortificatic rsisted tk or he had proof to th But, he he resolvec then anotl So he list independe: solving to tiently. ** Indeec demn me ' for my wi “T shall ravens erstand vant will She bor something a. Ss in @ aros change hi * Do ne would as tunity of “ T ca cient tha the anno He bit fairl st . ,
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TWO GIRL’S LIVES. , Pro ry + my earthly happiness is forever wrécked. I would have been a true, good wife to you; it is your own fault, and none of mine, that the chasm, never to to be bridged, was opened be- tween us; and it will be my fault, if ever I, or my money, do you or yours any good.” er gray eyes flashed forth the truth of what © said and meant, and Garnett Fay felt her noble superiority with an added pang of mortification and impotent wrath that, if she a thus, he had no power to coerce her, or he had, with his own hands, flung every proof to the flames and wind. But, he was a man of wondrous assurance; he resolved to fight gallantly, first on one line, then another, until he won the fight somehow. So he listened, secretly galled by her womanly independence, admiring her for it, and yet re- aas to show no token, but bide his time pa- iently. “Indeed? And in the meantime you con- demn me to the forlornest of all fates—waiting for my wife to fall in love with me.” f “T shall never fall in love with you,” she said vely. ‘‘Now, Mr. Fay, that we fully un- erstand each other, I will leave you. A ser- vant will show you the door.” She bowed, courteously, but with a certain something in her air that made Fay feel forci- bly the impassable distance between them. é arose hastily; he saw it was high time to change his tack. “Do not go just yet, I beg. I was hoping you would ask me, or at least offer me the oppor- tunity of telling you, how I found you.” _ ‘It can be of no interest tome. It is suffi- cient that I know I am found, much as I regret the annoyance it has subjected me to.” He bit his lips to keep back the words that oily seas his tongue for utterance. “ you please. And I will leave you at once, not as an intruder ordered from under the roof that shelters you, but as a friend who will yet prove his friendship in the hope that one day more will be accorded him. Edna, good- by. I will see you again.” He reached his hand to take hers, but she in- stinctively shrunk away. | _ “*Good-by,” she said, in a strange, constrained ' Voice as he passed her; and she watched him as he walked, with his courtly, graceful tread, through the lower hall, and out the entrance into the grounds. Her heart was throbbing with awful fear lest some one should come suddenly out of the rooms and meet him; she dreaded having peo- pod gpeda him as being aught to her, or she to ; She would rather a thousand times suf- fer on and on than have had him meet her friends. But no one came out; she heard the continued murmurous conversation in the rooms below, and he must have heard as he passed the doors; he was out of the Ellenwood gates before Edna heard the drawing-room door open, and saw Lenore, on Mr, Carlingford’s arm, ascend the stairs, CHAPTER XXXIII. THE WIFE’S CONFESSION. THz pereres was a success. Lenore was in her brightest mood, for the few hours she was excite by the music, the dress, the atten- tion around her, and won everybody’s admi- ration. The following morning, like all morn- ings following nights of dissipation and excite- ment, brought with it the inevitable reaction of headache, Sanicnidcaloy, ennui to Lenore, who, in her wrapper and slippers, had her toast and chocolate served to her at eleven in her dressing- room. Afterward, when her parents had returned to New York, she had little May and June brought, to help while away an hour; then, tiring of them, of her new novels, of her sister-in-law and her husband, by turns, she sent a pleading little to Edna to come bring her work, what- ever mangas be doing, and sit with her until dinner, © invitation found Edna just re- a ape mining copy-books, and correct- examples; although perhaps as wea and dispirited as Lenore, though from far dif- ferent causes, she sent word that she would come to Mrs. Carlingford in a few minutes. pooh pai pe Md duties in the school-room, Own room, made some triflin change in her toilette py exc ing her ¢ and collars for fresh ones, and replacing her cambric apron by one of ruffed swiss; took her ‘ work,” a strip a she was making or underwear, and wen wn Mrs - ford’s boudoir. - arate She found Lenore, with her hair down, ‘her eyes dull and unutterably weary, lying on the lounge beside the window. ‘* You are so kind,” was her the low rocking-chair, and sit see you while we talk.” Edna brought the little rocker, and sat down in front of the lounge. “You don’t seem to mind a night's frolic, do you? You look as fresh as ever. me,” Edna glanced up, critically. “You are jaded, Mrs. Carlingford, which is new for you. I remember your being up two nights once, and not—” snore Lape gies her with an irritation that both startled and astonished Edna. ‘*‘ For mercy sake, don’t allude to old times; and don’t, I beg, call me Mrs. Carlingford, I tell you I hate the very sound of his name!” The fire was springing to her eyes now, Ed- na saw, with a strange, tender pity at her heart for this unhappy woman, who, like herself, had a burden to carry so heavy. And yet a thrill eeting. “‘ Bring ere where I can of horror went over Edna to hear Br. Carling- | husband ford’s wife declare she hated the mention of the name he had given her. ** You do not mean that, I am sure,” she said, gently. ‘‘Mr. Carlingford would be terribly grieved if he ,thought such could possibly be true.” *“AsifIcare! Mr. Carlingford seems to be a paragon among you at Ellenwood. I tell you I am heart-sick of Ellenwood and every thing be- longing to it. myself to somebody, I shall go mad! I’ve never told a soul, and the load is too heavy to carry another minute.” Lenore pushed away her black hair from her flushed face; and Edna, in speechless surprise, listened and wondered. “You don’t say a word,” Lenore added, half piteously, half spitefully. ‘‘I supposed you, after all you have gone through, would have a heart to sympathize with me.’ The tears sprung to Edna’s eyes. ““T can pity any one who has been trampled on as I have—Lenore. If my sympathy is what you want, if you have suffered—you have it reely.” ‘* Suffered!” echoed Lenore, in a perfect wail of agony; ‘‘and the worst of it is, I can’t get over it. I thought, honestly and truly, that when I married Mr. Carlingford, I would learn to forget him—but I can’t! I can’t!” It was so; Lenore did love another; and Edna saw the explanation of all her strangeness of manner. She knew she was expected’to converse upon the distressing subject; she felt that she could not turn coldly away from Lenore’s sobbing confession, painful, wrong that it was; and, above all, how like to her own weight of sorrow it. was; so like, yet so precisely dissimilar. Her voice was low and kind when she an- swered Lenore’s passionate complaint. “Tt is a dreadful thing to be the wife of a man you do not love. J am the wife, accord- ing to the law of our land, of a man if dislike, despise—a villain, a deceiver; you, my poor Le- nore, are trebly unfortunate in not loving a husband so good, so noble as Mr. Carlingford. It is terrible for him.” ‘*He may be good, noble, But I would rather have Vivian, with all his faults, a thousand times, because [ loved him— yes, do love him so! I never can 5 te She buried her face in her cold hands, and Edna felt the hot tears trickle on her own warm fingers that she clasped over Lenore’s. “Yes, you can help it, by God’s help! you must help it, if it kills you to crush it down! You must give it up, on your knees, this unholy perfect, if you will. i rj h lfurther | affection that will drag you further and further | the. toag. with, which ha.tretried: alae “oroea from purity and wifehood and womanhood the closer you nourish it! Oh, Lenore, remember, I have felt all this; J have struggled with a love as strong as life, as mighty as death!” She spoke like an inspired priestess, and Le- nore listened as if an oracle had spoken. ** You have? then you did love Oberdon Au- drey, after all?’ ; Edna’s face suddenly surged over with con- scious blushes; she preached as she believed was her duty to this misguided woman, who coldly turned around and threw her views in her face. ‘ : Not crossly, sneeringly, either; not unkindly, but simply with plain force. : * did ora Mr. Audrey, Lenore, I confess it humbly; and I also confess I have buried it, night and day, deeper and deeper.” * Until—” asked Lenore, inquiringly. “Until,” answered Edna, quiet now, Look at | mother to his little ones, a loyal Edna! Edna! if Ican’t unburden | | ment, it seems to me this Mr. Ulmerstone | kept herself so secret | come forward and cake the necessary steps to- 25 very grave, ‘1 have learned it is my destiny not to be happy as other women are happy.” ‘** As I am happy, you ought to say,” said Le- nore, nookinate, ‘I, the mistress of Ellen- wood, who would give it all for one look from Vivian Ulmerstone’s dear eyes.” She was so deluded, this beautiful, reckless woman, whom her husband had brow ht to be a ife for him- self; Edna’s heart ached, beyond its habitual pain on her own account. ‘* We were so near married,” went on Lenore; ‘and if it hadn’t been for Mr. Audrey, I would have been Vivian’s wife long before this; he stopped it, and papa took me home, and—and— I never heard from him again for so long, and shen he gave me up, so nobly and self-sacrific- ingly. n a broken lament, full of tearful anguish and passionate devotion, Lenore told Edna the story of her love-life; her belief that she had | ceased to care for her love; her knowledge, now, that it was only the force of circumstances that deluded her into such belief; her pitiful, repre- hensible love now, for the man who was not her And Edna listened, with pity and reproof, with admonition and sadness, never for a mo- ment suspecting it was her own husband—the man she feared—who had wrought such havoc in Lenore’s affections. ‘*‘He was so handsome,” Lenore said, tender- ly, ‘“‘and so educated and refined and gentle- manly.” * And Mr. Carlingford fulfills the descrip- tion to the letter,” Edna said, cheerily. ‘ Be- sides, Lenore—you will pardon my harshness in saying so—but from your account of your elo’ a not mean to marry—” Lenore almost sprung from the lounge, in her | vehement speech of defense. “You all say that! and I thought soy but it is a false insinuation, and I will never hear it again—never!” A silence ensued after her passionate outburst, broken by herself. **'Why have you never asked me about Ober- don Audrey? Why haven’t you wanted to know where he is, and what he is doing?” “T wanted to know,” answered na, and Lenore wondered at her quiet gravity, never knowing the wild tumult, surging through her heart. ‘‘I wanted to know very much,” she went on, ‘but I would not permit myself to skk.’” ask. * And that is part of the crushing-out pro- cess? If itis, J never shall succeed in cntnhing Vivian out of my heart.” ** Yes; it is part of the process I have begun, and, Heaven helping me, I will finish, no matter what the end; and you, Lenore, will either con- quer this unlawful, unfortunate affection, or be conquered by a terrible doom.” So they talked—these women; one so pure, so wholly high-principled, who would not deviate a step from the path of duty to purchase a life of happiness; and the other, so strangely contras to her; these two, whose paths so often strangely crossed, were converging now, to diverge only once again, where one led to her just recompense, the other down to depths | of woe unutterable. CHAPTER XXXTV. A COMING EVENT. Ir Edna had felt it a severe cross to be en- | tirely' ignorant of the whereabouts of Oberdon Audrey, it certainly was tenfold more trying to him to have her so successfully elude him, and thus leave him in painful uncertainty regard- | ing her condition and comfort. t was far different, he argued with himself, lone girl, without home or friends—perhaps without money—with a husband from whom she was fleeing, probably on her track, Edna’s anxiety about him, he argued, was only a loving woman's natural solicitude for any one absent from her; he was a man, able to take care of himself, fully competent to fight the battle of life, with the bold assurance of coming off victorious. Where she had , what her prospects. were, were puzzles he never had solved. he ultimate velease from the smear il seemed a question only of time—a must be indefinitely [eee See so long as Edna idden, and refused to ward the divorce. or ar a private detective, Audrey had om, ng and , who. for three months had been diligently prov-
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26 ing of how little value detectives are: and , Audrey had dischar: him, after having been positively informed the young lady was nowhere on the face of the earth. After that, he wandered around rather aim- lessly, it is true, but ever on the alert for de- velopments that never developed. Then, on one of his trips to Philadelphia, he come across Vivian Ulmerstone and Le- nore, effectually blocked the little game, made a life-long enemy—and went on again, hoping, fearing; now encouraged, now utterly cast down, - And all the while never a sign, a word, a whisper, of Edna, to whom he was so true— whom he loved so well. He had received cards to Lenore Saxton’s wedding, as well as to the reception at Ellen- wood; but he hardly felt in the mood to make one of a joyous —: and his delicacy of feel- ing forbade as well, after the trying part he had been obliged to play in a precious affair of Lenore’s. So, never knowing what he missed, he had re- mained away, while under the very roof of the house he refused to enter, Edna was fighting her way through tears and anguish. ow, nearly five months from the night Edna had eluded him at the Pennsylvania railroad | depot, Audrey had arrived at the conclusion that no effort of his could find her; he knew Edna was aware of his place of business, and, if she chose to make herself known, there was | nothing to prevent; so, with this conclusion, he settled down among his papers, and accounts, in his private office, with a grave, serious con- tent that ought to have come to him, in the same way, long before. He had been restless, discontented, solely on Edna’s account; now, entirely on her account, was just the reverse, simply because, having tried and proved his own impotence to find her, he now rested on her pure, sound judgment to come to him whenever she felt she needed him. Every day strengthened and deepened his love for her; every hour added to his profound respect and admiration for the way she had Cosmpered herself; and while he grew to revere and love her more and more, he grew to despise and almost hate this Garnett Fay, who blighted Edna’s life and his own. He had thought and pondered over Edna’s description of him until he was sure he would have recognized him anywhere; and yet when he met Vivian Ulmerstone that night on the Washington train, no thought had been further from his mind than that Lenore Saxton’s lover and Edna’s husband were one and the same rson. Pele knew this Vivian Ulmerstone hated him; | it was perfectly natural that he should; Au- drey would have himself hated the man who | so interfered, only that Audrey’s hatred would | have. been more natural, because his motives | could not have been me ig and he felt himself, especially since he had had time to think of it, an antagonism to this man he could | hardly account for. He did not know it was| the finger of Fate stirring the deepest feelings | of his heart; he was not to know then it was the man who had stepped between them that he dislisked so strange! y—the man who was the husband of his only darling. Since then they had never met, as Audrey had confidently ex- pected they would meet, as the words of Ul- merstone had given him every reason to sup- pose. Now another subject, trifling as air, was agi- | tating Audrey’s mind with an intensity” that. _ him marvel, considering the unimportance | of it. It was a letter of special invitation to come to | Ellenwood for a fortnight, early in June, Le-| nore seemed to have ignored any unfriendli- ness toward him in her invitation, that urged | him kindly to accept it. Ellenwood would be | very delightful in early summer, and he felt | what a pleasant change it would be from the | worry of business. ) So, even while he only wondered what could | possess him to want to go, he found himself de- ciding to accept Mrs. Carlingford’s invitation, and _orsbape. it in his memorandum book, little dreaming what depended on his decision, little | knowing what should happen from his visit. Of course he had not the remotest idea that. Edna was at Ellenwood; had he known, he) — not have hesitated a moment in going to er. Nor did Edna have the least suspicion that Au was to Ell her otuer troubles it was well she did’ not know. She would have given anything to see Oberdon, and talk with him, and yet, with her enwood, and with ) TW O GIRL’S. LIVES. | sanctioned his coming to give her a year of hap- piness. Lenore had not told Edna of her intention to write to Audrey to come to Ellenwood; nor, when the intention had grown to be an accom- plished act, did she inform her. She wanted to note, personally, the meeting between the two, how Rana’s sermons appeared when put into rigid practice. Perhaps not a very laudable motive in begging Mr. Ladies to become her guest, nor one that Mr. Audrey would have appreciated; but, Le- nore was not given either to very laudable pur- ses, or to care what other people might think. he knew well enough there would be as much main as pleasure in their sudden renconter; she sao Edna would suffer anew all- she had been trying to live down, but that knowledge, instead of restraining her, added fuel to the fire of her determination to have the two meet under her roof. She had written to her parents, as well, to join the gay party at iicerand: and the romise had been given for them, with Mrs. Saxton’s invaluable aid and ally, Rachelle Hunt, to accept the generous invitation. So, impelled by the guiding hand of inevitable Destiny, from so many quarters were gathered the actors in the drama-emotional that had been played, that was soon to be transformed into a tragedy. And the sun shone on; and Ellenwood lay under the bright beams, in all the fresh sweet- ness of blossoms and buds, greenest grasses and fairest flowers, waiting for the appointed time it could not escape, the doom it could not avert. At Ellenwood, Edna was unrestful as much as was Lenore, who, her secret unburdened, seemed more relieved and able and willing to endure than before, while Edna, whose views knew no alteration, whose disposition was not at all fluctuating, was in a constant state of nervous | horror and dread regarding the promised visit of Garnett Fay. She had not the slightest idea whether he would come as before, and annoy no one but herself, or ride boldly to Ellenwood’s chief en- | trance, and demand an interview with his | wife. True, he had parted from her ina very friend- ly, considerate way; but Edna dared not hope, therefore, he would show his considerate kind- ness by staying away from her. She was quite sure he would come; and coming, present what new phases of the affair? From the evening of Mr. Carlingford’s home- coming, when his bride recognized ‘‘ Miss Van- deleur,” and from which time the entire family | had ceased calling her so, and addressing her as Edna, and ‘“‘ Miss Edna,” she had never given them her confidence, nor asked their protection. But now, after the sudden and unexpected im terview with the man she foresaw would leave no stone unturned to secure her and her posses- sions, she determined to inform Mr. Carlingford and Miss Annie, in the yearning hope that they might be able to save her from him; stand be- tween her and all future misery. CHAPTER XXXV. THE COUNCIL IN THE LIBRARY. Ir was very unusual for Edna to act on the impulse of the moment, but the moment she re- solved to appeal to Mr. Carlingford, it seemed to her there was not a moment to be lost. She had arrived at her decision one evening late in May, when she sat alone in the school- room, looking out on Ellenwood that was so tranquil and fair in the gathering perfumed | twilight; her books had just been laid aside, and, as usual, whenever the occupation for brains and hands was done, her thoughts re- verted to herself, and all that pertained to her. Fay would come, must come soon, for it was more than six weeks since she had seen him, since she had begun to live in a nervous dread of hearing her name called, or the door-bell | ring. He would come, and in purport, all that passed between them in the first interview would have to be repeated, uselessly, for she feared Fay would never give up, and go away and leave her unmolested, and she knew she never would yield to him, or his decision. Acting, then, on the sudden, earning impulse to make a confidential friend and adviser 0 Mr. Carlingford, she laid aside her books, and went at once to his library, feeling, in her strange enthusiasm, as if Garnett Fay were at her verv heels. | | pure, strict sense of honor, would not have | _ She found Mr. Carlingford doing as she had been, enjoying the sweet, warm dusk as it fold- | ed over the emerald lawns and wide-reaching trees, from which he turned in his customary | kindly way as she half-timidly entered. ; if you are busy—if you don’t wish to be dis- turbed,” she began, but he interrupted her with his pleasant smile, and arose, and shut the door after her. “‘T have been waiting weeks for this, m child. I knew when you were ready, co would be forthcoming.” She was so thankful for his assured sympa- thy, that she knew he felt; else, why his great kindliness? “‘T should have told you long ago, Mr. Car- © lingford; and my only reason was, the hope I indulged that, by my keeping my own counsel, all knowledgeof who he is—this man who claims to be my husband, who is, I am afraid—would be lost. But, Mr. Carlingford, he has not for- rotten me; he has discovered me, and—been to © {llenwood.” Mr. Fay been to Ellen- dear dence ** Been to Ellenwood! wood!” Incredulous annoyance was written all over his face, and in the tones with which he re- echoed her words. ‘* Hecame the night of the wedding reception; he was shown into this very room, where I now sit. No one knew who he was, nor what he wanted. Only I had any words with him.” ** And he said he wanted—what!” ‘He desires me to acknowledge our marriage as binding upon me; he says I am his wife, and he insists upon my consenting to be regarded as such. This, you know, I never will do. He is less to me than-the footman who opens your door.” Mr. Carlingford was looking at Edna very closely, with something of the puzzled look in his face she had observed the day she first met him in this very room. “You are so like her—my sainted wife. I | can not help remarking it, for, when you plead or converse unusually earnestly, you are my | dead wife over again, as she was in her sunny girlhood. But I am diverging from the point | under consideration; my own feelings have made me selfishly forget yours. You do not care for this man, you are sure you will not live with him, and you have good reason for your | opinion?” Edna’s face flushed. ‘“*T despise him as only one can detest who has been deceived, insulted when their back was turned, blighted for a lifetime. Under such | circumstances how could I care for him? and in | your estimation, do not my reasons justify me? Would you, Mr. anes, want for a wife a woman whom you felt did not love you with all her soul?” In the eagerness to support her theory, Edna had innocently put the test-question, forgetting, for the moment, what she had so often won- dered if Mr. Carlingford suspected—his wife’s indifference to him. But the instant the words left her lips, she regretted them bitterly; for, by the sharp, swift pallor that spread over his fave at her question, no less than by his answer, she knew Mr. Carlingford had found something amiss already in his brief married life. ‘*God forbid a loveless union, my child. No misery on earth can equal it. If you can not give him the wifely love, the womanly subjec- tion that makes the husband proud and happy that he was won, let him be to you and you to him as the veriest strangers that live.” His answer, unconsciously eloquent because of the home truth of what he said, affected Edna deeply, so that she attempted no reply; and so they sat silent, miserable, in that sweet, calm May gloaming. E After 4 7 neil or so, Mr. Carlingford re- sumed the conversation. ‘ | ‘Where is the proof of the marriage? who married you, and where was it done? where is your certificate?” E “J have no proofs, for Mr. Fay put the certi- ficate in his memorandum-book, and I never thought to ask him for it.” “Then the certificate will, as you know, give . him as full authority over you as a husband can have. I see no way but to buy him off, meanwhile instituting a suit for divorce on | the ground of the deception practiced upon you.’ , Tt was a pitiable alternative for her, with her sweet, shy reserve, her delicacy, her retiring | sensitiveness, to be h the mire of a divorce court, and . Carlingford noted the varying shades on her face that indicated the ing thoughts within. “Phat is so like Augusta, too,” he said sor- /
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ee de ete det ot ce Be Ineo TWO GIRL’S LIVES. rowfully, “I might almost fancy you were her younger sister— Heavens!’ He paused suddenly, then added the passion- ate exclamation that fairly startled Edna. _ What is it? what do you mean? Mr. Car- one, you frighten me; please explain what it is. Edna sprung from her chair, across the room, and to Mr. Carlingford’s side. It was no won- der she was so agitated, for she reflected only his own emotion. e had suddenly grown pale as death, and leaned back in his chair, nerve- less and stricken as by a sudden sharp blow. Yet hardly a blow; it was only a remem- brance, a sudden suggestion that was whisper- ed mysteriously in his very soul, that stagger- ed him so. He could not explain for several minutes, the while Edna stood, in mute, anxious wonder, at his side. Then, when he had shaken off the weakness as suddenly as it had assailed him, he looked up in her wistful, pallid face with a smile at her anxiety. ‘“*My dear child, you will think I am very foolish and romantic, I dare say, but you re- member how we have all said how the likeness struck us when you first came to Ellenwood? how Annie and I remarked it? and how often since I have spoken of it? Just now, it oceur- red to me with a tremendous force that you once told me you were an adopted child—and my first-born was stolen—Edna! might it not be, just possibly be, that you are my own, my Au- gusta’s baby?” If Mr. Carlingford had been staggered by the idea, Edna certainly was at the boldness of his words, Shea Carlingford! she a daughter know her discontent, but the rest of the family and the servants. It was horribly mortifying to Mr. Carling- ford at first; simply mortifying, for he had no idea of the true state of his wife’s feelings, and believed all her troublesa rose merely from an unfortunately disagreeable disposition. but, gradually, as Lenore avoided him more and more, and plainly showed her indifference to him, the truth began to dawh on his mind that he had married a woman who did not care for him. Toa man of his peculiar temperament, ardent, enthusiastic, devoted, constant, it was a blow to | learn of Lenore’s coldness, far keener than many a man would have felt it; and the fact that, while Lenore was only a girl in years, and he a man whose beard was plentifully frosted, made the edge of the sorrow Eoener than a sword, As yet, he had simply the one fact that he had failed to keep her girlish affection; he re- proached himself for it, and strove to thrust | away his heart soreness, and never let Lenore descended from an English nobleman! she, who | remembered only slights and¢slurs, the child of the owner of Ellenwood! And yet, why not? She remembered having it cast at her time and again, that she was a foundling, picked up in the streets by the first Mrs. Saxton. She knew, from the very first, Mr. Carlingford had remarked her strange, striking likeness to Lady Augusta; even Miss Annie had observed it, and one day taken her to the dead wife's portrait and compared her and it, feature by feature, a“ Pe it seo cage tt her. ‘ut it was improbable after all, anc told Mr. Carlingford so. peta zs ‘I presume it is,” he returned, a little sadly; only in consideration of the likeness you must be my oldest daughter and leave your affairs to be guided by me. As to buying off this rascal of a husband with your little fifty: thousand-dol- lar fortune, it must be at once declared infeasi- ble. Keep your money, Edna, and let me deal with this Mr. Fay; when he comes.again, send for me.” Thus, though no definite plan of action was formed, Edna felt stronger and braver than she had for many days; while the strange, wild theory Mr. Carlingford had advanced regarding her L eabonlee set her vigorously thinking and wondering who she really was. Up to this time Edna had never troubled her- self much to learn who she was; it was enough that she knew that’ she was considered an usurper and intruder in the only house on which she had the slightest claim. But now, with memory sharpened by the dis- ee to unravel the mystery of her child- ood, Edna remembered a tiny little cross she had seen Mrs. Saxton—her Mrs. Saxton, often examine minutely, then hang on her neck for a while, and then remove and carefully put away in a little green box that had been carelessly tossed over to Edna a year or so before Mr. Saxton’s second marriage. Her curiosity never having been excited to learn the supposably Valueless contents of the box, it had lain locked and tied for years, in Edna’s trunk, never thought of until now; and now, suddenly in- vested with perhaps undue importance. And © morrow would see if the box could disclose any secrets, CHAPTER XXXVI. T TOYING WITH THE SERPENT. dan Lenore, the days at Ellenwood were as pore oonber] if passed in a prison. Entirely unac- ache to suburban residence, the quiet, the Sameaer oan bustle and excitement er nature, so illy suited for the life she attempted to lead. . be was ogee ape» it; receive; the poetry of house- pit i Mn enjoy: drives to take, pe shopping aaa veekly to the city; but with ail she very miserable, very restless and unha: py so that not only Mr. Carlingford learned to | suspect he knew her indifference to him. As yet, he had not a suspicion of what was worse than her lovelessness for him—her love for another; that horror was in reserve for him when he should be gradually fitted to bear it. So, under the roof at Ellenwood, it seemed, were gathered little else but bruised hearts; much of pure grief, some whose cause was piti- | fully impure. Lenore brooded day after day over her unto- ward fate; hour after hour pondered and wor- ried over her burden, until she grew unbearably selfish and undeniably disagreeable, refusing to | aj pear at dinner often, and again insisting on long, lonely walks at untiniely hours among the parks in the grounds. It was during one of these lonesome constitu- tionals of hers that it ha pened ; and it was the been closeted in the library. Lenore had thrown a white zephyr shaw] over her head, and had wandered a long distance from the house, down in the “ Cypress Walk” near the front entrance, thinking, as usual, of Vivian Ulmerstone. She was walking slowly on, buried in reverie, when a footstep, firm, quick, familiar, startled her; a footstep she would know anywhere in the wide world. She stood so still that the beating of her heart sounded like the muffled boom of guns, until her brain seemed bursting from her fend’ and her whole figure was like a rock in its si- lent rigidity. The footsteps came nearer, nearer, and then, around the sharp curve of the walk, on his way to his wife, Vivian Ulmerstone came face to face with Lenore Carlingford. She gave a glad ery of inarticulate delight and sprung to his side, his name on her lips re- peated with every caressing endearment her ecstatic heart could suggest. He was astonished, overwhelmed, nearly an- nihilated by her sudden appearance. That Le- nore, his Jessica, had married Carlingford, of Ellenwood, had either never been made known to kim, or else he had utterly abandoned all de- sign upon her, and, therefore, that she was in his arms, clinging to him, and evidently ex- pecting a full return of her affectionate wel- come, was a somewhat awkward fact when he considered his errand to Ellenwood and who was within its walls. Any man in the world, except Vivian Ulmer- stone, would have been completely demoralized under the circumstances: any other man would either have beaten an inglorious retreat or made a consummate clown of himself. But Vivian Ulmerstone did neither; with his won- derful tact he accepted the situation as sudden- ly as it was offered him, leaving all explana- tions to the future, trusting to good luck to help him through. To tell the truth, this inconsistent lover was not at all angry at the unexpected renconter. After having been told by Edna, in plainest terms, her not very flattering opinion of him, it | ; reer : was not ag ee to say ine least, to have | if you have no womanly principle of desiza, to this pretty little woman looking into his eyes with such fond pride, and asking him in sweet- est tones, Me fh had been so cruel to her? So he just bent his head, and—kissed Lenore as if they were lovers. me? | pars LS cee eae a for ou, ™m ariing: © said, an er hungry ears lieved the ready lie. “You gave me up; it was your fault, Vi and I waited and waited only to get that cru ene tly, Le in f é ] private ently, Lenore was or a long, priv PR os comp and as evidently Ulmerstone in- 27 tended to see Edna that night, until a chance remark from Lenore caused him to abandon his project for the time, and decided to be enter- ined by his impromptu hostess. “Tam so tha ou_came to find me to- night, of all nights, for Mr. Carlingford is so busy in the library with Edna, settling some stupid business about that horrid husband of hers. [believe Mr, C. intends to protect poor Edna—what nonsense to talk to you, isn’t it, who never heard, even, of Edna Silvester?” Ulmerstone smiled, but Lenore could not see . at what; then he gave her his arm, and the two walked up and down, up and down, ex- changing their wicked vows of constancy until the loud clanging of the dinner-bell nore in. ‘You'll come again? Come next week, and I'll meet you by the Chapel—there down by the old well, where no one can see us or hea us. Ellenwood will be full of guests then, aud I can slip away easily. You'll come, Vivian?” Bie had his answer, only too readily given, and then flitted in to dinner, with cheeks glow- ing with scarlet, and eyes shining like blazing coals. It was the first time since she had been at El- lenwood that Edna noticed Lenore was like her old self; and on Edna’s ears, into whom Lenore’s evident her husband | it. | message from Lenore to | very night when Mr. Carlingford and Edna had | Pa mh vgn soagge aes, glans ee ; Man, were leagued against me, I woul | almost reluctantly | I live, Lenore Saxton, if you’ dare | name and honor again! Dinner was scarcely over when there came a to come to her thing to tell her re aye g herself, Edna went, ear it. Mrs. Carlingford met her at the threshold, all {| a-quiver with nervous excitement. ‘ You are so tardy, and I could hardly wait until that dreary dinner was over to tell you. Pe Edna, what do you think? J have seen im!” Her voice lowered to a mellow whisper; her eyes grew misty with tenderness; her beautiful lips trembled as she spoke. It touched Edna to the very heart’s core; touched her with a ly commingled feel- ing of pity and repellent di that Lenore Car- lingford should thus permit herself such feelings, such a meeting. And Lenore saw the meaning on ae mobile aaa ; gory “IT suppose you will turn against me—t' have! but do you think I care? Do Sa aot know I would give them all for an hour with my love? Edna Silvester, you have yet to learn how a woman can love! Edna smiled, wearily. She yet to learn that already too well-known one ‘“L have yet to learn to meet a lover against whom every principle of morality and honor cry out in alarm. Lenore, I beg, I beg you will stop where you are! I can see the end from the beginning that your blinded eyes will not permit you to do. I know there must come an end to it all, when either this. villain- ous—” “You shall not! I will not hear ,him spoken of in such cowardly terms. He is all that is ood and bree Te far superior to William arlingford as you are to your husband. He loves me, and—listen, for I shall say it boldly, unblushingly—I love him with all my heart!” Edna felt how perfectly useless it was for her to attempt to stem the flood-tide of determined willfulness; she had done what she could to save Lenore, and now— ‘I shall as surely report to your husband as risk your f you kick me out of your doors again I will do it!, I will not stand quietly by and look on and see your husband’s home desecrated, his noble hearf crushed, even avoid it.” and she looked like some Nemesis. on } of the spoiler. Lenore was hushed, momentari- ly abashed, by the uprising nobility of the true woman who Pp. this unexpected obsta- cle in her path. ? Then, when the silence had grown oppressive, Edna’s voice had risen in its sweet high key, track. per for you know m tests tale-telling. world, including the afore-mentioned eee wal ides, if you and all the © Mogn’
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28 TWO GIRL’S LIVES. by you all, and fulfill my promise to t | tering of her black eyes; it f i Vivien le y P se mee / i y' was fortunate he did rstone; when, an for you to ascertain and ‘ report.’ ” she smiled triumphantly at Edna’s horror- stricken face; then went on, more kindly: * Don me too far, Edna, I have told! you what no mortal else knows. Don’t return evil for good will. Let me alone; it is all I ask of you or any one.” 2 he made Lenore no answer; but left the room, bowed almost to the dust by the burdens that _— on her shoulders. / ¢ was her duty? CHAPTER XXXVII. THE GUEST AT ELLENWOOD. | THE weather that ushered in that eventful | week in June was as nearly perfect as weather could be. Balmiest winds, laden with perfumy sweets, tempered the pleasant warenthr, bluest skies spread their triumphal arch for the royal sun to march across; opening flowers, fresh springing grasses, bursting leaves made all the | country, and especially beautiful Ellenwood, a veritable fairyland. Oberdon Audrey alighted from the railway carriage just at sunset, when the golden haze | was still in the air, and birds yet chirped and twittered as they flew homeward before the dusk and the dew fell. He looked abroad, as far as he could see, over the peaceful face of | Nature, and thought how far above her just | deserts such a girl as Lenore Saxton had been placed to be mistress of so much grandeur and | elegance. e knew she could not appreciate it; he knew | she was not the woman a man like Mr. Carling- | ford waated, who could appreciate his fine | qualities and givo intellect for intellect. {[t was | ing strange to him that he had ever selected | 1er from among the many women who would | have filled the position of his wife with so much more true womanliness than could ever be ex- pected of a girl like Lenore Saxton. He pitied Mr. Carlingford; he pitied Lenore, who, in his heart he knew did not, could not love her husband. He did not at all dislike Le- nore; he had found her a pleasant companion enough for an hour or so, but for a lifetime—he ‘was in no danger of envying her husband. He knew, too, that the Saxton family had de- ceived Mr. Carlingford. He knew it was never hinted that Lenore was only accidentally his wife, so to speak, and that he, himself, in the effort to save a giddy girl, had been the uncon- | scious instrument in giving her to her husband. Mr. Audrey thus thought, while he walked from the car to the eg omy ates that were | wide open at the edge of the ate estate. | He saw standing there, a slight, graceful figure, that, as he vanced nearer, came eagerly forth to meet him, with a pleasant smile of greeting. “Mr. Audrey! I wondered if you would change your mind and not come, afterall. I am so glad to see you, and I can promise you that Ellenwood shall be taxed to entertain you. Isn’t it beautiful?” She glanced across the far-reaching domains, and Audrey, following her look, and then re- turning his to her face, saw not the natural glow of pride he expected, but a feverish nerv- ousness and keen excitability that were certain- ly as bewitching as surprising. He bowed, and took her cordially-extended d, “T canearnestly congratulate you, Mrs. Car- ingford, in possessing such a beautiful home. ‘With your estimable husband and desirable resi- dence, there seems little to want.” Lenore darted a keen glance’at him as he ‘gravely spoke. Was he hinting at anything? was he meen eng anything? If he was eos either he gave no sign that he ‘was conscious of it; contrarily, he seemed en- | tirely occupied in present circumstances as they | walked up the shety path. “Tam extremely anxious to meet Mr. Car- lingford,” Audrey went on, pleasantly, as if the | world contai and never had contained, else | than her husband for Lenore. “T have heard of him so frequently in busi- | ness circles, as well as social, that I am prepared | beforehand to yield him the most genuine ad- miration and esteem. Yes, Mrs. Carlingford, Ellenwood is an exquisite spot. New beauties unfold at every turn—that tiny Chinese ~—— Peo for instance. What is its use, , Logs en or is it simply ornamental?” ot and poin cone ** Chapel” that Lenore designated vian Ulmerstone as their rendezvous that very week. He was not looking at her, or he would have seen the swift Wasiishinnt of her brilliant color, the glit- where, to be left | not see; they disappeared after a second of wonderful control. “That? oh, a remarkably uninteresting place damp as death, and dreary as the grave. I have often wondered what induced Mr. Car- lingford to keep it on the estate. He says, how- ever, he is attached to it fora reason that fairly makes my blood congeal.” “Indeed?” said Audrey, laughingly. ‘‘I am delighted to find that Ellenwood has its inevita- ble specter—for ghost I firmly believe you to | mean,” “It is far worse than any ghost that ever walked. It is an actual corpse that is buried in the hideous place—his first wife, Lady Augusta. Very pleasant for me, isn’t it?’ “Decidedly,” answered Audrey, promptly. ‘Because if Lady Augusta were not buried | there, Mrs. Lenore Carlingford obviously would not be walking here.” ‘* She died of grief, too,” Lenore went on, with a shiver; ‘‘ heart-broken, because her baby was | lost. Isn’t it silly to die of heart-ache?”’ She suddenly raised her eyes to his face; they fairly startled him with their weird bril- | liancy. ‘“* People have died of a broken heart; but it is not worse than to live on and on with one near- ly broken,” “So I think,” she said, carelessly. ‘I fancy when I die, it will be of headache, rather than heart-ache. this past two days—the crown of it, and down | my neck. I haven’t closed my eyes for three nights. Feel my hands.” She suddenly thrust both her hands into his. He actually shrunk from the cold, clammy touch. ‘*Mrs. Carlingford, surely you must be ill! The moment I saw you I thought there was something amiss. She smiled grimly. ** Yes, something is amiss; I have the horrors, I guess, on account of that charnel-house for- ever under my eyes. You’ve no idea how ridiculously nervous it makes me.” Audrey was watching her narrowly; she was amiss, surely. Her high color, that vanished so suddenly, leaving her ashen white, her glit- | tering eyes that moved so restlessly, her ner- vous motions, her fluctuating gayety alternat- ing with quiet depression, were unmistakable symptoms of a malady not far distant, either physical or mental. Had there been another fearful blank in the grand lottery of married life? In his soul while he pitied himself, while his heart asked for Edna, it fairly bled to see Lenore Carling- ford. At the door she dropped him a playful cour- tesy. ‘** Welcome!” He followed her—suddenly as grave as she had been childishly elated—to the library, where he was presented to Mr. Carlingford, who recognized him at once, and in whom Au- drey read at once unmistakable traces of a cor- roding care. Everywhere, turn where he would, he found little but sorrow. the world had contributed her choicest offer- ings, were grinning, gaping skeletons! ey Mr. and Mrs. Saxton and Rachelle Hunt arrived, and immediately dinner was or- dered served, with private covers laid in the school-room for the children and Edna, who, caring so little for meeting the guests from New York, desired the retiracy of her own do- mains. So she did not meet Oberdon Audrey that night; nor dream he slept under the same roof, even when she heard his footsteps pass her door at eleven that night. And no one had told him of Edna's near presence. Mr. Carlingford, not_ knowing of their acquaintance, of course had never men- tioned Edna’s name any more than that of any stranger. Mr. and Mrs. Saxton had received their cue from Lenore; while Rachelle, with her quick- wittedness, learned at once how the land fay: And so, the household at Ellenwood retired to their rooms; some to sleep with a clear con- science, although burdened by a weight of woe; | some to toss restlessly to and fro; and one, the mistress of it all, to walk the floor from mid- | night till dawn, with burning cheeks and ach- | ing head, and Mea tog Ragen the only | e physical sensations she had felt since the night, a week ago, when she met Vivian Ulmerstone aoe i ~ ice th bly I ‘o-night, uring ose inexpressibly long. ich. watches, er mind seemed capable o grasping but one idea; and that was, that, be- My head has pained me fearfully | Even at Ellenwood, where | | yore tne same time next day, she would have | seen Vivian again; when the clecks rung two, | she thought, with a wild thrill of , that to-day she would see him; to-day hear his dear voice, look into his dear face. It had taken hold of her like a doom, this fascination for Vivian Ulmerstone; because she knew she was doing immeasurably wrong, the fascination was the stronger; because she could not lawfully be his, she loved him the more wildly; the more perversely turned away her face from her duty. She never for a moment thought he would disappoint her; as surely as she knew she was a living woman, just so surely she knew that Vivian Ulmerstone would be at the appointed place, at the appointed time. She never for a moment believed it within the range of human possibility that he could have met and loved another. She had been so | true, even when she was almost forced to turn against him in thought, even while she had turned against him in act, and with her own | hands built the barrier between them that now | she was beating her hands so wildly against, in the hope of battering it down as easily as she had reared it. In her restless, aimless walk up and down the dim room, whenever she neared the window, she instinctively shrunk away; for, gaze in whatever direction she might, her fascinated eyes were sure to return to the white dome of the Chinese mosque, where Vivian was to meet, | by stealth, Mr. Carlingford’s second wife, where | the first lay, dead, pure, spotless as the marble slab that recorded her brief life, her pitiful death. Was there a fate in it? did it mean anything that Lenore had so ignorantly chosen it for their secret meetirig? Had she known, not for a thousand worlds would she have bade him go there; but now, once appointed, the tryst must be kept there, even if Lenore had learned, since, with a cold chill, of the sacred trust of the Chr | nese mosque. Would she remain away for her fears’ sake? Not if ten thousand ghosts blocked her way, would she cheat herself and disappoint her lover! CHAPTER XXXVIIL _ WATCHFUL EYES. Ir Mrs. Carlingford had been restless and dis- quieted all through those long hours of the / night, Edna must have caught it from her at day-dawn, for a strange wakefulness came over | her, that made a longer stay in bed impossible. | It was only five o’clock when footsteps pass- |ing her door aroused her to perfect wakeful- ness; and Edna, used to early rising, felt no dis- position to woo the departed god again. ‘- She arose, feeling a curious calm on her spirit that was a positive relief, and a decided change of feeling. Since the latest revelation of Le- nore’s, Edna had been in a constant fever of terror and dread. She had watched her ‘as closely as she dared without exciting suspicion, and found, to her intense relief, no signs, of the vaguest kind, that Lenore meant to do anything she had said. Now, with her mother and father under the same roof, Edna thought she might safely relax her vigilance; she was confident that for the time being, Lenore would give over any scheme she might have in her head. : So Edna felt very refreshed and relieved, when she was suddenly awakened by the sound of footsteps—Oberdon Audrey’s they were, too —passing her room-door, that bright, joyous | summer morning; she dressed herself, and put a light straw hat over her hair, and a fleecy shawl over her white lawn wrapper, and went | almost gayly down stairs into the fresh young morning. 2 The dew was diamonding the short grass blades, and the scent from the roses that climbed over trellises in every available spot, made the air heavy with their rich sweets; and Edna, with a quiet joy in her heart, walked on among the winding walks, holding her skirts daintil in one hand, and secretly wondering if the fres air were an elixir of life even to such a life- weary mortal as she sometimes was. She had forgotten Lenore and Lenore’s lover; | she was not thinking of herself or Garnett Fay | —only of Oberdon Audrey and his— : And then, some one came walking y; | eagerly, behind her, and a hand was laid on her . shoulder. and a voice spoke in her very ear that sent her blood pulsing madly along her veins. ‘Edna, Edna! can it possibly be? —is it you?” er Oberdon Audrey’s glad, sweet voice it was; You here?
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light of love that lea TWO GIRL’S LIVES. 29 his hand on her shoulder, his eyes drinking the to her own. “Tt is I,” she said, in a low, intense tone. *< Gan it be possible that you are at Ellenwood?” “T came Nast night; I am Mr. Carlingford’s guest. And — “ Am Mr. Carlingford’s governess.” This brief explanation was soon given, and then a silence, full of eloquent feeling, followed. There was so much each wanted to say, that neither would say. It was Oberdon who spoke first. ‘“T have missed you so, my dar—Edna, I have hunted, near and far, and gave up in de- . I wanted you so, dearest—I mean, dear Hana; I had important business for you to at- tend, and there was no ig é to communicate with you. Oh, Edna,” and Audrey’s voice sud- denly grew low, and intensely passionful, ‘‘ how can I stand here and not call you all the love- names my heart is aching tosay? how can I bear to be se near you, and not take you in my arms and kiss you?” He reached his arms as if to clasp her, but she gently restrained him. ‘““Oberdon, remember your promise. You know all I feel, all I have endured. Be patient, a little longer, dear Oberdon!” He drew a long breath and set his teeth firmly together. , * Yes, I will be patient—until I find the man f owe a debt to that I mean to pay with inter- ‘‘He has found me, Oberdon; he has been to Ellenwood; he is coming again, and he swears I shall be his wife.” “Never! I will shoot him like the dog he is, first! He has been annoying you, then, my poor dar—Edna! it drives me mad to stand here and be obliged to converse as if we were only two tolerably good friends. Edna—send me back to New York. I shall offend you if 1 stay where ‘ou are, I know.” She smiled wistfully. “7 fear my courage would fail me if I at- tempted to send you away. Itis so good to have a real, real comforter once more.” “You call me a comforter? I would be, but you won't let me. Edna, you are cruel! After months’ ae baa you will not kiss me!” She flushed brightly; then answered with such sweet gravity that it touched his very soul. ‘*Oberdon, you would despise me were I to do what I think would not be right, even for your sake,” Then, changing her manner very decidedly, she went on: “You have seen Lenore; what is your impres- sion?” “‘That she has married one man and loves another,” Audrey returned, quickly. ‘‘ Poor girl! I feared when her family forced her into accepting Mr. Carlingford, she never could for- et : e rogue who attempted to carry her off ily. ‘‘T have heard of it; and, Oberdon, what can we do to save this misguided woman again? This Mr. Ulmerstone, she calls him, has been here, and she saw him. Oh, Oberdon, it is dreadful, dreadful! My soul sickens when I think of poor Mr. Carlingford.” Audrey walked on beside Edna, in t} oughtful silence. “He is an enemy of mine—this Ulmerstone, for the service I did Mr. Saxton. You say he has been here? Is he coming again?” “T fear he is. When, I donot know. How— clandestinely, I suppose.” ; “Undoubtedly. yell, Edna, it seems to me it will be a thankless task to attempt to inter- fere. We have enough troubles of our own to wry, without bothering with other people's.” “But I cannot sit down and see Lenore go on to her destruction. J will save her, if I can, if She turns me out of Ellenwood. I am not a pa et you know.” e w is) “T offered it all to Mr right, and eg uc than Mr. Miomises ‘to consult other lawyers how to go about it, we — probably arrange f y known where you were, and been able to see you, we might kave Edna went in to breakfast that morning with d carried since the misfortune of her life had fallen on her. She greeted Mr. and Mrs. Saxton coolly, gracefully, and made Lenore aghast with amazement when she smiled a good-morning to Audrey. Had they met, already? It looked very like it, or else Edna and Audrey were consummate actors. And after all the trouble she had ta- ken, after all her anxiety to witness their meeting, it amounted to—only that friendly smile. Lenore was disappointed ; she had somehow set her heart on wer 2 these two really loved each other as she and Vivian Ulmerstone did; to see if Edna could practice the same self-re- | straint and self-control she preached, and that | Lenore had no patience with, no belief in. She had hoped to see the meeting, and make Edna feel that her eye was on her, watching her narrowly, ready to cast in her teeth the slightest divergence from Edna’s laid-down laws. Lenore wondered at herself, even amid her disappointment, what it was that had made her exult so vaguely over the prospect of wit- nessing Edna’s discomfiture; she asked her- | self, sitting there behind the silver coffee-urn, | so quiet, so tired after her night’s sleeplessness, why it was she took the disappointment so to heart, so childishly. She was conscious of a strange irritability about her; it had come with her sleeplessness, and her odd, continued headache; and she won- dered if because she was not well she felt this unaccustomed hatefulness toward Edna. Lenore knew she was not a naturally ma- liciously disposed person; but Edna had cer- tainly interfered in her affairs in a manner hardly warrantable. Tell Mr. Carlingford, indeed! a paid gov- erness turning spy on the lady of the house! a hired servant receiving her lover—and she a married woman at that—in the face of the en- tire family! Lenore’s heart was throbbing wildly; she felt a dizzy sickness in her head, a faintness in her stomach. Her hand trembled strangely as she essayed to check the flow of coffee that streamed from the urn into the overflowing cup, into the saucer, on the snowy damask cloth. She saw Edna’s grave eyes watching her; she heard Edna’s quick, sharp cry: ‘‘Mrs. Carlingford is fainting!” and then— She was on her own bed in her own room, with the soft June breezes stirring the ruffles of her pillow, and the soft afternoon sunshine fall- ing in tremulous shadows on the carpet as it sifted in the open window through the branches of the buttonball trees, when she returned to consciousness, and saw Edna on one side the low, French bed, Rachelle Hunt on the other. She moved uneasily as a torment of pain seized her head as if in an iron vise. ‘*Drink this, Mrs. Carlingford,” Rachelle said, in her quiet, non-resistive tone of persua- sive command; and Lenore sipped from the tiny —— goblet that was placed at her lips, that which sent new life, it seemed to her, bounding along her veins. ‘*T was ill at breakfast, wasn’t I? I am much better now. Help me up, Edna. Rachelle, I will dress at once.” Edna smiled, pityingly. ‘* You are entirely tod weak, I fear. land has just gone, leaving strict—” ‘* Where is Jesmine? Send her here, and you and Rachelle go dress for dinner. I wish Jes- mine at once.” Her imperious tones, her perfectly natural manner, her evident strength; had their effect; and the two went away, and sent Mrs. Carling- ford’s dressing-maid to her, Dr. Gar- CHAPTER XXXIX. KEEPING THE TRYST. THE instant Jesmine closed the door after her, Lenore sprung up in her bed, “Lock it, Jesmine, and bring me my hand- glass. Do I look ill? Ill!” she reiterated, bitter- ly, as she gazed at her flushed cheeks and glow- ing eyes. ‘* They would make me lie here, when I never looked better or felt better in my life! Jesmine, lay out my Swiss suit and the light blue sash and ribbons. and the pink corals, and if anyone comes to my door, Re you tell them Mrs. Carlingford is sleeping, and cannot be dis- turbed. Do you understand?” The French girl’s black eyes snapped. ‘“‘T comprehend, madame, most perfectly. De Madame Carlingford is better—mooch better, and only desire one leetle sleep to accomplish her recouvraiment. Monsieur be glad, ver’ enidedionen pleases?” e husband will leased, and not vish to intrude, the invalide will sleep so long asshe Lenore smiled delightedly. . ‘* Exactly! and while the door is locked on the inside, I can sleep or wake as I please. And I shall not sleep, you may be sure. Jesmine, co. my head in cologne water and brush my’ air. The girl’s deft touch seemed to vitalize her, as she flitted noiselessly around obeying the impe- rious commands; and Lenore, with her chair | drawn to the open window, watched the sun go down, and the soft summer twilight brood over | fair Ellenwood. } Then, when the family were at dinner, and* she knew every member of it was satisfied with the whispered message Jesmine had given as each, in turn, passing her door, paused to inquire, she ordered her maid to dress her in the white Swiss suit. She watched every s » of her toilette with a painfully keen interest, the while glancing first | out into the deepening dusk, then at the little | clock on her dressing-table. At half-past eight Mr. Carlingford tapped on her dressing-room door. ‘‘] will see Mrs. Carlingford now, Jesmine. a is extremely foolish to keep the door locked so ong.” e spoke in a tone that was, in itself, a com- mand; Jesmine drew her face into a grimace as she listened on the inside, and looked at Lenore, Lenore smiled grimly, and shook her head em-~- phatically. Then Jesmine’s low, purring voice answered Mr. Carlingford. ‘““Madame has beg me to admit not anyone; madame say she desire Demy sac on to not be disturbed before ten. e has one refreshing slumber since she take de physic monsieur le docteur command!” Mr. Carlingford stood a moment in mute won- der. Had Lenore so little care for him that. her door was closed to him, in common with | others? It must be so, and he felt that already the iron had entered his very soul. Lenore was | indifferent to him; she denied him the privilege of ministering to her, that would have been a. pleasure to him, He had not a thought of her falsity. Such a depth of contamination never once occurred to- him. He did not know his wife had ever had a lover other than himself, and granted that he had known, it would never have seemed possi- ble for her to remember him with the slightest. warmth of feeling. : He walked away to his library, feeling ve lonely, and exceedingly disappointed at Lenore’s: positive refusal. He lighted the gas, drew a volume before him on the table, and settled down for an evening’s uiet reading, ——_ little disposed for social uties, thinking, in his solitude, even while at- tempting to fix his mind on what was before him, of his wife, sleeping with locked doors, across the p Sleeping, was she? Ah, had he but known that at that very minute she was flitting alon the walks, like a spirit, in her white dress, an shawl thrown with picturesque grace over her raven dark hair, to meet her lover at the spot to Mr. Carlingford so sacred, where his dead wife lay, of a verity ee ak But not, he remarked lf, bitterly, not with a locked door between them, even if the gates of Death had long ago closed after her. It had been a whim of his—he could not help it—but when they had laid his dead wife in the. narrow vault, he wanted, in his great grief, to. come often and look at the casket that held his jewel. He could not bear the thought that the. door should be sealed, forever closed between them, forever shutting out the air and sunlight. that she no longer needed or heeded. — so the pea of the —_ — —— on its iron hinges, the spring-latch crouched in gri e tience, waiting for the hand that should send i¢ . on its relentless mission; and he thought, with a_ bitter pang of pain, that only between him and his living wife, whom he would so have loved and indulged and cherished, were these barriers . slowly, surely rearing more impassable than | locked doors, And, the while, Lenore had silently, swiftly one on her way to her to meet, as she i dreamed, night and day, Vivian stone. he i not bog tamer Aan he had ge versatility o ogy to enjoy a stolen love-tryst with ‘ 6, or, if the Fates so ordained, an interview with his wife.
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3 2 soothingly; “you shiver; ‘given you a chi tered him with her constancy and by her brave boldness to risk so mutch for his sake. So—they met at the starlighted entrance tothe ** Chapel. “Vivian! you are here?’ she said, in a low, intense whisper, that penetrated the darkness where her eyes could not see. A quick tread—a sudden kiss on her burning forehead answered her before he spoke. ‘*T am here, my darling. Why should I have disappointed you? But you are ill, surely. Your zface burns like fire, and your hands are cold as ice He was chafing her trembling fingers tender- ly, and looking caressingly down into her eyes, that he saw plainly enough now, accustomed to the gloom. “Every one tells me Iam ill—even you SR Vi- | ‘vian, who should know my heart is breaking | with longing for you—you! I fainted this morning at breakfast, just as Mr. Audrey—” Vivian suddenly interrupted her. “ Audrey! son to remember that man, Lenore. ble he is here?” “T sent for him purposely, on Edna Fay’s ac- count—you remember hearing me tell of Edna | ¥ Silvester, who was married to a Mr. Fay, with whom she will have nothing to do? Well, Mr. Audrey was Edna’s suitor, and now he is only waiting to procure a divorce before he and Edna shall be married.” Vivian bit his lip to keep back what he would | liked to have said when he heard his history thus repeated to him, as passing gossip. “If the interfering rascal is at Ellenwood, he shall see me before any of us leave. He has to settle with me for robbing me of you, my dear- est. To him give all the credit of your unhap- piness—reserving only a little censure for your- self that you could be induced to marry Mr. C.” ‘Censure myself! Oh, Vivian! as if I did not wait, and wait—to get only your cruel let- ter. Censure myself! t need pity now, for I am so utterly miserable!” “Pity, Lenore! if I did not pity you, and myself as well, do you think I would not tear myself away? I love you more than ever I did before—much as that was—when I know you never can be mine, when I see how our eternal separation wears upon you, my poor darling!” e had drawn her head closely to his breast, and then they stood there, silent in the fra- grant night, listening to the beating of their Audrey here! I have good rea- | Is it possi- | | It grieves me to say it, but, Lenore, TWO GIRL’S) LIVES. | ingly as it was that moment. What should she say—the truth? e spoke again, but in a stern,.distant way, | that haifamaddened her to think was her keep- | er’s voice. ° | .* How is it I find you here? An hour ago | your maid said you were asleep.” ‘‘T—I—was asleep. I felt better when I awoke and wanted fresh air, and came out for a short turn.” He looked at her incredulously. “Fresh air was obtainable nearer home, and in a less elaborate dress. Lenore, what does it mean? I never had a suspicion when your door was locked against me, but now—now, Lenore, there is a mystery whose dread has seized me. What does it mean?” His grave, searching eyes were on her burn- ing face, peering into her very soul. ‘IT don’t know what you mean. I said I came | out for air, and you refuse to credit my state- ment. I am not responsible if you do not choose to believe me.” His face flushed painfully. “Would any one credit such a flimsy excuse? believe ou are not—” ‘* What—true to you?” ; She eagerly caught his unfinished sentence |} and finished it in a far different manner from what he intended; finished it with the very proof of her falsity when she attempsed to deny it Mr. Carlingford fairly groaned in agony; her suggestion, so strangely given, opened his eyes in a second. ‘*T would not have said it,” he returned, husk- ily. ‘‘ You are your own accuser. Where have you been? I demand an answer.” She quailed for a moment under his deep, stern eyes. “Only to—to the Chapel, to Lady Augusta’s grave.” He made a gesture of horror. ‘‘Don’t mention her name, I command! To | the nt ere Should she lie? what need had she to deny her falsity, who was acting constantly so foul a falsehood? have made!—remember this: if again that mhan and yourself hold briefest communication—that, man I would spurn from my feet, who has en- tered my home and despoiled it of what I thought was its chiefest treasure”—his voice was immeasurably contemptuous—-‘‘I shall de- liberately fling you from me, as a thing dis- graced, scorned, into the world from whence you came, among the pitiless people who would lasigt and deride your downfall! e walked several steps away, as if he had indeed done with her forever; edt his gentle consideration returned to him again, tempered, however, with a repellent coldness. ‘*You had better return to your room. The night is chilly, and you are hardly strong enough to remain longer in the hea ew.” He hesitated a second, as if battling with him- self, and then offered her his arm. With a scornful gesture she refused it, and swept past him into the dim hall, and went up the stairs to her room, careless, now, who saw | or knew her. But no one met her. Jesmine ened her door, and fastened it after her; and then, dis- regarding her dainty garments, threw herself, aching in every limb, on her bed. The maid watched and waited, uneasily, for an hour or more, and then, thinking Mrs. Car- lingford had fallen asleep, crept away to her own room. The house was still as the grave, save for the far-off sound of footsteps that paced to and fro, never pausing in their weary promenade, in the dim library, all the night through; an while Mr. Carlingford kept his somber watch, his wife lay’on her bed, shivering with cold, or flushed with a dull fever, but wide-awake as if sleep | were a vanished guest, and she a martyr to its absence. Afar, in one of the wooded paths, Vivian Ul- merstone, all unconscious of the interview be- tween husband and wife, stood against a tree trunk, lazily rat yh a cigar that he had light- ed when Lenore had left him. He had a great deal to think of, much to de- cide upon, and, in the cool solitude of the night _he was thinking of the singular, complicated | relations that existed, and in which he was so And yet, if confession risked her lover’s safety! | and a something in her husband’s eyes she never | had seen before, hinted so. Fear—not for the hideous lie she should tell to | ‘ in, | possible good, beyond the passin save him—but fear for his not coming again, contested a moment with the overwhelming de- sire to confess it, and see what her husband in Almost as she framed the morbid thought, her guilty hearts. 4S t shall Ido without you when you are | 5! gone? Vivian, it breaks my heart to think | bis wrath would do. you will be some time where I cannot see |... you.” lips uttered the words: Lenore a with sudden ardor, and with-| ‘‘1 was not alone.” drew from his arms, standing before him so she could watch every motion of his face, ** It will be terrible—the grave could not part us more cruell ” “ AndI oo gi were both in our graves,” | she moaned, most piteously. ‘‘Sometimes I fear I shall go mad; sometimes, when I feel this strange, horrid distress all over me, in mind and y, and I know I am breaking m heart for love of you. I know I am going mad! At home—and what a home!—they remark on | mortal agony. every change of manner, every shade of pale- | ness, or unusual blush; even now, this minute, they all think I am sleeping, under the influ- ence of the opiate the doctor left, who said I must sleep or—die! added, passionately, and then from her eves the tears came in cooling torrents, and her grief—unhallowed, but none the less keen to endure—shook her slight figure like a tempest- tossed reed. ‘ “You are ill, my darling!’ Vivian said, the night-air has Return home, and come again to-morrow night, when you will be bet- ter and stronger. d self if I were the means of adding to your in- or ont he clung around his neck, and kissed his hands, his cheeks; then, as if she dared not re- main a minute longer, darted suddenly away, up the dark paths—into her husband’s arms! CHAPTER XL. THE HUSBAND’S DISCOVERY. Mr. CARLINGFORD stopped, aghast with as- tonishment and wonder. . “ Lenore!” _ It was all he said, but his’tone was terrible. She felt what he meant, even amid the broiling tumult whirlin ; and as she of her w 4 heard his voice, and looked, hal doggedly, at him, she him, her jailer, to the man her heart—throbbing so suffocat- I wish I were dead!” she | “Not alone?’ Who was your companion?” curiously implicated. So far as Lenore Carlingford was concerned, he knew that, gratifying and entertaining as her clandestine trysts would be, there was no moment, to result therefrom. As the wife of a wealthy, influential citizen, she was in no danger of og | eloped with again—which Vivian never though He raised his eyebrows, not in surprise so | much as incredulousness as to her forthcoming answer. of; while, because she was mistress of Ellen- wood, there was every reason to apprehend de- tection, if those after-dark meetings were long | continued. So, he felt sure he would be obliged for these and other reasons—one of which was that, in | very truth, he was losing his interest in the Very quietly, in a brave, indifferent way she | gave him her reply, never blenching under his ‘aZe: ‘*T was with Mr. Vivian Ulmerstone.” Mr. Carlingford shuddered as if stricken with | His eyes filled with a sharp, sudden pain; he recoiled from the touch of her floating drapery. : “That man! Lenore, to think you dare pol- lute my house with the vile presence of the man I learned but to-night was your lover! To think my “— is so. lost to all sense of womanly honor that she deceives her husband—fond fool | that he is!—and steals away to meet her lover!” She listened with an attention that was con- | temptuous in its respect; then retorted: % at have I done so terrible? Is it one of the crimes in your calendar for a woman forced | into a marriage repulsive to every fiber of her being, to seek comfort and congenial society | with one she does love, and did, and always will?” a | _ Her voice was fairly defiant as it rung out the doom in it. ‘‘Repulsive! Lenore, what are you saying? what can you mean when you declare such aw ful things?” He was white with the strain of anguish thus cast upon him so mercilessly. ! ‘“‘T mean what I say—that I never cared for ou and yours as I worship a hair of his | ad! © you understand me now?” e shrun; away in speechless horror; t n, when he seemed to have gathered stren a er the blow, he addressed her in a low, slow, r- rible sort of way that sounded like the knel. if Fate. ‘‘ Remember, Mrs. Carlingford, you have said to me words that never can be forgotten or for- given. What you have done I might have passed over: but after the shameless avowal you | ity, flirtation with Lenore—to put a sudden stop to them. He had made an appointment for the next night, he would keep that; and then, bid Lenore a final adieu. _ Then, to bend all his energies to the task of winning Edna. He knew he could not, if it came to a desperate point, claim her; he had destroyed the very proof he now would have given any money for; but, so long as no one knew that, he intended to go on as if the certificate could be produced at a moment’s notice. ; And to think this puppy, Audrey, was a guest under a roof where —to know he was, that minute, in all probabil- asleep in the same house that sheltered Edna! and, above all, to know that he and Edna were only waiting until the formality of a divorce should be obtained in order to be mar- ried! He compressed his lips underneath his blonde mustache; this fellow, this Audrey, was con- tinually crossing his path: had already cheated him of one pleasure, and was now—he imagined how coolly sarcastic Audrey would have looked had he known Edna’s husband and Lenore’s lover were one and the mae eahy “ waiting ” to get rid of himself to appropriate Edna and her money to his own successful self. It wasn’t a very sweet thought; and Ulmer- stone rep eny, on a linden, watching the dim light in Mr, Carlingford’s li won- vith Oberdon | dered how he could best get even with Audrey, whom he hated with a jealous intensity of rage. ° > would not be tolerated!.
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_ Mrs. ord is not worse?” He looked at her in a dazed, CHAPTER XLI. THE REVELATION OF THE CROSS. Wuen Edna and Rachelle Hunt had been per- emptorily ordered from Lenore’s bedside, Edna had gone directly to-her room, with scarcely a look vouchsafed to Rachelle, who, ever since her arrival at Ellenwood, had been endeavoring to satisfactorily account for the strangely distant manner wit which Edna treated her. It will be remembered that Rachelle had not the remotest idea that Edna entertained a suspicion of ‘‘ Aunt Ella’s” little mas- querading at Sunset View; Rachelle, though she was acquainted with the fact that Edna’s husband and Lenore’s lover were one and the same, had, as a matter of personal interest, reserved her knowledge strictly; and so, while Edna knew Rochelle to be a arty to the deception played on her, and while chelle knew she was one of the two, she had no | idea whatever that any one suspected, save herself and Garnett Fay. Mrs. Carlingford’s sudden and serious fainting at tack at the breakfast-table, that morning, had TWO GIRLS’ LIVES. 34 + $$ He looked so unutterably wretched; he seemed so crushed, somehow, and yet so gentle, so courteous, as he always was. And Edna, with her quick P hg caught at his meaning like a lightning flash. He knew, then, his wife’s baseness. She crouched on the stair in the ve pity and sorrow, not daring to say a word more, not capable of going on, “ Edna ’’—he seemed to make an effort to speak naturally—“ if you will come to the library with Mr. Audrey the first opportunity— My God! where did you get that?” He almost clutched the white coral cross ih his eager fingers; he startled Edna so she trembled vio- leer “That—that cross? It is the only trinket I have. Mrs. Saxton’s initial is on it.” Theh, for the first time, it flashed across her mind that the “‘G’’ could not be Gertrude, for when the cross was found on the foundling, it was already | marked. created quite a sensation among the members of the | household. Mrs. Saxton had smiled mysteriously, declared if was not serivus; and that it was a very usual indisposition for young married ladies, and congratulated Mr. Carlingford, in a series of mean- ing whispers that he seemed neither to understand nor care for. Lenore had been assisted to her room, and Dr. | } ] flew open, revealing two faces—one, a fair young Garland sent for, who seemed to regard her illness as of little consequence, left her a harmless sleeping otion, pocketed his two dollars and went away. broughout the day the members of the family had dropped in, one at a time, to inquire: and Edna had left her last, when the effects of the opiate were wearing off. She and Mrs. Saxton and Mr. Carling- ford had remained the greater part_of the day in Lenore’s room, to be dismissed when Lenore awoke. Edna had retired to her, room, determined to search through her one insignificant little keepsake in a vague, forlorn sort of hope that she would alight on some relic, if ever so small, so insignificant, that would aid her in ascertaining who she was. . Not that she thought that she was Mr, Carling- ford’s daughter, delightful as it would be to make such a discove ing herself much of anybody, and not much more di Whoever she might be, she was still in bonds; whoever she was, she only hoped one day to be Oberdon Audrey's wife. Now for the square, dingy box, with a thin strin tied crossways around it to keep on the cover, anc guard its contents. She looked tenderly at the mis- erable little token, for it recalled the only happy time her young life had enjoyed. She ort remembered how the present Mrs. Saxton, when her adopted mother was only a little while dead, had come to her, and asked her if she ; she had little expectation of find-. wanted this same box, that for years had sat ona | shelf in the dead woman's closet, and how, in child- ish thankfulness at the meanest remembrances of one she so deeply mourned, she gladly took it and kept it for her own. here had been nothing in it of any consequence; one ortwo neck-ribbons, a narrow little silver ring, battered and worn, and a little tin box, apparently onamty but soldered tightly on all sides, She had never parted with the little box; but now she suddenly wondered if the tiny tin box hada secret, so clo: was it sealed. r The idea had never occurred to her before; it hardly would have been likely to happen to any one, so forlorn and dented was the dull-looking little casket; but, somehow, as Edna, with her knife and a hammer, was slowly cutting off the lid, she began to really wonder, earnestly, what its contents were — if not emptiness. It was not emptiness; nor yet was it anything to raise the slightest hope—and Edna smiled—drearily, we are bound te admit, and quite disappointedly when there fell on her lap only a curiously-carved cross of white coral, with the letter “G** enwrought ‘with faint gold traces on both sides. It was nothing to her, of her, after all. Only a little love-token from her dear, dead benefactor, with her own in- itial ““G” for Gertrude upon it. True, Edna re- membered the interest Mrs, Saxton always mani- fested in the tiny toy, but it must have been on ac- count of the exquisite workmanship. Edna was just a little provoked to find herself try- ing to make an ‘A '’—for Lady Augusta—of the un- deniable “G,” or a ‘‘W” for Mr. Carlingford’s Christian name; and then, to punish ois 9 or — resumption, resolved to wear it around her nec an Runt gold chain she had—she disliked charms es ally. ? thin the box was what gratified Edna more than the on of the cross; and yet it was only a small slip of paper, the ink on it faded with ’ that barely revealed the words: ‘‘On Edna si geter’s neck when Itookher. G.S.”’ Only a line, vi but it told all the story of the poor gir]’s orphanage. It was a clew, then, if ever she chose to follow it up. She was not disposed to do so at present, how- ever, and when she iba thatoned the cross to the chain, and attached it around her fair, white throat, roms! vie away the green box, and went down to the ™on the stairs @he ed Mr. Carlingford encounter r. rlingford. She not seen him since his soul-wrenching in- favview with his wife, and from that ISeounter he was now on his way to the lib again. aad ’ , at the awful woe on his “Oh, Mr. Carlingford! Has anything happened? way. “Worse? She is worse than dead—I beg your _ pardon. Edna; I could not have understood you.” “Mrs. Saxton’s initial!” he 2 ag half vaguely. | **Did her name commence with G? There are two G’s on that cross, or there ought to be, if it is the one I think it is. Open it, for Heaven’ssake! Let me open it.”’ She laid it on his hot palm, silently; was there a romance about her, after all? He touched a little hidden spring, and the cross girl who was Edna over again; the other, Mr. Carl- ingford, as hewas years and years before. Edna gazed with fascinated eyes, first at the pictures, then at Mr. Carlingford, whose grand face lighted with tender delight. “There is no room for doubt, my darling! Long ago we thought the likeness so strange, and now I know you are my own child! There is no mate to that cross, and our little one had it on when she was lost or stolen, we never knew which; nor does it matter, now that we have her back. God is good; He has given me my daughter to recompense me for the loss of her mother.”’ It was so natural, so commonplace, so utterly un- like what one would suppose a meeting between parent and child to be, that Edna hardly realized it. “Tt is so strange! can it be true? I your child, Mr. Carlingford?” ‘‘How can you be else? The cross is the proof; the ‘G’is for my dead wife’s pet name—‘ Gustie,’ —the resemblance—what more do you ask, my daughter?” What more, surely? Certainly not to quarrel with the first kind freak of Fate. CHAPTER LII. THE WOLF AT BAY. In his room at the country tavern nearest Elien- wood, where he considered it desirable he should | wait until affairs assumed a less vague, more tangi- ble form, Mr. Vivian Ulmerstone had been medita- ting carefully upon the propriety of attempting an- other visit to the house to see his wife. He had engaged to meet Lenore that —— again, at the Chapel, and, knowing Lenore an Edna to be under the same roof, was it prudent in sed to venture, and with so little hope to encourage nim? He had decided to risk the game for the candle; in other words, to risk the chance of meeting Mrs. Carlingford very awkwardly, when payin; is de- voirs to the only lady in the world entitled to, and at the sametime detesting them. However, knowing very well the strict etiquette observed in houses like Ellenwood, he knew that the callers for one member of the family were not usually interfered with by others. He would un- doubtedly be shown to Edna’s reception room, see her alone—he took that for granted, obviously—and would take his leave as he came. So it was just ten in the morning, when he walked leisurely up to the front entrance, and inquired of the footman for Edna, It must be confessed he did not feel so brave as he thought he would, when he was once in the very heart of the enemy’s camp. But there he was, and he was bound to remain in his present quarters until the interview was over. He did not dread the interview in the least; he was sitting very cosily and coolly by a shady win- ae when Edna entered, cold, haughty, almost in- ant. ithout waiting for his greeting, she addressed him pointedly: “Until I reached the door I had no intimation who it was that awaited me. Having. learned, you will excuse me at once. I can have nothing further to say to you, whatever.” , He had arisen and bowed while she spoke, in her Sweet, clear tones, that cut him to the very quick. He would not let her see, however, the immense advantage she had over him, “I beg you will not be so unkind; I assure you I came with the most pardonable motives—” ‘Which will be of no avail, Any further commu- nications can be made to my father, to whom I refer you.” Her father!—how very singular he had fo’ n she had a father; or, sor tag she not distinctly told him she had no parents? What can she possi- bly mean? e looked at her incredulously. “Your father? Certainly I shall be most happy to meet any of my honored relatives by marriaze. Edna smiled at his endless audacity. “ He will scarcely spprociate the honor, I think," she said, quietly. “However, I will send for him." She walked, with her queenly step, to the speak- ing-tube and addressed some one; very soon, foot- depth of steps approaching denoted a new presence, and | then, in his serene ndeur, his grand nobility of manner, Mr. Carlingford entered the library. He looked at Fay—at Edna; then more severely at Fay again. ‘Papa, this is the man of whem we have been peng af His name is Garnett Fay.” Fay bit his lips furiously. He could have throttled | Edna for her patronizing, one-sided presentation; but, between perfect wild amaze to realize that his | wife was the daugbter of the husband of the woman he was making such base love to, he ma to bow, and murmur some inaudible words of owl- edgment. Mr. Carlington at once drew his chair to the table, opened his ponderous memorandum-book, and looked very oppressively like business. He turned to Edna, ae te “Sit down, my daughter. wish you to hear every word that passes. Sir,’’ to Garnett, who see- ing affairs approaching a crisis, grew bold, almost insolent, at once, ‘‘ you will be seated, if you please, while we arrange a few preliminary affairs.” Garnett bowed haughtily, and séated himself dis- dainfully. ‘** You claim Edna Carlingford as your lawful wife, | Lunderstand? You were married when, where, by whom?’ “TI certainly claim her as my legal wife, according to an act of marriage performed at Sunset View, on Tuesday, the eighth of November, the past au- tumn.” He spoke with a truthful precision that sent the blood receding from Edna's face. Garnett observed it and triumphed. ‘*Before I demand the proof—your iage-cer- tificate—I will state for your benefit, sir, that the marriage can be made null and void from the facts that at the date ot the marriage, Edna Silvester was a minor in age; that she has received no sup- port from you, directly or indirectly; that she’s not and never was Edna Silvester.” Garnett felt his heart sink. Not so much. at the array of facts, as at the implied hint regarding the certificate, which he knew was not forthcoming. ‘And until these points are settled in a divorce- court, you will be so kind as to establish a counter- claim by akniga = the certificate, which, by the way, most men of honor would have consigned to their bride.” Garnett winced under the thrust. “The certificate? really, I cannot lay my hand on itat once. It is among my papers at my hotel, safe enough. I supposed a gentleman’s word was —— especially when admitted by his wife to be a , Mr. Carlingford smiled. “Itis not enough. Is that all you wish to. see me about?» Oh, come in, Mr. Audrey, of course,” he added in a friendly hy-play to Oberdon, who crossed the open door. ‘it will be no intrusion; I shall be happy to offer you a glimpse of the gentleman who claims to be my son-in-law, Mr. Garnett Fay.” As Audrey crossed the threshold Fay sprung to his feet, his eyes full of the desperate fire that is in an animal suddenly brought to bay. Audrey paused, stared, looked in ess astonishment at Fay, at Edna, then turning to Mr. Carlingford, in voice thick with fury, said: “Mr. Fay you call him! I have met him before, when his name was Vivian Ulmerstone!”’ The announcement was thrillingly awful. At sound of the name Mr. Carlingford sprung from his seat as if he had received an electric shock; while Edna, with a shrill ot sat rigid as a rock, with wild eyes, and parted ips that refused to express the horror she felt. ciel Ulmerstone! this man is Vivian Ulmer- stone!’ Mr. Carlingford uttered the words from between his set teeth, and advanced a step nearer Ulmer- stone, who cast at him an insolently defiant smile without s ng. Oberdon Audrey stood his ground, quiet, positive. “Tt is the same man from whom Mrs. Car! ‘ord was rescued—whom she called Vivian. You know pe Sack? Mr. Carlingford; you insisted on its Mr. Carlingford stood looking at Ulmerstone with a ae one might experience toward a rattle- snake. “So you are the villain, double-dyed, are you?— you, the less than man, who, not content with my daughter, must needs trifle with my wife? You are Mr. Garnett Fay, alias Mr. Vivian erstone? the desecrator of a true man holds sacred, the sneak- ing vagabond who hides under two names deeds too foul to endure the sunlight! My daughter,” and he dropped his sarcastic tones as if by magic, as he turned to address her, ‘‘thank Heaven you have met with such a deliverance.” She was terribly excited and nervous, and clung tremulously to Mr. Carlingford’s arm, while Audrey stood hear her. Garnett Fay never moved an inch from his posi- tion. He had listened with a proud smile, as though his misdemeanors were triumphs in which to glory; and now he was watching Edna and Oberdon with a dawning hatred. **T have no doubt it is extrem sir, liar and adventurer that lover remy wife, but—” rlin pleasant for you, are, to play the Mr. gford interrupted him in thunder tones: again’ at apologi ue ome Aumitey 20 the ; and @& ize at once . r yess foal you Lave offered him, my guest, in ine Fay sneered pointedly. pe ait eee ? Pray, what be is he than I? Point to me the difference na in be with
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On LIVES. TWO GIRLS’ your wife (which I admit, and boast she cares for | me as well,)—or he, the scoundrel! in love with my wife! Mr. Carlingford caught him by the coat-collar, with the gripe of. a giant, in whose hands Fay was a very infant. mouse; then walked. him across the floor, his face pale with wrath, his eyes blazing. with contempt; own the stairs, through the hall, out the grand entrance, and then, with more force than feeling, down thé steps, into the grounds. Once free from the vise-like grasp under which he was so powerless, Ulmerstone—we call him so from force of habit—turned and faced Mr. Carlingford, with a perfect fury, demoniacal in its flerceness, on his pale, set features. ‘Before the sun goes down, you and yours shall repent of this.” And he waiked away;+he man who had run near- | | quickly! | Audrey and Mr. Carlingford!’ ly the full length of his rope. Before sundown! CHAPTER LIIL. A WILD GOOD-BY. In perfect ignorance of the stormily exciting scene enacting in the library almost directly opposite her room door, Lenore Carlingford sat in her low rock- ing-chair, resting her hot head in Mrs. Saxton’s | hands, and wishing, agp watching—all for the | e = night shades to gather, when she could see her lover again. She had no conversation with Mr. Carlingford since the evening before. She had met him at breakfast, and found him attentive, courteous as | usual, but she was distinctly made to feel that an insurmountable barrier was grown between them, never, never to be passed. She had retired to her room directly breakfast was over, and her mother had gone with her, both of them entirely ignorant of the direction affairs had taken; at one o'clock lunch was served in Mrs. Car- lingford’s room, at two o’clock Mrs, Saxton and her husband took the return train to New York, little thinking it was— But it is best not to anticipate. Lenore, thus left alone with Jesmine, slowly made her toilette—a black grenadine that contrasted viv- idly with her crimson cheeks and gloomy, flashing eyes. Jesmine knotted a gay Roman sash around her slender waist, clasped a string of gold beads around her throat, and héavy bracelets on her proud wrists. And thus arrayed, she sat down, patient to stoicism, expectant to delirious hopefulness, to wait while the hours rolled around. And sooner far than she expected, she went forth to meet him; when she was waiting, in her forlornly patient way, a note was left with a servant for her, | and no one but her. With feverish fingers she tore it open, the dainty monogramed envelope that bore his beloved hand- writing, and read the briefest note: “Come at once; same place; pressing impor- | tance,” ; There was no need of signature; no need of more definite request. In all the wide world but one human | being wanted her—Vivian Ulmerstone; on all the fair face of earth there was but one spot to her— the ‘‘ Chapel.’ near the Linden path. ‘* At once "’ she grasped her wrap, a costly Indian shawl, gorgeous as a forest in early frost-time. She wrapped it with the native grace of an Italian wothan, in a fanciful fold around her queenly head, and caught it over her arm, It was nearing dusk—it was an hour yet above the sunsetting, and the peaceful calm that precedes the day’s decline had fallen, like a golden shadow, on the earth, She walked down the flower-bordered paths, into the grand old park, where the statuary gleamed among the trees, where the fountains threw high in the air their thousand ay jets, where the sunshine glinted slantwise. through the leafy canopy to the close-cut turf grass beneath. Deeper into-the shadows she went, her heavy silken dress trailing its black shadow over the_cool grand, nearer and nearer the spot. where Lady ugusta—Edna’s girl mother, wasn’t if strange?— lay sleeping her last. sleep; -where, like a breathir portrait, handsome, graceful, noble—to her delude vision—Vivian Ulmerstone was awaiting her, She sprung forward with a glad cry of welcome, then started back in surprise at his haggard face, his wild eyes, ‘Oh, Vivian, what has happened?”’ The words trembled on her lips, but. he laughed scornfully at them. “Nothing Aas happened, only—I sent to bid you good-by,”” “Good-by | good-by /”’ she gasped, with white lips. “Tmust go. It is best, and you will think so, too, when I.am once away. Of what ayail is it that i stay?’ What are you to me—you, Mrs. Carlingford of Ellenwood?” ** Good-by!"’ She repeated the word mechanically, as if the sound of it fascinated her, and dulled her ear to any other word. “Does it hurt your tender heart so? I know it seems terrible to. contemplate, but it must be.”’ He was caressing her icy-cold hands. “*And suns must rise and set, and months come and go, and life must be endured without you! Oh, Vivian, Vivian!” She snatched his hands and pressed them to her lips, raining hot kisses on them. And he—had a mocking smile in his eyes as he thought this woman's husband had collared him that selfsame Vv. “We will think of each other, my one ane t in- every night, when the stars come out, hold sp’ He shook him, as a cat shakes a | | him; every disloy | wildly around for a way of escape. | cape. tercourse that shall reunite us, though oceans of space divide us. «| love, it 7s hard to say good-by, but I must say it. You will kiss me, a last time, my darling?” She clung to him in terror. ‘*So soon? You are crueli You are go cruel! and I shall have to stay with him whom I hate—yes, | hate!” She hissed out the awful words. Vivian smiled again, every word was sweet to al act, or thought, wasa trophy of his triumph—poor, pitiful fool that he was!—over the man who was s0 infinitely above the woman he had taken for his wife. * AmTI cruel, darling? Am—”’ A footstep—different footsteps, on the ground without startled the guilty lovers. Lenore grasped his sleeve with frantic imploration. “Vivian, some one is coming! Oh, heaven, where shall you go? Go, quickly !— t is Her voice sunk toa hoarse whisper, and she looked Suddenly, while the footsteps were slowly nearing them—when they | distinctly heard voices—Mr. Audrey’s and her hus- band'’s—Lenore flew across the damp floor, and into a@ narrow recess in the wall, from which she re- turned in hot, breathless haste. “Quick! hide here—they will never find you; and when they are safely away, you can make your és- Here, down here—there is plenty of room.” She had fairly dragged him into the small cham- ber that led from the narrow niche in the wall. She thrust him in with her small, a hands; pushed the door to, and then stole out through a vine-shaded window on one side the building as Mr. Audrey and Mr. Carlingford entered at the door. CHAPTER LIV. THE VICTIM OF THE VAULT, Tury walked slowly in, looking about them, as they entered. Audrey with keen interest as he lis- tened to Mr. Carlingford’s explanatory remarks. “Tt has been a singular freak of mine, I dare say, but I have never had the strength, the courage, to place the relentless barrier between my dead wife and myself. And you, my dear Audrey, who know’ all my sorrow, can realize how now I shrink the more from it,” They had walked slowly on, past the narrow door through which Ulmerstone had gone, and paused json an offset built out from the altar of the shapel. “The vault is small—only arranged for the ac- commodation of one coffin. Augusta desired it so, and I have mgt yf fulfilled every wish of hers—ex- cept to spring the lock if ever I married again.” is strong voice shook with the inward agony; and Audrey saw his hand shake as he laid it on the heavy iron door of the vault that stood partly ajar. ‘* Will you look in? It is not so dreary a place as one would suppose.” Audrey peered in; and when his eyes were accus- tomed to the darkness, he could see the long, nar- row coffin with its sweeping black velvet pall, the heavy silver shelves that it rested on, the crystal vase of rare flowers that had been placed there so very lately. “My dead darling! I never knew how much I had lost till very. lately. She was good to me, Audrey.” The simple pathos of the lament was infinitel fouching, and Audrey felt his eyes moisten. He grassped Mr, Carlingford’s hand and pressed it in silent sympathy; and the bond of affection born between them, at Lady Augusta’s coffin foot, never was broken. ‘I think I would close it, Mr. Carlingford,”’ he said, very gently. ‘‘Lthink it rather superinduces morbid ancies; does it not? Lady Augusta sleeps the sleep that will know no_ difference whether her tomb.is opened or sealed. May / touch the spring?” Mr. Carlingford cast a yearning glance in ‘the death-chamber; then shook his head slowly. “T can’t let you do it, now, Audrey. But if you will come here alone, any time whent know nothing of it, you may—spring the lock. I will explain its action.” He cage the door further open; a severe task, even for so strong a man. “You see how massive it is—double thickness of heavy riveted iron. The bolt is held back by a mar- velously contrived apparatus, almost magical in_ its workmanship, that needs only the pressure of an infant's finger to shoot it into its socket, firm, fast gigs No human ingenuity could ever pick such & LOCK. ‘““You have kindly sacrificed your feelings to my | deep curiosity, Mr. Carlingford, and now let us re- turn. When you are away, I shall come back and close the door, It is not well to keep open for visita- tion even your wife’s grave.” They went on out, utterly unconscious of the close proximity of Vivian Ulmerstone, who had heard every word, with increasing hatred, _ Now, when he stole cautiously out, his face looked like a demon’s in its horrid malignity of expression as he walked across the narrow intervening space and examined with acute scrutiny the magic lock on the vault, door. Satisfied with his examination, he returned to the hiding-place Lenore had shown him; closed the door, and, with the glitter in his eyes deepening to a fiendish flame, waited— For Oberdon Audrey to come; for his intensely- hated enemy to come, for his rival, who had ridden reugh-shod over him. It was a devilish suggestion, born of Oberdon's own words; and Vivian erstone was the man to execute the suggestion, He did not tremble or falter while he waited for a a RR Ee ET his victim to return, who, instead of mercifully clos- ing Lady Augusta’s ve door, was to be merciless- ly shut in alive with her! ‘ Yes, he would do it—bury Oberdon Audrey alive! snatch Edna’s happiness in his hands and crush it under his grasp. ad he not sworn that Mr, Carl- ingford would rue his touch on him before the sun went down? and would not this be a terribly glorious, as well as wonderfully unexpected, re- venge? So he waited, waited, while the close heat of the room made the perspiration stream down his a excited face, and dampen his dainty white ands. He smiled grimly as he took out his handkerchief —a snow-white square of finest linen, perfumed with a faint odor of wood-violet, and bearing his name in full in one corner—and thought it would never do to let a drop of the moisture remain on the hands that must touch the spring; for a drop might mar the perfect working of the magie bolt. So he carefully dried his hands, and then— He was sure he had heard gently-falling footsteps pass his hiding-place; he held his breath and lis- tened; all was still, and surely Oberdon Aud was within the charnelzhouse, perhaps arranging, with kindly thought and consideration, the sweep- ing folds of sable velvet, and the flowers that never again would see the sunlight. He stepped noiselessly from his closet-like retreat,, wiping the sweat that now lay in clammy drops on forehead, neck and hands; it was well to be certain —dead sure !—that his prey was safely caged before the awful clang of the door should ring Oberdon Audrey’s ey J eath! He pushed the fatal swinging-door off its balanc- ing spot—he wanted it ready to obey at an instant’s notice; he dropped on his knees, and peeped cau- tiously in; he was sure~yes—no, the wind never would have swayed that sweeping velvet so—it was Oberdon eager A He crept further in the awful passage, his hand on the spring, a horrid fascination seizing him to feel, for a brief second, the damp terror that would be his enemy’s portion so soon. In—only a step further, ‘into the close, hot-cold gloom; only a step further out of God’s sunlight; and then—and then—it must have been the wind after all that stirred the velvet pall, for Oberdon Audrey was not there! It must have been a hare hejheard when he was sure it was Oberdon Audrey’s footsteps. A smothered curse, a horrid imprecation, burst from his lips; he sprung to his feet, half smothered with the close, damp heat} he stumbled, in his blind rage, his mad, disappointed haste; stumbled, prone on his face— Inside the vault! And, like a lightning-flash, the door swung to, re- leased from its prisoning spring, and mauect with a shriek of doom! And no human hand might ever undo it! Days after, they found a handkerchief, caught im the firm crack of the door; and on the protruding corner was the name, “‘ Vivian Ulmerstone.” It never came to Lenore’s ears; when she had hidden him—to his destruction—she had flown home, burning with a fever that mounted higher and higher till it dethroned ber reason; and the very hour a horror-stricken-servant had brought to Edna her release—the corner of her husband's pocket- handkerchief—the last gasp of Lenore Carlingford’s life went out. THE END. Waverley Library. By Edward 126 WHEN THE Snare Comes Home. By Walter Besant and James Rice. 127 One oF THE Famony. ‘ By James Payn. 128 Tue Brrturigxt. By Mrs. Gore. 129 MorHertess; or, The Farmer's Sweetheart. By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. 1380 Homeness; or, The Two Orphan Girls in New York. _By Albert W. Aiken, 181 Sister aGarnsT Sister: or, The Rivalry of Hearts. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 182 Sotp ror Gop; or, Almost Lost. By Mrs, M. V. Victor. 133 Lorp Rora’s Sin; or, Betrothed at the Cradle. By Mrs. Georgiana Dickens. 134.Dip. He Love Her’? By Bartley T. Campbell. 135 SiynepD AGarNst; or, Almost in His Power. By Lillian Lovejoy. 136. Was Sue His Wire? By Mary Reed Crowell. 1387 THe VILLAGE oN THE CLIFF. By Miss Thackeray. 138 Poor Vateria; or, The Broken Troth, y Margaret Blount. 139 Marcarer Granam. By G, P. R. James. 140 Wirnovt Mercy. By Bartley T. Campbell. 141 Honor Bounn. By Lillian Lovejoy. 142 Fiera rrom Love. _ Mrs, Harriet Irving. 143 Anpvetep. 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