Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 147) (1882 09 05)
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anh it il (ils BY CORINNE CUSHMAN, AUTHOR OF ‘ BLACK EYES AND BLUE,” '' BRAVE BARBARA,” ‘“‘HUNTED BRIDE,” ETC. CHAPTER I. A GHOST AT THE WINDOW. FIRELIGHT over everything in Farmer Fletch- er’s sitting room—over the ample hearth of old- fashioned, blue Duteb tiles—over the red-and- blue Turkey carpet—over the broad, white, un- papered walls, with their pictures of George and Martha Washington, and over the comfortably- low ceiling—over the two front windows, with their curtains undrawn—beyond them, over the deep, deep, spotless, shining snow outside, mak- ing it blush warmly as the brow of beauty Xe WYP <s under the eye of love. Yet, though it flung its flattering radiance over everything in the great, homelike room, there were objects there upon which the coquettish firelight lingered with a rosier and more loving touch than upon others. It seemed, for instance, to wrap itself about the burnished pewter pitcher—full to the brim of spiced cider, on whose surface bobbed sundry roasted apples seething in warmth and fragrance—which stood as near as safety would permit to the glittering brass and irons; and to caress the white cat and her two fluffy kittens who lay on the rug, basking in the lux- ury of heat. It lighted up very becomingly the face, fore- head, black, crispy hair and handsome features of the schoolmaster, who sat near the round ma- hogany table, with claw feet, which stood in the center of the room, supporting the tall lamp which ‘ paled its ineffectual fires” in the face of that glowing heap of hickory logs in the fire- place. It shone into the bright, honest eyes of one of his pupils, a boy of fourteen; it played hide-and-seek with Mrs. Fletcher’s knitting- needles, and made two comical fire-balls of Far- mer Fletcher’s spectacles, as he read the paper. But most tenderly, most lovingly, this rosy light lingered on the lovely face and figure of Ruth, the daughter of the house. She, too, was a pu- pil of the schoolmaster, who, in bis experience of “ boarding round,” had at length found him- self, much to his secret delight, at the farm- house toward which he had for some time east a longing eye. It is cold in Massachusetts in December, but it was not cold in this charming, old-fashioned sitting-room. : That dancing firelight kept everybody in a glow. At least, it must have been that which made Ruth’s cheeks so red, as she bent over her slate, apparently deeply absorbed in an aly: braic problem. Perhaps the teacher wondei«:| “MADEMOISELLE,” SAID OTIS, RESPECTFULLY, “IS THERE ANYTHING WRONG? CAN I BE OF ANY ASSISTANCE#?
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> 2 THE WAR OF HEARTS. oOo eee :?0OOooOm—? if she were going to be able to solve it without his help, for he kept those black eyes of his fixed on her face quite as steadily as hers were glued to the slate. But it was the firelight, of course, which made her seem to blush, and not the con- sciousness of his regard. It was known in school that the master was quite an artist—he drew wohderful portraits on the blackboard at times, toamuy: himself during recess—and if he had been stucfying Ruth for the purpose of mak- ing a picture be could not have looked at ber more earnestly. An exquisitely-pretty picture she would have made, with her graceful head inclined over her slate, the rosy light dancing over her gold-brown hair and glittering on the curved ends of long, dark lashes—over the deli- cate, dark brows, the young forehead white as snow, the flushed cheeks, and the dainty, searcely-developed figure of a girl of sixteen. Ruth had donned her merino dress with a lace ruffle and rose-colored bow at the neck, in honor of their boarder. Besides this, she had a pink carnation and geranium-leaf in her hair, a gift from the schoolmaster, who had received a box of flow- ers from Boston the day previous—flowers were costly luxuries at Pentacket in December. “Have you decided to go to Boston to spend the holidays, Mr. Otis?’ asked Farmer Fletcher, laying down his paper. he young man started, and a red streak rose slowly in either olive-pale cheek; he had been so absorbed in his study of the speaker’s daughter —and in certain dark thoughts that lay restless but hidden in his breast—that the question came upon him like a surprise. Ruth looked up, in- terested in his answer, and so did her mother and David, her brother. They all liked the “schoolmaster,” and had invi him to spend the time with them from the present until the day after New Year's. He answered them. that morning at the breakfast-table, that he ha business of some importance to transact in Bos- and did not know but he should be com- ed to take the holidays for attending to it; ut that inclination tempted him to accept their kind hospitalit “T should like nothing so well as to remain here, in this delightfful house, with your plea- sant family,” he had said, with great earnest- ness. ‘This is my first winter in the country; it has the charm of novelty; and I should like to keep Christmas in the old-fashioned way with you. But I fear I cannot.” He looked up now with a start and a flush as the question as to his decision was asked him. a moment, forcing a laugh at his own ner- vous action, he replied: “at find that Iam obliged to go, Mr. Fletcher; I had a letter to-day which decided the matter. However, I have compromised with. my con- science—t shall remain here, since you have so kindly urged me, until the day after Christmas. Le give me time to accom- plish what I have to do in Boston.” ‘I dare say you will be glad to make New Year’s calls on your fashionable city friends; of which, we erstand, you have such num- bers,” remarked Ruth, wil just the least per- flash of her beautifv? eyes and pout of her rosy lips, : The schoolmaster looked at ner an instant, but his eyes were cast down as he answered in a low voice: “T shall not make a ee callon that day. I am going on business—an disagreeable business, “Tt’s a wonder condescend to teach school, Mr. Otis!” Ruth continued, with still more of a curl of her rose-leaf lips. “Wh ?? “Qh, I don’t know. Only, you have such an air—and they do say your relatives are all as rich as Croesus, and as proud as the Czar of all the Russias.” “Ruth!” spoke up her mother, reprovingly. “Oh, Lknow, mother! You need not remind me that I am unladylike. It’s bad enough to have Mr. Otis laugh at_me.” For the teacher had smiled in a grave, doubtful way which the imperious beauty did not like. Ruth was the belle of her own neighborhood, and could have “her pick of beaux,” yet could not oes herself from becoming fascinated with stranger, of whose opinion of herself she was so uncertain. Sometimes she thought he was in love with her; again, that he secretly scorned her, despised her family, and only flat- = her ody own haere Rath was comp aac which made Ru Fletcher sometimes tremble and blush under his regard, as timid as a frightened dove; and at others peck ener, at tase lien have caressed her, The schoolmaster was older d which would | ¢, than the girl of sixteen, and very wise of his years; oa perhaps he unde these lit- tle freaks of temper, and did laugh at her. He answered her now quite seriously: “My relatives may have unbounded wealth; but my own store is so small that I must needs add toit. I will not beg—or, if Iam compelled to, it will be of strangers and not of my own blood.” ‘‘ But influential friends generally set young gentlemen up-in business, and help them on, urged Ruth. : * My friends did set me up in business once; but I made a miserable failure. They were se- vere on me, and I quarreled with them, and since then I have left them to their bad opinion of me, if you must know thetruth, Miss Fletcher.”. *‘Ohr? murmured she, “I did not mean to be inquisitive, or—or, impertinent, Mr. Otis. It is none of my business, I know; and I beg your pardon.” The soft violet eyes looked piteously into the gloomy ones of the teacher, who replied cour- teously, but who seemed to have been aroused to painful reminiscences by the turn the con- versation had taken. A dark, stern look that was almost a scowl settled on his handsome face; he stared into the glowing fire as if he saw some frightful picture in the ruby cvals that glimmered, flashed and crumbled under the burning fore-log. It was now Ruth’s turn to watch his countenance, and to wonder what was in his mind, and to wish, with all her passion- ate, foolish heart, that she knew more about his past life. The farmer, yawning, bade David around the cider, after which he and ‘‘ mo- ther” went off to , With an injunction to “the children” to follow speedily—a mandate which David, sleepy with some study and more coasting, soon obeyed; but Ruth still sat by the round-table, her wistful! eyes following the teacher, who, oblivious of her existence, now paced up and down the length of the fire-lighted room—his head drooped upon his breast, his whole expression indicatmg deep and painful thought. At intervals he would pause by the uncurtained window and gaze out on the fire- a snow, which looked as if stained with ood, Nearly an hour passed in this way, when he approached the t -le and seemed about draw- ing something from his breast-pocket, but start- _ onperceiving Ruth, exclaiming, almost harsh- y: ** What! you here still?” é The tears had been standing in the “ied "3 eyes for a long time. They now rolled down her cheeks at being addressed so curtly, and rising she would have fled from the room; but the sight of those glistening drops recalled her companion toasense of his rudeness, and stretch- ing out his hand he drew her back, kissed her gently on the forehead and then pushed her from im, but with a soft firmness vhich she could not choose but obey. Ruth, at the door, paused and turned as if asking to be recalled; but he had again forgot- ten her existence, and with a heavy sigh she went away. If the sigh which the girl breathed was a sad one that which broke laboringly from the breast of the man she left, when he found himself alone, was more like a moan than a sigh. The gasp of the night-wind, shuddering at the case- ment, was not so dreary. r :% Oh, that lonesome, wintty.. night-wind! It had stolen out of the far darkness and now moaned at the fire-litten window as if pleading to be let in. To the conscience of the man who stood there, trembling and listening, it seemed to be her mee begging and pl to be taken to his Her voice—the writer of the letter which he now drew from his bosom, and, unfolding, om its delicate characters to the light of the ° p. For the huge fire had by this time smoldered down to a core of heat, whose cheerful glow in vain strove to combat theshadows which fill- ed the further limits of theroom. Those sleep- less shadows crept closer and closer about him, from every side, as he stood by the dimming lamp, reading and re-reading—as one who. sees without comprehending—the lines traced on the violet-sconted paper: iy “T have found out where you aro, Otis, as you will see by the direction of this. I am far from well this winter; indeed, I am telling you the truth. I feel that I cannot live long—at least, if you treat me as you have been doing. { wish you would come and see me, Ah, for God's sake come and see me, dear Otis. I am so lonely, now mother is dead. ome and see me jvst once, Oh, come, and let your poor unhappy little wife again hear you speak, see you smile, or even frown. Yes, if you come only to curse me, I still pray you to come. You cannot think how Greadful it is to be alone as I am. Ilie awake all night thinking of you. I know that — hate and despise me. I am not wholly to olame. et, if Lhad it in my power, I would undo every- thing—not for my sake, but for yours, dear Otis. Yes, if I could go back one miserable year I would it. * Otis, Otis, have mercy on me, and come, if only once, if only for an hour. ** Your poor little wife, MiLpReED.”’ And while Ruth Fletcher, the innocent school girl, wept herself to sleep on her pillow, because r. Otis had been so indifferent to her that eve- ning, the teacher stood alone in the darkening room, surrounded by shadows which chilled his very blood, while the running night-wind, as it passed, snatched at the rattling window, shak- ing it, and wailing out: ‘‘Come, come, come! If only for an hour, for God’s sake, come!” Oh, the terrible sting of the adder, Conscience! You may drowse it fora day, but it will start to life, and pierce your soul with mortal pangs, in the very midst of joy and fancied security. That night it struck its fangs into the harden- ing heart of Otis Garner. CHAPTER IL. A WAGER LOST AND PAID. ONCE upon a time, in one of the elegant rooms of a certain young meéu’s club of Boston, four young gentlemen sat at a card-table playing whist. The game itself was respectable enough: the parties playing it belonged to the ereme de la ereme of fashionable society. The only ser- ious misfortune which had, thus far, befallen any one of this distinguished quartette was the very sad misfortune of having too much money to spend. Not having so much self denial as money, they constantly made foolish use of the latter. They were doing so now. For, on an- other table within reach, stood several bottles of champagne, to which they had frequent re- currence as the game progressed. ‘The effect of this lavish supply of champagne was to make them very merry. And if we are to judge by a conversation which took place amongst them about eleven o’clock P. M., it made them as fool- ish as it did “‘jolly.” In it they agreed to play a last game, and the losing partners were S0l- emnly pledged, on their word of honor, to toss up for the lot, and whichever one of the two lost, was pledged to start from the steps of the Tremont House as the bell struck twelve on the morrow Loon, and walking slowly toward the Common, offer himself to the first young woman he met, and marry her if she er ky m. Such a wager ‘as this was highly exciting provoking hilarity as the e progressed ; and when, at the close, Otis Garner found himself not only a loser of the game, but the owner of the gold eagle which came down ‘heads, I lose,” he -burst into a roar of laughter, profess- ing himself not only willing but eager to keep his promise. - ‘ that he demanded of his gay, friends was, that they should not betray, the “lark” unti after the walk was taken, as he did not wish his acquaintances to crowd the pavement in front of the Tremont, nor follow him, while he was fulfilling the wager. They promised to keep the secret, and the four separated at two in the morning, in glorious good spirits, feeling that they had originated an idea which ought to e them immo: Al But when Otis Garner woke up in’ his Iuxur- ious chamber in his uncle’s house at ten the fol- lowing morning, he was not so certain that he had done the brightest thing that ever was. His uncle, he was quite sure, would not admire the idea. Otis was unpleasan*y dependent on this uncle. “Mis own parents were dead, and the few thousands of dollars they had been able to leave him—his father having lost nearly all his fortune in stock speculations shortly before he died—were spent long ag0. But his uncle Gar- ner was a dless widower, and he was tho same as an adopted son to the old ntleman ; so that Otis never troubled himself about his rospects. It is not strange that he rested se- cure as the heir of his uncle’s millions; for he was petted and humored like an only child. Every one flattered and ay he Dtis Garner. His beauty, his gallant ways, his high spirits, excused those little extravagances—even those dissipations—which his friends believed he would outgrow all in good time. . ; is uncle Garner had another pet—notso dear to his heart and his pride as the yo , but well-loved and cared for nev Honoria Appleton was a superb girl beautiful and haughty as if of imperial blood, with the same dark, glowing style of beauty which distin- poe her cousin Otis. She. too, lived in her
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THE WAR OF HEARTS. 3 uncie’s house and was his ward. At seventeen she had the composure and the stateliness of a woman of twenty; while the regal lily on its swaying stem was not more seful. Naturally ennge the elder Garner thought that a marriage 0 the two cousins would be the nicest thing in the world; for thus, without rob- bing Honoria, he could leave all his vast fortune to his favorite—his boy; indulging both his af- fection for Otis and his pride in the great estate, which could thus be kept intact. ; uite as naturally Honoria did not intend to tall in love with her cousin. The mere fact that their guardian looked forward to such a thing set her against it. Her cousin, to her, was her cousin—and nothing more. There had been times when he had felt himself wildly infatuated with her; but these times, so far, had been followed by hi: of resentment and coldness, during which he took the oppor- tunity of falling in love with countless other girls, worthy and unworthy. Thus affairs stood on that bright October morning when Otis roused himself from his deep slumbers to realize that his head was poling from too much champagne, and that he ha made a “confounded fool of himself” the pre- vious night. The thought of his wager filled him with horror; but he was not the one to back out from any pledge given to his companions:— if it had been to drown himself in the Charles river, he would deliberately have drowned him- self. He was glad to reflect that it was ten o'clock and that his uncle had probably left the house. He was not only dismayed about the wager, but ashamed of the late hours he had kept. As yet, it was seldom that Otis, though gay, idle, an inclined to dissipation, actually went beyond the prescribed bounds. : Ringing the bell for Stickler, his uncle’s valet, he ordered a glass of soda-water, and his break- fast to be brought to his room. oh’ “My uncle has gone out?” he said, inquiring- ly, as he sat down in his dressing-gown to the epicurean breakfast deftly arranged on a small table by the valet. ie P “No, Mr. Otis, he is in the library, if you please. And he told me, would I tell you he was waiting to see you, as soon as convenient, please.” . ‘ This news quite spoiled the young gentleman’s appetite, which had been poor enough at first; he knew only too well that he was to have a lecture from his kind old relative on his late hours; so, hastily drinking a cup of strong coffee to tone up his nerves, he proceeded to make a careful toilet, mindful, in the midst of his trou- ble, of the wager he was to fulfill at noon. “How the dickens, Stickler, did my uncle find out that I was not at Miss Agnew’s recep- tion last night?” he asked, as the man was help- him with his things. “Oh, indeed, Mr, Otis, I’m sorry to say it, an’ I’ope you'll excuse me, but them young gentle- men as ’elped you ’ome, sir, they rung the bell that long and that loud as I couldn’ sto’ ’em, though Popened the door at the first sound—be- ing on the watch like to let you in quiet, Mr. Otis—and they yelled up the staircase that fool- ish, your uncle ran out, thinking somethink dréadtul was up, an’ they made a chair of their four ’ands an’ carried you up an’ stood you against the wall, an’ made a redeklous bow to my master, an’ says: ‘ We’ve brought him ’ome all right, Don’t let him fall over, or he’ll break.’ An’ one of ’em fell himself, going down, and the whole ’ouse aroused by the row. Indeed, I tried for to prewent it, Mr. Otis, It’s a burning shame your uncle should be allowed to know— but them gentlemen was too imprudent for anythink. I ’ope you don’t think it my fault, sir.” ‘No, ind Stickler; it certainly was not Your fault. I remember your faithfulness When I have worn this coat once or twice more,” and Otis tried to laugh; but the crimson flush of shame rushed over his olive cheek, to know his foolish excesses of the previous evenin; had been thus rudely betrayed to the refined an sehsitive old man who loved him so, and whose heart must ache at his nephew’s folly. “Tt is the last time that I ever touch cham- e,” he said to himself, as he went slowly te the stairs Pewhiep he had been carried in such disgraceful plight. It was with bh enfe brow and downeast eyes that he stood before the grave old gentleman in the library; for Otis, though ed by indul- ence, was neither essnor hardened. Love er the culprit softened the uncle's indignation ; but he managed to deliver a pretty serious lec- wae: and to exact from the erring one a solemn segs as reform, which was meant, at the = # ret Otis Garner was in no enviable frameof mind when, at a quarter past eleven, he was dismiss- ed from the library. He saw how wild, reck- less and ruinous were such frolics as that just over; he earnestly resolyed never to go so far in another, but to limit himself to sensible plea- sures; but all these regrets and resolutions did not absolve him from the consequences of the one just indulgedin. He never, for a moment, admitted to himself the possibility of evading the wager, Should he do so he knew that he would become an object of ridicule to his as- sociates at the Club. No! mad as he had been to enter into such a compact, once being made, he would keep it, “if it killed him,” His un- cle’s just anger, Honoria’s contempt and his own life-long misery, were as nothing weighed against his word, given to his comrades. It is true that he might crawl out through the loop- hoie of a drunken man’s word being worthless; but Otis’ pride was strong and fiery—he was a gentleman, drunk on champagne, and he must abide the consequences of his own imprudence. He walked quickly out of the stately and splendid old mansion which faced on the Com- mon—just bowing to Honoria, who was passing through the hall with her fair, patrician hands full of roses and violets which she had gathered from the conservatory, and who never had look- ed lovelier than now, in her long, white, sweep- ing morning-dress, a cluster of scarlet fuschias tt har dark hair and the freshness and brightness of morning on velvet cheeks and ey eyes —and in a few moments had reached the steps of the hotel, where, ashe expected, he found his three friends awaiting him. These had forced a reckless gayety by renewing their appeals to the treacherous pri mapa 9 of the wine; they welcomed the victim with a satirical Sc ikea which goaded him into a still firmer resolve to fulfill his part of the compact. In the midst of their mock congratulations the bells of the city began to toll twelve, Otis was conscious that he turned pale. His friends saw it, too, and irritated him by their heartless laughter. White and frowning, with his dark eyes burning and his lips compressed, he began the fatal promenade. His three comrades followed, a few paces in the rear, to see ‘‘fair play,” as they expressed it, Otis Garner, as he walked slowly and grace- fully through the crowd, was a man to make even those of his own sex look after him, Young, beautiful, faultless in dress and carri- age, the rose-bud and pansy in his button-hole just giving the finishing touch of living, breath- romance to youth and grace, he walked de- liberately on, scanning the faces of all he met. Of course, at that hour, on that street, he could not walk far without meeting women in plenty. Still, it so chanced, that he had proceeded some distance before he met one of the other sex whom he judged to be under twenty. Suddenly he stopped in his leisurely walk. His three friends passed him slowly, so as not to attract too much attention by their and his maneuvers, A young girl, coming from the opposite di- rection, had also stopped on the pavement the instant Otis did. She looked about her as if she had lost something. ‘* Mademoiselle,” said Otis, respectfully, ‘is Shere SPINNING wrong? CanI be of any assist- ance The large, lovely, innocent eyes filled with tears, as she glanced up at him. . ‘Oh, sir, some one hastaken my purse. [had it “ve aig ago, I am certainand now; it is, gone Her tone was one of perfect despair. The look of distress deepened over her young face, * Sixteen—pretty—and poor,” was the verdict of the three young gentlemen who sauntered by at this crisis. ‘** Allow me to aid you in searching for it,” said Otis, ‘ ‘Oh, sir, what good would it do? I have not dropped it—it has been stolen,” and the tears began to fall. ‘Was there much in it?’ asked the loser of the wager, biting his lips as he met the curious glances of his confederates. ** All we had in the world. Oh, what will mo- ther say? It would not be much to you, sir, I know—only fifteen dollars—but it took me so long to earn it—oh, so long! I am a music- teacher, sir,” she added, innocently, betrayed into confidence by the sympathy expr in the stranger’s . : “You! I thought you a child!” “Well, itis true Iam only a little over six- teen. But I had to do something, after pa died. Ihave but one pupil, sir—a little pM and this was the very first money I ever earned. Only think of it!” and the large tears began to De, more rapidly down her peach-blossom Otis looked very earnestly at her. He. dress was old-fashioned and poor; but it was of dark material and fitted her slender figure so well that not one man in a thousand would haye noticed its plainness; for the figure itself was that of a fairy and gave grace to the garment. Sweet little hands. Dear little feet—in shabby shoes, From under a straw hat fell a cascade of glittering, rippling hair that glimmered like water made golden in the sunlight. This lovely hair framed a small, sweet face, very pure and childlike in its expression; * with a wistful earnestness very winning, er complexion was like that of snow-drops and pinks, It was piti- able to see the heavy teais hang on those long curved eyelashes. “Thank the Fates, it is no worse,” muttered Otis between his clenched teeth. “It may ruin me; but, at least, I can do something toward making this child happy.” At this moment his friends re-passed him, smiling mockingly. He glared at them like a satis, 2 **They had better remember this girl is to be my wife!” he thought; ‘‘I will horsewhip Phil- ips for that insolent look.” “Will accept fifteen dollars from me?” he asked her, pulling out his pocket-book. “Oh, no, sir; I could not do that!” ‘* What is your name?’ velace,” ** Well, then, Mildred, since you will not take the money, will you take me?” She opened her blue eyes wide. “I will tell you the whole truth, Mildred. I promised those three young gentlemen who just passed that I would “et the first girl I met, after lenying Tremont House, to marry me. It was foolish, for I might have met an ugly girl, or a bad one. You are pretty and ood. So I consider myself very fortunate. will tell you who Iam. I am Otis Garner, nephew of C. W. Garner, the rich, retired merchant. Now, I seriously ask you to ma me. Will you, or will you not, be my little wife, this very day?” CHAPTER IIL SOME OF THE CONSEQUENCES. IF little Mildred had been less of a child her answer would have been different. She looked up at this aon fairy prince who had offered himself to her, The world—which, a moment ago, when she was bewailing her lost purse, looked so dark and cold and h to her— now glittered with jewels and breathed of roses, and shone as full of magic wonders as the mys- terious Christmas-tree to the imagination of a child, Oh, could it be true? To have this beau. tiful, perfect creature, to love and pet her—to be the wife of such an —to be rich, and wear diamonds and have silken oles. ane never give those tiresome music lessons? The thought took away her breath. The blue eyes to shine and e d, the rosy little mouth to curl into a soft, She looked up into Otis “That must be for you to say, Mr. Garner, You will come home with me and ask my mother, will you not?” “T must have her consent in order to get the license, I suppose,” he replied; and then the haughty scion of one of Boston’s proudest fami- lies, offered his arm to the little creature in the delaine dress and black straw hat, and led her, with an air of triumph, past the grinning trio who had come to a stand not far away. a s p> ze at the eee of -_ he at ve this afternoon,” he said, gayly, loo back as he marched by them, with little Mildred clinging to his arm. “It’s a dooced good joke,” murmured one of the three, when er was out of hearing, “ The best—the very best—joke I ever heard By Jove, but Garner has grit! He will marry her, as sure as you live! © old man will cut him out of his inheritance, and there will be the mischief to pay all around. It all comes of Otis’ dooced stubbornness. I thought nothing but that he would back down. Wel, boys, we must see the play out. Five o'clock 'y all that’s Selly tiaeibieag joke, Will be on hand, of course : “Of course. And all I can say is that I hope he will not murder her after he’s married her. He’s got a devil of a temper, if it once up. He'll marry her, rather than back out ofa bad
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4 THE WAR OF HEARTS. scrape; but what he’ii do afterward remains to be seen. I would not care to be in her shoes.” ‘TPve a mind to go after him and tell him we release him from the bond,” added the third: but such a course was 1 yale too late. Gar- ner had disappeared in the crowd, nor did they succeed in seeing him again before five o’clock, although, growing remorseful, they called at his residence twice in the course of the after- noon. At the appointed hour these frolic-loving friends entered the designated church, with aces a dozen others, to show “hey had con- ded the story of the “fun ” that was going on. The altar was decorated with flowers, the or- ganist was playing Wagner’s Bridal March, and just after they were seated, there floated up the aisle on the arm of handsome and haughty Otis Garner, a fairy figure, clad in clouds of snowy satin and lace, her exquisite face blooming in the soft shadow of the wedding vail like some delicate flower over which has been woven, while it dreamed, a dewy film. There was no mark of “ the lower classes ” on this dainty bride to horrify the fashionable snobs who looked on, half in mockery, half in dismay. She was fresh and lovely and delicate in looks—but whether she could ever be a fit mate to the man who stood by her side was an- other question. The wildest of them grew grave as the solemn words of the marriage ceremony were spoken; the three friends, especially, felt the sting of re- gret, realizing eas the folly of their ways, and perhaps mentally resolving that they never again would have a hand in such a scrape. But the deed was done! i Otis Garner had kept his tipsy pledge, and was walking out of the church with the air of a king, but pale as death; vouchsafing no glance at his club companions, but proudly supporting the blanched and trembling young creature who clung to his arm, and whom he had taken, be- fore God and man, as his wife. The bride’s mother, a plainly-dressed woman evidently yery much of an invalid, and who hac a sad, gentle countenance, walked meekly be- hind. 6n reaching the pavement the three en- tered a carriage in waiting and were driven rapidly away. n less than an hour thereafter Otis entered his uncle’s house, and sat down to the sumptuous six o’clock dinner as if nothing had occurred. He was pale and silent; but this both Mr. Gar- ner and Honoria set down to the reproof he had received in the morning. It flattered and pleas- ed the uncle to think that the weight of his re- buke was felt so sincerely; it touched him to see the young man grave and distrait ; and out of the kindness of his indulgent affection, he made an effort to rally him out of his unwonted seri- ousness. “You must escort Honoria to the opera to- night, Otis. It is a gala-night, I believe—Nilsson in Marguerite. You have no other engagements, I presume?” I will take Honoria if she cares to go.” “JT do care to go,” said Honoria. “I adore Nilsson in Marguerite,” with the enthusiasm of seventeen. Otis looked over at his cousin earnestly. Oh, how beautiful she was! He had been madly in love with her many times; but never —never so infatuated as at this moment! The contrast between this royal beauty and that of the uncultivated little creature to whom he had said good-by for the dey, a little while ago— leaving her, with a cold kiss, weeping in her mother’s arms—enhanced every charm of the former. He par nf of the sweet, silly, ignor- ant little thing with mingled pity and—disgust. Her fawn-like manners, her unconventional ways, her simple loveliness, were hateful to him in contrast with Honoria’s superb style. To make matters worse, Honoria was in one of her coquettish moods. She glanced from un- der her dark lashes at Otis with a smile which fired his soul. The maddening thought rushed through his brain that perhaps, after all, his cousin, who had taken delight in showing her indifference, had begun to carefor him. Now that he had put it out of his —— to ever again make love to her, it seemed to him there was nothing in the world “worth doing but that. Honoria was still in the mood to please her cousin when she came down, dressed for the opera. She had made herself as beautiful as an exquisite toilet and kling spirits could make cher, There was a soft = on her velvet cheeks and in her dark eyes. Her manner was gay and yet tender. f 1 What man can resist the spell of this combina- tion? wr Otis felt his heart melt under her lightest glance or word. He did not take an inventory of what she wore—Honoria had the great art to make any- thing she wore seem a eg of her. Her taste was infallible. He only knew that he was proud of his fair companion—of her elegant dress and her splendid beauty. Strange thoughts and dreams coursed through his brain as they sat in their box at the opera | that evening. The thrilling, passionate voice of the ill-fated Marguerite stirred the inmost depths of his be- | ing. It seemed to him that she was Mildred, and that he was the Faust who had broken her heart; but that he would still—though lashed | all the devils of remorse and de- st her aside and laugh at her and driven b spair—still ti madness, for the sake of winning the love of the | glorious girl by his side, the light touch of whose rfumed glove hastened his pulses and the soft | re of whose lustrous eyes burned down to his heart’s core. Once, during the scene in the prison cell, two tears agate from Honoria’s diamond eyes, and fell glittering on the lace and pearl of her fan. Instantly Otis caught the fan and kissed the briny drops. Honoria smiled and lightly blushed—she had never before given him ini encouragement. For a moment Otis was in rap- tures; from these he sunk into dull despair, re- membering what had occurred that eventful day, Honoria Appleton was no flirt; she was inca- pable of anything so degrading as an actual flir- tation. She was acting, to-night, from a high and holy purpose. She had been grieved and alarmed at the condition in which her cousin had come home the previous night. It was true that such “sprees” as this were of rare—very rare—oc- currence; but, she argued justly, they should never occur at all. She knew the good and manly qualities of her cousin; she feared the in- fluence of too-gay associates, and she had formed a resolution, that day, to treat him with such kindness and consideration as would give her the power, some time, to persuade him to swear off from his fashionable club and its excesses. Whether she should go further than that—en- courage his liking for her—she had not decided. Certainly, the very interest she took in his im- provement made her think of him more ten- erly. So. she smiled on him that night; and was sweetness and goodness itself to him the next day, and the next, and the next—knowing no reason why she should not—and happy in the fact that he now remained home of evenings so satisfied with her society that he did not crave the coarser pleasures of the club. Yet his con- duct puzzled her. One moment he would be sunk in gloom, for which there seemed no ex- cuse; me next he would bewilder her witha dis- play of extravagant gayety. One eveniig thay were alone together in the music-room. Several visitors had been in and gone away. Uncle Garner had retired to his room; it was late. Honoria had been playing and singing for Otis for the last half-hour. Wit his elbows leaning on the piano and his strange, fiery, somber eyes fixed on her face, he had lis- tened until she grew weary and ceased. The house was so still that the ticking of the quaint, old clock on the staircase echoed down into the quiet room. Honoria looked up, half-uneasily, at her com- ion, They were such good friends, and ew each other so well, dwelling as they did under the same roof, that she was puzzled by the new expression of his face. He approached a step nearer to her, took her hands and drew her to her feet, still holding her hands in a grasp so fierce that it hurt her. * “Honoria, could you love a man well enough | to forgive him for doing a dastardly deed?— well enough to love him still, despite of his suc- cumbing to a terrible temptation?” “TI don’tknow. Whatare you talking about?” she answered him, startled, and partially shrink- ing from him. ‘Some timée—soon—you will hear a strange story about me. Then I shall come to you and ask you what to do. It shall depend on you whether I go hang myself, or whether there may still be something in life for me to look for- ward to. Honoria, whatever happens, remem- ber, I love you—never loved, and never willlove any woman but yourself.” fore she could answer him he flung her hands away, and walked out of the room. She heard his listless step slowly ascen the stairs. She was frightened. What terrible thing could her cousin have been guilty of? P She lay long awake that night, wondering and ‘earing. * a | | The next day, like a bomb-shell, into that aris- tocratic house fell the news of the nephew’s ill~ assorted marriage. The whole city hil been | ringing with the story for days, but no one had ventured to speak of it to the haughty old gentleman. At last, a version of the affair got into the papers, and this falling under the eye | of Mr. Garner at his reading-room brought him | home rather suddenly. ; drawing-room, He was holding the skein of silk which she was winding. Their uncle swept into the room like a winter- | storm, aud thrust the paper with the marked | paragraph before the eyes of the guilty young man, ‘¢ What foundation is there for this story, sir?” Otis glanced it over; his face paled, but he raised his eyes bravely to the countenance, black with wrath and quivering with pain, which frowned down upon him, “Tt is almost entirely true, uncle.” “True !” ““The night I came home in that di ceful condition, uncle, while under the influence of champagne, we fellows made awager, and the one that lost was to marry the first girl he met, the next day, starting from the steps of the Tremont, just as it is stated here. I was so un- fortunate as to lose—and I had to keep my word.” via i i FET EE married the girl? “The marriage was legally performed?’ ‘¢-Yes, uncle—at the Chure of the Ascen- sion.” “She is poor?” ‘* A music-teacher, she told me.” “ And vulgar?” ** Not very.” ‘‘Leave my house, sir, and never enter it ain!” “ Yes, uncle.” You are disinherited—mark that! I here | register a solemn oath that I will not leave you so much as one dollar. My will shall be re- written to-morrow. My niece shall take your | place in my heart, and as my heiress.” “ All right. God bless you, uncle. I’m sorry my folly has grieved you and wounded the Gar- ner pride. Good-by, Honoria.” Otis shook hands with his cousin—who was white and shivering, and whose tearful eyes met his with a look that maddened him—-turned, |; and went out. CHAPTER IV. A REJECTED APPEAL. “(Sue loves me!—her eyes betrayed it!” he murmured, with a fierce joy, as he hurried down the steps. For an hour he walked up one street and down another, in a most distracted way. From the first he had anticipated such an end- ing to this miserable business—yet, when the expected blow fell, he was stunned. At the end of an hour he called a carriage and was driven to the humble home of the young stranger whose fate was so inextricably blended with his own. I say ‘‘stranger,” for the acquaintance of this rashly-wedded pair had progressed but slowly since they had left the altar before which they had been pronounced ‘man and wife.” A brief call of fifteen minutes each af- ternoon, during which he always saw his bride in the presence of her mother, had been the utmost limit of the bridegroom’s attentions. He had intimated to Mrs, Lovelace that some cultivation of each other’s society and friend- | ship would be desirable for both, before they began to live together. The mother gladly acquiesced—since, although her desire to secure a rich husband for her child before she herself | should be taken away from this life had in- duced her to consent to the sudden marriage, | she had felt the want of delicacy in such a proceeding. She was more than pleased with the refined consideration of her new son-in-law; as yet seeing little reason to complain, since he never came without bringing rich presents to herself and her daughter. New furniture came to re- place the few shabby articles remaining of their store: delicacies, suited to an invalid’s appetite; fine dresses for herself; and for her darling child jewels, laces, fans, perfumery, bijouterie, and a whole outfit of handsome gar- ments, bonnets, wraps, dainty robes, The Honoria and Otis were together in the back’
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pride had a new purse, filled with gold and bank-notes, in place of the poor little affair she had lost. Every day, after their fine luncheon, little Mildred dressed herself in her new finery and sat down by the window to watch and wait for her fairy prince. She was as pretty as possible, with her soft gold-brown hair piled up on her head to make her appear taller and more like a wife—her silken dress falling about her fairy figure, her white neck encircled with pearls or costly-cut pink corals, and the wedding-ring shining on the slender finger of the dimpled hand which rested on the window-sill. At first Mildred had gone to meet her prince with the eagerness of a child who expects new toys; but a change was coming over her man- ner very rapidly. Before her strange marriage Mildred had been simply a child; but womanly feelings de- velop wonderfully under ‘‘the light of a dark eye” shining upon the unopened buds which have heretofore lain so closely curled. The rose of love was forced into sudden bloom in her heart. Its sweet perfume stole through her being, thrilling her veins with life and joy; but also, this rose, so sweet, so intoxicating in its delicious fragrance, was set about with eruel thorns. Dreaming over her peculiar position, day and night, Mildred was not such a child buv that she perceived its embarrassments and dangers; her sole hope, her sole wish—the one ~wild cry of her young heart—was, that her prince might learn to love her as she already loved him, Was it possible? Was there even the shadow -of a hope that it might come to pass? She sat by the window looking for him, and when he came and she rose to meet him, there ‘was a smile on her lip, but she was pale as death. He gave her the customary light kiss on her forehead, and led her back to her chair. ‘You are pale, little Mildred,” he said, after bowing to the mother. “Pale, Mr. Garner?” and then, indeed, she blushed rosy red, all over the sweet brow and fair throat, ‘1 am very well indeed. But you are not well, sir. You are pale, I am sure,” and the little hand with the wedding- ring on it crept timidly toward his, shrinking ‘back again, however, before she touched him. “T have had a shock,” he said, laughing lightly. ‘‘I did not suppose it had changed my complexion, though.” She looked at him wistfully—would he tell her? She longed to know what had troubled him; but she would not venture the liberty of asking him, - ‘My uncle has disinherited me and driven me out of his house with orders not to step my foot in it again. So now, little Mildred, [am as poor as you are!” A flash of light illuminated the child-wife’s face; her color came and went; her lips part- ed; her great violet eyes shone on his with sudden splendor for a moment and then fell, modestly, before his look. Surely, now that he was poor and had no home, he would come to them—to her and her mother! How gladly she would dispose of the Wjewels and silks he had given her, so as to gain a little money to make this poor home more comfortable for him! ‘Yes, she would willing- ly take up again the tedious music-lessons, for his sake! How earnestly she would try to make him forget his troubles! Oh, if she knew some better way to make money, so that she could occasionally surprise him with some of his accustomed luxuries! Thus the thoughts of the poor little simple thing leaped forward, painting their future. She was aroused from these delicious plans by. the cold, unsteady tones of her mother’s voice. “Had your sudden marriage anything to do ‘with your uncle’s action, Mr. Garner?” ‘Everything, my dear madam. You see, ‘he had other views for me—had another bride, in fact, selected. It is natural that he should be disappointed and offended,” - ** What do you propose tio do?” “There you have me, madame, I have not had time to decide upon my future as yet; it is scarcely an hour since my haughty relative gave me permission to forget his existence.” ‘* Perhaps he will repent and recall you.” “TY do not happen to be made of the stuff that is subject to recalls. When a man kicks me out of his house, I am not a dog, to be coaxed back again,” “But you must consider his feelings, Mr. Garner. Supposing you do not make up with your uncle, however: do you mean to say that you have absolutely nothing of your own?” “‘T have my hands and my head, but neither of these are accustomed to making themselves useful. Still, not to discourage you too much, Mrs. Lovelace, I will say that I have at least a thousand dollars’ worth of knick-knacks bought with money left me by my father; that I will dispose of these as soon as possible, and give to you, for your daughter’s use, every penny which they bring. After that is done, I will consider further.” “TI do not want your money,” spoke up lit- tle Mildred, with trembling lips; ‘ I will not take it, Mr. Garner; you need it more than I do. Do you suppose I would touch it?” indig- nantly. He smiled at her affectionately, laying his hand lightly on her soft, gold-threaded hair for an instant. ‘You must take it, little Mildred,” he said, half-reprovingly. ‘It is my business and my right to provide for you. I want to make you and your mother as comfortable as I can before I go away.” “ Go away?’—this from Mrs. Lovelace. ‘*¥Yes, madame. Boston is not the place for me to begin making my living, under the cir- cumstances. I shall do better in some other place. It hurts a fellow’s pride, you under- stand, to have the cold shoulder thrust un- der his nose. I shall leave the city as soon as I can wind up my small affairs. Mildred, good-by for to-day. I will see you to-morrow as usual,” Mildred arose from her chair and made him a stately bow, She did not seem to see the hand he held out; while so proudly did she hold her graceful little head, she seemed to him to have grown inches taller in a moment. Her soft eyes flashed, her lip curled, her cheek was white as winter’s snow. Otis Garner felt, as he left her presence, as if some queen had just dismissed him in disgrace. He flattered himself that he understood “the girls.” Truly, he had flirted with enough of them! But he did not understand this one—for he mis- took the cause of her displeasure. “She’s a mercenary little wretch!” he said, to himself, as he walked away. ‘By Venus! I did not think she would be the first to show me how I had fallen! Upon my word, her lit- tle beggarship was quite grand! It’s a wonder she did not tell me not to call again. Perhaps she will cut me entirely by to-morrow! I must take her a present. And, by-the-by, I must at- tend to that little business of raising some money for her. I can’t leave them penniless— she and her mother: “Tm married to a wife, my boys, And that by Jove’s no joke! I've ate the white of this world’s egg, And now must eat the yolk,” sings Bailey, and he’s about right. Let me see! Uncle gave me the yacht and the peir of blacks—they are now his property again; I won’t raise money on them. But the bay trot- ter I bought with my own private funds. He is good for eight hundred at this time of the year—worth two thousand easily, when you don't want to sell. Ican’t spare my watch; but Ihave a lot of expensive trash: my dia- mond sleeve-buttons cost me three hundred— good for half that, I suppose. My onyx ca- meos are worth about as much. My sphinx- head buttons cost something—why, yes, my sleeve-buttons alone, come to think, are a nice little collection worth a thousand dollars at forced sale.. Think of providing for a wife on THE WAR OF HEARIS. 5 —=—=====™“™“=>=—>—>—>—>»=»hnEaEoaE|_——ee———e—e—————————e———e—e—e——eeeee=Seaaawe—eeaenna—awawnw7—"_—_~“_—_—_———— the strength of one’s sleeve-buttons!” Otis laughed so gayly at the idea that a stranger, passing him, looked back at the happy young man with wonder and envy. It was three days before Otis Garner called again on his girl-wife. When he did appear, it was to say good-by. “T go to New York on the evening train,” he said. His face was somber, its healthy, olive glow blanched to a sickly brown; his Words were abrupt; he was evidently in ahurry. But he took Mrs, Lovelace aside and gave her a bank- book, telling her that he had deposited fifteen | hundred dollars to the credit of Mrs. Mildred Garner, which sum she was to draw upon as she needed it, “You have not left yourself penniless?” the mother had the grace to inquire. She was bit- terly disappointed at the waly matters were turning out, much on account of the loss of wealth and grandeur of station to her darling daughter, and more because she feared her rash approval of the hasty marriage was doom- ed to blight that daughter’s happiness. ““No—I have five hundred dollars in my pocket,” “Well, you have been very liberal, I am sure—under the circumstances. We thank ou.” Otis bowed and turned to Mildred who stood in the center of the room, still and white as a statue. He had not forgotten her demeanor at his last visit. Believing her selfish and calculat- ing, he was glad of it, as an excuse to himself for treating her as he intended to do. He did not know of the pangs which that proud look covered—pangs of wounded love, of cruel mor- tification at his indifference. Now he took her little cold hand calmly and proceeded to say the last few words in a voice destitute of the least emotion. Mildred looked up pleadingly into the dark eyes, so beautiful and so cold to her; her sweet mouth blanched and trembled—oh, how pretty and how pitiable she looked! The young man began to grow uneasy under those asking eyes. He wished ‘‘the dooced, embarrassing interview” well over. “You will write to me, Mr. Garner?’ . “Write? Oh, certainly—that is, I suppose so—of course, occasionally, But I expect to be in business and not have much time to my- self.” “‘ Just a few little lines, now and then, that T may know how you prosper.” “ Well, of course. And now, good-by, little Mildred. Take good care of her, Mrs. Love- lace, will you!” Mildred clung to the hand he held out to her. She gasped out, with dry lips, thuse lov- ing, piteous eyes fixed on his: “Take me with you, Mr, Garner!” “‘T cannot,” he answered, abruptly, aston- ished and alarmed, ‘Ihave nothing on which to keep a wife; it would be folly—madness! Remain here with your good mother. Sha will take better care of you than I could,” “That is true,” said Mildred, slowly. ‘“ And I could not leave dear, sick mamma, after all, You are right, Mr. Garner.” Pride was again struggling for mastery over love, which had broken all bounds, even of girlish timidity, when she made that passion- ate appeal. Her eyes fell, her cold little hand relaxed its hold; she stood mute, ‘Perhaps some day it will be different,’ Otis said, more tenderly, pitying the frail lit. tle creature who drooped before him. “If I ever get rich I will come for you—for you are my wife, you know, strange as it seems.” } “Yes, I know.” “Tf you get weary of waiting before I hava made that fortune the law gives you release, you know, Mildred. A few years of ‘willful desertion’ on my part will free you. Pers haps that would be the greatest kindness — could do you.” ; Ki No response, ‘Well, farewell, little Mildred,” ‘“‘Good-by, Mr. Garner.” _
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6 = —_ He lifted her hand to his lips, bowed to her mother, and hurried out, glad to get away from'a ‘‘scene,” into the open air. Little Mildred stood where he left her until the'last echo of his foot on the pavement died away—then she sunk slowly, slowly down, and would have fallen had not her mother caught her in her feeble arms and sunk down with her, pillowing the pale white-rose cheek in her Jap, and gazing with anguish and remorse at the closed eyes—closed in merciful unconscious- ness to the weary truth that this is a hard world for the poor and unprotected. CHAPTER V. A CRUEL MISTAKE. Rut FLETCHER arose very early on Christ- mas morning. It was yet a full hour to day- light. She ran to the window in her night- gown, parted the dimity curtains and looked out, gazing a moment at the glorious ‘‘Star of the East,” blazing transcendant over the dark brown of the wooded hills. Old Speckle-back, in the barn-yard, was crowing lustily, as if saying, ‘‘ Merry—merry—mer-ry Christmas to all!” “A merry Christmas to you, too, old Spec- kle-back,” whispered Ruth; and then, shiver- “ing—for it was very cold—she lighted her lamp and hurried to dress herself; after which she crept softly down-stairs She heard Betsey, the servant-girl, stirring up the fire in the kitchen-stove, but she did not go there; she slipped into the sitting-room, drawing toward the great tiled fireplace, from which came the faint, smothered glim- mer of the covered hickory coals. There was still heat enough to make the vicinity of the hearth quite comfortable; she crouched down by it, poked the ashes away from the buried fire, so that she could see better, and glanced with curiosity at a short row of bulging stock- ings which hung on a little line below the tall mantelpiece. It had been made up between her and the schoolmaster that they should play children and “hang up their stockings.” David’s blue- yarn sock was there, also. They had had a great deal of fun the previous evening dis- posing these articles to their satisfaction and wondering what Santa Claus would bring * them Ruth had no intention of examining the con- tents until the others had arrived to share the inspection. But she had found no suitable op- portunity, the night before, of depositing her ~ gift in the teacher’s stocking without being ob- served, Therefore she had stolen down early todo so. She saw, by the dim red light, that “there were things in her stocking. Had he placed any of them?—and, oh, what would they be? Still, she would not look, until the time agreed upon. With nervous, trembling fingers she slipped her present into the school- master’s long silk stocking. It was an ele- gant, costly stocking. She had thought her soft white merino one pretty enough, but it was no match for this. The-ever-lurking fear “that Mr. Otis, poor as he seemed to be, must despise her and her people and their country ways returned upon her in full force and she ~half-withdrew her hand, while a painful strug- gle went on in her mind. But the powerful temptation overcame her fears and she fierce- ly thrust down into the silken toe a little oval package wrapped in tissue paper. Mistaken Kuth! She had done what no girl ~should ever do, unless she is engaged to him— “given her picture toa young man. Itis true that when she had once shown the photograph to Mr. Otis he had carelessly said that he would “like a copy of it—that was-all. And now she had bestowed it on him without further so- -licitation. Girls cannot be too chary of such “gifts. Men are too mannish to need such en- couragement. But then, Ruth, was very young, and very innocent and ignorant. She thought she might properly make a ‘“‘Christmas gift” of her picture to her -teacher; half the girls in school had already bestowed these tokens of | 80. THE WAR-OF HEARTS. friendship upon him. How many of these he |had thrown away she did not know or care. She felt positive that he would not serve hers It was a pretty—a very pretty face in that litfle oval case! She knew it. Ruth was | a modest, sensitive girl; but she could not help knowing that she was very handsome, and the photograph had caught her “‘ happiest expres- sion ”—as the artist termed it—the coquettish droop of the long lashes, the slight arching of the dark brows as if she studied some mischief, the smile about the pretty mouth, while the hundred little rings and tendrils of chestnut- brown haiy, curling about the white, intellec- tual forehead, were almost as lovely in the picture as in the reality. y After she had dropped her gift into the silk stocking Ruth crouched by the fire again, waiting for the others, A dozen times she started up to withdraw the photograph, and as often sunk back without doing it. had finaily fully determined to leave it there she fell into a reverie about the schoolmas- ter. He had been very kind to her ever since that evening when she had noticed him so gloomy and pre-occupied--kinder than ever before. He had detained her hand when she said good- night on Christmas Eve, pressing it tenderly, and looking at her with such a look! Her heart beat fast at the memory of it. True, he was going to Boston on the morrow; but it was only on business, and he had taken pains to tell her that he disliked going, and would have avoided it had it been possible for him to have done so. And then, someway, Ruth’s thoughts wan- dered off to another young man who had also pressed her hand and looked at her with such a look, the previous evening; and who had gone off early, and in a pet, because she had treated him coolly in the presence of the school- master. Jasper Judson was the eldest son of the far- mer whose land joined Fletcher’s. The Fletch- ers were rich and the Judsons were rich, ac- cording to the limited idea of riches of their neighbors. Both owned large and well-culti- vated farms, with stock and implements in | abundance, and great, comfortable houses, with lawns in front, summer-houses on the lawns, and carriages and carriage-horses in the stables. Each bad quite a sum of money, saved in prosperous seasons, in the Boston banks. Both families aspired to some style and more cultivation. Jasper was being fitted by Mr. Otis for college, while Ruth had been away at an academy for two years, and could jabber bad French and play the piano better than the majority of young ladies. So that the settled idea of the fathers of the | young people that Judson’s son and Fletcher’s daughter were well matched, and ought to mate when the right time came, was a very sensible and pleasant view of matters. The parties most interested had held the same views until quite recently—until, in fact, ‘the Boston snob” had come to teach the | winter school, and Ruth had concluded to at- tend it. Not that Ruth and Jasper were engaged, or ever had been. He had been contented, so far, to know that she always preferred him to any other escort, when they went to evening church, singing-school, sleighing-parties or spelling-bees. But, since the advent of Mr. Otis—handsome, dark, mysterious, self-possess- ed, contemptuous doubtless—his feelings had changed. Rage, sorrow, burning jealousy had taken the place of expectant content. His heart had grown sorer and sorer, until it would no longer bear the least jar given by careless Ruth more often than was necessary. He had come over on Christmas Eve, not- withstanding he had been so angry with Ruth that he had not spoken to her when they last met—had come, driven to torment himself still more keenly by bringing his actual eyes to behold what his mental ones pictured con- stantly—the sight, so hateful to him, of the haughty schoolmaster making himself agree- able to Ruth—his Ruth. When she | | “What is he, anyhow?” Jasper had said to ‘himself, going over. ‘‘ Only a country school- teacher! I could buy him ont, six times over!” Yet, though only a teacher, as Jasper said, the country boy felt the full weight of the power which ease, knowledge of the world, elegant manners and graceful accomplishments ive to the one he considered his rival. It had been agreed upon, before Jasper went away the previous evening, to have a grand skating-party on the river Christmas night. Ruth, sitting there in the slowly-growing dawn, her bright eyes fixed on the glimmering coals, hoped and wished that Mr. Otis would make one of the party; yet she hardly believed he would. Then she contrasted, in her busy mind, Jas- per and the teacher. Poor Jasper! he as very sorrily out of the experiment. Then, all in a thrill and with her fair face burning with blushes, the dreaming girl | sprung to her feet, laughing at her own em- barrassment. Mr. Otis stood on the hearth; David came softly behind him. “Merry Christmas to both!” cried the boy; and there were laughing, and pleasant wishes, and a gay examination of the contents of the stockings. The first thing the weacher drew from his was a ferule. “You gave me that, David,” and the boy | laughed at his own joke. Then the hand of the owner went deeper and. | drew up the little oval package. Ruth bent over her own stocking that he might not read the telltale expression of her face; David was deep in the surprises of his own sock; so nei- ther noticed the glimmer of a scornful, satiric- al smile which played an instant over the teacher’s face, as he unfolded the tissue-paper and saw its contents. ‘Little fool!” was what he thought: “ Little beauty!” was what he said. Ruth could not read the thought, but she heard the words, and the flush on her cheeks grew deeper, though she affected not to hear, being so busy with her own treasures. For Ruth, being an only daughter, was not slighted. | by her family. There were many nice things in her stock- ing—a purse from father, with fifty dollars, pin-money, in it—a handsome card-case from David—a set of coral jewelry from mother— and last, at the very bottom of all, a tiny box. On opening this, there in its white-velvet bed sparkled a diamond ring! She uttered a low ery: then, looking as if on the verge of laugh- ter and tears, she gathered up her apron, with stocking and all in it, and fled up to her own room without once looking the schoolmaster in. the face. Locking the door, she sat down on | the edge of the bed, her heart fluttering, her | breath panting. “A ring! Of course he gave it to mel! | There is no one else would think of such a thing—except Jasper!—and if Jasper gave me a ring, it would be some cheap, common thing! | This is a real diamond, like those he wears in | his bosom. It could come from no one else. | And | know what it mears! Diamond rings |are engagement-rings. Oh, I hoped so—I hoped so, before, and now I am certain of it! | What a happy, happy, happy girl I am!” All in a tremble, blushing, crying, smiling, she drew the beautiful jewel from its velvet cushion and examined it. “Ruth” was engraved on the inside of the | ring. She tried it on “ the engagement-finger ” | of her left hand; it fitted as if the dimpled fin- ger had been measured for it. The bell rung for breakfast, It seemed to her as if she could never face him now, Yet | she must go down, or father and mother would | think it strange; she had not yet thanked them | for their gifts, While she hesitated, some one | tried the door and then knocked, f ‘ Who is it?” “1,” answered David’s voice. “Do you want anything?” “Yes; I want to tell you what he said.” | Ruth opened the door a little way—she did
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THE WAR OF HEARTS. fd not want her brother’s sharp eyes to read her face. “He gave the ring to me to put in your stocking, sis; and he said, ‘Tell her, if she puts it on her finger and wears it, I will take it asa sign and a promise.’” “Yes, David. Thank you. You are a good brother,” whispered the girl. ‘Run down to breakfast now.” “You come, too; mother’s asking after ou.” Ruth ran back and replaced the ring on her finger—she had returned it to its box, too timid to show it down stairs. Then she stole down to the great kitchen where the family usually partook of its meals in winter time. She glided in like a morning sunbeam; then, as Mr. Otis looked up, smiling at her, she yailed her emotion in a rush to her mother, whom she embraced, and thanked for her love- ly gift. Father, too, had to be hugged and kissed and thanked; finally, all in a flurry and confusion, Ruth took her place at table beside the teacher, her happy eyes vailed shyly by their long lashes, her sweet voice trembling a little when she replied to his commonplace re- marks about the weather, the skating party, and other home topics. It chanced, though the teacher staid home all day, that he and Ruth were not left alone together asinglemoment. There were friends of the family to dinner. The brief day soon drew toward dark, and Ruth, almost as awed and frightened as she was happy, felt it a re- lief that Mr. Otis had no opportunity of speak- ing to her privately. It was enough that they had come to a mutual understanding. Her wearing of his ring was all that was necessary. Whenever her shy, soft eyes did venture to meet his own, there was a silent laugh deep down in those black eyes that she hardly un- derstood. But his manner was very devoted; so much s0, that the visitors noticed it, rally- ing her in private over her ‘‘conquest,” as people do on such occasions. And David would look so knowing that he made her blush more than once. At dinner Mr. Otis had promised to go down on the ioe with them that night. ‘This evening, when we are together on the river, he will speak to me, and thank me for wearing his ring,” thought happy Ruth; ‘*T can bear to have it spoken about then.” “JT wish I had not promised to go with Jasper Judson,” was her thought, all the after- noon. “ But, I need not keep much with him, Mr. Otis will find a way to take me away from him,” Evening came and brought Jasper. He looked rather pale and cold when he came in, but soon warmed, and was bright and gay—more so than they had seen him for weeks, He was a fine-looking young fellow— a little awkward yet—he was only twenty— but full of spirit and fire, It was easy to see that he had a will of his own. The flash of his elear gray eye, the firm line of his handsome mouth betrayed it; also that he was open- hearted, generous and brave. The little party were soon ready to join the larger one on the ice. Mr. Otis and David went a little in advance, followed by Jasper and Ruth, Jasper lingered on the way exasperatingly. His companion’s eyes fol- lowed the lessening figure of Mr, Otis; her thoughts were all with him. They had come to a secluded place on their way to the river, when Ruth was suddenly surprised by finding herself clasped in Jasper’s trembling arms. “Dear, dear, darling Ruth,” he murmured, trying to find her averted face; ‘how can I ever thank you for your goodness. Ah, that vile schoolmaster! Why was I ever so jealous of him, when you loved me, after all, my little sweet! when I saw my ring on your finger this evening, and David told me he had given you my mes—” “Your ring!” cried Ruth, almost with a scream, wrenching herself from him and stand- ing erect, panting, pale, under the great golden stars that looked calmly down. ‘* My ring, of course, until it became yours. David told you—for he said so,” stammered Jasper, confused and doubting. Ruth snatched the jewel from her finger and threw it, with her full force, far away over the sparkling snow; then she burst into a laugh, “Pardon me for misleading you, Jasper Judson, I thought—upon my word !—I thought David gave me the nasty little glass diamond!” and she laughed long and merrily. CHAPTER VI. AN ACCIDENT AND AN ACCUSATION, JASPER was not deceived by the little white lie Ruth had told to conceal her mortification and disappointment. He saw, in one lightning flash, the mistake she had made. He knew that those beaming looks, which he falsely dreamed were owing to his gift, had been caused by her belief that Mr, Otis had given her the ring. For a few moments the two stood in the road silent. The brilliant starlight falling on the glittering snow made light enough for Jas- per to see the blank misery on his companion’s face had he chosen to look. But, awkward and coarse as Ruth thought him, in comparison with another, he was the truer gentleman of the two. Mr. Otis would bave looked—and smiled. Jasper was too considerate, too delicate, even in that moment of rage and pain, to gaze upon the embarrassment which he knew was there, “Oh, I shall die! I shall die!” was the girl’s silent cry, as she thought over the day and felt that Mr. Otis must have perceived her mistake. *«T shall die from shame and misery! He was laughing at me all the time! Oh, how cruel! How wicked! He might so easily have unde- ceived me in some delicate way. I hate him. I hate Jasper. Ihate everybody. Oh, I wish I were dead!” Jasper, too, was thinking, as he set his teeth together. “T hate him—she loves him! Curse his sneering face! If he comes in my way to- night it will be the worse for him.” Finally, with choking voice, he said: “Take my arm, Ruth. Let us not expose ourselves to the ridicule of others. I will con- duct you to the ice, and leave you with Mr. Otis.” ““No—no. Not with him; leave me with Dayid.” So they went along, silently, until they came in sight of the gay party thronging the smooth ice of the river, where, a half-mile above the mill-pond, it flowed straight, broad and swift, in summer, and in winter made the finest skat- ing-ground anywhere in the vicinity, A large fire of logs and brushwood had been built on shore, where cold toes could be toasted, and where a great kettle full of coffee steamed, ready for any who desired it. The young people had brought good things in baskets, too; since, this being Christmas night, they had re- solved upon the novelty of a picnic on the ice. As they drew near the two saw the school- master already surrounded by a bevy of ad- miring girls. With a scowl upon his usually pleasant face, Jasper looked at him a minute, and then, approaching David, with Ruth stiil on his arm, he said: “Take care of your sister a little while; I must help the boys place more logs on the fire.” “ Shall I strap your skates on for you, Ruth?” asked the boy. “No,” she answered him, bitterly. ‘‘ I never want you to do anything for me again.” “Now, what’s up, sis? Didn’t I do the er- rand jolly this morning?” She did not reply, and he looked, in sur- prise, at her pale face and glistening eyes; not a glimmer of the truth made its way into his innocent brain. She walked quickly toward a group further away, so as to avoid the teacher’s eyes, but he had already given her one quick, sidelong look, unperceived. Sitting on a block of ice, she was working to put on her skates herself, when Mr. Otis came up. “ Allow me, Ruth,” he said, smiling at her with those inscrutable eyes of his, as he bent, on one knee, to assist her. . “Do you skate? I forget what you told me about it,” she asked him, trying to affect care- lessness—her heart was nearly bursting out of her bosom, but pride enabled her to steady her voice and to look him in the face as he an- swered: \ “T usea to be the champion skater at college. T have not practiced lately, and to-night I am unprovided with skates.” “Somebody must lend youa pair. Jasper Judson is held to be the champion skater of Pentacket. I should like to see you two try a race together.” “Tf I can borrow a good pair of skates, you shall be obliged, Miss Ruth. Though, as I say, Tam out of practice.” The skates were on by this time, and Ruth, rising, glided away from him, and off by her- self, on a more deserted part of the river, As the schoolmaster had no skates he could not follow her; and Jasper would not, so, for awhile, she was alone, as she wished to be. By this time her cheeks, instead cf being pale, were scarlet with the tingling flush of shame. The one terrible thought, that she had betrayed her heart to Mr. Otis, made her al- most desperate. It seemed as if she could never face him, or Jasper, or the world again. She glided up and down swiftly, in a vain attempt to forget about that hated ring; gra- dually, other young people came about her, rallying her for liking her own company so well—and then, who so gay, who so witty, who so pretty, what girl such a daring skater as Ruth Fletcher? She had the other girls jealous in less than half an hour, for she flirted with all the fellows impartially. “He shall see that ’m not heartbroken yet!” was the thought in her mind as she laughed and chattered, the loveliest and the merriest of all those red-cheeked maidens flit- ting about in the fantastic light and shadow of the great bonfire, whose leaping flames lighten- ed and darkened, casting weird light over the snowy shores, the smooth-swept ice, and the ever-flitting, ever-changing figures. There were several matches of skill on skates, before the picnic refreshments were served at ten o’clock. While the whole party was gath- ered at one spot partaking of the cakes and coffee, some talk came up about Jasper Jud- gon’s wonderful feats on the ice. Ruth re- marked that Mr. Otis had also once held the championship; whereupon there was great anxiety to see the two do their best. At first, the teacher excused himself for be- ing out of practice and having no skates; but, being pressed, yielded, one of his pupils having tendered him the use of a satisfactory pair of club skates, and he consented to the trial. Having been renowned at college in all games of strength and skill, Mr. Otis doubt- less expected an easy victory. But his rival—in more than the art of ska- ting—was burning with a desire for some sort of conquest over this ‘‘insufferable city snob,” as in his heart he regarded him, All the evening his anger and his hatred had been growing; there was no laughter in that flash of the eye with which he accepted the challenge. All the others remained idle while these two went through an astonishing number of skillful exercises, including all possible known feats of carving the American eagle, writing their names, etc.; and neither had gained a victory over the other. Finally, a race up the river was to be run. The course was passable for at least three miles, though the windings of the river made it too crooked forthe specta- tors to keep the skaters in sight, as they shot off, like arrows from tight-strained bows. Of course, none but themselves knew in what or- der they reached the goal. They came to it t the same second of time. “We will race back,” said Jasper, biting off his words, ‘‘ past the ground where the folks
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| ' PB ' 8 THE, WAR OF HEARTS. are, on down to the elm tree, a quarter of a mile this side the mill-dam. We ought not to go beyond that, as the ice is thin over the rapid water, and full of air-holes. What do you say?” “ Agreed. One—two—three—off!” The schoolmaster skated on the long run as if he were shod with the wind, instead of mor- tal skates. swelling heart, Jasper fled after him. He had cqme up the stream at an equal pace with his rival. Yet now it seemed likely to prove that this effeminate “‘city snob” had muscles better trained than his own—had a reserved power only beginning to be called on, when he, the country-bred athlete, was panting and wearing out. Every energy of Jasper’s was called to the rescue, as he saw himself falling hopelessly behind. Yet, when they came in sight of the watchful group around the bonfire, he was two rods behind his companion. The thought that Ruth was among those spectators to witness his discomfiture, spurred Jasper to still more desperate exertion; and when they passed the party—whose cheers and waving handker- chiefs produced but small impression on their strained senses—the two were nearly abreast, But as soon as a sharp turn of the river, whose banks were fringed with bushes at that spot, took them out of sight again, Jasper found himself unable to keep up “the spurt,” and again fell behind. It was fifteen or twenty minutes before the party saw, coming back as slowly as he had gonedown swiftly, Jasper Judson. His face was deadly pale, his eyes stared from their sockets; but no one, at first, noticed this. “ Where’s Mr. Otis?’ ‘“Who beat?” ‘“ Who’s the winner?’ ‘‘Where’s the teacher?” . as- iled him on every side as he came up. He looked about in a dumb, dazed sort of way. “Tm afraid he’s done for,” he answered, hoarsely. “Done for? Did you beat him? Hurrah!” cried David Fletcher. “T mean—drowned,” stammered Jasper, like a man waking out of asleep. ‘He must have skated into an air-hole. I was—” But here a low, sharp, heart-piercing scream inter- rupted him and made him turn and look at Ruth. “When? Where?’ cried all the young men of the party. “Great heaven! something must be done!” “JT fear you are too late. But come on! Tl show you”—and the men all rushed away on their swift skates, leaving the girls con- founded, terrified, and some of them faint- ing. Ruth went off by herself and sat down on a block of ice. She did not speak or move dur- ing the long half-hour the men were away. These came back, unwillingly and mourn- fully. “Tt’s no use,” said he who arrived first. ‘When a man goes into an air-hole on a night like this, with a swift-running stream to wash him down, it’s no use.” There had been no chance before to hear from Jasper the first particulars of the acci- dent; he was asked for them now. “T don’t rightly know how it happened,” he spoke, still as if dazed, pressing his hand to his forehead. ‘‘ We were to skate to the elm that bends over the river, youknow. I was quite ure there were no air-holes this side of the tree. He got ahead of me, considerable, after we passed here, and was out of my sight a fninute around that bend, you know, where the willows grow so thick, and when I came *round after him he was nowhere in sight. I thought it strange. Just then I heard a sort of muffled cry. I dashed forward, and nearly went into the hole myself. When I saw it, I thought, allin a flash, what must have hap- pened, and I flung myself down, and crawled as near to it as Icould. IsawI could do no~ good that way, and I made a dash for a rail _ from Squire Peters’ fence, and I got it across Shutting his teeth together, curs- | ing him, almost, in his bitter young passion- | the hole, and supported myself by it, but the stream must have swept him down. So I skated ahead, with my rail, to the next air- hole, but could see or hear nothing; there was nothing to do but, give him up.” F The awe-stricken group that listened was formed about Ruth. She heard every word that Jasper spoke, but he did not look at her. There was nothing for the girls to do but go home. e i to tbe dam to see if they could find anything of the body there—though it was not prob- able. David went off with these; Ruth still sat on her icy seat. The most of the girls had gone off homeward. Jasper, after a long hesitation, advanced and offered his arm to the stricken irl. y ““You are not fit to go home alone,” he said; “let me take you.” She sprung to her feet; her face was white, but her eyes flashed up into his bending face one terrible look of accusation, ‘Never speak to me again, Jasper Judson! You could have saved himif you would, I do believe. And you knew of that air-hole this side the elm—it has been there all winter. You are as goodas amurderer. I don’t know what other folks will call you, but J call youa murderer!” CHAPTER VII. SPREADING SNARES FOR GLITTERING WINGS, One of the three friends who had been with Otis Garner at the club, the night of the fam- ous wager, was something worse than a young fellow “sowing his wild oats,” which was the worst that could be said of the remainder of the quartette. The only one of the four who had not been spoiled by the indulgence of rich relatives, ‘‘Brummell” Pomeroy had never possessed any good qualities to be perverted. Nature had spoiled him in the making, having been nearly out of moral qualities when she com- pounded his heart and brain. He was an ad- venturer by profession; it was his business to make friendships with very young, very rich men, and to get his living out of them. Not over twenty-six or eight himself, at the time of the adventure from the steps of the Tre- mont, he knew how to command the confidence and admiration of fellows like OtisGarner. In the first place, he dressed always to such abso- lute perfection and with such consummate taste, that he was their envy and their wonder. This talent had gained him the sobriquet of Brummell, the initial of his given name being B.—probably for Benjamin; he never wrote it in full. Then, he understood all there was to understand about wines, about cards, about horses; if his intimates were to believe him— and they generally did—he was also very wise about women, and an immense favorite with them. All these accomplishments being of a kind to demand the admiration of his compan- ions, they did admire him, and thought it a fine thing to be considered confidential friends of Mr. Pomeroy. Without having any personal beauty, except a tall figure, Brummell had the reputation of great elegance, and was called a handsome man. His eyes were small, of no particular color, and close together. His nose was long, his forehead low, his mouth wide; but, he had a well cared-for mustache, waxed after a for- eign fashion, which partially concealed his dis- agreeable lips. His hands amd feet, though long, were slender, and looked well in immacu- late gloves and boots. He had been the most amused of any at the spirited way in which young Garner had ful- filled his word of honor as to the wager. Also, he had most closely observed the innocence and beauty of the poor girl who had been its victim. Those small, light eyes of his had feasted themselves on every particular of the childish, sweet loveliness of the little bride who had stood at the altar with his friend. During the following week he had contrived—how, Garner himself could not have told, for it was The most of the men were going down | his intention to keepit a sacred secret from ali | bride lived perdu. —to get the address of the bride’s mother, Consequently, it followed that—when the crash came about the unfortunate young man’s ears, and he was disinherited, and finally left the city—this intimate friend of his, alone of all his acquaintances, knew where the little Not a word of his knowl- edge did he breathe to any other. But, not long after Otis Garner left for New York, it came to be an almost daily occurrence for Brummell Pomeroy to walk once or twice of an afternoon up and down the humble but respectable court in which the Widow Love- lace and her daughter dwelt. He often met his friend’s deserted bride go- ing out or coming in; for very shortly after Otis Garner left Boston, little Mildred resumed her work of giving music-lessons to the two or three little girls whose mothers employed the imcompetent young thing because she was cheap. Mildred could not help noticing one whose surpassing elegance made him doubly conspicuous in such a place; but, she did not associate him with Otis; nor did she ever dream that these promenades had any connection with her humble self. She puzzled herself for a few days, after encountering him so frequent- ly, as to what could bring such a gentleman into that vicinity; concluding, finally, that it was no affair of hers, and-she would not vex her though!s about him—though she did wish his business, whatever it was, had called him in some other direction, for she did not like having to pass and repass him so Often. He always scanned her so closely; it was em- barrassing. Soon, whenever he caught her eye, he bowed, or lifted his hat; but so serious- ly, so respectfully, she could take no offense. She gave him the coldest possible little nod in return; and |that was as far as their acquaint- ance progressed for some time. As we know, young Garner left his wife quite a little sum of money, besides the rich presents he had lavished on her. Fifteen hun- dred dollars, in her eyes, was a small fortune. She meant—now that he was poor—to spend it very, very prudently; but, when week after week went by, and she had no word from him, except the first two or three brief, coldly-cour- teous notes he had sent her in the last fortnight, sbe began to realize that he did, indeed, mean to leave her utterly. Bearing his name— bound to him—her title of wife was to prove an idle mockery. In his last brief letter had been another suggestion that three years of willful absence on his part would give her the right to regain her liberty, coupled with for- mal regrets that his wild freak in marrying her must keep her so long from the love and admiration of such other suitors as one so love- ly and amiable was sure to have. Not a breath of affection from his lips; not a hint that their relations could ever be more intimate; notan idea, that in marrying her he had already secured her love—her fondest, deepest love, not for a day or a year, but fora lifetime! When Mildred had read it, the soft blush on her cheek when she opened it had faded toa cold white. ‘He is bound to get rid of me. He bitterly repents the ‘ wild freak’ which made me his. Oh, I repent it, too! Oh, I repent the foolish consent so quickly won! Not on my own account—no, for I would suffer a life of solitude just, to live on the memory of those sweet half-hours when he came to see me!— but on his! He wishes to be free. Ah mel poor little Mildred! He is ashamed of you— he cannot love you! Perhaps he loves another} Yes, I am sure of it. What was that the paper said about his uncle’s plans for his mar- riage with a beautiful cousin? Perhaps he loves this beautiful cousin! Perhaps she returns his love, If it were not for me, he would not be drivenfrom his home and from her presence. She lived in the same house with him—their uncle had it all nicely ar- ranged—so the papers said. J am the mis- erable little upstart who has spoiled all. J ‘jumped at the chance’ to marry this young
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preva sears gentleman, ‘It isa proper punishment on me that he is disinherited and has treated me with contempt since the hour he kept hts word to his friends!’ Ob, yes, yes, yes! I acknowledge all. I wish I could die and get out of the way —nmiserable little marplot that I am! But, J love him—I love him—I love him! “ Tbat proud lady-cousin will never worship his very shadow—the echo of his footstep—as I worship them!” Yet Mildred, childish and unworldly as she was, had pride. She resolved that she would mever touch one dollar of the sum which her husband had deposited for her use, “‘Z. will work for poor sick mamma,’ as I used to work; his money shall stay where: it . is, and when he comes back, he shail have it— every penny of it, They shall see that 1.am not fhe mercenary creature they say Lam. I did think it would be pleasant to be able to give mamma all she needs; but I loved him, or I would not have said ‘yes.’ He seemed to me so beautiful, so superior! I thought Heaven had answered my prayer to send mea friend to take care of poor little me, when mamma was dead and gone,” So she resumed her lessons to the three or four small pupils, living even more sparingly than before, except that she disposed of some of the costly trifles Otis had given her, and bought luxuries for her mother, whose health now that winter had set in, grew worse from week to week. And, to feed her starving heart with the thought tbat she was Otis Garner’s. bride, she would dress herself—late in the ,afternoon, - when she had no more errands out of doors— in some one of the silken robes he had bought her, clasp his pearls about her slender neck, fasten up her shining hair with the diamond- spray, and sit and dr wild dreams about ber fairy prince—wild, sweet, impossible dreams, At the same time a passionate desire took possession of her to see her rival—this _beauti- ful cousiv, the flower of the proud old Garner family, She found out the splendid mansion of the Garners; and fell into a habit, when her last lesson of the day was through with, of going home by way of that street, no matter how far outof the way it took her. The third time she passed the house the Gar- ner carriage, with its black coachman, in dark- blue livery, and black horses sumptuous with gold-decorated harness, stood before it. She recognized the coat-of-arms on the panel of the door, for she had seen it on the quaint old seal which Otis had once shown her, She walked quickly on a few rods further—then turned and came slowly back. A lady was coming down the broad, lion- guarded steps of the house. Mildred, walking very slowly by, had a good opportunity for one long look. A girl, very nearly as young as herself, but talland dark, and oh! so splen- didly beautiful! Mildred’s great, childish, violet eyes fell, eager as they were, when the bright glance of the superb young beauty chanced to encounter their earnest observation. How like a princess, “to the manor born,” the heiress glided down the steps, floated across the pavement, and entered the luxurious carriage whose door was held open for her by another liveried servant! How her velvets, and laces, and flowers be- came her, as the rich feathers of the tropical bird became it! What a dainty little hand, with a pearl-colored glove which fitted like the skin, lay, carelessly clasping a costly handker- ebief, on the amber satin of the carriage-cush- ions, as she gave some directions—in a voice musical as the breathings of the “lovely lute” —to the coachman, i But was there—or was there not—just a shadow over that brilliant face? as if the girl possibly thought of so i paras tbe ©, me loss or grief? Mildred folly, she bas got his ag that, by his *“* Does : ove and 1 she only canes reat grieve? Or, The restless horses ed a their lovely burden. gayly off with — ~~ ey ey - Mildred could not answer ber own questions; but she went home, a thousand times more melancholy than before she had seen this peer-. less creature. “No study, no toil, no endeavor, will ever make me like her. She is born to grace, and pride, and high-bred ease; while I am con- strained, and humble, and poor, No wonder tbat he despises me! Oh, my proud, fairy prince! Your poor little Mildred is but the lowly violet for you to set your foot upon. She is your fitting mate. I see it—I feel it.” Then, out of her very despair, there arose in Mildred’s soul a mighty resolve to make lier- self alady and meet companion for him whose name she bore, “J will take her for my example,” thought the poor child. ‘‘I will steal a look at her as often asI dare. I will notice her dress, her movements, her way of doing this and that. I will try to be as like her as possible, Yet I shall be ridiculous when. sbe is incomparable. Nevertheless, 1 will try. I love him—and I will try.” She spoke the last words aloud, as she hur- ried homeward, and she set her tiny foot on the pavement with a resolute tap. She had been so engrossed with her own thoughts that she had noticed nothing. “I peg your pardon, Mrs. Garner,” said a polite voice, She stopped,. startled and blushing to be called by that name, It was the gentleman she had passed so many times, He stood, most respectfully soliciting her at- tention; though the day was cold, he held his hat in bis hand. ‘‘ Will you excuse my speaking to you with- out an introduction, and on the street?” he be- gan, most beseechingly and courteously. ‘‘ The fact is, Mrs. Garner, I am deeply anxious to hear from Mr. Garner. We are intimate—very intimate—friends, if you will believe me; brothers, almost; yet he has given us all the slip, We, who are so fond of him, and so anxious to prove our friendship, have not even his present address, Will you be so good as to favor me with it?” and returning his hat to his head, he took out note-book and pencil. “Indeed, sir, Iam sorry, but I do not know it myself.” “ ‘‘ Ab, I see, Mrs. Garner; you are very prop- erly cautious. Of course, you know your hus- band’s address, but you will not give it toa stranger. Here is my card—B,. Pomeroy. You must have beard him speak of me, ‘ Brum- miell,’ he calls me—a joke of his.” “TI do not remember his speaking of you. But then,” added Mildred, looking up with an artless blush and sad smile, “that is not strange. Our acquaintance was so short.” “Yes, yes, I know. Why, my dear, dear lady, I was one. of the four who laid down the wager; I saw you two meet; I saw you two married. A wild frolic, perhaps, but jt ended charmingly. We all considered- our friend Garner a lucky fellow! It was a frightful lot- tery, yet he drew a splendid prize. We all envied him when we saw the bride.” “T scarcely think he was to be envied, Mr, Pomeroy,” said little Mildred, with a blending of humility and dignity very sweet and touch- | ing to see, and she attempted to pass him. “One moment, please, Yes, I know, I know—lost the old uncle’s money—for a time, only, I dare say—but gained a prize richly worth the whole of it.” ‘‘ My husband does not seem to think so, sir,” responded Mildred. ‘‘ My mother will be look- ing for me, Mr. Pomeroy. I would like to oblige you, but I have not heard from Mr, Garner for some time. He is in New York. I cannot tell you the street or number of his residence.” “ Ten thousand thanks! If J hear from him soon, I shall take the liberty of letting you know,” and with another profound bow, he passed on. . The little twelve-year-old maid whom Mrs, Lovelace kept to do their roughest work and to wait upon her in her daughter’s absence, met Mildred at the door with word that her eee mother was worse, This alarming news ban- ished the thick-thronging fancies about the beautiful cousin and the strange gentleman from Mildred’s mind for that evening, But the mother got better, and the old dreams filled again the mind of the deserted child-wife. ‘ And one week from the day on which he had addressed her, ati meeting her on the, street, Mr. Brummell Pomeroy called and sent in hiscard, by the little.maid, to Mrs. Love-{ lace and Mrs, Garner. ‘“He has news of him!” cried Mildred, and she met the man of duplicity at the door of their modest parlor, a glow on her cheek and fire in her eye and a smile on her lip that made the artless little wife as beautiful as some houri. The false-hearted man of the world knew that bright look was. not called up by pleasure at seeing him; but he resolved, then and there, that the time should come when he would have that power. CHAPTER VIIL THE HANDWRITING AFTER DEATH, In was Christmas night—the first Christmas after the mad marriage which had sent Otis Garner to wander over the earth a ruined and aimless man—and the great house of the Gar- ners was ablaze with light from basement to attic.. Yet there was no merry-making going on in the old mansion. There was not even one guest to break the silence which reigned through the illuminated splendor of the draw- ing-room,. The servants had, lighted up the rooms, according to custom; but not for the reception of troops of joyous friends and rela-° tives. ; ‘ Old Mr, Garner was no exception to a com- mon rule—tbat as a man. grows, older and but that he had an army of admirers who would fain be intimate with him; but he kept these at their distance—admirers, sharers at times of a sumptuous hospitality, but not beart-friends. And since the bright, gay, handsome, faulty boy, on whom he had lavish- ed nearly all that was left of his withering af- fections, had so cruelly disappointed him—and since he had driven this boy from his heart and home—the old man had felt litt for empty shows of gayety.. Crowds of idle pleasure-seekers were no longer invited to dance and chatter and feast under his princely roof. : f Did he forget his young niece, and that life was not all over with her/—that-she might crave the stimulus of gay society? No. . But Honoria was not a. boy—-she did not bear, the Garner name-—she never could be to him what Otis had been, iassrerent Dea Nevertheless, he remembered her—that she was his niece and his heiress; and that, society had claims on her. More than once-he had of- fered to give her a grand ball or more, modest German. But Honoria herself had refu What was the matter with her, that the young beauty shrank, almost as much as the old uncle, from the fashionable dissipations of, the season! 01 feElteds There were dozens of young scions of the bluest blood of Boston who were pining for an opportunity to declare in what high esteem poh held her: i,e, her beauty, rank and for- e, : Yet she remained indifferent to the triumphs in store for her the moment.she might deign given to her cousin Otis a, charm and power he had never before had for her. _ Not that. pure- minded Honoria was.so wicked as to knowing- ly cherish a love for one lost to her, by mar- riage with another; on the contrary, she made every effort to ppt him out of her thoughts. Did you ever attempt, on a sultry summer day, to brush away a fly that annoys yout Then, you know, that the more atteution you colder and richer his friends fall away, Not - a + — a
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a. 40 THE WAR OF HEARTS. give ths buzzing insect, the more persistently will ho return to the attack. So it was with. Honoria’s thoughts of her cousin. "When she knew him her slave and lover, she gave small heed to thoughts of-him that might hum drow- sily about her; but now that sueh thoughts must be brushed away, behold! they return and return to trouble and annoy. In the shock and surprise of his avowed marriage, she, for the first time, felt that she loved him with whom she had so carelessly ‘trified. Now that she had lost him she realized how dear he had grown, through months and years of companionship. Otis had his faults— never mind! she could have reformed them, Otis was not wise, or prudent, or very intel- lectual, or very good; she had imagined finer ideals of a man—never mind! she loved him— loved his very faults and follies! Oh, that she had known her own heart sooner! In the three long months since, casting that wild look of farewell into her troubled eyes, he had gone away, she had found enough to do to study how to forget him asa lover and learn to serve him asa friend. She knew to a certainty almost nothing about Otis since his departure.. She had - heard a rumor that he was in New York; she had heard from some souree—she could not trace it—that he had never been near the poor girl whom he married since the hour they stood at the altar together—that was all. Whether this ramor was true—what was the girl’s name—who she was, where she lived, how slie Tooked, acted; what she knew—this was all a blank to Honoria. She had formed in her mind an idea of what this girl was like. Bold and unblushing she must be, or she never would have taken up with such an offer; , coarse, ignorant, impudent, ungrateful; with the rude beauty of the factory girl—for some one, somewhere, had averred’ that the bride was handsome. This was the image of her cousin’s wife which presented itself to Honoria whenever she thought of her. It was seldom that any pity for the girl softened the severity of the proud heiress’ condemnation. Her pity, her tenderness, were all for the wayward, fro- Mesome cousin whose high spirits, and the temptations of bad company, had led him into this fatal folly. It was Christmas night, as we said; the stately dinner in the great dining-room was over, and the two, who had partaken very’ lightly of its long succession of luxurious dishes, were now in the brilliant drawing- room, Mr. Garner sat by a small table drawn up in front of tho silver-barred grate, where a golden fire nestled cosily. His “lean and slippered” feet were stretch ed toward its comfortable warmth; his eyes were on the heart of the golden fire, though a book, half-dropping from his hand, gave pre- text of occupation. On Christmas night what can an old man do bat think of by-gone Christmas nights? Honoria, curled up in a corner of a sofa, watched him from a distance. Perhaps she cried a little, for something round and bright sparkled in the sudden upleaping of a rosy jet of flame in the grate, as she lifted her face and looked longingly at the old man dreaming his dreams. A moment more and she was at his feet. “Uncle, dear, dear uncle!” “Well, my child?” “We are solonely!” “Oh! we are?’ “Yes, uncle, you are lonely too! I can see it in your face! Forgive poor Otis, uncle! Oh, forgive him, and send for him to come home ? “With his bride out of the streets?” “Oh, not out ofthe streets, dear uncle—she ©wasa music-teacher; she may be good and lov- able—we do not know, (‘and I do not think it! to herself) and, at all events, they say he is nob jiving with rpertR ee has lived with her.” The eager, beautiful eyos-were apbitined te _the old man’s; her soft little hands were clasp, ed over his knee; he looked quietly down into the dark, blooming face, and said, slowly: ‘“Would you have me re-make my will yet | a third time, Honoria? If Otis is forgiven, and comes back to this as his home, he must have the property left to him as at first design- ed. Reflect! You will no longer have the in- terest in that property which, as my nephew's wife, you would have had. All that is over and gone, now. Are you willing to give up your own prospects to Otis—and to Otis’ wife?” “There is enough for all of us, dear uncle.” “T have not built up this fortune as patient- ly as I have, to break it in pieces over my grave. Itis my pride, my ambition, to keep it together in one great whole, as it now is. Therefore I shall not leave it to two, three, or four—” “Leave it all to my cousin, then. he shall have it.” ‘Not so, Honoria, The man who will do an act so utterly unwise and rash as he did, is un- fit to have the control of such a fortune. Rather, let me trust it to the small hands of my girl-niece—with such promises as will prevent I prefer -her from at once giving it allaway.” “Let us not talk of the money, uncle dear; you have many years. of. vigorous life yet before you, in which to take charge of your own. But, forgive poor Otis, his folly. Send for him. I know you will.be happier, uncle. Think! perhaps your harshness is driving him to yet wilder courses! Despair may make him desperate. Oh, I fret about him night and day.” ‘The Bible says, Honoria, ‘ Fret not thyself because of evil-doers,’ it is good advice; take it. Remember you are but seventeen, and do not seek to give advice to your elders. Here, child, I did not intend to make youcry. But my mind is made up about Otis, and I shall not change it without better reason than I have yet seen for doing so. Come, come! dry your eyes and go to the piano and sing me some of the old ballads that yon know I like!” Her uncle seemeda hard and a grim oldman to Honoria just then—though his Christmas gift of pearls and diamonds had cost many thousand dollars, and lay glittering in her hair, her tiny ears, and about her stately neck, asa testimony to his generosity—but she wiped her eyes as he bade her, and went to the piano. This instrument stood in the music-room at the end of the long drawing-room, and separa- ted from it by heavy silk curtains, which slip- ped back on gilded rings at pleasure. Hon- oria drew them wide apart so that her uncle might listen tothe music at his ease. As she did so she started and gave'a little scream. “ Whatisit?’ asked the old man by the fire, half rising. ‘¢Nothing—nothing at ‘all, dear uncle! I must.be growing nervous since even shadows frighten me,” and with a little laugh she sat down to the piano. Her voice trembled on the first verse of her first song; but she soon mastered it, and it swell- ed out sweet, plaintive, and soulhrilling, giv- ing adepth of feoling to the simple words of the old ballads, and chaining the heart of the listen- er to old scenes, old memories, old days, when a girl fairer than this one, sung these same sweet songs, while he sat by and listened, and loved, and would not tell his love because the singer’s name was too lowly to fitly mate the lofty one of Garner. The Garner pride, so strong even in youth, was not less powerful now; the boy he loved had disgraced himself by a shameful mesalliance—he would have no more to do with him. : Not a breath whispered to the old man the truth, that this same reckless “boy” was, at that moment, lurking behind the curtains of the music-room, having sought the house with a faint hope that by this time his folly was pardoned; but.who, hearing the sharp words replied. to his cousin’s unselfish (geet aan shrunk back into the shadows of the m room, resolved not to betray hinmelt’ to t stern judge. ; ment, the signal of ‘silence which he made; Honoria had seen him, and, at the same mo- and so, trembling and anxious, had continued on her way to the piano, pretending careless- Perhaps for along hour Honoria sung and played; then, with a weary sigh her uncle arose, thanked her, rung the bell for his per- sonal attendant, and still sighing, climbed the broad, velvet-covered stairs to his own room. “Now?” cried Honoria, as master and man went into the room above, rising from the stool and going toward the intruder, who also arose and met her half-way. “Tcame from New York to-day, cousin. [ am tired and homesick. I felt that I must see you again. I am penniless, too. It is hard to earn money when you have not been trained to it. I hoped uncle had repenged his harshness, and would, at least, give me’ some- thing to do in the counting-room, but I heard what hesaid to you to-night., _He is merciless. Well, be it so. But you, Honoria, you are all tenderness and generosity! I shall never for- get your plea in my behalf to-night. God bless you for it!” “ How did you get into the house, Otis?” she asked, more because she desired to hide her agitation than because she pane curiosity to know. “I went away so suddenly I forgot to leave my night-key,” he answered, with an attempt ata laugh. ‘Do not be afraid of me, how- ever—I shall never come to rob the house. Oh, Honoria, what alifetime it seems since I saw you last!” The fiery eyes were burning down into her soul. “Yes,” she answered him, drawing away from him, as he would have put his arms about her, ‘‘it has heen a long time. We—I —have been lonely without you. The place does not seem natural.” “T have ee dying to see you,” he whis- pered. “Where is your wife, Otis?” Some subtle instinct to defend herself against any: love-making on his part prompted her to ask the question. “My wife! My God, what a mockery you make of that word, cousin! Is that girl my wife?) Must that mummery bind us forever?” “Do you call Mummery the solemn words spoken at the altar?” “In my case they*were. She nover has been—never will be my wife. In the course of time she will go through the formality of getting a divorce from me. You love me, Honoria; even‘ as T love you. Will you not | promise me to wait until that time comes? I came here; more to get your promise to that, than for any other reason, Give me that pro- mise, and I will go away and make one more earnest effort to help and raise myself. You will do that. much for me, will you not, my sweet—my only love—my true: wife that is to be, some day?” She pulled away the hands he held so tight | they were almost crushed in his clasp, looking him sorrowfully but bravely in the face as she answered him: ‘No, Otis, I will make no promise to you while that woman lives. Iam your friend— your true, farm, earnest friend. But she is your wife. Her rights are sacred—as sacred. as are my ideas of what is due to me, Otis. You must never speak to me in this manner again.” “You will not understand me,” he cried, im- patiently. “I do not want you to say any- thing wrong—only to promise for the futwre.” “We must not deceive ourselves, Otis. You are blind, or trying to make yourself out so. Once more, I am your friend. Try to make me more than that, and I will be. nothing but a stranger to you.” . She bade hin sit down by her side and ‘tell ‘her . his! business troubles. She sympathized with these, and promised to try again to soften ‘their uncle’s displeasure; she was kind, angelic in her gentle tenderness—but she would allow at! 4 i hx err / /
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ES THE WAR OF. HEARTS. £1 no more of those burning, foolish, almost wick- ed words with which he had begun. At last the bells tolled midnight; promising him to meet him on the Common the following afternoon, she let him softly out of the door into the street. She did not keep this appointment. When another morning dawned there had been a stranger visitor at the old Garner mansion than he who had entered there so quietly and stolen to the music-room to meet her whom he loved. This visitor had no latch-key; but he entered, nevertheless; and when"he went away he did not go alone; the soul of the millionaire went with him, leaving houses and lands and stocks and gold behind forever. When the servant entered Mr. Garner’s room, on the following morning, he found his master dead in bed. Whether the disappoint- ment consequent on the conduct of his nephew had aught to do with hurrying this sad event, cannot be certainly known. Surely, the old man made the effects of his wrath permanent, Every dollar of all his property was bequeathed to his niece, Honoria -Appleton, with this proviso: that she was ne- ver to share it with her cousin, Otis Garner. The gift of any portion of the estate, or of any sum of money, or any jewels or personal pro- perty, to this Otis, would render the whole will void; and in that case the estate should go to a distant relative—a strange Garner, living in another part of the country. So did the implacable old man perpetuate his anger. The name, signed firmly to that unjust will, made it impossible for Honoria to follow the impulse of her heart, and made her wretched. CHAPTER IX. POISONED FLOWERS. Lrrtim Mildred sat alone in her humble sitting-room on New Year’s night; her mother, growing more and more feeble, now seldom left her bedroom, unless for two or three hours at mid-day. Mildred sat alone, and she and her splendid dress made a strange contrast to her surround- ings. On this night, in her sorrow and her forlornness, she had, indulged in her faricy to wear the rich raiment her husband had given her during those few weeks—those bright, un- real, wonderful, blissful weeks—when he came peeny tia “to make the acquaintance,” as he he pe nt this mwact stranger, whomhe called To-night she had even gone so far as to ar- ray herself in. the white satin and lace dress in ia bam pean married, There, in the Roen room, she sat, /pal lovely, like ore awaiting her Hs ted ebbhaltd- our,» The glistening bridal robe fell richly about her dainty figure; there were pearls about her graceful neck, bracelets about her white arms; but, instead of the bridal vail, she had taken down her long, bright hair and shaken it out in a thousand rippling strands, until she looked like some nymph of the sea, dressed in the sil- ver-and pearl of its caves, and sitting in’ the midst of a golden fountain. Surely, surely, had the proud old man, now lying under the snow of the churchyard, once beheld this delicate young creature, in her in- nocence and her loveliness, he would not bave ea, punished his nephew for his rash But he never had seen her, and now—it was too late. She sat there, alone, with pale cheeks, but bright, wide, expectant eyes, hold- ing inher small hands a most exquisite large bou- quet of cut flowers, whose perfume filled the room. These flowers had come to her that risen 2 messenger had left. them with the oot -of-all-work; there was no card at- ached, nor’ was any name left; so. poor little Mildred, her heart high in her breast, Restless as some brilliant humming-bird ‘she had flitted about her mother, or darted to the window, until the dark came and she was pale and tired-looking and waiting. At twilight the thought had come to her to robe herself in her wedding-dress; and now she sat, pale, im- patient, clasping the flowers which she dream- ed came from him. Ah, she was not mistaken! He was coming! A step paused in front of the house, came up to the door, the bell rung, the little maid an- swered the summons—in another moment she would see him, hear his voice. Starting to her feet, clasping the roses to her panting bosom, while her large eyes flashed and a vivid blush stole over her pale cheeks, she stood there, in her glistening, glimmering, snow-white wedding-dress, like some spirit of a better world hesitating whether to pause or take flight—all her soul on her trembling lips and in her brightening eyes—when the door opened, and she saw, instead of her husband— Brummell Pomeroy. The shock of the disappointment was too great for her to conceal it, She turned paler than her dress and sunk down again into her chair without speaking one word. Pomeroy himself, man-of-the-world as he was, stood still a full mimute, dazzled by the unexpected vision of beauty and joy, for Mil- dred’s look had been one of rapturous expecta- tion as he came in. He had never before seen her in the dress and jewels which her husband had. given her; he had expected to meet a very, very pretty, innocent, shy, embarrassed girl—but not this radiant creature! For half a moment, too, he made the mistake of thinking the smile, the blush, thé radiance were for him! Then he saw the bitter disap- pointment, the pale reaction—and comprehend- ed the situation. Biting his lips, he repressed his annoyance as best he might, and waited. ‘Mr. Pomeroy,” said the sweet, tremulous yoice at last, “‘pardon my mistake. I was looking for-—tor—some one else.” ‘‘ Ay, Mrs. Garner, and some one else will not be here to-night. Let me prophesy that.” ‘Tam sure he will. He is in town—see! He sent me these flowers this morning.” ‘“‘My dear Mrs. Garner,” said the gentleman .—-who had been'so kind tothe deserted wife, always bringing her news of Otis whenever he could gain any—coming forward and taking a chair quite close to hers—‘‘I shall hate: my- self for having to undeceive you. No, TI will not do it. Perhaps Otis sent the flowers—he has been in Boston several days,” -*Mr. Pomeroy, did you send these?” asked Mildred, and even as she asked the question her little hands let fall into her lap the roses and English violets which she had kissed a hun- dred times that day. ; “Mrs. Garner, you must forgive me,” he an- swered, with an.air of humility which his club friends would have: been amused at. ‘TI did send the flowers, not meaning to take & liberty, or dreaming that they might mislead you. It was New Year’s Day, and I only wished to give you evidence that you had one friend at least who remembered you, with all the most earnest good wishes of the day.” “Tt was very—kind of you,” stammered Mildred, cold and pale. “T supposed Otis had been here, with gifts far more costly than my poor flowers. Of course he has been here?” “‘No—no! Are you sure he has been in town?” P ‘Positive. I saw him twice; though he did not know that he was recognized. But he has gone now. He lett on the 4 Pp, M, train this at- ternoon.” “Gone!” The low ery, vibrating with anguish, thrill- ed through the room, but it awakened no mercy in the selfish man who sat before her, taking pleasure in her despair. Pleasure—for he hoped, by arousing her pride and indignation—by showing her how little her husband cared for her—to win her gratitude to himself for his sympathy, his in- terest, his resentment at her wrongs. As, by | ject to which to devote himself! slow degrees, he pushed his friend Otis from her heart, he hoped to slip in and fill the ‘va- cant place. Yes, even if the affair never went beyond a harmless, but deeply interesting flir- tation, it was the kind of business which ab- sorbed a large part of the time and talents of Brummell Pomeroy. He made his living—a luxurious living, too —out of his friends; and he found his amuse- ment in winning away the hearts of his friends’ wives. It was a noble and an honorable ob- And he went through with the’business with the same thor- oughness that distinguished his attention to dress. Not for a long time—perhaps never—had he found a woman with so many attractions for him as our little Mildred. ‘ She was so innocent, so unworldly, and so beautiful; she was placed.in such romantic circumstances; and she was so défenseless! Here was the lamb upon which this wolf of so- ciety might prey, if it so pleased him. Nothing pleased him better. “Yes, my dear lady, he went away to-day. He has been in town sub rosa, I suspect. It was only by chance I discovered him.” “But he might have tome here. I would not have made any trouble.” “Just so, But then—if he had ofher ob- jects in view! For instance, the second time I met him he was walking, by starlight and gas- light, on ‘the Common, with a lady by his side —his cousin, the beautiful Miss Appleton. They appeared very deeply interested in each other, indeed.” “Why do you tell me this, Mr. Pomeroy? Do you love to be cruel?” He was moving too fast; the little wife was sharper than he thought; he put on an air of injured innocence. “Love to be cruel? You are severe, Mrs. Garner. No, I pity you—I take a friendly, a deep interest in your welfare. It is Otis who iscruel. It makes me angry with him—and then, Iam too outspoken. Perhaps I am mis- taken! Perhaps he does not love this superb cousin about whom he has raved to me for hours in days gone by. He may quite have outgrown that juvenile preference. These two, walking together on the Common at ten o’clock at night, had plenty of prosaic business to en- gage them, I have no doubt. sedhone “T dare say you know, Mrs. Garner, that tho uncle is dead?” ’ “Whose uncle? dead?” murmured Mildred —her thoughts were on those two walking to- gether under the stars, and came back slowly to the meaning of what her companion said. ' “Otis Garner's uncle. He died, alone, in his bed, very suddenly, the night before Christmas, His will settles matters pretty clearly.” : “Oh, what was it?’ she asked, now all ea- gerness, since Otis’ were concerned. “Did he forgive my poor Otis? Did he have mercy, after all?” “ He left everything to his niece; and a pro- vision that she was never to share a dollar of it with her cousin Otis, on pain of losing all. She is prohibited from doing the least thing for him. The old gentleman well knew that his niece’s first impulse would be to divide her for- tune with the man she loves so dearly, but whom a single inopportune step on his part has prevented her marrying.” Mildred’s fair little head drooped lower and lower; the golden vail of hair almost hid her pale face; she twisted her hands together, un- conscious of how their convulsive movements betrayed the struggle going on in her heaving breast. Finally she looked up at her visitor with a deep 5 me ae He ins “She may 0 ways ven arrying him, Mr. ET — Jo Stat Su ai: Bo SR ppt ene mr oa RT a ee
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fe THE WAR OF HEARTS. painful to him. I must not—I will not—hold any man an unwilling prisoner, bound to me by a galling chain!” “You are right, Mrs: Garner. I honor your womanly pride as highly as I respect you. Be- lieve me, you have my warmest, sincerest sympathy! Yes! free yourself from one who | , does not appreciate the good fortune whicha foolish frolic bestowed upon him—who does not woman heaven ever made! lt makes my blood boil in my veins to see the indif— but no. Otis is my friend, and I ought not to say what I think of him.” “You forget. Otis loved another before he eversaw me. Can you blame him for that, Mr. Pomeroy?” She Tifted * her lovely face in a piteous ap- peal; tears were streaming down her cheeks; she would defend the man she loved, even while her heart was breaking. Brummel ventured to lift one of the little hands, and to press it in token of silent sym- pathy, “You are too good, too generous, for a mere selfish man to understand you, little Mil- dred. All I can say is—there are plenty of men who would willingly give all they are worth to be in Garner’s place. The mere sac- rifice of a fortune would seem a light price to pay for the bliss of having such a woman as you are love them. I am a bachelor, little Mildred—but that is only because I never met my ideal before—and now, it is too late! But T am wild to talk thus to you, who are but a child, too modest, too innocent, to have the|_ least ‘idea of your own power. "Hold yourself proudly, my little. lady; do not be cast down by your husband’s neglect. There are men who would risk their lives for a smile of yours. Make your husband realize your power. But there! I have said too much. Pardon me, It is as his friend, as well as yours, that I would teach you to value yourself. And now, again, pardon me! Do not think me wanting in del- icacy, but as an old, tried friend of Otis, and as one knowing how he has suddenly been cut off from past opulence, and has to struggle te to earn his bread—may I ask you if you e everything you need? My purse, my rl , my influence, are all at your disposal. I shall feel honored to have you make some de- mand upon them.” “You are very good,” replied the girl-wife, “very kind, Mr. Pomeroy. I began to support myself before I met Mr. Garner, and I can do it stil], But he gave meall the money he had before he went away—remember that, Mr. Pomeroy! gave me all—robbed himself! Oh, itis no fault of his that he cannot love me!” with another burst of tears. ‘I haye left his ~ Inoney in the bank where he placed it for my benefit, I will starve rather than touch it! Still, there is no danger of my starving. No! thank you again for your thoughtfulness, Mr. Pomeroy; but I can take care of myself—as I have done before—and surely, surely, I will not forget that Iam Otis Garner’s wife, and as his wife, must act as he would have me act. As his wife I am too proud to beg or borrow,” concluded the little. princess, rising to her feet as if to end the interview. ~ Beau Brttmmell arose to his feet also, “T honor and respect you the more, little Mildred; Imay call youso, may I not? consider- ing how. intimate Otis and Iare, But I was ~ bound to make the offer, not knowing how you might be situated. And, now, I bid you good- night. I shall call again before many days,, for I feel myself a sort of guardian—being the friend Lam to Mr, Garner—of his little wife.” He pressed her hand and went away. “ By all the roses that ever grew!” he mut- - “tered, ‘as he went down the steps, “ but the lit- 7 ae creature has spunk! I shall have to ‘make ‘slowly’ with her. With what an air she r duties and rights! I could aha i—on ly it would not do. Wear- Wi ss in expectation of a visit from the young scapegrace! She looked like a raat in it, too. She grows prettier every “time I see her. Otis, little as he prizes her, ; Feta ek yy aed bag “oe A ae pests Lt Atin. 1, we : Bend ee a as Mt =f is Per ne Sane eee Seb Poe. 8 would hardly have gone away to-might witn- out coming here, had he known that his dear Brummell was paying a friendly visit to his. forsaken beauty. “Thavea ort to improve my acquain- tance with his other lady-love, also. Miss Ap- pleton is a great catch now—superb girl, too! If one could only settle down to a Benedict’s life! It is deuced hard to have to always liye care for the loveliest, the purest, the sweetest by one’s wits, Tosettle down on the certainty of two millions might pay for the sacrifice. I shall call on Miss Appleton as soon as the prop- er time arrives,” CHAPTER X, DANGER FROM AN UNEXPECTED SOURCE. Ir was over four months since her uncle’s death that Honoria Appleton sat, one fair May morning, with idle, clasped hands and bent face, dreaming in the great library opposite the drawing-room. The sun, streaming in through a lovely window of stained glass, threw strange, jewel-like colors over her white dress and dusky hair. Honoria wore mourning for her uncle; but on these warm mornings her dress was of soft, fleecy white, with only a black ribbon at the throat. She sat there listless and purposeless. With all her luxurious surroundings the girl was lonely. No father or mother—her ‘dear uncle dead—her cousin away, she knew not where—there were times when the world seem- ed desolate to the beautiful heiress, She would have given much gold for one true friend. An elderly maiden aunt had come into the princely house, to fulfill the pro- prieties and see. that the housekeeper did her duty by the servants. But she was not much of a companion to the spirited young beauty. Hosts of admirers would have been only too glad to console her drooping spirits; but Hono- ria, though fond of conquest and not entirely above the pleasures of coquetry, wasnot quick to yield her heart or her friendship to people. She sat there idly pondering what she should do when the summer came—go to the country, the seaside, or shut herself up in this great house, like Marianne in the Moated Grange. There was not so very much enjoyment in go- ing about with only her prim aunt for hee aed ionship. She was vexing her soul, too, to know what had become of Otis. Not a word had she heard from him since the week after his uncle's death, The money burned in her hands—the luxur- ies she enjoyed seemed to her half-stolen. Ah, why did her uncle make such a cruel will? Jf she could only find some way to evade its piti- less provisions and share her wealth with poor Otis! While she sunk deeper and deeper into reverie, the bell rung, and presently Shackles, the old servant of her uncle, and now facto- tum in the household, knocked at the door, and being bidden to enter, stated that a young person had answered the advertisement. Why, yes, Miss Appleton had forgotten that she had advertised for a maid. ‘Show her in here, Shackles. But only one at a time, please. If more come while I am engaged with her keep them waiting in the ser- vants’ hall,” Presently she entered, Shackles closing the door behind her, a young girl, plainly and neatly dressed, who lifted such a pair of violet eyes to the lady’s face as surprised her. For a moment the two women looked at each other with mutual curiosity vailed behind ar apparent indifference, “*You do not look fit for any, even the light- est service. Do you really apply for the posi- tion of dressing-maid! Have you over been out as a servant?” “No, madam, never. And for that reason T am afraid you will not try me. But my mo- ther is dead; and I am not strong enough or wise enough for a teacher. Isaw your adver- _ tisement, and it seemed to me just the kind of work I might do, after I had once learned it. I don’t deny that I shall be awkward and al- most useless at first. But I would ask no . 2 | wages for the first month; and [would try, oh, so willingly, to please you.” Trish or the pert French maid. Honoria’s lone- | ly heart went out toward this little creature, * so pretty, so delicate, and ladylike, so modest and evidently so very much in earnest—went out toward her almost as it would have done be careless, almost wicked, to leave unaided this timid girl, whose loveliness might expose her to all sorts of danger. “IT would as soon think of setting a hum- ming-bird to work,” she thought; “but I shall | my hair, or mend a bit of lace now and then, just to deceive her with the idea that she is of some use. Whata perfectly lovely little thing she is!’—then aloud—‘ What is your name?” “ Milla. ” i “ Milla what?” ** Lovelace, please, madam.” “Not an Irish name, anyway. I am willing to give you a trial.” ‘ “Oh, thank you!” very gladly and grateful- | y: ‘‘ When can you come?” “This afternoon, May I send my trunks, | Miss Appleton?—and—and—will I have a room to myself?” ; “ Exacting already,” thought the mistress, | severely, but she relented when the stranger said, earnestly : “lt is only because Iam not one of them, you see, Miss Appleton.” “No, and that may make trouble. I see that I cannot take you as my maid—it would never do.” } ‘ “Oh!” sighed the young girl, drooping. “ But I will do better by you, Milla. You shall be my companion—then you can take — yoar meals in the housekeeper's room, and — need not come in contact with the servants,” “T must do something to be useful, though; you must let me earn my bread. And I will | not take any wages.” “‘T will see to that. Come as soon as you please.” So the companion came a few hours later, and she and her two trunks were duly installed — in a small room communicating with Miss Ap- pleton’s dressing-room. She was timid, shrinking, far from presump- tuous, yet in less than a week the mistress and maid were two girls together, The little ¢om- ‘panion was so refined and intelligent and so wonderfully pretty, that Honoria lost half her sense of loneliness, She made the little thing her friend and confidante. She said to herself — that Milla’s coming was one of the most fortu- nate things that thad ever befallen her own proud self. She had some one to talk to now beside the grim aunt—some one young and ro- mantic like herself. The companion’s chief duty was to listen to the girlish chatter of her beautiful mistress. - She sat beside’Miss Apple: ton when that lady went out for a drive. Honoria insisted in having her elegant cast-off dresses made over by her seamstress for the little companion. Sometimes, of a dreamy, drowsy June afternoon, Milla would read aloud, in her sweet, pathetic voice, poems of love and melody which her lady would select from the great library. Two pairs of beauti- | ful eyes would brighten and grow moist toge- ther over the sweet singing of the bards, sing- of passion and romance, Why had Mildred ventured into the home of the Garners? It was a strange freak for one s0 timid as she. - It was not jealousy which urged her; nor was it the hope of meeting Otis there. No! the girl, so young, so ignorant of life, so shrinking, never forgot that she was Otis Gar- ner’s wife, It was the passionate p urpose of her life to make herself worthy of him. She knew that she was lacking in many things which could only be acquired by association with those in a sphere far above hers, She | knew that Honoria Appleton was not famous. for beauty alone, but for wit and elegance. 4 S@A1*# 68 Ae MA aA a & Be A et es A Mildred’s mother had died in March. The — Here was something different from the bold | take her all the same. She.can, perhaps, do | Well, Milla, | to a forsaken baby. ‘She reflected that it would/ ~ am ~h £5 ob teed il fe ed, beste ~~ A J Cel *’. BB bAee AWS W'S is awe
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/ | desolate girl’s heart had warmed with grati- tude toward Mr, Pomeroy, who had rendered every service in his power at that sad time. | lowed her gratitude to show itself in a kinder | «manner toward him; and he—emboldened by _ his.claims on her and by her solitude and un- protected condition, which should have render- j y ed her sacred to him—had made such advances as showed her the real meaning of his atten- tions and her own danger. The shock was dreadful. It seemed to her | that she must die, now that her hushand’s friend had dared to offer her his perverted love. Oh, where could she fly? What was she born for? She drove the traitor from her | with words which shamed him while they aroused his anger, and a fierce determination that she should yet be humbled, who had so wounded his vanity and disappointed his pas- sion, Mildred soon became aware that she could not walk abroad without her path being shad- | owed by that man.’ She grew more and more afraid of him. She saw that he was bad enough to plot some foul scheme against her. } : - Her dread of him even haunted her dreams at - | might. This feeling of insecurity, and the desire— | strong as life—to improve herself upon some | model she knew Otis admired—had led her to | answer Miss Appleton’s advertisement. : Little did the haughty Honoria dream that | her'meek attendant made a study of her every movement, the tones of her voice, the style of | her reception of friends and visitors, and all the thousand little polished arts that go to make up a fashionable woman; and that she carefully reformed every habit of her own which did not accord with the usages of the |, best society. y | It was an afternoon in June. There had _ beena delicious shower about one o'clock, leav- ing the air cool and sweet with the rifled per- | fume of millions of roses. . “ How lovely it must be in the country,” re- | marked the little companion to.the fair lady. | “Yes; it is time we were going to the ‘country, Milla. We will drive out to Cam- bridge, anyhow, and: get a glimpse of green | fields and waving trees,” : The carriage, anelégant open barouche, from which they could have an unobstructed view, was ordered ‘around, and mistress and maid ‘went out to enjoy the soft-air and the ap- proaching sunset in the suburbs. Not until they were over the bridge and under the classic elms of Cambridge did Mildred venture to lift the thick vail she always wore when out, and to inhale the breath of roses “new-washed with dew.” They had a long, delightful drive, watching the sun sink intoa golden fleece of clouds, and look out from under, like a laugh- ing child playing Bo-peep; and were now driv- ing back at a pretty rapid rate, so as to reach the city before dark, when a gentleman, walking along the pavement near the University build- ings, held up his finger to the coachman, who drew up his horses, and the gentleman came to the side of the carriage. “Oh, is it you, Mr. Pomeroy?” “None other, Miss Appleton. Ten thousand "pardons for taking the liberty of stopping your _barouche! I only want to ask after your health, and to say that I certainly should have called upon you this week, but I had an im- pression that you were gone to Newport,” say- ing all this with that easy, elegant air of his, and darting an inquiring glance at the vailed aa sitting beside Miss Appleton. ; *T have enough sea-air in Boston, Mr. Pom- eroy. When I go away it will not be to New- port, but to the mountains. I think the mid- dle of July will be soon enough.” “Would yqu believe it of me, Miss Apple- ton? I have actually walked out hera, the af- ternoon was so delightful, Having made a _ call on my friend, the poet-professor, I am now on my return. Is it not a delicious eve- isn | “Yes. Ihave been feasting on lilies and ®oses, “But, surely, Mr. Pomeroy, you have Believing him to bea true friend she had al- } THE WAR OF HEARTS. carried your experiment of walking far enough! If you will accept, you shall have a seat in my carriage back to the Tremont.” ‘Ah, Miss Appleton, what a talent you have for reading a man’s inmost thoughts! WhenI held up my finger to John, here, I said to my- self, ‘What a happy ending to a pleasant lit- tle excursion to be invited by Miss Appleton to enjoy the heaven of her society for a half-hour or so!’ Tnever did despise a silver-lined .car- riage. You remember what Holmes says: ‘Little Iask, my wants are few.’” “Oh, yes, responded Honoria, laughing, ‘‘I remember—the poet only wanted a hut—of brown stone—a few railroad shares—cold victuals, like vanilla-ice; ‘One good-sized diamond in a pin, Some, not so durge, in rings.’ By this time the horses were again en route, and Brummell Pomeroy—who, of all men on earth, had the finest art of sponging the good things of this life—lolled luxuriously back against the satin cushion, and chatted gayly with his beautiful companion; darting, at the same time, keen glances at the little person, who had quickly thrown her thick vail over her face when she first saw him approach the carriage, and had quietly slipped over on to the front seat, before he entered, giving him the place beside Miss Appleton. Of course Brummell knew, from her not be- ing introduced and from her taking the seat she did, that this was some humble com- panion of the lady’s, whom, in her kindness, she had taken out to ride; but there was some- thing strangely familiar about the little figure and its graceful movements, which aroused his suspicions, He made himself so extremely agreeable to Honoria that, before they reached the Tre. mont’ House, -she had invited him to take te: with her—an invitation which he eagerly ao cepted—eagerly, for two reasons, The first reason was that he had some time ago made up his mjnd to bend all his powers to securing the heiress, and had chanced out in Cambridge for no other reason, but because he happened to see her carriage on tlie bridge; the other was that his curiosity about the little vailed figure in front of him was growing deeper every mo- ment, , : By what little slips is it that great secre often come out! Mildred, sitting there, mute and trembling, with her blue vail pinned tight- ly over her plain hat, had, carelessly, in the heat of the afternoon, drawn off her gloves; and, lifting her hand to settle her vail still more securely, thoughtlessly betrayed the ring which glittered on her fourth finger. Brum- mell knew the ring ata glance, Little Mil- dred’s wedding-ring! Ha! This was a strange turn of affairs! _ The little creature had fled from him—hid- den herself from his heartless pursuit—but, of all things, why in the house of her husband’s cousin—the house of the Garners? It was a question which, with all his sagacity, Brum- mell Pomeroy could not answer. Hence his eagerness to be asked to tea. It was very kind of Miss Appleton to give him an opportunity of solving the mystery, and he meant to solve it before he left the house, What if this poor girl, to whom he had be- trayed his true character, should be the means of losing him the rich heiress? He set his teeth at the thought of it. “T would murder her, sooner than that!” he thought, CHAPTER XI. THE. CASTLE BESIEGED. “WHAT a pretty little girl that was with you in the carriage,” remarked Mr. Pomeroy to Miss Appleton, over whose brilliant face fell the soft luster of a cluster of wax candles, which candles also illuminated the very charm- ing and costly Japanese tea-set and the tempt- ting tea on the little table set for only two— for, fortunately—or so Brummell thought—the | maiden aunt had retired with a headache, there were no ther visitors, and he was tete-a-tete with the object of his affections (1) “Did you see her face?’ asked Honoria, as she pinned back in its place the white rose which had dropped from her bosom, | ‘‘ She is such a timid little thing, I wonder that you got a glimpse of her through that bluo vail. Yes, she is pretty, and modest and intelligent, too, I like her.” “T know it is a piece of impertinence on my part, but, may I be impertinent, and ask what position she fills asa member of your house hold, Miss Appleton?” “ Ah, I see! You are slighted because you were not introduced!” ‘‘T confess to a deep interestin pretty girls.” “Well, my little Milla is enough of a lady to be worthy of introduction to my friends. But it would not do. She is only a ‘compan; ion,’ and the conversative would take offense.” “Perhaps you have some special reason for favoring her—perhaps she has a right to be recognized by society,” said Pomeroy, keeping his sharp eyes fixed on the beautiful face oppo- site. : Honoria laughed girlishly, and her clear eyes met his unreservedly as she answered: “What an idea! The only claim she has on me, is, that I like her, I am lonely in this great house, and she is young, like myself, and good company for me. Little Milla applied for the honor of being my dressing-maid, when she had never performed any such service, I thought I might as well break a butterfly to the wheel! But [ took a fancy to her and so I made her a sort of companion, Sometimes she reads to me; once she mendeda piece of lace— but the hardest part of her onerous duties is to talk to me and amuse me,” “ Fortunate Milla! I would peril my life for the mere chance of obtaining her place, Miss Appleton! You are wasting your sweetness on desert air. Do, do, say that sometimes your unworthy servant may aspire to take Milla’s place—may come and amuse you.” He said this with such an affectation of deep earnestness that Honoria laughed again: “You do amuse me,” she said. “And I may come and talk to you some- times?” 4 } ““Why you do, do you not?” “ Yes, but oftener, I wouldlike to make it the serious business of my life to amuse you,” half-jestingly, and yet throwing so much ten- derness into his voice that she blushed and busied herself with the little gold tongs in the sugar-bowl, as she answered him: “T hope I shall not care so much for mere amusement when I’m older. I mean to be use- ful in some way; (‘Ay, to pay my bills!’ thought Brummell) but I’m such a child, now, and it really is lonesome in this great house since —since—I lost—my dear uncle,” the tears springing as ready as the blush—(‘‘ and your cousin, too, perhaps,” thought the man of the world who watched her). Brummell was too wise to push his suit too rapidly; he knew that young heiresses are sometimes as shy as quail in June, and he had no wish to alarm this one; so he went on with the first subject, “'Then you know nothing of the antecedents of this very interesting and much-to-be-envied companion of yours? You must be, cautious, Miss Appleton, in whom you put co , “T am—v cautious,” archly. ‘‘ But no one need fear little Milla, She is innocence it- . : “ Has she never told you her history?” “Oh, yes, the most of it, [think. Her fa- ther was a clerk, andnever got toanything be- yond that. He was pretty well educated, and so was her mother, They lived very nicely, but economically, until he died; of course, the salary came to a sudden stop. All the ready money went in funeral expenses; the shock of his death made her mother ill; Milla, who was going to schooland studying music, had togive up her lessons at twelve years of age. Since then she has learned nothing but what she has herself. plays and sings very taught . She ys sweetly; butnotatall scientificalty. In March ——
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14: ; THE WAR OF HEA —_—_—_—_—_—_—_—_—_—_—_—_————— last her mother died; she could not very weu support herself and keep their rooms; so the poor little thing thought the best thing she could do was to give up her -three music-schol- ars, and answer my advertisement for a maid.” “Thank you. A very pretty little bit of biography—from such lips—a little dull, per- haps, from any other. These are~- wonderful! ‘tea-cups, Miss Appleton; can you give me their history?” And—having changed the sub- ject after convincing himself that his compan- ion had no idea, thus far, of who this girl was —he proceeded to do his best to please, and en- | tertain, and fascinate the smiling young beau- ty, the superb mistress of all this wealth whose evidences lay’ all about him in the costly ap- pointments of the lofty room and the exquis- | ite table. But his thoughts wer- often distrait, He could not forget that the girl whom he had done his worst to injure, and who had fled from his persecutions, was an inmate of this house, and might very justly resolve to betray him, when she found he was a friend ‘of Miss | Appleton. Perhaps this very night she would tell her story to her kind mistress. He saw no way,to prevent it. He beat his brains in a vain attempt to invent some way of communi- cating with Mildred, but could think of none that would be safe. He knew very well that she would keep out of his sight. He dare not attempt to bribe a servant to take her a note —he was too experienced in guile to compro- mise himself in any such way as that. So that what should have been a most delightful eve- ning was spoiled utterly for him. He took an early leave, immediately after which Honoria flew up stairs to her own room where Mildred sat doing a piece of embroidery, to confide to her companion that she had often heard her cousin Otis praise Mr. Pomeroy, and that he was a most delightful fellow, ‘‘and, oh, would you believe it, Milla, he actually almost made love to me!” Milla looked gravely into the beautiful, flushed face. “T hope he never will come any near- er to it,” she said. F “Why? Whatis the matter with you?” ask- ed her young mistress, all the baughtiness of the Garner blood flashing into her face. “Tamsorry. It is not my place to receive impressions or to seek to benefit you by them, ifIdo. Ispoke too hastily.” “No, you did not!” cried Honoria, her sud- den temper subsiding. “If you had an im- pression oi this flattering gallant, let me hear it, please, little one. Iam not so pleased with him as you think, though it is fun to listen to the nice things he has to say!—but 1 know cousin Otis admired him.” | : “T should say—if you will make me, Miss Appleton—that the gentleman who rode with us this afternoon is not a person of any princi- ple. Ishould suspect, if he made love to you, that he was a fortune-hunter. And I should be afraid, if you married him, that he would make you unhappy.” “Oh, merey, child! How serious you are! You really make my blood run cold! But nev- er mind, do not fret about me. I am in no danger of this. terrible fate. My heart is al- ready given away, Milla, would you believe it? Given away,-and broken, too! Think of that! Sometimeif you and I get to be fast friends, I will tell you all about it—for it’s hard to have no one to talk to when one’s | heart aches so, Milla. I could never tell any | one but you. Youare so sweet and so beguil- ing, it will come out, to you, some day.” - She spoke quickly and gayly, yeu the tears sprung toher eyes. Mildred saw them and her own heart began to beat wildly. Oh, what was this that this beautjfc! girl was going to tell her? That she, too, loved Otis Garner?— and that he loved her? Could she bear tohave this said toher—his wife—who worshiped “the least sound of his foot on the stairway ”—the least word he had ever spoken to her, the least gift he had ever given her? Could she bear to live and feel that she was the obstacle be- tween these two cousins who were so worthy of each other? Oh, how mean, and poor, and huinble she felt besids this dark, proud girl, who showered gold about her as the rose showers dew! “But I cannot give him up to her; I am his wife: I. cannot give him up while I live,” moane@ poor Mildred, silently. ‘‘ There is but one thing I can do, that is, to die. Yes, Imay be a suicide, yet; I, whom my mother tried to make a Christian girl.” Rising, she said “‘ yood- night” to her mistress, and retreated to her own little room. Meantime, Brummell Pomeroy, restless and guilty, hung about the mansion he had so late- ly quitted. He felt as if he could not go without an interview with Mildred, or con- triving to send heramessage. Taking his pen- cil and note-book he paused by a street-lamp ‘and wrote a note, which he tore out of his book, and then resumed his promenade up and down the street. The Garner mansion stood apart from its | aristocratic fellows, in a haughty seclusion of its own, in the center of quite a plot of ground, so that there were windows on every side looking down on the north on a sheet of em- erald velvet grass, and on the south on long, narrow beds of flowers. Brummell observed lights in two of the rooms on the second floor, on the south side of the house. While he pass- ed and repassed, some one came to the win- dow of the rear room; a shadow fell for a mo- ment—he recognized it! “That is Mildred’s bed-room,” he said to himself. Again and again he walked up and down; after a while the lights were out all over the house, except the one which always burned in thehall. He heard Shackles locking up, and go- ing about to see that all the lower windows were fastened. The window to Mildred’s room above remained open, for it was a warm night, The thoughtless girl had left the shutters open, also. Brummell watched until the policeman was at the furthest end of his beat, slipped in- to the yard, and along by the beds of flowers which were perfuming the night air, and threw into the window the note he had written, and which he had wrapped about some pebbles which he took fron the flower-beds. He made sure that it had fallen inside, then slipped out, and away, to his hotel, before the watchman had completed his round. , Mildred was sitting in the dark by the win- dow, still far too agitated to think of sleeping. The note fell directly into her lap. She gave a little smothered cry. Recovering herself she picked up the intruding object. There was light enough for her to see thay it was a half sheet of note paper wrapped about something —and her first thought as ever was—Otis. Perhaps Otis had seen her in this house and took this way of communicating with her. She never thought of the man who had sat op- posite her in the carriage that afternoon. Drawing down the curtain she re-lighted the gas, and with trembling fingers and hurried pulses, smoothed out the crushed paper, This is what it contained: ‘Your husband lives in Cambridge. He is pre- paring several boys for college, and lives very re- tired. 1t was to see him that I went out this after, noon. He inquired after you. Of course 1 could tell him nothing, as I then knew nothing «iit you wish to see him, enough to risk a trip with me to C. to-morrow, be at the corner of the block in the af- | ternoon at five o’clock, where I will meet you with a carriage, and take you to see him. You need not be afraid of me, as | have now a more serious suit to which Iam devoting all my attention.” CHAPTER XII. STRAIGHT INTO THE SNARE. I am tired, tired, tired of everything!” ex- claimed Honoria, on the following morning, as she sauntered idly out of the. breakfast-room and met her companion in the hall, who had finished her breakfast some time before and now stood looking up at the lovely face of a statue of Psyche who held a flaming torch at the foot of the grand staircase. ' 2 Mildred started, when she was addressed, like some guilty creature. She was pale, for sbinlad contending fears and desires had deprived her of sleep, and looked sad; but she said, very gently: ‘What can I do to rest you, Miss Apple- ton?” “‘Come in the music-room here, It is cool, and the air wafted up from the flower-beds is delicious. Aunt Esther wants me to go shop- ping with her—buf I will not desecrate such a June morning as this by spending it in shops —notI! Yet Iam just as tired of this weari- some world as if it were not summer, and there were no roses peeping over that sill, there. It is I, you see, Milla, who am so tire- some. I can’t get away from myself!” and, with a tragic sigh, the young beauty threw herself down, in the most indolently graceful | of attitudes, into the arms of a fauteil whose | pale-gold satin cushions set off her dusky hair and brooding, languorous, dusky eyes and peachy-pale olive complexion to the best ad- vantage. The poor companion looked at her beautiful mistress with a strange, wistful expression: “Tt isso singular,” she said, “to hear you call this a wearisome world! I thought it was only the poor who found it so,” Honoria smiled bitterly, as if she knew bet- ter than that. “J will read you something out of this, Miss Appleton,” said the companion, picking up a small volume of blue-and-gold which had strayed into the music-room. The book open- ed in her hand of itself to a page bearing two verses. The girls made a fair picture in the cool, shadowed room, the breath of roses blowing in through summer curtains, and the rare old picture of St. Cecilia looking down on them from over the grand piano. It would be hard to say which was the prettiest of the two—the stylish mistress, in her soft, fine m dress. of India muslin, her dark hair falling in negli- ge over her shoulders, and no jewels but rose- buds at brow and breast, caprice, languor, dis- satisfaction, and a half-scornful interest in the: words of the poem, revealed in her face; or the delicate, flower-like young companion, sitting near the window, a stray beam of sunlight glinting on her golden hair which shadowed her neck and cheek as she bent her pure, pen- sive face over the little volume, while her voice, soft, low and pathetic, trembled through the music of the verses. These were Tennyson’s little poem: THE BEGGAR-MAID. Heraims across her breast she laid; She wes more fair than words can say Barefooted came the eee Before the King Cophe} In robe and crown, the king stepped down, To meet and greet her on the way; “It is no wonder,” said the lords, * She is more utiful than day. As shines the moon in clouded skies, She in her poor attire was seen: One praised her ankles, one her eyes, One her dark hair and lovesome mien. ry So sweet a face, such angel grace, In all that land had never been; Cophetua swore a nore oath: “This beggar-maid shall be my queen!” ‘Such things never happen in real life,” re- | marked the reader, dropping the book listless- | ly in her lap. | Something in her voice attracted Honcria’s. { attention, who looked curiously into the mel- ‘ancholy, drooping face, and then said, with a light laugh: “Sometimes. I have heard of similar cases!” Perhaps this wy before her the image of her reckless cousin ho had married a beggar- maid, off-hand. She sighed, after her little burst of laughter, and fell into deep thought. After a few minutes she looked up, saying: “TJ wish I were papr, Milla.” I “Oh, don’t say that! You were never poor, of course, or you would not wish it. If I were placed where you are I should be the very happiest creature alive!” and Milla clasp- ed- her hands while the burning color rushed into her pale cheeks. “ ° “And Lam the most misexable!” cried Ho- noria, suddenly, and large tears began to roB _ down her face. - t, : ae ”
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oe he ae _”») ‘am, ft **T don’t know why I should tell this to you, Milla—only that my heart is breaking and I must speak to some one, Yes, I am really, really very wretched. And what do you think makes me soi Oddly enough, it is this very money that you wish you had! I hateit! It is making me so much trouble that I wish it were in the bottom of the sea, Now, Milla, if I tell you this, you must never breathe a word to any living soul.” *T have no one to tell it to, madam.” “Did you ever hear anything said about my uncle’s will?” “ Not much,” answered the little companion, with drooping face. “Tt was in the papers—all about his leaving everything to me. I did not know but that you might haverseen it, Well, Milla, there ‘was another person who had a better right to the property than I. I was not brought up to expect any more than a small slice of it. For the larger portion was to be my cousin’s, You must understand that, as a young man, he had a right to expect more than I, a girl; and uncle had always openly avowed that Otis was the principal heir. He used to say, laughing, that there was but one way for me to share equal- ly—and that was—to marry—my cousin.” “Yes,” panted the listener, whose burning eyes were fixed eagerly upon the blushing, conscious face, “But I did not love him in those days,” Ho- noria ran on, dreamily. ‘‘I did not know my own heart. I coquetted with my cousin, and teased him, until one day it came out that he had done—he had always been a little wild—a terrible thing.” “A terrible thing!” echoed the listener, in a low voice, “ He had made a foolish bet at his club, lost it, and went out on the street, pledged to mar- ry the first girl, under twenty, whom he met. He redeemed his word. He met a beggar-girl, and he married her.” “ He should not have done it,” murmured the poor companion, “for the girl’s sake as well as his own, he should not have done it.” “You are right, Milla, But Ihave no room in my heart to pity the girl; she should not have taken up with suchan offer. Well, when it came to the ears of his uncle my cousin was disinherited—driven out, penniless,.to earn his bread, who knew no more how to work for wages than a child. He left this luxurious home which you see, and went—no one knows where. Then, when my uncle died suddenly, last winter, instead of having softened toward poor Otis, he had not only left everything to me; but there is:a clause in the will which for- bids me to share anything with my cousin. If I make him the smallest gift we both of us lose the estate, which then goes toa distant rela- tive. Imagine how I am situated! I tell you, Milla, it is slowly but surely driving me fran- tic—mad! Inever sit down to our sumptuous dinners—I never ride out in our elegant car- riages—I never take my ease in these rich apartments that I do not feel like a thief—yes, like a thief, Milla!—robbing my cousin of what is really his own. And the thought of his pri- vations—of what his proud spirit must suffer —of the actual want he may be enduring—is it not enough, is it not enough to keep me wretched?” “Then you love him ?” was the singular reply to this agitated question, and the blue eyes, darkening and deepening, were bent Lars on the glowing, tear-wet face of her Tess, “Milla! That is too much to say! I dare not ask myself that question—for my cousin is@married man, He told me last Christmas —the only time Ihave seen him since he was driven forth from his home—that he had never lived with this wife of his—that he did not, never would love her—but she ishis wife, and 80 long as she remains 80 it would be wicked, gg a pat say gh what you have ul 'Y one, with a heart or a con- science, would be. unhappy to be placed as I is not necessary that I should leve my cousin to feel his wrongs, Why, child, you are as pale as death! Are you fainting? Whatis the matter?” “Tt must be the heat—lI did not sleep last night,” gasped Mildred, on whose soul the words—‘ that he did not, never would love her’ —had fallen like ice and fire. She made a desperate effort—oh, never must this proud Honoria learn her secret now—and forced a smile to her ashy lips. “Poor lady!” she whispered, ‘‘ you are not so much to be envied, after all! No, no, I do not wonder that you are not,contented. One so noble, so generous as you, can never be happy while conscious that she wrongs another; no, not even when she is the helpless instrument of another’s revenge.” This she said, by a great effort, to divert Miss Appleton’s attention from her own un- controllable emotion. Then she arose from the seat she had taken at her mistress’ feet, got the book of poems again, and forced herself to read ‘‘ Locksley Hall” in a quivering, palpitating voice, sweet and sad as the moaning of an A®olian harp, setting the passionate heart-cry of the words to the thrilling music of her pathetic voice, Honoria listened to the poem, with bright tears beading her long, black, silken eye-lashes, and grew a little less bitter in her mood, As soon as possible Mildred laid the book down and slipped away to her own room, where she walked up and down, pressing her hands to her heart, and repeating, “‘never did, never could love me!” over and over. When she had risen, after a sleepless night, that morning, she had still been undecided whether to trust herself to one so treacherous asshe knew Brummell Pomeroy to be. Fear of him alternated with a passionate desire to see the man who stood in so strange a relation to her. Now she was resolved to risk whatever danger there might be; a wild impulse to stand face to face with Otis Garner, and ask him to tell ner, truly, if indeed he could never love her—and if he says so, thought the deserted wife, ‘‘then—there is water enough in Charles river to drown me,” She had traveled already so far on the path of despair.that she was thinking of suicide as a relief. That afternoon Mildred came down, dressed for the street, in a simple blue muslin and plain straw hat, tied with a blue ribbon, and asked permission of Miss Appleton to be gone a couple of hours, Honoria noticed that her little maid wore neat gray kid gloves and the cunningest of kid boots. “She has good taste,” thought the mistress; «she dresses like a lady, though her toilette isso inexpensive;” and, ‘‘ you look like some sweet little girl, Milla, Give me a kiss, and take good care of yourself,” she said, before she let her go. i Bow can you spoil that chit by being so freo with her?” asked the prudent aunt, when the companion had shut the hall-door behind her, Honoria never asked herself such a serious question as that. - Mildred, pale and trembling, walked down to the corner of the next street at precisely five o’clock. Two minutes later a little phaeton, all gilt and glitter, drew up beside the curb, Mr. Pomeroy, atti in his noted elegant style, himself drove the two black ponies at- tached to the dashing little opencarriage, He sprung out when he saw Mildred, offering his hand to assist her in. “Oh! Mr. Pomeroy, must we go in this?” she asked, shrinking. ; : “Not good enough for Otis Garner's wife, eh?” he replied, laughing. “You know what I mean. _It,is too conspi- cuous,” and Mildred looked as if about to run away. . “Not at all. I shall be proud of my fair companion, , Otis may be of you, but I am not.” Mildred flushed with indignation at the lat~ ter part of this speech; but the wild cry of her heart to see Otis, overcame even her resent- ment, and her dislike of observation, and she THE WAR OF HEARTS. 45 —J stepped into the phaeton. As she seated her- self she drew the everlasting blue vail over her face. Brummell, taking his place by her side, sud- denly, and as if by accident, sent the vail sail- ing off on the wind. “*Oh, my vail!” “Never mind it, It’s very unbecoming te you, little Mildred, and it’s not worth my run- | ning after.” So saying, Brummell spoke to his fiery little ponies, and they were off down the street like a summer breeze. Mildred was so distressed at the loss of her sheltering vail that she could hardly repress her teavs. It seemed to her, too, as if Mr. Pomeroy took the most frequented streets, and that he bowed to every second person he met. That he had a devilish purpose in doing this she did not suspect; butshe felt very awkward and out of place—very uncomfortable and ready to cry, as she sat by lis side, while he bowed, right and left, to his fashionable ac- quaintances, CHAPTER XIIL “VERY MAN’S HAND AGAINST HIM,” On the mcrning after that Christmas frolic on the ice, which had ended so disastrously, Pentacket experienced the severest mental shock—followed by the wildest excitement— which it had ever been the fate of that good little town to endure, The first person who chanced to be crossing the river at about the spot where the school- master was supposed to have skated into an air-hole, made a strange discovery. In the first place is must be explained that the air- hole was not caused by the air seeking exit through a thin place in the ice; it had been cut through ice eighteen inches thick by the . farmers of that vicinity that they might ob- tain water for their cattle; consequently, a person could approach to the brink. The farmer, who came early that morning to dip water from the, river, and who had not then even heard of accident of the pre- vious night, observed three things which caused him to look about him in surprise and apprehension. The first was blood—blood along a trail of about a rod, ending at the hole; the second was a bloody pocket-knife, thrown off into the alder-bushes along the bank; the third was, on the very edge of the ice, almost falling into the water, a man’s fur- trimmed kid glove. s With a prudence which did him credit, the farmer touched nothing, but went directly to two or three of his neighbors; and_ these, in turn, sent for the town constable, who took the knife and the glove in charge, and scooped up some of the red drops from the ice, that Dr. Bolus might experiment with them, and say whether or not they were drops of human blood. Ruth Fletcher had risen from her bed that morning looking like the ghost of the blooming girl of yesterday. Shejwas deadly pale, there were dark circles about her eyes, and the eyes themselves had a shifting look of terror—and something different from mere terror—pitiful tosee. None of the family had retired until long after one o'clock, the sad news of the schoolmaster’s probable death having shocked them too greatly to permit them to think of rest for some hours. They had all liked Mr, Otis, and the fact that he had left their own fireside alive and well such a short time before, made the accident seem very distressing to them. No one thought it strange that Ruth sawed : the effects of the shock so plainly. She been a favorite pupil of the teacher’s and he had been a visitor at her father’s house. Such of the neighbors as dropped in to discuss the event expected to find that Ruth Fletcher took it aad hard, : oY veral of these were in the sitting-room talking over the affair again and again in its every slightest known or inferred particular— while Ruth, with cold hands clenched together » é? a ae , gat al Se -
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fe 46 THE! WAR OF HEARTS. in her lap, stared into the fire as if she heard: nothing—when a knot of girls, with two or three young fellows, rushed into the house pell+. mell; “Do you know what has happened?” cried the foremost. “No,” answered Mrs, Fletcher, while Ruth turned her head, gazing at them with strange, wide-open eyes. : i “They have found blood on the ice, and a glove. The glove belonged to Mr. Otis—you know those gloves, Ruth, with the fur band at the wrist—but who do’you think the knife be- longs to? Jasper Judson’s initials are cut on handle,‘ and ‘we've all of us seen him with a knife like this one, Now, what do you think of that?” Ruth arose to her feet and faced them. She was white as snow, and her eyes burned with a terrible look. “Jt only proves what I told him last night,” she said, in a high, thrilling voice. “TI told Jasper Judson that he had murdered him—and now you all know it as well as I”—after say- ing which she fell down on the floor uncon- scious, . When she came out of the dead faint into which she had fallen it was evident that her mind was affected; she was ill, and was taken to her room, where she lay for weeks raving in the delirium of brain fever. Before sunset of that day a warrant was is- - sued for the arrest of Jasper Judson for the murder of Henry Otis; and the sheriff, with a heavy heart, took his way to the hitherto happy home of Squire Judson, whose pride, arobition, hope were all wrapped up in’ his only boy. A thunderbolt which should tear his hearthstone from under his feet could not have so appalled the squire, as did the call of the fficer who was sorry enough to make his er- . dknown. Mrs. Judson ordered the sheriff out of her house in her anger and indignation. He was very gentle with her, but he made her understand that he had no choice but to look | the house over for her son. “Ho is gone,” she then said. ‘“ He took the black team ‘and the light cutter just before noon and drove off as if he were possessed. I thought he had gone to take Ruth Fletcher out riding,” and then the poor mother sunk into a chair and wept and moaned—it had come over her, ‘‘all in a flash,” how Jasper had behaved all the morning! ; He would not have any breakfast; and had been seen by his father, sitting on an old sled behind the barn, his face buried in his hands | and his shoulders drooped; so that the squire had come in and saidio her: ‘‘ He was afraid Ruth had given the boy the mitten he seemed so down in the mouth.” And then he had taken their best span of horses, just before noon- | dinuer, and without eating a morsel, had driven away at full speed. ‘* Tf he’s gone, he’s run away, that’s all,” said the sheriff. is.” But the officer was mistaken in his very na- tural inference; Jasper had not run away; just as the sheriff was about leaving, with the two aids he had placed ‘at the front and back | doors, the young man of whom he was in search dashed up to the porch on which he was standing—with the splendid blacks all asteam and foaming at the mouth, they had been | driven so hard—flung the reins over their backs, leaped out of the cutter, and touched his fur cap politely to the visitor. That gallant salute, and the clear way in} which Jasper’s eyes seemed to inquire of him the reason of his visit, made it very embar- rassing work for the officer, whose face flushed and whose voice trembled, as he clapped his hand on the handsome young fellow’s shoul- der, saying: ; Bei “You are my prisoner.” . omen prisoner! I should like to know what ‘or ae PEN, FA ¢ Jasper’s tone was as haughty as any that ever issued from the aristocratic lips of the city schoolmaster, “T shall have to telegraph all | about him to have him arrested wherever he | ‘For the murder of Henry Otis.” “His murder? His murder? I thought it was well known and proven that he slipped in- jtoan air-hole in skating, and that there was no one at hand to help him.” | “So it was thought last night. But things /have come to light to-day which justify the citizens in asking for a warrant for your ar- rest.” ‘Who accuses me?” As we have said, the sheriff pitied the pa- rents and his prisoner; perhaps the very at- tempt to justify his own course, then, urged him to make the cruelest possible reply. “Ruth Fletcher was the first to put the general suspicion into words. She says that she knew, last night, that you had killed Mr. Otis out of hate and revenge,” “Ruth said that?” “Yes, I’m sorry to say she did; and I’m more sorry to think, Jasper, that jealousy of any man should have led you to such a crime, There isn’t a gal on earth is worth it,” moral- ized the constable, ‘And now, see, what a box you've got yourself into. I’d rather be tied up and whipped than lay a hand on you, Jasper; but I must do my duty.” Nota word of reply did Jasper make; not a particle of resistance, as the three men sur- rounded him. He did not even look back at his moaning mother, who stood in the door wringing her hands; but stepped into the sleigh provided for him, and allowed himself to be driven into town and up to the door of the jail, which he entered without turning his head to the left or right, or seeming to feel any emotion, The next day when his father sent the best | lawyer of the county to consult with the pris- oner on a line of defense, Jasper simply repeat- ed the story he had told when he returned to bars spectators, after his race on the ice with is, ' “You need not trouble to get up any de- fense of me,” he said, to the lawyer, indiffer- ently. ‘I would as lief be hanged as not. In- rather prefer hanging to living.” ‘You witl have to remain here in this cell until the first of June, anyway, Judson. Court does not sit until then—the fall term adjourn- ed not long ago. You will have some time to decide whether you really want to defend yourself or not, I will not hurry you. You will feel differently in a.few days.” But Jasper did not seem to have changed his mind atthe end of a few days—or weeks, The square set of his lips grew more decided; the resolute, almost dogged look in his deep gray eyes never changed; he did not deny; he did not complain; he did not open his heart to any one—not even to the heart-broken mother | who came every day to spend an hour with him; and she, he knew, in common with the rest of the world, believed him guilty. Yes, Mrs, Judson believed her son guilty, because of his strange conduct the day of hjs arrest, | and because of his bearing since. | She forgave him and yearned over him as a mother will; she said to herself that the boy | had always a quick temper, and that the school- | master must have provoked him in some in- tolerable manner, January and February dragged slowly along. | Much search had been made for the murdered was thought it would go over and be found | below, where the water was too rapid for ice | to form. : cluded that’ it had caught against and been roots of the elm reaching out from the bank, It would be a hopeless task to cut away a half-mile of two-foot ice; and so public anxiety and expectation were fain to wait until the warm spring rains should break up the ice and bring the ghastly proofs of murder to light. ‘Of course if the body should be found to bear a knife-wound, the proof would be clear enough ee aes young Judson. : deed, under the circumstantes, I think 1 would | man’s body down at the mill-dam, where it) When it was not discovered there it was con- ° held under the ice by some snag, or the long } | and water-ices; Pomeroy called a boy to hold ’ en instant, to look at her in a sort of wonder “The wind-flower and the violet,” were struggling through the moss in the brown old woods about Pentacket—the snow had melted from the hills and gleamed only here and there in the hollows—the stems of the wil- lows along the river wore a bright gold, and little crimson tufts were showing all over the maples—the sound of running waters filled the April nights with music—when Ruth Fletcher came out of the brain fever which had held her for three months, more dead than alive, and looked up feebly in her mother’s face with hol- low eyes of recognition. During the muttered delirium which had held her so long, she had constantly been the accuser of Jasper Judson. The story of her love-affairs in broken, wild, incoherent bab- blings, was told over and over; and pieced to- gether by those who watched over her sick bed. ‘ Jasper was angry—angry—because I threw his ring away!” she had cried, tossing her head + from side to side, and staring with the bright eyes of fever from one to another face. The ring thus referred to by the delirious girl, was found after some weeks, where she had flung it away that fatal night, and was taken as proof positive that she was telling facts in her ravings. And so it was that Ruth was, from the very firss moment when she denounced him, the worst enemy of the young man who loved her with all the strength of his powerful nature. The delicate trailing arbutus was perfuming the moist forest nooks when Ruth came out of the long and weary confusion of madness, and looked once more consciously upon the things about her in the room where she had lain as close a prisoner as Jasper in his cell. For seyeral moments her large eyes, now sunken in her wasted face, looked quietly at her mother and around upon the familiar ob- jects of her bed-chamber. When her lips moved her whisper was so faint that Mrs. Fletcher had to bend her ear close to ‘listen. ““Why are you here, mother? Have Mr. Otis and David got back from school yet? Is anything the matter with me?” She had yet to endure, weak as she was, the shock of returning memory — of d knowledge. Her mother spoke to her very | soothingly, and was telling her that she had been ill for a little while, when Ruth suddenly cried, “Oh!” and began to weep 80 desperate- ly that it was feared that the wasted chord of life would snap outright under the strain of memory and grief. CHAPTER XIV. - BY THE RIVER AT MIDNIGHT. MrprED was inexpressibly relieved when’ they were finally beyond the precincts of the crowded city; still it was not much better in Cambridge, and the hour was just that charm- ing one before tea when every one was out. “Mr, Pomeroy, where is Mr. Garner? It seems to me as*if we had been up and down every street in Cambridge,” she asked, at last, as the golden light of the setting sun striking under the arches of the roadside elms warned her that it would be late—very late—when they should reach Miss Appleton’s, on their return, after her promised interview with her hus- band ‘He is to meet us at Mrs. Miller’s, where we are all three to have ices, and then I am to drive away for a half-hour, leaving him at Kberty to talk with you. It is now precisely the hour when we were to arrive—and here we are at Miller’s.” ‘ A The phaeton drew up before a little place, re-_ nowned among students for its delicious creams the horses, lifted his companion out—paused, to behold the change which had come over her pale, cold face; a change like that over some_ exquisite landscape, when some somber cloud is lifted and the sweet sunshine | ‘il- ' jumines it—and escorted her into the leading her well back to the further end Bt the:
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THE WAR OF HEARTS. room, and choosing a table which overlooked a little garden in the rear. Mildred cast her shining, expectant eyes about—a few people were eating ices, here and there, but Otis, evidently, had not yet ar- rived, ‘¢Tt’s curious that Garner should be late—on such an occasion,” remarked Brummell, after they were seated. ‘‘ We will wait a few mo- ments before ordering our ices,” and he rat- tled on in a gay style about various light sub- jects, to which Mildred, growing every mo- ment more pale and listless, made little or no response; for, indeed, she heard scarcely any- thing he said—eyes, ears, heart were absorbed in the watch for her dilatory husband. Ten minutes having passed Brummell wound up an elegant criticism upon the manners of Ameri- ean girls in public places with the sudden ob- servation: “TI do believe Otis has played us a trick, af- ter all! We may as well order what we are to have; and if he does not put in an appear- ance by the time we have finished our ices, why, there will be nothing to choose—we must get back to the city in good time.” “Yes—yes, indeed! We must hasten our return, Mr. Pomeroy. I did not notice how late it was.growing. Ido not care for an ice —indeed, indeed, I prefer to go now.” Poor Mildred, so absorbed in watching for Otis, just began to realize that twilight was deepening without, But Pomeroy gayly insisted on the ices; and, not to attract too much attention to herself and her uneasiness, the girl choked down a few spoonfuls, while hoping, wildly hoping to the last, that Otis would keep his appointment. The disappointment was terrible; but she dared not let her spirits or strength fail her, as _ they threatened to do—she must get home first, She looked so pale and faint that Pomeroy of- fered her his arm.on the way back to the car- riage, and she was obliged to accept it. Still no thought of treachery on her companion’s part had occurred to her. As he assisted her into the phaeton some one passed along the pavement, with a slow step and head sunk on his breast, As she seated herself Mildred caught sight of his face, pale under the light of twilight skies. * Otis!” she cried, with a voice that was al- most a scream of joy. He turned quickly, took a step toward the pear an, stopped, cast a look of contempt at the pale, beautiful face leaning toward him— a look of scorn, anger and surprise at his old friend, Brummell, who touched his hat grace- fully, threw a half-dollar to the boy who had held his horses, took the reins and drove gal- lantly away, but not before Garner had re- sumed his walk withott making any response to his saltutation. “Oh, stay! stay!” cried Mildred, clutching at the reins, wild with despair, ‘‘He meant to be there! He was only alittle late! Let us go back, We must go back!” “He would not speak to us if we did, my little lady. Did you not notice his grand air of scorn of such people as you and I? He is angry to see you with me,” “Then I must get out, and explainitto him, Tam going to jump, Mr. Pomeroy, if it kills me,” He slipped a firm arm about her waist, while he urged his team into a rapid trot, “ Little fool, be quiet—he is far out of sight, and you would never find him. I want to tell you something. Listen, Your husbandnever made an appointment to meet you. It was al- together an accident our meeting him, as we did, just now. I told you a little story, fair one, to induce you to come out riding with me this pleasant summer afternoon, I wanted to get you in my power, Not to make loye to you, as I was once inclined to do; but to have it in my power to injure you, if it should bo- come necessary. Hundreds of my friends and uaintances have seen you with me this af- ternoon. They do not know your name; but you are pretty enough to pique their curiosity. They will, inquire about you and I will tell them you are the wife whom poor Otis Garner married, on a wager, and deserted, They will wonder why a married lady went out with me —took ices at Miller’s with me—they will think you gay and careless, to say the least, for a person placed in a position demanding so much prudence as yours. You see, what your husband suspected the instant he saw us over in Cambridge together, He took it for granted there was a flirtation going on. Oth- ers will look at it in the same light. “Now I do not desire to use this power which my little ruse has given me, except un- der certain circumstances. I came to visit Miss Appleton and I found you installed in her house without her suspecting who you are, You do not like me, You have no reason to. You can tell Miss Appleton things which will damage me in her eyes. Now, I have taken a fancy to that superb young lady. Ihave done more than that—I have made up my mind to marry her. [like her and I like her money; the money which her spiteful old uncle was so considerate as to take away from the nephew for marrying you, and so good as to give to the niece. I propose to enter into a contract with you that we shall let each other alone. You must promise me not to interfere with my suit—not to betray to Miss Appleton the attentions I once paid you—not to disparage me to her by look or hint, but, rathor, as far as you have any influence at all, to cast it in my favor, You must promise me this; in re- turn I will promise not to betray you to any of my friends, to explain our drive to Otis if I ever see him again, and not to hint to the lady anything in your disfavor, Refuse, and I will ruin your character with her and with Gar- ner, Say anything against me, and I will tell her that jealousy is the cause of your detrac- tion, and explain to her where you were this afternoon, out riding with the bad man whom you decry! You see, you are in my power! Do you promise me never to say a word against me, and to do what you can to promote my suit with Miss Appleton?” Mildred pressed her pale lips together in si- lence. She would enter into no compact with this scoundrel, Yet, as he said, he had her good name in his power, and she shuddered as she recalled that blasting look of contempt which the man she loved—adored, with the pure adoration of a young girl’s trusting nature— and to whom she had been united before God’s paied had cast upon her a few moments be- ore, She had been imprudent in trusting herself with this bad man; but one need hardly ex- pect a great deal of worldly wisdom in a little creature bea irda ae and she had been led into this danger only by the strong wish to see again that husband who had come to her, like some splendid being out of some superior world, to win her love only to leave her. To see him what would she not do? She had lean- ed on the broken reed of Brummell Pomeroy’s honor—and this was the result! : ‘Do you promise?” repeated the man b her side, in that low, concentrated, almost hissing tone, which is so eloquent of a ma- licious will set to have its own way. Little Mildred looked at the blue sky, where the first large star of night was beginning to burn, and where, along the summer horizon, the blush of the June sunset yet lingered—~ looked about at’ the shining river, the thousand lamps of the great city they were approaching, the bridge, the masts of the distant shipping— with a mute appeal in her large, innocent eyes that might have touched the very stones of the street. But there was nothing and no one to befriend the orphaned and deserted child. Mildred had learned to love her husband's young, proud, beautiful cousin very fondly. Not to save herself would she injure Honoria. And it would be injury of the most irretriev- able character to allow her to be deceived into loving and marrying a dastard like this para- site, fop and scoundrel who had just unfolded his plans to her. She could not seal her lips by such a pledge as he required of her, age ee - . 17 She knew that Honoria loved Otis; and she would only have been too glad to seo her in- terested in soine other man—but not.in Brum- mell Pomeroy—not in that base creature. The spirited black ponies flew along through the soft twilight; Brummell leaned forward to study the face of the silent girl by his side— leaned forward, with an infernal smile, to see the effect of his avowed purposes on the pure mind of the child-woman which, so. far, he had been unable to corrupt; and as he so leaned and looked the feet of the horses struck the long bridge, and to conform with the rules he had to restrain their speed and break them down to a walk. Resolved not to promise, desperate, loathing the necessity for remaining an instant longer by his side, Mildred suddenly arose to her feet and sprung out upon the bridge, Brummell drew rein; his face was dark and threatening. “Return, Mrs. Garner, or you will be sorry. You risk a great deal, for such a little prude as you are, alone on this bridge at this hour, Are you not afraid?” ““Yes—of you,” “Tam not, at present, your greatest danger, little simpleton ” “God will take care of me,” ‘You think so. Do you know what I shall. do?—drive directly to Miss Appleton’s, tell her where I saw you last, and what you are, I shall not make you out a saint, either, my little lady.” ; Mildred would not reply; it would be useless to crave his mercy, unless she promised what he wanted. She walked as rapidly as her trembling limbs would allow away from the carriage and in the direction of Cambridge. A mad desire to see her husband wes upon her—to see him, and forestall the slanders of this man whom she had made her enemy—to see him, and tell him how she only loved. him more and more as the weary days rolled on, and beg him to take her, all unworthy as she was, and try what a fond, faithful, idolatrous little wife she would be to him, Brummell cast a look after her and drove on; he did not care for a scene in the street, and he could not leave his team, Mildred hurried along the road at a pace which was, in one sense, a protection to her, for it proved her to be out for some purpose beside loitering. Her dress was so plain that she was thought by passers-by to be some sewing-girl going home after a day’s toil in the city, and saving her car-fare by walking. Her hat was pulled down to shade her face as much as possible, So she hastened on and came back into the streets over which she had been whirled. in a carriage once that afternoon—first of all to Miller’s, whose door she passed and repassed until a student, who had noted her actions, spoke to her and she fled like a frightened dove, Then she wandered about the Univer- sity buildings, for Pomeroy had said that Otis was preparing a class to enter, and he might, perhaps, be in that vicinity. Hour after hour Mildred wandered aimlessly about, She was no longer exactly in her right mind; for the excitement, the disappointment, the dread of the afternoon, combined with fear, fatigue, and the wild craving to find Otis, were fast rendering her feverish and half delirious, More than once she was rudely addressed; but no one touched her, and she only hurried on and on the more determined to find Otis, and looking in the face of every man she passed to seo if it might be him, ? At ten o’clock the moon came up, rising in her full June splendor, silvering the roofs and | towers and arches of the great cluster of col- lege buildings, and casting black shadows un- der the old elms, Poor little Mildred was dimly conscious of soft little gusts and snatches of sweetness from clumps of roses that stood with their pink faces, turned to the sky—then of the songs and laughter of gay young fellows wandering about the moonlit streets—then of solitude—silence—a green meadow, a quiet-flowing river, rippling and
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18 THE WAR OF HEARTS. shining under the silver smile of the lustrous heavens, ‘Oh, how my head aches,” sighed the poor, forlorn child, ‘‘and how parched my mouth is! Iam so tired I cannot get to the water, or I would bathe my forehead and have a drink, AndI haven’t found Otis! He does not care for me! Nobody cares for Mildred now. Mother is dead. I am married, and yet I am-not a wife. Otis would be very, very glad if I were dead. I wish I were dead. Yet, if I die, he will always believe that I was bad, for that wicked man will tell him so.” No, foolish Mildred, if you die, Brummell Pomeroy will be too well rid of you to care to let it be known to’ any that he ever spoke to you or heard your name! Mildred stumbled on toward the cool, shin- ing water. Her slippers were wet through with dew, her dress soiled and draggled with dust and dew; she took off her hat and drop- ped it out of her listless hand as she went along; her brain was dizzy, her fancies con- fused; she wanted to die; she wanted to quench her thirst; she wept because she had not found her husband; she started and looked about for fear Pomeroy was following her— and so, weeping, sometimes lifting her wild, lovely face to the sky and praying, sometimes sinking upon her knees she was so faint and tired, Mildred struggled toward the river, reached it, stooped over the lush grasses of the bank, but, before she could taste the wa- ter, grew dizzy, tottered and sunk back on the | damp grass in a deep swoon. CHAPTER XV. TELLTALE WITNESSES, , ‘WHEN it came time to shut up the house for the night, and her little companion had not re- | turned, Miss Appleton felt uneasy, almost alarmed; but concluded that Mildred had friends with whom she had been persuaded to pass the night, and so went to bed and to sleep without much delay. When morning failed to bring Mildred, and afternoon also, she wondered: more than a lit- tle over this unlooked-for desertion, She had grown very fond of her companion—hired for wages, it is true, but almost her own age, and so pretty and refined that she had made friend and confidante of her—and now missed her more than she would like to acknowledge. It seemed like downright ingratitude in Milla to behave so, for she had been very, very kind to her. Honoria dressed herself for visiting and made a call or two on intimate friends; came home to a dull tea with her aunt, thought how pleasant Mr. Pomeroy had made that hour the evening previous, and was called from the tea- table ‘to the drawing-room to entertain first one, then two or three, and finally a half~dozen young gentlemen who dropped in to pay their respects, and sun themselves in the beauty of the young heiress. The last to come and the last to go was Mr. Pomeroy. He had bowed himself into Honoria’s presence ‘with more crepidation than he often felt; for he was in doubt as to whether Mildred had returned here, and told her story of his infamous conduct; but as soom as he perceived, from Honoria’s friendly manner, that he was still unbetrayed, he recovered all his assurance and made him- self the envy and the despair of the “‘ younger fry,” who one by one retreated, leaving him, at last, alone in the company of the bewitch- ing young beauty. He remained to the last on purpose to learn what he could about Mil- dred; and it was not’ many minutes before he had led Honoria on to confide to him the strange conduct of the girl in going away without warning and failing to return. “Do you think any accident, or anything) wrong, has happened to her, Mr. Pomeroy? I should be miserable if I thought so; and have ¢ oped A Sod Sceeaeen ay eete: « Ah! I dare say she made you think so, To me—I will say it, now that you have found her out—she looked like one of the slyest, most | cunning of her class. You are too trusting, too generous, Miss Appleton. Do not think | any more of that little serpent. Tam jealous, you seet I want you tothink of me.” And then, without actually declaring himself, or | saying anything so definite as to alarm her or | give her a chance to refuse his suit, Brummell made love te the glowing, blushing, half- retreating young beauty in a way that, had not her sad inner thought been fixed so per- sistently on her absent cousin, would certainly have had the effect he wished. It was after ten when Brummell went away. Late as it was, he had scarcely gone half a block from the house when the bell was rung again, and Shackles, who was about to bolt the door, opened it, to admit his young master, Otis Garner. “ Ah, “Mr, Otis!” he cried, joyfully. “Hush, Shackles. You are well, I hope. Is Miss Appleton still down-stairs?” “Yes, sir; in the drawing-room.” “Well, 1am going in to see her. You need not say anything to any one about my being | here,” and Otis stepped forward to the open door of the drawing-room, followed by the sorrowful eyes of the old servant, who noted the paleness of the young man’s face, the gloom of his manner, and—tfact equally solemn to the valet—the last season’s cut of his clothes. “Cousin Otis!” “‘'Yes, Honoria, but do not alarm the house. I came to see you. You seem to have plenty of admirers! I have been hanging about, waiting for the last of them to go away, for at least two hours. Do you have good times nowadays, cousin?” Tears started in the girl’s dark eyes. | know you do not, and it troubles me all the time. long as I felt that you were banished from your own house and home.” “Then you still think of that, sometimes?” “T think of nothing else—nothing else.” “Tf I were not a married man, would you love me, Honoria?”’ “You have no right to ask.” “T have a sort of moral right. Let me ex- plain. Day before yesterday I saw my wife— as the law calls her—out riding with a gay young man of the town. They drove to Cam- bridge, stopped at Miller’s for ices—were hay- ing a good time, generally. What was I to think of that?—that she was breaking her | heart for me? No, indeed. She is evidently | able to take care of herself; I shall not trouble my conscience any longer about her. She wiil do something bad before long; then, if she ‘does not seek a legal separation from me, I ! shall from her. I wanted you to know this; I wanted you to promise to wait for me. So I ‘came here once more to tell you. I feel hap- pier now that I am certain that girl cares no more for me than I for her. But I have been deucedly jealous, walking up and down under your win jows all the evening, seeing, through the parted curtains, all these moths singeing their wings in your radiance. It did seem | hard for them all to have more rights in this house than I. Honoria, supposing 1 come to you at the end of a year or two, free to marry you, what can be done about this money business? If you love me as I love you, you will be willing to give up everything to this relative, whoever he is, and share my poverty with me. Do you love me as much as that, ‘sweet? Answer me.” “Otis, I shall never answer such questions as these so long as you are bound as you are to another. You ought not to ask them—I éught not to answer them.” “But it is so hard to live and hope on with- out any éncouragement. I don't want you to do or say anything wrong, my sweet. I only want to be sure that you love me enough to wait for me. If I was certain of that I should “Do you have good times, cousin Otis? I| Even if P were not in mourning for | uncle, I could not be really happy, Otis, so | not be disturbed by all the butterflies of Bos- ton basking in your glory.” ““What are you doing, Otis? Where do you stay?’ “Not so many miles from here, I am coaching some young fellows for the fall ex- amination. When that is through with I don’t know what I shall do. But you don’t answer me, cousin!” “Because I dare not—ought not. Oh, Otis. | I would rather you would never come near me at all than always to talk to me so when you have no right.” “Ts that prudishness, Honoria, or a way to get rid of me?” “God knows, if I could take your place and give you mine, Otis, I would do it only too gladly. I feel like a thief, eating your bread, stealing your place! Uncle was cruel to me as well as to you, Otis,” and she sobbed, “But you don’t love me?” “Say I do not, cousin Otis: that will end | it.” “Good-by, then, Honoria,” *€Good-by.” She heard him move away, but she would not call him back. The struggle in her sob- bing, panting breast was terrible; but she could not, would not allow this man whom she loved to make love to her, under the circum- stances. She knew that he had forged the chain which bound him in an hour of reckless | sport; but his will could not break it as easily as it assumed it. This brief visit from her cousin made an im- pression on Honoria which did not wear away in one day, or two, or many days. It filled her with a sadness which kept down her naturally gay spirits; but if it had no other good effect, it had this—it kept her from yield- ing to the influence of Brummell Pomeroy’s | persistent attentions. July came, and with it such weather as | drove the lingering young lady to the moun- tains. Before she went from home, she ad- vertised for M. L. to come or send an order for the trunks she had left at Miss Appleton’s; then, there being no response to this call, Honoria sought in the trunks themselves some ‘ clue to Mildred’s identity and whereabouts. Thinking it only right to look after the proper- ty of the missing girl herself, she thought to make a memorandum of their contents, so that ‘if anything were lost during her absence she would know of it. One sultry morning, therefore, Honoria, with a goodly bunch of keys, entered the bedroom of her vanished companion; but she had no need.to try those in her hand, for the girl’s own keys lay in a little sewing-basket on a table, | You anticipate what the young lady found in those telltale trunks! The wedding-dress, the wedding-vail, the costly string of pearls, the withering bouquet of white roses and | white violets—the certificate of marriage, | bearing the names of Mildred Lovelace and | Otis Garner—a photograph of her cousin, Otis —the bank-book, still blank of any entries— ‘all the dainty, expensive bijouterie which the extravagant young fellow lavished on his fairy bride before the blow fell which cut off his ' power to indulge in such gifts—all were here, lying in the perfect neatness and order which had characterized the little companion, mutely telling the girl’s eloquent story to the proud beauty who hung over the trunks, with pale face and shining eyes and excited expression. ! So! she was Otis’ child-wife! She, the hum- ble girl he had picked up out of the street and married} She, the one of whom her haughty ! Garner cousin was ashamed! Whom he had married in jest, and then basely deserted! The . | image of Mildred, as she had been in their con- ~ fidential hours together, rose before Honoria. | The pure, exquisite face, the large soft eyes that seemed to mirror heaven, the glorious, | glimmering, shimmering golden vail of hair, the sweet mouth, tremulous with sensibility, * the slender, pliant figure round and delicate, ‘ the look of purity and goodness—in short, Mil- | la’s own sweet self arose in her memory, and the generous, ardent girl said to herself, with | flashing eyes: Cts eT Ps re Nn — <—™=
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THE WAR’ OF "HEAR “Tf Otis had been the Grand Duke himsq@f that girl was good enough for him. A Cin- derella—a darling little Cinderella—and her prince abandoned her! Oh, if I had known while she was here I would have sworn to be her sister! I would have seen to it that she had justice done to her! Why did she come here? Why! in the hopes of meeting him, of course! Poor child! I would give everything to know what has become of her. : “What was that Otis said about her being out driving with a gay fellow the afternoon she left me? I cannot believe little Millaisbad. I will not believe it. Haven’t I lived with her, talked with her, watched her?—not even a shadow of guilt ever passed over that white soul. Otis is mistaken. I shall tell him so when I see him. Ah! when will that be? Poor cousin! I love him—but I love Milla, too, and he must be made to love her! Yes, from this moment, I give you up, Otis Gar- ner.” She arose from her knees beside the trunk, looking before her with those bright, piercing eyes as if she saw her cousin standing there; pressed her hand tightly over her heart, set her lips firmly together over the sigh that should not escape them, and so stood for two or three minutes. In that brief time died all the feeble hopes she might half-consciously have cherish- ed, that this unloved, unworthy wife might die, or might do ill, and she regain her cousin. She no longer wished for this. As for herself, she anole ive an old maid—as for Milla, she should fight her battles for her, if the oppor- tunity ever came, ; At this juncture her eyes lighted on a little diary lying modestly in a corner of one of the trunks. Honoria would resent the idea that curiosity had anything to do with her peeping into it—it was only the desire to right the young wife, which caused her to glance over page after page on which little Mildred had breathed out her heart in words of pure adora- tion which taught Honoria that she, as yet, had only sipped at the wine-cup of love—had never felt its true madness thrilling her veins, “How she loves him!” gasped the dark beauty, almost breathless. ‘Ah, cousin, I do not love you like that! And this fond wife is capable of flirting with othermen? More than ever I doubt it. If I could find Otis 1 would give him this diary to read.” And Honoria, replacing it, relocked the tell-tale trunks and went to direct her maid in the important ope- Pe of packing her own for her summer ur, The next day she was off; the day after Brummell Pomeroy followed in the same di- rection, He was a man of perseverance when he had an object to gain which would further his own interests; certainly, this beautiful bru- nette, with her archness, her youth, her un- trammeled possession of a vast property, was an object worthy of his most patient effort. _ Honoria did not enjoy her summer's pleasur- ing—though her way was strewn with con- quests and the elegant Brummell had placed himself at her service—so much as she might have done had she not been over-anxious about the fate of her cousin and poor, lost Milla. Yet had she known about these, as she wish- ed, she would not have enjoyed herself even in that limited degree which she did. CHAPTER XVI. THE STRANGER AT THE GATE. PENTACKET is a lovely little village m sum- mer. It is in the north-western portion of Massachusetts in full view of the mountains, and not far from a romantic little lake, while its own noisy, rapid little river runs through its views are fine, its inhabitants know how te win a living out of the g of their situation, and, in hot weather, the village is crowded with summer boarders. There is one large, roomy, airy hotel, with verandas and green blinds, and a band of music and a ball- room, which does a rushing business in July and August; but a great many quiet people prefer the seclusion of private dwellings, and full half the families of Pentacket take board- ers in the summer season. The Fletchers did not live immediately in the village; but their house—being fine and large, with well-kept grounds, and their or- chards and vegetable gardens and poultry yards and meadows perambulated by hand- some cows, giving fine promise of abundant good cheer—was regularly besieged, each sum- mer, by applicants for board. But, as Farmer Fletcher and his wife thought they had enough of this world’s goods, and prized their ease and privacy more than the dollars to be made in such ventures, they seldom yielded to the besiegers. Once or twice they had been in- duced, out of pure kindness of heart, to take in some invalid, whom they felt assured they could benefit; but the spring of Ruth’s serious illness Mrs. Fletcher had warned her husband to give no encouragement to any stranger dur- ing that summer, “Tt will keep my hands full waiting on Ruth. °*Twill be months before she will be fit to do for herself; and then, too, husband, this affair about the schoolmaster makes me feel as if I couldn’t endure to look a stranger in the face, or to have to talk to ’em. We are all concerned in it, you see, as *twas Ruth’s ad- miring the teacher. urged poor Jasper to do what he did. If he was my own son I couldn’t feel much worse, First place, I liked the boy and looked to his being my son some day; and then, I can’t shake off a sense of responsibility, seeing as Ruth’sso mixed init. Poor Ruth! [ don’t see what under the sun she took it into her head to care for the master for! He was- n’t our sort—and Jasper was. You see, I kind of blame my own child—and she at death’s door for her folly, too!—and it’s a miserable business all around! A miserable business! I should think Jasper’s mother would die out- right, for it’s almost killing me. Ob, dear! oh, dear! There don’t seem to be any way out of it!” No! There certainly was no way out of the dreadful trouble of thatsummer! Jasper. Jud- son was pining away the long days in jail awaiting the trial to come off late in June; her own daughter was struggling slowly, very slowly up from that bed of fever and delirium on which she had been so long stretched—and Mrs, Fletcher, more grave and sad than even in that season long ago when, she had buried another little girl, leaving only Ruth, went about her house with a heavy heart. Thus it happened that she would not listen to the dulcet persuasion of a very beautiful and stylish Boston girl, who, with her maiden aunt—the aunt was suffering with a cough left by a winter attack of pneumonia—had come there the first of June and begged to be ac- commodated, professing herself willing to pay any price for rooms and board, as the aunt disliked hotels, disliked villages, and craved a quiet country place where she could recover at leisure, The girl was a beautiful creature, and had such a sweet, coaxing way with her, that Mgs. Fletcher found it hard to refuse her, softening her refusal with the statement of her daugh- ter’s illness. She heard, afterward, that the ladies had concluded to take rooms at the hotel, when the younger one—a great beauty and heiress—was the observed of all observers, Two or three days after the first application came another. A livery hack drove slowly through the winding drives of the lawn and stopped before the steps of the porch which ran across the front of the old stone house, It had showered during the day; and the air was sweet with the scent of roses and new-mown hay. The slender pillars of the porch seemed hardly able to bear up the weight of rose- vines which clung to them, heavy with great, drooping clusters of pink and white and red. The meadows across the road were dotted with haycocks thrown up hastily to ti damaging effects of the summer rain. were darting about as if intoxicated by the joy mp ~ To. 19 of the hour, or by too many draughts of dew from flower and tree. A few golden clouds floated peacefully above the distant hills, For the first time—since, on that terrible day fol- lowing Christmas, she had been carried up them in a fainting fit—Ruth had come down- stairs. She was sitting in an easy-chair out on the porch, dressed in a loose white wrapper, with a white zephyr shawl thrown about her head and shoulders. ‘ No longer the rosy, dimpled lovely school- girl; but a grave, sorrowful invalid, her face pale and thin, her figure a mere shadow of its past rounded outlines; her eyes preternaturally large and bright, set in her wasted face; and her beautiful hair, that had once rippled far below her waist, long ago cut from her fevered head and now growing out in little curling rings about her white forehead and neck, giv- ing her a childish look that contradicted the sad expression on her features, The poor girl had been brought down in her father’s arms and placed in the chair that she might enjoy the beauty of the sky and the freshness of the air. Her mother sat near her, watching every feeble movement with a mo- ther’s fond devotion, certain, now that Ruth had actually left her sick-room, that she would. get well. The child had asked for some roses, and had pinned one in her white dress at the bosom, and held the others in her lap idly playing with them, . It was this pretty and yet sad picture which. met the eyes of the lady who descended from the livery-hack, and came, rather timidly, up — the steps and spoke to Mrs. Fletcher. “Dear madam,” she began immediately, in a low voice, so pathetic that the very sound of it touched the matron’s heart and won her good will, ‘‘I want you to take me and keep me this summer, Iam able to pay you for all the trouble I shall be to you. Do not say ‘no ’—please don’t say ‘no’—for I am ill, and a widow, and alone.” “T am ill, a widow, and alone!” Could words have greater pleading in them than those? They went to the hearts of both mo- ther and daughter, who gazed on, nevertheless, a full minute without speaking, A widow / this little childish, fairy creature, who did not seem to have seen eighteen summers, They could hardly believe it. But on her delicate, wan, lovely face was impressed the truth of the stranger’s story, The mourning garments which so ill befitted the girlish figure, might have been falsely assumed. But not the look of still sorrow in those great solemn violet eyes —-not the worn pallor of the young brow, nor the lines about the sweet mouth... There was something strangely appealing in face, voice and figure. Tears—which came easily now—rose in Ruth’s eyes as she looked at the lovely little stranger about whom there seemed to be but one bright thing to relieve her sable garments and pale face, Her beau- tiful gold hair was this one bright thing. That had the peculiar softness and light which so seldom outlasts childhood, ; , Its bright, wavy masses gleamed under the black bonnet, breaking out in rebellious ten- drils and rings. Ruth reached out her thin hand and touched her mother, signaling her to grant the lady’s petition; Mrs. Fletcher was already surrendering in her thoughts, and now that Ruth approved, at once gave way to her inclination to be gracious. “We have refused every one, .s0 far,” she has been ill since her first visit. down-stairs— and I have had my hands full with her, But Ruth says Iam to take you—she must fancy you, I imagine!—and I don’t care to go against her will yet awhile. She’s a spoiled child, ma’am, by of her sickness; and I must let her have her own way, you see,” smiling. ‘What is your name?” “Mrs, Lovelace, madame. I will tell youa little about myself now, so that you may know who you are to beso kind to, My father was clerk in Mr. H——’s store in Boston; shortly after he died I was married—very young, only sixteen, madame—and my husband died in ery eae ~ ro ~~
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i ni Bette tonll 3 wane be months ago. Meantime, I had lost my mother —you see I have had trouble, “It has made me ill, and the doctors sent me to Pentacket to recuperate. I do not like to be at’ a hotel—I will not stay in some gossiping boarding-house —TI heard of you, and I came to you.” “T hope, my dear, you have come to the right place,” responded Mrs. Fletcher, in a motherly tone, for she felt very much drawn to the pale little thing who had had so much trouble,” ‘Will you stop now?” “Yes, if you will let me. The man can ‘bring my trunk up to-night. I left it at the hotel for fear you would not take me. I will pay him for bringing me here and ask him to return with my baggage.” This bit of business being transacted, the | ed to hear so despairing a word from one 80 lady returned to the porch, and sinking down | | take place?” the lady asked, presently. in a chair opposite Ruth, her great, solemn yes seemed to search the girl’s face ‘ “You, too, have been very ill?’ she said: “Yes, T have had a long, long, tedious time.” “Perhaps you, too, have lost a dear friend?” Ruth’s eyes fell before the clear, solemn gaze, and a faint blush rose in her colorless cheeks, - | “In two weeks, or a little over, a i Pye ay = little over a year—between five and six | have beon foolish, too, and I have suffered. I lors adjoining, and was gazed at with awe- thought a man could be won to love me who never did. I loved him with a wild idolatry; he was my king, my angel, my heaven; he was ‘my husband, too; but he scorned me in life, and now, perhaps, scorns me in death. Men ‘are cruel and wicked to us poor girls, : But it is all over with me now, and I am only eighteen,” , “Tt is all over with me, too, and I am but just seventeen.” |. Not all over with you, child. You will ‘love, and marry, and be happy.” . | “Never!” whispered Ruth, with such sad- ‘ness im her voice that the stranger turned away her face to wipe the tears which gather- | young. “‘When does the trial of this young’ man And I | have got to go into court and give my testi- 1 mony. It was I who first accused him. Oh, I have prayed and prayed never to gét well! I would sooner die than say the things against my old friend and schoolfellow I shall have to say then. But I am getting stronger every “T have lost a very dear friend,” she felt | day, and they will take me there and compel compelled to answer. ther or a husband. so seriously. made me ill, Mrs. Lovelace. He died sudden- ly—was drowned—or—or—some say, was— murdered.” “s “Still, he was not a fa- | me to say words against Jasper that may be Thad no right to take it | the means of his death. I think it was the shock that | per dies, and by my mouth, I shall die, too, I Mrs. Lovelace, if Jas- feel it.” . Just then Mrs. Fletcher cams to escort Mrs. Lovelace to her room, while the father lifted Mrs. Fletcher had gone in to see about put- | his daughter tenderly and bore her back to the ting a room inorder for the stranger, and to | bed, where she lay pale, listless and exhausted, tell Hannah to set the tea-table for one more, so that Ruth and the lady were alone together, | closed eyelids, tear after tear slowly oozing trom between her In the mean time, in ner own room, the Ruth was'surprised at herself, when she came | to a pause, to think she had told so much to a | stranger had flung herselt down on her knees stranger, when she had been utterly unable to | before a window, and, withher chin on the sill discuss the subject with her own family and | and her eyes fixed on the distant’ mountains friends, It seemed as if the solemn eyes drew the whole truth right out of her: A little shudder ran from the lady’s’ head’ to her feet when Ruth prorounced—in an awed, ghastly whisper—that word, murdered. It might have been caused bythe summer wind . blowing into her face a dash of raindrops from the roses; anyway, she shivered, and when she | p | terrible jealousy and curiosity to see the girl raised her handkerchief to wipe away the per- fumed drops, it was some time before she low- , ered it. “Tread of such—an occurrence—last win- ter, in the papers. Pentackét, Iam sure, was | the name of the village. The—the—victim ‘was a@ school-teacher, was he not?” ; “Yes, madame. I and my brother attended his school.” “Was he—a married man?” “Oh, no! Certainly not.” ! and sunset sky, remained in such a reverie that Hannah had to speak three times at her door before she could call the wandering spirit back to the realization that the weary body needed refreshment, Lene Mildred Lovelace—as she chose to still call herself—had come to the Fletchers’ knowing whom she would meet there, and urged by a with whom her husband had been trifling when he met his sudden fate; a3 well as to be in the vicinity at the time of Jasper Judson’s CHAPTER XVII. THE LADY ON THE PORCH, Ir was singular that Honoria Appleton should have come to Pentacket at such a time | “Not? And the young man, who is to be | —singular that she should hear the approach- | tried—for the murder—was—jealous of him, the man who drove me here said.” ing trial for murder spoken of at table and in drawing-room, day after day, and yet have no “JT am afraid he was,” answered Ruth, trem-| suspicion that she was in any way interested - | in it, bling and pale. “The schoolmaster paid particular attention —to you?” : “T thought so, Mrs. Lovelace. Indeed, in- deed, I was quite sure of it at the time. But now, it may not have been anything serious— Isee that! Iadmired him, and I—I was said to be the prettiest girl in school, and he paid me compliments and attentions until my head was turned, But he may have been only laughing at me, all the time. I think so now.” Great tears were dropping down Ruth’s pale cheeks; the lady pressed her hand against her own heart, and asked: ’ “Then you were not engaged to this Mr. Otis, after all? He did not ask you to marry him?” { | Yet her arrivalin the village at this critical period was a mere accident, depending on the impaired health of her aunt, who had been or- dered to the mountains by her physicians in the hopes"of getting rid of a lingering cough. That Honoria should be blind and deaf and dumb on the subject of the murder, was not so strange, either. Otis was not an uncommon name in Massa- chusetts; there were plenty of Otises in Bos- ton; and that the last name of this murdered man should be the same as her cousin’s given name did not awaken in her mind one sus- picion of the truth. It was impossible for such a belle and heir- ess as this to be many days in any placo with- “‘No—no. I expected him to; and I scorned | out her train being increased by several of her | Jasper, whom T had Uked since he was a'| more persistent admirers. poor little boy, and threw his ring off into the snow, Brummel Pomeroy was the first to arrive at | and did everything to anger and madden him. | the hotel in Pentacket in which the aunt and | foolish girl. But oh, I have her lovely niece had finally decided to take a suite of rooms. Being early in the season, the young lady could indulge her extravagance by engaging one-third of the house for her ac- | commodation, if she wished; but she contented | | herself with two large bedrooms and two par- | I was a vain, paid for my folly. I have suffered—I have suffered!” '/ ‘Poor child,” murmured the little pale lady, drawing her chair over beside Ruth. “Poor, foolish child?” caressing the thin hand. “t | Struck admiration by the ‘waiters and chamber- | maid—a class who always do love tosee money thrown away. The landlord rejoiced in his | best patron all the more when he foundsthe - tribe that followed, all ready to lavish what means they had to keep up a brave appearance before the rich beauty. ‘ He cared no more for any of them than the candle cares for the moths who circle about, ' except that they served occasionally to maka less dull a tiresome day. Brummel must naye bled some of: his rich young friends ‘in Boston pretty freely, for. he had an abundance of spending money, kept a pair of horses and a light buggy in the hotel stables, and was altogether brilliant, with his canes and his gloves and cravats, such as even the most aspirmg of his younger fellows could not hope to attain. Brummell, too, had flattered himself into the aunt’s good graces, so that she was con- tinually intoning his praises, in the hearing of her niece, ‘ Altogether, it would have been far from surprising if Honoria had been utterly subdued by his fascinations and his devotion, allof which had laid steady siege to her heart for overa year. It is undeniable, too, that she had given him some encouragement; yet, always after she had shown this weakness, she shed a few tears of regret in the privacy of her own room, and resolved that she would never, never do so again. Why she regretted it she could not have told herself; partly it was that her young imagination still clung toher cousin in spite of | heroic efforts to tear it away; and partly it was that her virgin soul, if it had not the wis- dom of experience, did have that of innoeence, and shrunk, it knew not why, from the profes- sions of one so black at heart as Brummel Pomeroy. This Prince of Darkness appeared like an angel of light, yet her pure spirit felt a, difference that it did not try to analyze. Brummell was angry and impatient at his slow progress; but the thought of the young coquette’s millions—all her own, and sure to be all her husband’s, when she got one—sus- tained him and urged him to persevere. : So, here he was at Pentacket, “astonishing the natives,” and aiding Miss Appleton finely in her efforts to find the little mountain ‘village amusing. Drives, picnics and mountain ex- | cursions were the order of the day. Brummell congratulated himself on having the beauty so much to himself, taking courage to believe that before they left Pentacket, the little hand, “All queenly with its weight of rings,” wotld be pledged to him. Yet before he had been enjoying this felicity of faith ten days, he made a discovery which disturbed him more than he would have cared to acknowledge. ; He was out driving alone one afternoon, for Miss Appleton had a headache, or was writing letters, or had some excuse to refuse his invi- tation. Among the other accomplishments which made him the “‘ Admirable Crichton” of the young bloods of Boston, was his knowledge of horses.. He always rode and droye those fiery animals for which his admirers paid, but of whom they were afraid. He had hired, on coming to Pentacket, the superb blooded ani- mals owned by hapless Jasper Judson, and which were suffering for want of exercise because the father had not the heart to use these pots of his son. Brnimmell’s control of them was usually perfect, but, on this occasion, having | driven over to a neighboring village, he was late in returning, ney was overtaken by a sud- den summer tempest. ~ ; : The frightful cannonade of the thunder, the flash of the lightning in their very 6 es, the rush of the wind, and the wild swaying of the roadside trees, excited the horses more and more, until a sudden crackling of thunder- bolts over their heads and a blaze in their faces, made them so wild that their driver lost control of them, and they dashed furiously along the country road, one side running from on } of it to the other, and soon dumping Mr,
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THE WAR OF HEARTS. Brummell Pomeroy unceremoniously into the mud and dust. He clung to the reins, through all, like a hero, being dragged some distance along the way, when a farmer, who had kept out too late in the effort to saye his hay, dashed out of a fence-corner to his assistance, and, at serious risk,, stopped the frightened pair. A few gentle, reassuring words then quieted the trembling horses, and the farmer swung open the carriage gate to his place, and led them in, taking them to thestable, and leaving Brum- mell to find the shelter of the house-porch. Pomeroy, somewhat stunned, but not injured much, staggered forward to the piazza, anxi- ous to get out from under the avenue of elms, which led up to the roomy and comfortable- looking dwelling, for he had a guilty con- science, and was afraid of the lightning. "Some one was sitting there who did not ap- pear to be afraid of it. A slight, youthful figure, clothed in deep mourning, leaned back in an arm-chair, and a pale, beautiful face was turned to the stormy sky, its large, sad eyes fixed on the driving clouds with such an in- tensity of self-absorption that their owner ‘was unaware of the approach of the in-, truder. Brummell came near uttering an oath of sux rise. x “That little devil! What is she doing here?” was his wondering thought. “She will be sure to make me trouble,” was his next reflec- tion, As she had not yet perceived him, he re- treated from the steps he was about to ascend, and followed the drive around, and went on to the stables, where he found the farmer caring for the dripping horses, “You are very kind,” he began. “I thank you a thousand times. But I think I will go right on, and let John, af the hotel, see to the team. It is breaking up now—the worst of the storm must be over, and I am so drenched that I had‘ best get back and have a change of ents.” “ Wife will fix you up with some clothes of mine, if you choose to go in the house, They may not be of the same cut as yours”—his eyes twinkling at the sad condition of the city fop’s elegant suit—“ but they will be dry.” “Much obliged, I am sure, but I had better hasten on, By the way, do you take summer visitors into your family, sir?” “Not often. Don’t like to do it, as a usual thing. Sometimes wife takes invalids out of kindness—got one now, a pretty, quiet little creature, timid as a mouse, and sweet as a pink—only just eighteen, and a widow. Sad, ain’t it?” , “A widow?’ echoed Brummell, beginning to hum a tune, “Yes, sir,a widow. My daughter has taken a great fancy to her.” “Did she have references?” asked the man- of-the-world, between two bars of a light tune he was humming. : Didn't ask for any. Her’ face was refer- ence enough.” 7 3 “ Ah, you country people never learn to be sufficiently suspicious, You know, Idare say, that it is afavorite move on the part of these adventuresses to pass themselves off as widows, Not that this little lady may not be 4ll right. I only speak on general principles. You know what Weller says—‘ Look out fur vidders,’ By ‘the way, your little village is not quite as sin- less as Paradise, after all. You are to havea murder trial next week, I hear.” Brumniell said this with no purpose except to keep up an appearance of sociability with the farmer, after dropping in his mind the seed of a wicked suspicion against the young widow. He had not the remotest idea of who the murdered’ man had been, nor knew that the one he addressed had any special interest in the subject. “Yes,” answered the other, “and a terrible thing it willbe.” ; _. Parties all young and foolish, weren't they?” ran on Brummell, indifferently, as he "examined the harness to see if it had escaped ‘the strain of the runaway. ‘Seems to me I have heard something about jealousy being the ‘motive of the murder.” “Tf you were not standing there in wei clotives I’d tell you all about it,” said Mr, Flet- cher, with a sigh—the load on his heart was heavy to bear, and he was yielding to the na- tural impulse to get rid of a part of it by com- municating it to some one else—how often the human heart would break did it not bend it- self to relieve the pressure! “Oh, go on, if you please. I’ve got to mend this strap here; thank you, I have a string in my pocket.” Brummell would not have lin- gered, at the risk of taking cold, had not his curiosity been aroused by the sight of Mildred Garner sitting on the porch of this man’s house. So he listened to the whole story of the mur- der—told from Mr. Fletcher’s point of view-— and heard how the speaker’s own daughter was concerned in it, and what a terrible affair it was, and likely to destroy the happiness of two families, Brummell could not but take .some interest in it; and, at the end, he inquired what the effect of the tragedy had been on the tnurdered man’s relatives. “That just adds to the singularity of the whole affair,” replied Mr. Fletcher; “the fact that not one of his kith or kin have come _for- ward to inquire after his fate. Nor was there anything in his room—pap2rs, or what not— to tell us who to write to about it, or what steps to take to let his relatives know. The lawyers have written to two or three Otises of Boston—for he allowed to be from Boston, and to belong to a good family there, that he was too proud to live on, seeing they had not used him fair—but none of ’em seem to know about him, It’s myprivate opinion there’s some mys- tery about it—fact is”—speaking in a low voice, “I often think he isn’t dead, after all. I'd give every dollar I’ve got in the world to prove it, but it’s only an idea of mine. Folks say, ‘ Why, there’s the bloody knife, and all; and if he ain’t dead, what’s become of him? I can’t answer them. I only wishI could. Often it appears to me as if he wasn’t dead, and the rest was a terrible dream. Jasper Judson’s got a quick temper, and he did act strange next day, but he’s a good boy at heart, l’ll stick to that! Id rather have seen my daugh- ter married to him, than to this mysterious schoolmaster, handsome and learned and gen- tlemanly as he was, He was always a sad, gloomy man; and he had but one valise-trunk full of clothes with him, and yet he wore dia- mond sleeve-buttons!” These incongruous facts evidently had made a strong impression on the farmer. “Diamond sleeve-buttons, and a family who had wronged him, and his name was Otis?” muttered Brummell Pomeroy. His companion looked at him in surprise at the voice in which he spoke—the gentleman’s face was white, and he shivered; “You are taking your death of cold, sir.” “Tam afraidIam, And you really think that pretty young thing I saw on the porch is the widow she pretends to be?” “T do,” was the emphatic response; “ that little lady could no more tell a lie than the angels. That's what we all think.” ~ “You are probably right; though my éxpe- rience makes me suspicious. I must attend this trial next week; you have aroused a deep interest in me—and then, it will help to pass the time. Much obliged for your kindness, Mr. ——?’ “Wetcher. I wish you would at least put on a dry coat of mine.” : ‘“*T'll be home in ten minutes with this team, Mr. Fletcher—it’s only a mile to the hotel. When I’m there, I’ run about until Tam ina glow., Thank you, and good-afternoon,” and Brummell drew far down over his face his broad-brimmed summer hat, and was ‘careful to keep his head turned away as he sped by the house on his way to the road. ' CHAPTER XVIIL WHAT THE. FARMER FOUND, RorH FLETCHER remained in a very criti- _ in the grass by the water.” Al ‘cal state. Had her mind been at ease, the physician said, her youth and health would have carried her triumphantly on, over all the exhaustion of her long illness; buf nothing could be worse for her than the excitement, intense and terrible, of the swiftly-approaching trial. It was the fear, both of the doctor and her parents, that if this did not kill ‘her outright, it woulé, be the means of making her insane, so great was the nervi us excitement so danger- ous in her weakened condition. All reference to the trial was forbidden in the family, and she was kept more or less under the influence of nervines, but she would coax her brother David into her room or out under the trees of the lawn, and would talk to him by the hour about it, and he would not dare to forbid it, because he plainiy saw, boy though he was, that it was a relief to her strained nerves, + Ruth took great comfort also in the com- pany of little Mrs. Lovelace. Mrs. Fletcher congratulated herself every day that she had not refused to take in the sweet little lady whose society was such a solace to her unhappy child. + It would have been a strange sight to any one acquainted with the history of both, to see these two girls together, Mildred leading Ruth to go over, for the hundredth wme, every day and hour of her acquaintance with this school- master, whose advent in that quiet village had led to such disasters, How like a thunderbolt from heaven would, it have been to Ruth herself, had she been told that this beautiful stranger, who listened with such eagerness to her too-willing story of her brief heart-affair with the teacher, was the wife of that man! . Wan, wide-eyed, smileless, the pale widow listened to these reminiscences from the lips of one as pale, as wan, as heart-broken as her- self. And now we must go back and learn, in brief, what had happened to poor Mildred after she sunk fainting to earth, under the cold light of the pitiless moon, on the green bank of the “silent river.” hee A market-gardener was on his way to Boston with a covered wagon loaded with sonie of the produce of his little farm, Twice a week he was accustomed to take this night-ride of four- teen miles so as to arrive at the city market, and secure his place among others on the streets adjoining as early as four o'clock. On this oo- casion Mr, Ezekiel Brads had with him his son, a strapping youth of two-and-twenty, who aided him in the cultivation of vegetables and small fruit, and the care of half a dozen cows. This son was named Hzekiel, too, after his fa- ther; he was long, light-colored, awkward and. smart, and earned all the bread he ate and more besides. Well, Zekel the younger, getting tired of riding on the sheeps' which covered the board seat on the truck-wagon, jumped out. —behold on what trifles, seéeming accidents, great events are often ded!I—on the road-side at the far edge of the field into which Mildred had wandered, and told his father he would “stretch his legs”—as if they were not. long enough already!—by taking a cross-cut along the river path which would bring him out, half a mile further on, to the road again by the time the father arrived at that point. Thus it chanced that in striding along in his. small edition of seven-league boots, looking at: the lovely golden ripples on the river, and humming to himself, with a thought of some dairy-maid arising at his moonlit surround- ings: ‘ “The rose is red, the violet’s blue, - Sugaris sweet, and so are you”— he stumbled over the little figure lying prone in the dewy grass, Picking himself up, he stared a moment at the pale face upturned to the moonlight, and fled for his father, gasping out, when he reached the wagon, “that there was a girl, as handsome asa Picter, lying dead Meantime, the blow in ‘her ‘side, which Zekel Brad’s foot had given her, had partially /
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le ba i i A ee Pee we THE WAR OF HEARTS. —* = en Feta aroused Mildred, and she was struggling to sit up when the two men came back to her, ‘“¢ What onairth’s the row?” asked the elder, of the bewildered girl, who pushed her golden hair from her forehead, and looked up at them in a dazed manner. “Anybody been a-hurting you, miss?” per- severed the farmer. ‘*T don’t know, sir. Where am I?” ““-Yeou ain’t exactly where a gal of your age foughter be’ at this time o’ night—out in a field by the Charles River.” “Oh, sir, I remember now. ,I was so tired and | thirsty, and I tried to get to the water, but I fainted away.” ‘“‘Yeou ain’t been a-doing nothin’ wrong, my gal, I hope?” observed the farmer, not unkind- ly, but a little suspiciously. Mildred raised her eyes to the pure, glorious heavens, and two tears brightened in them, as she said, solemnly: ‘ “No, no; as God is my witness, no! It is not I, sir, who havedone wrong. I have got- ten into this trouble by breaking away from those who have tried toinjure me, Oh, sir, what can a poor orphan girl, so young, and without friends, do, when men are so cruel and wicked?” “‘Tt’s hard lines for her, I’ll allow,” answer- ed the farmer, while Zekel felt, somehow, almost ready to do what he called ‘“ blub- ber.” ‘“Whare do yeou belong, young lady?” con- tinued Mr. Brads, senior. “In Boston, sir.” “All right. Come, I'll take yeou home. I’m goin’ that way, myself; if you can put up witha market-wagon, miss. Zekel, why don’t you spring an’ kinder help her along? Don’t yer see, she’s about used up? Shall I take yer home, miss? ’T'will be quite the safest way for yeou to get there?” “Thank you,” said Mildred, rising, with the young man’s help. Father and son took her by the arms and led her gently along to the wagon, where the pa- tient horses were awaiting their arrival. **-Yeou can walk, Zekel,” said the father, as they lifted the light little stranger to a seat on the sheep-skin. “Yes, dad.” But the intruder seemed so distressed at com- pelling such a thing as that, that Zekel finally reluctantly seated himself beside her; and, indeed, the girlish form made no great usurpa- tion of the broad seat: all three were comfort- able, and the farmer insisted on the girl’s hav- ing his oyercoat—which he always took with him, even in June, on these night-rides—placed over her.damp muslin dress. _ The heavily-loaded wagon rattled slowly through tho silent streets of Cambridge, along the road, and rumbled over the bridge straight on toward the sleeping city, now buried in the. deepest repose of the twenty four hours. Mildred, too nearly dead with cold and fatigue to feel the acute pangs of the evening, was carried forward in a sort of listless dream, until, on their near approach to the city, the | farmer turned to her and said: “Tell me the street and the number, and . will take you home before I go into the mar- ket.” Then yesterday’s mortul fear and dread preyed again on Mildred. Home! Alas, word eloquent of comfort and protection to. happier girls—what did it mean to her? She could not return to Miss Appleton’s. To her exaggerated imagination, excited by the threats of Brummell Pomeroy, **No home?” 5 “No, sir. I am an orphan, and poor. I was living with one of the first ladies of the \city as a companion; but a bad man has slan- ,dered me to her, and Tam afraid to go back to |her. I know something very bad about him, ,and he wants to marry this rich young lady, and he is afraid that I will tell her the bad jhome with you, where I shall be hidden and ,Safe, I will do enough to earn my keeping, I | know.” “ Yeou? What can a little lady like you do jin a rough farmer’s house? Make butter— milk cows—scrub floors, I reckon? hay?” and he laughed at his own wit. “No, sir. But I can do somethings. Have you any small children—any girls? I can teach them almost anything they care to study. I can give them music-lessons. And I can sew. Just try me, sir, and you will see that I can earn my keeping about your house.” “Dad, yeou jest take her,” spoke up Zekel, decidedly. “Wall, she can go home with us, and we’ll see what mother says about it,” and so it was settled. field, and she pulled this down over her face as they made their way through the crowds of teams already crowding the market. “*¥f you’re so bashful, miss, you can sit way back in the wagon, after I’ve took out them glad to shrink further out of sight. Here, after an hour of business, during which he disposed of his truck, Mr. Brads brought her a large cupful of coffee and a roll. Then, not long after the early summer sun- rise, they left the city and made their way out into the country road. Mildred was feverish now, instead of being chilly, as she had been; the cool morning air felt delicious to her burn- ing cheeks and lips; the world sparkled with dew, the birds were in ecstasies of song, and as even Cambridge was left behind and they got out into the midst of fields and farms, a sense of safety and repose came over her tired heart. They arrived at the old stone farm-house in time for alate but excellent breakfast to which the two men did justice. Mrs. Brads received the new-comer with chilling reserve; she did not fancy having a city girl to ‘‘wait upon,” and she was certain sure—as she told Mr, Brads privately—that there was something wrong about ‘that chit,” However, she would not turn her off that day,—she wasn’t so un- christian as that: Result, having tried our Mil- dred one day, she tried her seven, and having had a week, she began to wonder how she had ever got along without her. The little thing was ‘‘ wonderful handy.” She could do no hard work—had never seen a cow milked and had no idea about butter; but she gave Sabrina lessons on her new guitar and taught her all kinds of fancy needlework; and—more pleasing stilltothe mother’s vanity —she gave ‘‘an air” to Sabrina’s dresses and hats and taught her to put up her hair as the ladies of Boston wore it. Then she had such a sweet voice, nothing rested Mrs. Brads so after a hard day’s work like sitting out on the stoop it seemed certain he must have gone straight | to Miss Appleton with some false story of her character which would make that Jady repel her, with ignominy, from her house. She was mortally afraid of Pomeroy, having had such a glimpse into the dark side of his character as made her dread worse things from his revenge. She wanted to get away from all these people, for alittle while, anyway. After rousing her- self ta think over the situation, she said, in a low, sad voice: . : © have no home!” larm-chair that was wearing out, while Mildred sung lovely airs to the accom- paniment of that new guitar. And Mildred trimmed Mrs. Brads’ bonnet up in the most stylish manner, without going to a cent’s ex- pense, and embroidered a cover to the parlor Why, as Mrs. Brads said, ‘“‘the morsel that child ate, and the three glasses of fresh milk a day she drank, wa’n’t nothin’ at all to the comfort she was around the house, and makin’ Sabrina’s manners so much more genteel, besides.” And so the summer wore away, and Mil- dred, though ‘she pined in spirit in that rude | household, yet had many hours to herself when she could take her embroidery and steal down to the spring in the orchard or out to the hay- stack in the meadow, or up in the green, mur-'| p muring woods, and sit and dream the one long, endless dream of love and Otis Garner. thing he did. Oh, sir, if you will take me | Zekel had picked up Mildred’s hat out of the ) baskets 0’ greens an’ berries,” and Mildred was | Then came the golden autumn and the hazy Indian Summer. And with every week that passed the fairy Mildred grew more lovely. Sad at heart as she was, this could not prevent country air and country cream’ and autumn fruit from brightening her violet eyes and making her delicate cheeks glow with a peachy bloom, The longing to make one more desperate effort to see Otis was becoming uncontrollable when an incident happened which hastened her departure from the kind shelter which had opened to her at the hour of need: Zekel plucked up courage to declare his love and to beg her to marry him. So blind to his infatu- ation had she been that his avowal was a com- plete surprise; and out of gratitude to the fanrily who had taken her on trust she had to soften her refusal by the explanation that she was already married. “*Snuff and sneezers!” groaned Zekel, look- ing at her in mingled despair and astonish- ment, ‘‘who would ’a’ thunk it? A little mite. of a critter like yeou, married!” “T am, Zekel; but please don’t tell any- | body.” “Wall it’s a bargain. If yeou won't say nothin’ abeout my poppin’ to yeou, I won’t say nothin’ beout your being married. But I do swow yeou orter ’a’ told on it sooner—be- fore you broke my heart, boo, hoo,” and the long-legged young fellow actually wept. “But I never thought of—of—this, Zekel.” ‘Never mind, naow. I don’t blame yeou much, Let’s keep it to ourselves, Miss Mil- dred,” and so they settled it. Next market-day Mildred rode to town with the farmer; he insisted on it that she had earn- ed wages in hisfamily and paid her ten dollars beforethey parted. With that, and what she had in her purse the June day when she left Miss Appleton’s, Mildred took the apartment in which her mother had died, certain that her enemies must have ceased to look there for her long before this. , Here she lived, seldom venturing on the street, through November and a part of De- cember, doing needlework for a fancy store, and half-st herself; but never sending to Miss Appleton’s for her trunks or bank-book; clothing herself in a cheap dark calico and woolen shawl, It was about the middle of De- cember that she was looking over, one evening —for want of something better to do—the old newspaper which came wrapped about her bundle of work; and on the inside page of which her eye was caught by the nume, Otis. The article containing the name was of a per- sonal character, stating that Mr. Otis, a Bos- tonian and Harvard graduate, bad been’ en- gaged to teach the District School No. 3. It spoke very highly of him as an accomplished young gentleman who would be sure toprove a | great favorite. Even before she finished read- | ing it there came over Mildred a feeling of cer- | tainty that this was her husband. Hither | pride, or the desire to conceal himself from her, or some other motive, had induced him to drop the family name, It was all as clear to her as day; and before she laid her head on ‘her pillow that night she had penned to this | Henry Otis, School District No. 3, Pentacket, ‘ the brief letter of love and entreaty, which we have seen the schoolmaster reading, by the red firelight of Farmer Fletcher’s sitting-room, a few days before the Christmas and its tragedy. CHAPTER XIX. WOOING AND THREATENING. No answer came to that timid but passion-
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THE WAR OF HEARTS. 23 one of the beautiful dresses and the pearls and ornaments, and would dress herself and curl her lovely glittering gold hair, and sit wait- ing, busying her fingers with her embroidery and her heart yith hopes. Otis Garner did not. come. Weeks dragged along. One of the Pentacket papers again came wrapped about her work. She knew it - andscanned it eagerly. Oh misery! oh horror of horrors! there in its crumpled columns was a long account of the tragedy on the ice on Christmas night. Long, long did the poor girl droop in her chair over the fatal record, insensible to all the sorrow that it brought. And after that there was 4 long, weary blank of weeks and months, during which she moved about, worked, ate and slept and lived —but what a pale, ghostly mockery of life! No mother to comfort her—no friend to speak i pitying word. This was the time when she first used her bank-book to draw out enough money to provide herself with the mourning which she thought proper to puton. Shesent, also, under her name of Lovelace, » subscription tothe paper in Pentacket, and in this, from time to time, she read itemsabout the murder, and so knew when the trial was to come off. All this time she had no positive proof that the mur- dered schoolmaster was Otis Garner; yet she was as certain of it as if she had been with the skating- that fatal night. A atone’ ppatg for which she could not account, moved her, as the time of the trial approached, to go to Pentacket, so as te be there when it came off. The name of Ruth Fletcher had not escaped the newspapers, and Mildred felt an intense, jealous desire to see the girl with whom her husband had been so friendly.. Thus, on reach- ing the village, the first move was to inquire eut the residence of the Fletchers, after which she went there determined to ask them ‘to take her into their family for the summer. ‘After meeting Ruth, tender-hearted little Mildred could only pity her; pity her even while wildly jealous of. her because she had once been Otis’ favorite. She soon won the confidence of the country maiden, who con- fessed to her all that had ever passed’ be- tween herself and Mr. Otis. “I thought he loved me, because he was always so polite and gallant and‘said so many pleasant things to. me,” Ruth, had ;told her, with flushing cheeks and downeast eyes, ‘But now, I do not think he has cared for me—it Was just his way to be flattering and attentive. And the ring!—you. see, I took.it for granted that he had given it to me, and allowed him to See that I thought so, and that I was pleased. And then to find out that Jasper had given it! It was dreadful—not only that I was so disap- Pointed, but so mortified! I was humiliated and angry, andI poured out my wrath on poor Jasper, who was not to blame, and flung his ring away in the most contemptuous manner. No wonder one so proud and quick-tempered as Jasper should have been maddened by my conduct! Oh, Miss Lovelace, Jam the one to blame for everything! At first I was wild with anger at Jasper becauso he had done thst ter- rible thing. But now, I am‘ only sorry for him. I feel that the fault and the sin are mine, © If I could put myself in Jasper’s place, and receive the punishment, I would gladly do it. Butnow, just think! I must appearagainst him—utter words which perhaps will be the vr Ones to convict him,” this " poor Ruth, the shadow of her once bright self, would pour out her heart to Mildred; until, before the trial came off, the girl-wife had no feeling except one of compas- pe for the broken-hearted school- Court opened on the cas ofthe ato agate got Tene - Ruth was ill in bed all the first day, greatly prostrated and her. friends feared for held her hand hour after hour—toward night dropped into a troubled sleep, the effect of an opiate, and Mildred softly releasing her hand went down-stairs and out on the lawn for a breath of fresh air, The sun was setting as she went out; its level rays of gold struck under the elms and lighted up her sad face with their own glory. She, too, was terribly unnerved by what was coming, and she walked about under the trees for a long time, and finally wandered down to the gate, where she stood, gazing at the faint bars of pink and orange which lay along the twilit horizon, when, as suddenly as if he had risen out of the earthin front of her, some one confronted her on the other side of the gate, “Mr. Pomeroy!” “At your service, Mrs. Lovelace—that is your name now, is it not? Please do not run away,” grasping one of her hands which was resting on the gate, and holding it by main force. ‘TI want to speak to you about this af- fair which absorbs the attention of the village. You came here about that, did you not? The murdered man was my friend and your hus- band, was he not?” “Why do youask? Why do you speak to me, who despise you?” “T saw and recognized you on the porch the day I took refuge here from the thunder-~ storm. The moment I saw you, it somehow flashed over me what you were here for. It is too bad—quite a dreadfulshock! Poor Otis! the most gallant and gay of all the club—what an end for a fellow like him! Are you certain about it, little Mildred?” “Tam absolutely certain, Mr. Pomeroy. I have seen the handwriting of this Mr. Otis, and his cane, and I knew both. ‘Will you let go of my hand?” “Certainly. But I beg of you to remain a moment longer. I feel dreadfully about this thing—I do, indeed! Otis was a fine fellow. Iam sorry for you, too, I want to ask your forgiveness for all my bad conduct to you, to say that’ I sincerely repent of it—that I have reformed all my bad habits, and that I intend leading the right kind of a life hereafter. Can ‘ou be generous enough to forgive me?” “Did you follow me from Boston to ask that question?” “No, I swear to you, Mildred, I had not the least idea of where you were or what had become’ of you, until I saw you sitting on that porch.” “{ wish I could believe you, Mr. Pomeroy, but the word of a man who has done what you have done is hardly credible.” : “TI came to Pentacket with a party of friends who are stopping at the hotel, I did not dream of your being here, nor of this sad calamity which brought you, until I saw you last week. Since you are here, I felt con- strained to come and assure you of my sym- pathy and ask your pardon for the past.” “lf you are sincere, I grant it, But Ido not want you to speak to me again.” _ “That is a strange quality of forgiveness, Mildred, You might better withhold a boon so ungracious. Mildred, you have seen the worst side of my character; but there is a bet- ter side to it, You were so lovely, so beyond all other girls fair and winning, so charming in_ your loneliness, deserted by one who ought to have thanked Heaven for such a treasure, that I fell desperately in love with you, de- spite of the fact that it was wicked to do so. Let that go. Forgive it—forget it. I love you still. I cannot believe that you mourn very deeply for one who wedded you ona wager, and who was a stranger to you, and kept himself a stranger. You never had any opportunity to love Otis Garner—he never gave you any. But you are loving and de- pendent by nature. The wealth of your affec- tion will be a rich gift tosome man. Give it to me. You are free now to choose for your- self and to marry your choice. Come, let me atone for my past sin. Let me be your true, fond, devoted, lover. Promise mo that when all this trouble is over, you will be my little wife.” ; He had pushed open the gate and was stand- ing beside her, looking at her earnestly and re- spectfully, not attempting to touch her, A flash of scorn and almost mirth passed over the lovely face into which he gazed. — “Mr. Pomeroy, has Miss Appleton refused you?” : , , “Twenty times, She knew that I was after her money. But I love you, little Mildred, I am willing to work for you, I would not do that for Miss Appleton, splendid as'she is. I am trying to reform from all my sins—for- tune-hunting, flirting, and all the'rest, What could work sucha change in me but true love, little one? Tell me that I may hope to restore myself to your favor—that you will sometime marry the man whose memory of your virtu caused him to repent of his bad life.” : “J will marry you as soon as you convince me that you have experienced a change of heart, Mr. Hypocrite Pomeroy,” responded Milla, with all the contempt she could com- press into as few words. “I do not under- stand your game, but I do know you well enough to understand that you must have some sinister motive in playing the angel to me. I could sooner believe that Satan had ‘reformed’ than you, sir!” and with a gesture of scorn she turned and went rapidly toward the house. “Venomous little serpent!” I will tread you under my heel before I allow you to sting me! You will never be satisfied, you little Puritan, until you have ruined my prospects. I must find a way to make you harmless,” and, burn- ing with rage, Brummell made his way back to the village, conscious that he had failed to propitiate Mildred, who might now, any day, meet Miss Appleton and betray to her the part he was playing to secure a fortune. CHAPTER XX, P THE LADY’S KNIGHT IN BLUE SPECTACLES. Ow the morning of the 22d of June Honoria awoke feeling particularly happy na Pi At breakfast she, proposeda picnic to the moun- tain lake, ten miles away, which lay like a dia- mond in the bosom of the hills, and out of which flowed the Pentacke apa A dozen merry people at once consen' @ sugges- tion. In less than half an honr after breakfast a gay little party was on the way to the moun tain. Miss Appleton rode in his open buggy with Mr. Pomeroy; the others all went in a large country wagon, The luncheon was to be sent on after them, after being prepared at, the hotel. The morning wassoft and delicious, the blue sky filled with an airy fleet of cloud-ships sailing on through the ethereal element with all sails set. Something like real, pure love anchored in Brummell’s cold, calculating, sordid heart as he gazed on the lovely girl by his side. He had begun his love-making to her out of the meanest of motives; yet now he really felt something of the sentiment he had striven to arouse in her, — At the same time he felt a fear—which his egregious disposition had never before per- mitted him to feel, that. he should never suc- ceed in his suit. h-spirited, half-coy, wholl The willful, hig! coy, wholly delicious young beauty had never in her life been more bewitching. The rude branch of an overhanging tree had torn away her hat, which was now hanging down her back by its long ribbons—the breeze, and the jolting ofthe © wagon over the rough mountain road had brought the rich bloom to her olive-pale cheeks, and shaken out a hundred little wings of dusky hair about neck and brow. . Brummell age ores, many orl pag meaning things to beautiful companion, who received them all with sucha glitter of laughter and ridicule as made her the more en- chanting without giving him one atom of en- -couragement, . He vas half angry and wholly desperate ee
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THE WAR OF HEARTS. when they reached the beach, fifteen minutes jater than the more lumbering wagon, and ‘were received with arch glances and sly con- gratulations by the others, Honoria parried these shafts half-disdainfully, half-carelessly. Two hours were spent in rambling, rowing on the lake, fishing, gathering wild . flowers, and then all came together to enjoy the luncheon which Honoria had ordered at her own expense and which had come out ina little one-horse vehicle, with two waiters to arrange and dis- pose of it, and which proved to be an elegant collation, from the cold chicken and champagne to the meringues and ices. Brummell was so teased and annoyed by Honoria’s coquetry, that he drank more champage than was good for him; but he did not show it, and the young lady did not hesitate to accept his offer to row her across the half-mile wide lake to a roman- tic point which she had expressed a wish to ex- plore. They went off in a little boat by themselves, and the others thought more than ever that the two were engaged. If Honoria had thought of this she would not have gone, but being in a gay mood she thought little of anything serious. Brummell—who, among his numerous ac- complishments, had been crack oarsman at college—soon took her across the crystal sheet; they landed on a strip of pebbly beach, se cured the boat and climbed a high rock, cover- ed with moss and shadowed by evergreens, which hung over the water. Beside the hem- locks which stretched high aboye them, there ‘was a cluster of bushy evergreens but a few feet high just behind them, as they sat on the rock and waved their handkerchiefs to the party on the opposite shore, who could just make out and return the signal. . Neither of them had the slightest suspicion that some one was. on the other side of the thicket, who could hear every word they poke. : Yet such was the fact. A young fellow, shabbily ‘dressed, with the reckless, devil-may-care air which some artists take pains to assume, had been sitting there for some time making a sketch in the portfolio which he held on his knee, of the luminous wa- ter, with the shadow of the mountains over a ark of it. He had observed the doings of the picnic Lark A with an indifferent eye; oie eel voices floated up to him from near at hand, and he had cautiously thrust his head over the edge of the rock to see if he were to be intruded upon, he had“been fascinated by the picture of that beautiful, high-bred girl who sat in the stern of the little boat, dressed in white, with a scarlet shaw] or scarf at her feet. The start, the half-repressed exclamation, the long, eager gaze, proved the power of the lovely ‘ stranger’s charms to hold the artist’s attention. When the voyagers landed, and he found that were coming up on the rock, he withdrew to the further side of the thicket, pulled his hat well over his eyes and resumed his sketching. Brummell spread his silk handkerchief be- tween the roots of a hemlock and seated Honoria upon it, _“But we must not stay here over five min- utes, Mr, Pomeroy. We were tostart for home at three, and it’s half-past two now.” “Very well; five minutes are enough, Hono- ria, for me to tell you again, for the twentieth time, how I love, adore you. must listen tome. Ilove you. Iswearit! I cannot bear this suspense—it is destroying me.” “You do not look badly destroyed,” with a little laugh. “You had a famous appetite at * luncheon time. Come, we must go.” : “Not, just yet. Listen. ‘ You have laughed atme enough, Iam serious, and it maddens me t6 have you take it so lightly. I swear to you that you are the only woman I ever did, will, or can love. I have been your devoted follower for more than a year. There are ' plenty of girls in Boston who would not have to be asked twice for me, ‘You can afford to ~ “trifle with me, I suppose. But I am getting _ too much in earnest, Answer me, soberly, ‘once for all—will you be my wife?” Sit still; you | “Why should I answer you soberly,” said the girl, mockingly, ““when you are far from | being strictly sober, yourself?” “You cannot deny that you pave encouraged | me,” “You remember ‘ The Lindy’s Yes!”— me Yes ’ Tanswered you, last night; o,’ this morning, sir, I say, Colors seen by candtelight Will not look the same by day, * Yet the sin is.on us both; Time to dance is not to woo} Wooing light makes fickle troth, Scorn of me recoils on you. wae So you see Tam no wise bound to give you a se- rious answer.” “When will you give me a sérious answer?’ “Never!” “You are a flirt, Miss Appleton.” **You are a fortune-hunter, Mr. Pomeroy.” Brummell stole a covert look at his compan- ion. Had that little imp of a Mildred already informed her of what she knew about himself? Impossible. There had been no time—no op- portunity. Had Honoria grown wise enough to read his character for herself? She ‘sat there, perfectly cool and fearless, with just the least flush of excitement on her cheeks, There was an expression of contempt curling her red- rose-leaf lips which he had never before seen them wear. Could it be that all his gorgeous dreams of a lovely young wife and the mas- tery of two millions were to fade into blank nothingness? The fear—but far more, per- haps, the champagne—rendered him reckless for one usually so prudent. “T know what is the matter with you,” he said, sneeringly. “Pure and modest as you claim to be, you are still allowing yourself to love a man who has been a married man for | the ice last Christmas night, and the teaser never reappeared. _This Judson reported that his rival had skated into an air-hole and been drowned; but a bloody knife, a trail of blood on the ice, and other evidence, caused the ar- rest of young Judson for murder—and his trial began this morning.” Honoria, listening to this story, leaned back against the trunk of the hemlock, pale and faint. ““Oh, take me back,” she murmured, “To think re should have been here, gay and happy, while this was going on!” Brummell looked down into her dim eyes with a smile, “T will never take you back until you swear to marry me.” “Then I will find my own way, sir.” But the shock of the dreadful news she had just heard had taken all her strength, and her voice trembled and her limbs shook. ‘No, mademoiselle; we will remain where we are, until our party is alarmed and comes forus. Then I will give them some trifling explanation of our long absence, and you will be sorry you treated with scorn one who prized you so highly.” “Villain!” breathed a voice intense with passion and anger. But it was not the voice of the helpless girl —oh, no! Up from bel€nd the piny thicket arose a tall figure in shabby clothes, wéaring a broad- brimmed straw hat and a pair of blue specta- ‘cles. “Before the astonished Brummell could squa}) himself for the encounter, the lithe stranzer had seized him by the waist, and, with che flery strength of rage and indigna- | tion; hurled him over the edge of the rock into more than a year and a half! Don’t you know, you little prude, that this indulgence of an unlawful affection is—” “Beware!” cried Honoria, in a proud, chill- ng tone, and would have sprung to her feet had he not held her down by placing his hand heavily on her shoulder. “Remain quiet a minute longer. I won't harm you, sweet Honoria, I must give you a piece of news which I have for some time withheld from you, disliking to pain the girl I loved. I shall no longer be so tender of your feelings. This cousin of yours, of whom you cherish such fond memories, has been dead for six months.” : “Dead! Otis, my cousin, dead!” “Do not stare at me with such wide, incredu- lous eyes. He is dead, but not buried.” “How?” “ Murdered.” Me ey“. gave a low scream of surprise and onThe dilapidated artist on the other side of the screen dropped his water-color brush into the moss and pushed his hat back from his forehead, bending, now, closely to listen. “Oh, do not tell me that’ Otis is dead! Do not tell me he is murdered. Oh, Mr. Pome- roy, you are saying this to be revenged on me —it is not true.” “Miss Appleton, do you remember the fact that a murder was committed in this little puritanical Pentacket last winter, and that a young fellow, named Jasper Judson, is being tridd, this very day, for the deed? You must have heard the affair talked over at the hotel.” -Yes—yes.” “Did it strike you at all forcibly that the name of this murdered schoolmaster -was | Otis?” - No answer could the girl make, except to’ look in his cruel face with mute, suffering e ye This Henry Otis was Otis Garner in the | character of a New England schoolmaster. I | suppose he was trying to earn his bread by the sweat of his brow—or to hide from his silly little wife. It seems he got up a desper- ate flirtation with the prettiest of his scholars to while away his time and keep his hand in. The girl had another lover whom she refused on Otis’ account; the two men ran a race on” the deep water at its base. “Thank you, oh, thank you, sir,” said Ho- noria’s sweet, tremulous tones. ‘You are a brave man.” '«Ttis a man’s business to defend a lady.” “But oh, sir, is it’ well to let him really drown?” “He deserves it!” *T know he does, Oh, how I despise him! Yet I should be very unhappy to be the means of the death of any fellow-creature—wouldn’t you, sir?” “Then you ask me to risk my life to save his?” “No indeed. No, I would not have you run the least risk. Your life must be worth a the best.” “T will rescue him, nevertheless, to please meanness and be ashamed of it.” So saying, the stranger ran lightly down to dilapidated slippers—he had no boots, poor fellow!—and plunged in, hat on head and blue spectacles on nose. In two minutes he was struggling with the drowning dandy, soon coming to shore with choking him. “Stay here, and dry yourself, and repent at. leisure,” said’ the rescuer, tossing Brummell you, Also that he may live to realize his own — | dozen of his—he is only a leech on society at. the beach, pulled off bis coat, kicked off his © | the arms of the other about his — nearly — into some brushwood, where he lay choking — and coughing for some time. row you over to your friends?” Honoria came down, pale and ill, and he as- sisted her into the boat, wrapped the scarlet shawl about her; and with vigorous strokes drove the light vessel over the lovely water at marvelous speed. Not a word did he speak, | until he touched the opposite bank, Friends came running forward to ask what had hap- — pened. | The young lady’s escort tumbled off' the 1 rock into the lake. He would have been “Lady, shall I | drowned had I not gone to his rescue. I left — him to recuperate and brought the lady over, as the excitement had made her ill. I will | revived he can row back; if not, I will bring | him over.” All this rapidly, after which he Le roaterdbs sep hegitink Bee yn tm ges yates questions addressed tohim, = now return, and if the gentlemanis sufficiently — : . : : |
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ee oe ' sumed b; THE WAR OF HEAR DS. 25 *¢ How prudently he has contrived to avoid ‘scandal and protect me,” thought Honoria, with warm gratitude. ‘I wish I knew who he was!” She was still pale and agitated, and they made her a cup of coffee by the camp-fire and had another ready for Mr. Pomeroy when he came rowing slowly and feebly back. He was ill and irritable, and would say nothing about lthe accident. As soon as he had refreshed him- ‘self with the hot coffee he was ready to go home; but hardly able to manage a fiery pair of horses; so he rode meekly in the big wagon, while another of her admirers drove his team and sat by Miss Appleton in the buggy. Brummell followed Honoria about like a dog, after tea, to get an opportunity of speak- ing with her. She was coldly polite to him in company, to avoid gossip, but would not listen to him privately; however, he got beside her in the hall long enough to say: “Honoria, dear Honoria, I was drunk or I never should have done what I did. Excuse it, and I will never disgrace myself by too much champagne again.” But she made not the slightest réply to him and hurried on to her own parlor Meantime the first day of Jasper Judson’s trial had come to a close. CHAPTER XXI. A SLEEP-WALKING WITNESS. MEAnwure, although these strange!s at the hotel had gone off on a picnic on that eventful day, not a citizen of Pentacket left the,village ‘except on direst necessity. All were us deep- ly concerned in the trial as if their own proth- er were brought up into the prisoner’s bux on an accusation thus dreadful; for Jasper had been born and bred in that vicinity, and was— or had been—a universal favorite. Mauy— the most—believed him guilty; but pitied dim even while believing it, considering the deed to have been done, without premeditation, ina sudden frenzy of jealousy. _ The village was overrun with vehicles com- ing from all over the country, bringing eager spectators to the court-house, which overflow- ed with tts un vonted crowd, leaving hundreds to accommodate themselves as they could on the “green” which faced it, where only dis- fant echoes could reach them of what was Sranspiring inside of the building. Men clung to the window-sills, like swarming bees, in the hope of catching a glimpse of the prisoner’s face—that young, handsome face, bleached of all its healthy sunburn by six months of con- ement in a cell. If ever conscious innocence sat enthroned on a human countenance you would say it sat on Jasper Judson’s brow and shone in the flash of his dark-gray eyes. From the first he had shown contempt’ for the accusation, the ac- cusers and the consequences. His lawyer, who in vain tried to persuade him to some line of defense, was astonished at the perfect indif- ference with which his young client faced the Overwhelming danger. “T believe he would as lief be hanged as not,” he had said many times to the anxious father, Tt was true. Jasper had given the whole Wealth of his young heart into Ruth Fletcher's ping. From the moment when she had tossed the costly diamond—to purchase which had sold a favorite horse—with a gesture of bee away from her, he had not cared what pe ofhim, His sun had set while it was ye ee. They might end all by killing ‘fra Yi © should not suffer more than in that our of logs, She ane = the trial the time was con- mination of minor witnesses, as to the finding of the knife and glove, the conditions of the skating race, and so forth, Ruth was not obliged to appear in court that day; but spent the day at h, i righ ital exelfiamece y ome in a state of Mildred, as well as her mother, did all they en the long, could to quiet the child, and wh weary day drew to a close, and Ruth was in bed, but unable to sleep, Mildred remained with her, talking softly to her, or singing sweet hymns in a low voice to quiet her, as if she, herself, were not also suffering anguish which none knew or dreamed of, enduring the pangs of her husband’s death over and over again, as at first. Finally, about midnight, Ruth fell into a calm slumber. Her breathing was gentle and natural, her pulse less rapid, and she smiled in her dreams. Mildred, quite exhausted, retired, with a light step, to her own room, while the faithful mother, robing herself in a loose deess- ing-gown, lay down on the lounge in her daugh- ter’s room, ready to rise at the slightest sum- mons. Mrs. Fletcher, however, slept deeply until the rays of the rising sun striking through the parted curtains aroused her to the conscious- ness that she had lain since midnight without once having been disturbed by a call from Ruth. Turning her head quickly to see if her daugh- ter were still asleep, she saw Ruth lying peace- fully, her eyes wide open and gazing dreamily, with a soft, glorious smile, through the open window, at the distant hills and the golden sun- rise, The breath of morning was fluttering the muslin curtains, and crowds of roses were peeping in the maiden’s chamber; while the birds outside were making the trees tremble with a thrill of music. Ruth lay, her poor lit- tle wasted hands folded meekly on her bosom, smiling at the beauty and the sweetness of the world, renewed each morning, and at thoughts of her own which had come to take the place of the wild, dark, troubled host which had held her yesterday. Mrs. Fletcher looked at her young daughter almost with awe, Could it be that Ruth had forgotten that this was the prelude to a dread- ful day, when she would have to go into a court-room and give testimony against the son of their neighbor? Or, was the girl’s mind wandering? Hastily rising, she crossed the floor and kiss- ed the pale forehead of the maijen, and spoke to her, more to reassure herself that Ruth was in her right mind than anything else. “Mother, what a beautiful morning it is,” said Ruth, in her old, pleasant voice, looking up into her face with a smile full of hope and joy, Mrs. Fletcher wondered, but asked no dis- turbing questions. All the morning Ruth maintained this new- ly-found serenity. Yes, even after she was dressed and assisted into the easy carriage, with her mother and Mildred beside her, and on her way to that terrible, long-dreaded court- room. Ay, even into the room itself, where the cruel, curious eyes of hundreds feasted on her pale, solemn young face, Only once it failed her, and that was when, in glancing about her, at her novel surround- ings, she encountered the blazing, scornful, fiery eyes which shone out of Jasper Judson’s changed face. As she met that look of proud disdain she faltered for a moment; at the same time Jasper’s expression softened mto surprise and sorrow as he saw the fearful havoc which grief had made in that wasted figure and wan face. Ruth had not been sent for, on account of her feeble state, until they were ready to call her as a witness; so she was not kept waiting, but placed at once at the witness-stand., Had there been no graver consideration at. stake it would have been a frightful trial to a girl’s feelings to have her love-affairs exposed to the merciless questioning of the lawyers; but Ruth seemed to be upheld by some mighty power within herself which enabled her to an- swer calmly questions which, under ordinary circumstances, would have been torturing. All the story of the ring was drawn from her —every word which passed between Jasper and herself that fatal evening; while the coun- sel for the State, in seeking to find adequate reason for the motive of the inferred murder, probed her heart to find the state of her feel- ings for the schoolmaster. Mrs. Fletcher and Mildred sat near at hand ready to receive the witness when the lawyers should be done with her. Imagine: Mildred’s surprise when, in glanc- ing timidly about the court-room, she saw on one of the benches allotted to spectators Ho- noria Appleton, her vail thrown back and her bright eyes fixed on the witness, her whole expression and attitude exhibiting absorbing interest, “Tt must be that she knows who this school- master was,” thought Mildred. “I wonder how she came here! How strange! ~ “T wonder if she will speak to me! I shall not be sorry to meet her now,” thought Mil- dred, turning frequent glances toward Miss Ap- pleton. When the examination was over Ruth ask- ed permission to state some facts with regard to the gloveand knife which had played so import- ant a part in the testimony. This was readily given her. She then, still under oath, de- clared that she had placed the knife and glove in their positions, and that the human blood by which the knife was stained and which had fallen on the ice was her own! Immense sensation. This immense sensation was followed by a smile of incredulity. Ruth began to tremble, to flush and pale, and to show embarrassment for the first time. But she steadied her voice and went on: “Tm telling you the solemn truth, as God is my judge. I will explain how it all hap- pened. The night—that night of Mr. Otis’ disappearance—the first thing I thought of when Jasper Judson came back to us, there on the ice, with news that Mr. Otis had gone down under the ice, was that Jasper was in some way responsible for the accident. It seemed to me that he could not have been so far behind his companion that he could not have saved him. I was wild at the thought of Mr. Otis’ death, and I arose and accused Jas- per, to his face, of being the means of his death. In my excitement and despair I really thought so. I came home, and while the others talked over the affair, I sat silent, brood- ing over it, and accusing Jasper in my mind. I went to bed when the others did, and after awhile I fell into a sleep, but nota natural sleep. You can ask my father and mother on this point; they will prove to you that I have sometimes—not often—walked in my sleep. I did sothat night. I suppose I took my dread- ful, revengeful thoughts against Jasper into my sleep. I got up and dressed myself and took Jasper’s knife—I had borrowed the knife of him, before I left the house, to fix my skates—make a new slit in the strap, it was— and instead of returning it, I carelessly slip- ped it into my own pocket. I also took one of Mr. Otis’ gloves, which I found on the hall floor, as [came down, and with these, I went noiselessly out of the house, and ran for the ice. When I got there I deliberately made a wound in my left arm, and allowed the blood to trickle out on the ice; I also stained the blade with it; I then placed the glove close to the brink of the hole in the ice, and the knife I threw where it was found. If you ask why I did this strange thing, I cannot further ex- plain it. I can show you the scar of the wound in my arm, and mother can testify that she foundit after I was taken so ill, and dress- ed and cared for it without ever knowing how it came, The prosecution then asked her “ Why, if she had done this thing, she had on the follow- ing day accused Jasper Judson, and cried out against him as the murderer?” She answered that all knowledge of what she had done that night had left her mind, and had never return~ ed to it until last night. That, last night, being very much troubled at the thought of having to testify against her life-long friend, Jasper, she had fallen asleep, and in her dreams the whole matter had been made plain to her—that when she awoke sho looked for the scar on her arm, and found it,
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26 THE WAR OF HEARTS. - a and felt a positive certainty of the truth of ‘should ever know, seeing that he was dead, what she had stated; that a great peace had fallen on her, and she had been comforted and supported since, not only by the consciousness peel ae most positive proofs against the ac- cused were removed by her own hand, but also, that in‘her dream it had been revealed to her that Henry Otis was not dead, but alive and well, and within a hundred miles of Pen- tacket. The air of perfect faith in what she was say- ing which’ Ruth wore, the glow of joy on her wan young face, made a deep impression on many who heard her words; butlawyers take no stockin ‘‘the stuff dreams are made of,” and cold, incredulous smiles from them chilled the effect which the earnest words of the girl had made on others. It became whispered about the court-room that Ruth Fletcher had arisen from her long illness not quite right in her mind; and looks of pity and curiosity were fastened upon her. Altogether, that which she had testified, with the simple faith that it would at once set Jud- son free, went rather against him than for him, so it was accepted only as the excited imagination of a diseased brain. She was cross-examined very slightly, it being taken for granted that the testimony of a person in Miss Fletcher’s condition of mind must be worthless, There were a number among the audience, however, who implicitly believed what she had said. Among these was Honoria Appleton, who had come to this public place from no morbid curiosity, but in an agony of grief and suspense, and quite certain that her cousin was the victim of whose death the prisoner stood accused. Something of the pale anguish of her face went away when Ruth stated that she had, in her dream, received the assurance that Otis was yet alive. She felt the truth of the girl’s story about the placing of the knife and glove in her sleep, and a great hope sprung up in her breast that Otis might, after all, be alive, ; After this she had time to wonder how it was that Mildred appeared on the scene; and when, the cross-examination over, and Ruth’s mother’s testimony—which corroborated her daughter’s as to the wound on Ruth’s arm— having been taken, the Fletchers and Mildred left the court-room, Honoria hastened from her place, and met them just outside the door. “Milla! Milla! stay a moment. you here?” “T read of this in the papers, Miss Apple- ton, and I knew, in a moment, that this Henry Otis was our Otis. Could I help coming?” Mildred, in theagitation of the moment, had forgotten that Miss Appleton was not supposed to be aware of her identity. “You did right to come, Milla, of course. You could not stay away. I know who you are, dear Milla, and how you loved him—for you left your diary with me, you know, and How came I had to look in it for some clue to the owner of | so much property as had been abandoned on my hands. Yes, dearest, who has a sad right to be here, if not Otis’ wife?” “Did you say his wife?” interrupted Ruth, hastily. “Yes. Miss F'etcher, this lady is Otis’ wife, and I am his cousin. His true name was Henry Otis Garner. He had trouble with his uncle, and dropped the family name, I suppose, when he went out to earn his own—” Miss Appleton came to a full stop in her ex- planation, for Ruth, with a low moan, had thrown herself on her mother’s breast and sunk into a swoon, They carried her into the hotel across the way, where she was, after an alarming time, revived. . Honoria and Mildred had gone with the mother, and remained until Ruth recovered. “Why did you not tell me you were his wife?’ was her first question, as her dim eyes turned reproachfully to Mildred. “T did not think you strong enough to bear the shock; nor that it would be necessary you {and would never—” | “But he is not dead,” almost shrieked Ruth, |“Isaw him last night, and I tell you, he is alive! Mother! mother! take me home, Take me away from these fine ladies, whom he loves, The very sight of them is death to ‘me!’ CHAPTER XXII. ROSES IN PRISON, Tue trial ran a rapid course, for on the third |day it was ended. No proof that Jasper Jud. ‘son had committed murder could be adduced, |except such circumstantial evidence as the |reader has heard. This, throwing out Ruth’s testimony—which the judge, in his charge to | the jury ordered them to do, saying that the girl was probably partially demented—was very strong against the prisoner; anyhow, the | jury seemed to have made up its mind before | the first day of the trial was over, that he was | guilty; and on the third day, after only half an hour’s deliberation, it returned with a ver- |dict of “manslaughter,” as the judge had | charged them that the killing of the teacher junder the ‘‘emotional insanity” caused by a sudden paroxysm of jealousy, could be con- 'strued into manslaughter, rather than willful murder, So Jasper Judson was remanded to the coun- ty jail until the following week when he was to be removed to the State’s prison, there to endure an imprisonment of ten years—the judge, moved by pity for the heart-broken parents and the youth of the prisoner, making | the term as brief as he dared, considering the character of the crime. The excitement in Pentacket was by no means over with the trial. Ruth Fletcher’s statements were credited by many who knew her, and visiting her house saw no evidences of unsound mind. It was a tid-bit for gossip, too, that the schoolmaster, though never mentioning the fact, had been a married man. This had leak- ed out through some bystanders who had over- heard the conversation at the court-house door. Jasper Judson. Guilty or not, it was consid- ered too bad that Mr. Otis should have al- lowed his jealousy to arise against him when he was a married man. Poor Jasper began to loom before their eyes in the light of a martyr. There was talk of a petition to have the case retried, There was also a keen curiosity to see the wife of the missing teacher. Rumors of ber marvelous beauty, and of the fabulous wealth and power of the Garner family to which the schoolmaster belonged, deepened the interest in the romance of real life, Miss Appleton, who bad been before the great lion of the Place, was now the object of deepest interest. | She herself, with her beauty, style, fashion and wealth, was a living witness to the splen- | dors that waited on the Gerrers, Everybody declared that he, or she, bad al- | ways known that Mr. Otis was some prince in disguise; bis air of elegance, his haughty re- serve, his diamond sleeve buttons, had betrayed that. But the heartfelt sympathy was for Jasper and his parents. The second day after his sentence, at about five in the afternoon, Jasper was told that a visitor waited outside for permission to en- ter his room., This was not a novel occurrence —since dozens of people had already tried the patience of the jailer, either asking permission to visit the prisoner, or sending in little gifts of choice cookery, books, or flowers, being lighted thoroughly by two good-sized windows, its walls bung with engravings, placed tbere by his mother, and his little table covered with books aud bouquets; but it was a prison, and there were iron bars over those windows which destroyed the charm of the | free sunlight, | The jailer did not say who it was that was This fact greatly increased the sympathy for | His room was not a very unpleasant place, | { waiting outside; so that Jasper was completely surprised, as he raised his heavy ayes, to see standing before him, wan and white as a spirit, her wasted hands clasping a great bunch of | roses, mignonette and heliotrope, her great brown eyes fixed piteously upon him as if be- seeching him not to strike her to the floor, Ruth Fletcher. “Jasper!” she began, when he gazed sternly upon her withovt a word of welcome, “Jasper, I have come to beg you to forgive me for ruin- ing your life in every way, as I have done,” Still his stern eyes looked on her coldly, and his compressed lips did not open either to wel- come her or utter the word of pardon. Slowly, slowly, never taking ber piteous eyes from his countenance, she sunk on her knees, ber trembling hands letting fall in a shower over her white dress the perfumed blossoms as she stretched them out to him, ‘“‘ Jasper,” she beseeched, with a sad humili- ty, overflown by a strange current of irrepres- | sible passion, ‘‘do forgive me! See, I humble myself at your very feet. If I could undo what I have done I would think nothing of being laid away in my grave after it. I alone am to blame for all this terrible state of af- fairs. I am tke sole author of all the trouble, If I had not been yain I should not have thought that the teacher loved me; if I had not been false, I should not have scorned you, whom I prized before, and turned to him. Mr. Otis never loved me—never cared for me— Jasper, did you know he was a married man before ever we saw him?” “T heard, yesterday, that such was the story ”—his voice was chilling, his stern eyes seemed to smile a little at the idea of her mor- tification when she heard of this. ‘“When I look back, I can see.that he never made love to me. It was only bis gallant, flattering city manners which made me believe myself the favored one. Oh, Jasper, do you not pity me for my share of this trouble? Think of the humiliation I must suffer when I think of my foolisb conduct, and what he must have thought of me, It half kills me to recallit. But it is not for myself I have any pity. My punisbment [can bear. Itis your suffering thatis gaawing at my heart. I bave blighted your life, crushed, disgraced you. I have thrown you into prison. Iam the means of your long, cruel sentence. But you shall not endure that / ‘You are innocent—innocent I will yet prove it to them. More than that, | Mr. Otis is alive. I see him in my dreams every night. They say Iam insane; but you do not think so, do you, Jasper?” “No,” said be, ‘“ you are not insane. I, too, feel that that man is alive. Why, look at it! They have never found his remains! Could they walk out of the river of themselves? Men are fools, after all.” ‘‘Yes, Jasper, he is alive, and I will find him.” | Something like a halo shone about her wan face. . Jasper looked at her, kneeling there to him, | Her lovely dimples, her rosy bloom, her gold- threaded chestnut curls were gone. Her young form was wasted to a shadow, | her sweet mouth was pale, her eyes shone out of dark hollows in ker white face, but never, in the days of his glad boy passion, had Ruth , been so lovely to him as then, kneeling to him in bis prison room. He could not forgive her—no, no, he could never forgive her! but he loved her with a | wild, terrible love that battled fiercely with his anger and jealousy. When he heard her | say—“‘ He is alive and I will find him,” the old pangs of jealousy tore at bis heart-strings and he answered her: “No, do not look for him, I would rather | Pine in prison than have you meet that man j again, Let him go.” | smile came about her lips, “You think I would come under his influ- ‘ence again, Jasper—that all the old vanity |and folly would revive? No; you are mis- taken. My love was almost dead before I | For a moment Ruth wondered; then a sad ~
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THE WAR OF HEARTS. a7 Pr ar Oe eS SS a] heard that little lady avow herself his wife; at that news it gasped and drew its last breath. It would be as impossible for me, now, to love this Otis Garner as for a fiend to enter the gates of heaven!” “Ruth, get up from off your knees, I do not like you to kneel to me, and that floor is no place for one in your health.” “Pell me first, Jasper, that you forgive me.” “ You ask a great deal, Ruth. Will you not give me time to think over your petition? It is not so easy to forgive, all in a moment.” “*T care not for a cold, calculating forgive- ness. If it came from your heart, one second would be time enough.” “Tt was—it is. Ruth, I forgave you the moment my eyes rested on you in the court- room, and I saw how you had suffered.” “Oh, Jasper, is this true?” “Yes, I forgave you, even when I thought that your illness was caused by grief for an- other and not for me.” “Jasper, you are noble, generous—the same boy you always have been.” She picked up a few of the sweetest flowers, arose from her knees, and approached him to give him the blossoms. As he took them he grasped the little hand that held them, and looked hard into her face. “Will you think of me summer evenings, Ruth, when the breath of roses is sweet all about you, and I am languishing in prison?” She burst into tears, sobbing pitifully. “You shall not go to that place, Jasper, You shall not! Or, if they are so cruel as to take you, I shall ask father and mother to go and live near that prison, and I will visit you every day, and bring you roses winter and summer.” “Then I shall be quite willing to go, Ruth.” “YT shall live there near you, and bring you flowers, and write you letters, and prove to you how patient and faithful I can be. I will meyer desert you; I will show you that I am no longer a vain and silly school-girl. Then, perhaps — Jasper, perhaps—when those ten long, cruel years are passed, and you find me waiting at your prison door, you will be will- ing to—to place confidence in me again, and to Jet me—love you—as you once loved me.” She hid her tear-dimmed eyes in the roses, ‘then looked timidly into*his face, and smiled and blushed. “Will you—ever—let me love you, Jas: per?” “T will think about it,” he answered, slowly, without even a smile. ‘Remember, I shall have ten years in which to make up my mind;” but there was a glow deep down in his eyes which reassured Ruth and made her feel that she should be strong to wait and hope. CHAPTER XXIIL ‘(DREAMING, SHE KNEW IT WAS A DREAM.” Av Honoria’s urgent request Mildred bad gone home with her to her rooms in the hotel, feeling that perhaps she would not be welcome now at the Fletchers, and seeing no reason why she should not confide everything to Miss Ap- pleton, now that that young lady knew who she was, If these two girls had been friends, when Mildred had sought the heiress in the humble guise of a companion, they were all the warm- _er friends now that their relations were under- stood, Honoria immediately began to call Mildred “cousin ”—‘ for,” as she argued, “you are my cousin by marriage, you know”—and then the young wife would blush, and look in Wonder at the regal young creature who could 80 well control her own feelings, and act so generously to a poor little friendless thing who had usurped the place Mildred had. You know I am not really his wife,” she would say. <The marriage ceremony was performed, but it was only a mockery to him, and as he has never lived with me, I can have the formal tie dissolved at my pleasure; and, cousin Honoria, I shall dissolve it this autumn coming.” For Mildred could be generous, too. She could not forget the smothered passion, the hidden yet ever-revealed fire, with which Ho- noria had talked of her abseut cousin, of the injustice which had been done him, and the pain it was to her to be the owner of his money and house, while he wandered homeless. Strangely enough both girls took it for granted that Otis was alive. They as fully believed Ruth’s assertion that she had seen him alive and well, in a vision, as if she had seen him in her waking senses. Mildred had taken off her hateful mourning, and bloomed out in the dresses Otis had given her, As for Brummell Pomeroy, seeing Mrs. Gar- ner quite at home with Miss Appleton, at the hotel, he bad thought it time to betake himsel! to ‘fresh fields and pastures new,” and was quickly away to Newport, where there was a young blood of bis acquaintance ready to be fleeced. The first time his name was men- tioned between them Mildred related her ex- perience of his character and the circumstances which bad driven her from Miss Appleton so unceremoniously. As this black picture of the elegant man-of-fashion agreed with the new ideas Honoria had formed of him, the girls agreed to drop him from their books, trom their talk and from their thoughts. The Monday after the week of the trial Miss Appleton established her aunt in a qriet pri- vate family, paid her hotel bills and departed for Boston with Mildred, the latter having fi. »t paid a good-by visit to the Fletchers, where sh» was surprised at the warmth of feeling which Ruth betrayed. “Your husband will come back very soon, and you will be happy yet,” were the last words Ruth said to her, Ruth Fletcher was forced, afterward, to doubt this assurance which she had given so earnestly. Nothing was heard of Otis Garner. The day came when Jasper Judson—a year ago the gayest, most spirited and most envied young man in Pentacket—the one who always nad spending-money for frolics—who drove the finest horses—who owned the handsomest buggy—who had the most dashing manners and the most ‘‘splendid” eyes, was taken, hand-cuffed from the jail to the cars and under the care of the sheriff was conveyed from the scenes of his youth to the cold gloom of the penitentiary, There were not many dry eyes among the girls of Pentacket that day. The young men of the place formed them- selves into an escort and followed the sheriff and his prisoner to the station. Mr. and Mrs, Fletcher brought their daugh- ter, at her demand, and she was on the plat- form when Jasper was brought there. “Tf I cannot make my promise true to pro- duce Otis Garner alive, then father and mother have promised to take me to live near you, Jasper,” she said, as she beld his hand and looked up wistfully into his eyes, i Jasper’s young friends, and old ones, too, all assured him that a movement was to be made for a new trial; all cheered him with assur- ances of their belief in his innocence and of his speedy release; but the fact remained that he stood there disgraced, handcuffed, on his way to prison; and the smoldering fire in his haughty glance told how deeply he resented the position in which he had been placed, The cars stopped at Pentacket station, and he went to endure his doom. In a few days the excitement died away in the little village. Girls laughed and blushed and made themselves pretty to please their ad. mirers; young men went about their morning work and their evening enjoyments scarcely calling to mind that their former comrade was eating prison fare and fretting his heart out in a prison-cell, xe opie Regan to think that Ruth Fletcher purposely fal. ed in her testimon: os that ene had ie a . ile ‘touched ” ae] she gave her account of wer sleep-walking ex- pedition, and her promise that ‘the supposed murdered man should soon reap It seemed highly improbable that if Otis Garner had been, at the time of the trial, with- in one hundred miles of Pentacket he would not have heard of the trial and either written or come himself to free an innocent man from so terrible a charge. Yet he had not appear- ed, nor did any amount of advertising bring any tidings of him. At first Ruth was wonderfully sustained by her own faith in the vision she had seen. But as days and weeks dragged slowly away her confidence began to fail. She wandered silently about the large house, the lawn, the orchard, by the brook, more like a ghost than a living girl. Her parents did not know what to do, She constantly be- sought them to break up their home, and take her to live near Jasper. Twice in the first month she gave David money to pay a visit to Jasper and take him flowers and messages from her. It was a hard thing for Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher to break up their old home, and to try to make a new one in the city; but to save the life and the reason of their dear and only daughter they would do all in their pow- er; so they finally promised her that when the fall crops were harvested they would do as she wished. Then Ruth lived only on this prospect of the future. She counted the long, hot, weary days, and when one was gone she would think: “ Iam so much nearer to him whom I wronged, and who is suffering for me.” Time had dragged on until the last day of August. It had been a month of drougth and heat— of glare and dust and steady brilliancy of burning skies over the parched earth; ‘* Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat, Nor any cloud would cross the vault, But day increased from heat to heat, On stony drought and steaming salt,” Parched as everything was, this last day of summer, out-of-doors, the lonely house was still more dreary to Ruth than the hot stub- ble-fields and the wasted brook, After the noon dinner she tied on her broad-brimmed school hat and set out for one of her long, aim- less rambles, She followed the little stream, which in spring had been a glad and noisy tor- rent, where it crept, shallow and slow, be- tween two wheat-fields whose stubble shone like gold under the burning sun, until if came into the maple-grove, where it lingered and gathered strength on its bed of green mosses and glistening pebbles, dallying with the long grasses, and kissing the blue wood-violets. Ruth had still but little strength, and when she had gone into the grove, where it was just a trifle cooler than under the cloudless azure sky, she was exhausted, and threw herself down on the bank, where the was short and dry, to rest, and watch the ripple and the slender silver stream, Unconsciously she fell into a quiet slumber. Then, as on that night before she gave her testimony in court it seemed to her that Mr. Otis came to her, bent over her, touched her hand, and said to her: “See, Ruth, I am not dead after all!” ** Dreaming, she knew it was a dream; She felt he was and was not there. She woke; the babble of the stream Fell,”’ and gradually she became conscious that some one was bending over her—that some one did hold her little thin hand—and_ that a voice, whose lightest cadence once thrilled to the deepest depths of her foolish heart, was saying, half gayly, half tenderly: “Wake up, little Ruth, wake up, and give me welcome!” She sat up quickly; her large, startled eyes, shining out of their dark hollows in her wasted face, rested on the one she had so long looked for. “Thank God!” she murmured, solemnly, meeting the grave black eyes that looked at her with some curiosity. «What for, pretty Ruth? Because the scape- has returned to give an account of him- ? ‘Yes, Mr. Otis, just for that.” “But what is the matter, with you, Ruth, You are so changed, I had to look hard at you So eee tics
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ae “THE WAR OF HEARTS. | & good five minutes before I was certain it was ‘you. Have you been ill?’ ““Yos, Mr. Otis, ever since we lost you.” She spoke very solemnly; there were none of the old blushes, smiles, or little coquetries of look and speech. ‘ “Did my running away have anything to do with it?’ he continued, after an instant’s hesitation. “Then you did run away, Mr. Otis?’ “Certainly; what did you think had become of me!” “Everybody thought you were dead—some that you were drowned—more that you were murdered and thrown under the ice in the river, Did you not know that Jasper Judson had been arrested for your murder—that he lay in jail six months awaiting his trial—that he was tried last June, and convicted—and that he is now enduring his sentence in State’s | * prison?” ‘Poor Jasper! As God is my judge, Ruth, Inever thought of or suspected such serious consequences from my freak to disappear, and | so get rid of some troubles that were depress- ing my spirits at that time. It was very thoughtless, very wicked of me. I see it all now. I did hear something about it, the very day the trial opened. I was at the lake, on a sketching tour, when some persons from the hotel came there on a picnic, and I overheard two of them—acquaintances of mine—talking over the matter. I was shocked, and intended immediately to present myself at Pentacket, But now, hear on what trifles hang the fate of mortals. The fellow who was with the young lady, on the opposite side of the lake from the rest of the party, proposed, out of revenge for her rejection of his suit, to keep her there uutil their absence created a scandal. I over- heard his threat, and being disguised by blue | glasses, and so forth, so that I could not fear recognition, I sprung out and tumbled him into | the lake. Then I had to rescue him, or be guilty of murder, All drenched as I was, I had to row the young lady across the lake to hher friends, and return. Somehow, i took cold. I have done similar feats before with- out taking cold; but I was tired, hungry, and not just in a state for ‘such risks. I went to the cabin where I had been living all summer —a deserted log-house in the forest of which I hadi taken possession, as I was not able to pay -board, and where I cooked my own food and washed my own shirts—made up a fire on the hearth, drew acup of tea, drank it, and went to my bed of hemlock boughs, half uncon- sciousfrom the effects of a severe chill, Dear Ruth, will you believe me, that I lay sick in that hut for over six weeks, some days not able to help myself toa drink of water, on others, just making out to crawl to the spring on my hands and knees, and to make a little fire and some tea or coffee, and toast some of the ship’s biscuits, of which I had akeg full. I used to think that my skeleton would be found there some day, and furnish the mountain with its own mystery. It happened that no one came near in all that time, though I frequently heard the guns of sportsmen not far away. Fortunately, my splendid constitution carried me through. I say, ‘fortunately,’ not because my poor life is worth anything to anybody; but because my return to civilization will be the means of restoring an innocent man to his freedom and good name. I was too delirious, | some of the time, to realize anything about what I heard of my supposed murder; then, when I would come to my senses, I would be quite desperate thinking of what depended on my getting well. I thank God, too, Ruth, as | earnestly as you did. It was a thoughtless, reckless trick of mine, running away as I did,” “Yes it was, Otis Garner; it has made more | sorrow and trouble than you can dream of. | You see what it has done to me; and it nearly | ‘killed your wife, also, and made sorrow and | trouble for your cousin.” “My wife?” ' drowned in the ice-hole, ‘ apprehended. little wife. She came here, in deep mourning, to attend the trial, She has returned to Bos- ton, now.” “Did you know how I came to marry her?” “ No—nothing about that.” “T will tell you sometime; you are too agi- tated now. You tremble like a leaf. Come, let me help you to the house. Pentacket, brooding in the hot sunshine, with all business as nearly suspended as possi- ble, was destined to awake from siesta that afternoon with a shock that made her forget the heat, and gave her a new topic of conver- | sation. Like the rush of a tempest the news flew from house to house, setting voices to quavering and hearts to beating high. “ Otis Garner is at the house of Mr. Fletcher, alive and well!” Not well, exactly; but well enough to come to the porch and show himself to the excited crowds that gathered there within an hour of the time when he led Ruth home from her forest ramble. It was not enough for these good people, | who had been put toso much trouble on his account, to see the schoolmaster standing be- fore them; they called for an explanation o* his sudden disappearance; and if he had haughtily refused to give it, there is no cer- tainty but that the proud Bostonian would have been treated to a coat of tar and ' feathers. But Otis felt quite humble in view of all the harm he had done, and was willing to explain himself. CHAPTER XXIV. IN THE HARVEST MOONLIGHT, Ot1s was pale with excitement as he stood before the crowd. “You must do me the justice, friends, to believe that I never had the faintest idea of the disastrous results of such a freak, when I suddenly, in a single moment of time—on that Christmas night, when I passed Judson in the | race, and found myself, on turning a bend of | the river, completely out of sight—resolved to lose myself and never again be found by any of my acquaintances. “Why I made this resolution is a private matter which I have a perfect right to keep to myself, as it relates entirely to my family af- fairs. I was not. happily situated; school- teaching was a new business to me, and irk- |some; I had in my pocket my last quarter’s salary; and a new trouble, which I had not before dreamed of, had arisen that very even- ing, to make me still more discontented with my situation here. Unwittingly—not having seen proper to state, on my comiiig here, that I was a married man—I had made trouble be- tween two young people, both of whom I ad- mired and liked. I thought the easiest way out of everything was just to disappear. I | ped in the conductor or brakeman until we had stop- ped at the next village. There I slid off and | entered a passenger car in the regular manner, paid my fare to Boston, and rode till we stop- the city. No one had recognized me, I strolled, in the gray winter morning, down to the docks and took cheap passage in @ sailing-vessel for Key West. so useful to the captain that he refunded my money before we reached Florida, “Not to be tiresome, I found a way to live economically in the South, and remained there until nearly the first of June, never meeting any of my friends, because, if I saw one, I took myself away betimes. Then I grew homesick and returned North, arriving in Boston in June, and going to call on a favorite cousin at my old home, found the house shut and she gone for the summer, I did not learn where. I was pretty poor by this time; and I furnished a portfolio and started out on a sketching tour, having once had a great taste for painting. ‘‘Not a word did I hear of the drama enact- ing in Pentacket, until a few weeks age, and then I was taken ill alone in a mountain hut where I could not communicate with you. As | oon as I could crawl, I started to undo, as far | as possible, the mischief my adventures had wrought to others—and here I am, thankful that it is not too late to—that it is no worse.” His voice trembled as he conoluded, and he looked so sorry and so sad, and his garments were so threadbare, and his fine, patrician fea- tures so pale, that, in a moment, by the magic of his quivering lips, the tide turned, and the people forgave and pitied him, testifying to their sympathy by one rousing cheer for him, and three and a tiger for Jasper Judson—after which they dispersed to wear out their excite- ment by degrees, In three days from that a mighty delegation of almost the whole county awaited, at the station, the arrival of the falsely-condemned, who had been set at liberty as quickly as pos- sible, The appearance of Jasper Judson on the platform, as he descended from a train, and stood, rather grave and pale, before them, was the signal for such a burst of welcomes, cheers and congratulations as nearlyoverwhelmed him, Then seme of his young friends took him on their shoulders and carried him the whole long mile and a quarter to the home where his poor mother, weeping with joy, stood on the steps to receive him. But first, in passing the Fletcher homestead, they had tarried at the gate, and calied out Ruth, She came forth, dressed in white, | weeping and smiling, bringing him a great believed it would make no difference to any | one if it were taken for granted that I was Imeant it to be so I was quite willing my rela- tives should believe me dead, and I did not think any one in Pentacket would care par- ticularly. With these thoughts crowding into my brain, I turned and made a sudden dart for the shore, and crept behind the clump of bushes just as Judson turned the bend. I si- lently freed myself from my borrowed skates, watching my rival’s movements as 1 did so, When he started back for help, I ran across ‘fields, keeping out of sight of the skating- rarty, by skirting fences and dodging from bush to tree, and tree to bush. I made for the railroad station on the edge of the village, | When I reached it there was no one about ex-' cept the station-master, whom I could see, through the window, toasting his feet by the stove. I crept behind a pile of empty dry goods boxes. I knew atrain for Boston would soon be due. When it came along and stop- ped, I contrived to get on the rear platform handful of her choicest flowers; but Jasper re- fused them, turning white with anger, when he saw who walked by Ruth’s side. Then Otis, seeing this little misunderstand- ing arising, stepped quickly up, wrung Jas- per’s hand, and whispered in his ear; “She would not have me now, if I were free, and asked her a thousand times, She has grown wise and knows better who is worthy of her. She has confessed to me that ‘She loves you for the dangers you have passed,’ and now you must love her, that she did pity them. Jasper Judson, I thank God in my heart every minute that matters are no worse than they are!” Then Jasper stretched out his hand and took the flowers he would have refused, and Ruth © lifted up her sweet, clear eyes and looked into his with a look that betrayed her heart; and she said, with a jovful smile: “Ttold you, Jasper, that you would come back to us before long! You see my vision was a prophetic one! People have laughed at me and dubbed me a little lunatic; but I knew what had been revealed to me in my sleep was true.” , But the merry crowd would not let them talk longer, bearing Jasper forward to the_ mother whom they knew was waiting to glad- den her tear-dimmed eyes with the sight of “Yes; we know all about you now, Mr. | of the last car withoutbeing seen. Iremained her boy. Garner, and we love -your sweet, beautiful | on the platform and was not overhauled by | That evening Jasper left his parents about I made myself ° . ; | |
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THE WAR OF HEARTS. od nine o’clock, and took a path across the fields— running through dew-scented second crops of clover and rustling corn—toward the house of farmer Fletcher. As he came out on the lawn he saw Ruth, with a light scarf wound about her head and shoulders, walking up and down the porch. Ina moment he was by her side, her cold little hand clasped in his warm, strong one. * Ruth, where is Mr. Otis?” ** Gone,” “Gone?” Yes; he took the seven o’clock train for Boston. I think there is some one there whom he isin a hurry tosee. He only awaited your arrival, to be here to welcome you, and to be sure that all was right. He left his love for you; and says that you shall hear from him soon by letiter.” ‘Ruth, let me see your face by this fair moonlight. You have suffered, my darling, I know.” ‘But it is all over now, Jasper. I would suffer it all over again to have you speak so kindly tome. Do youreally mean that you feel toward me as you used before this trouble inegan?” “Not quite that way, Ruth. I can never be the thoughtless, happy boy I was then. But my love, my little dear, has only become the stronger and firmer. I know what it means now to give all my hopes of happiness into the hands of another; and I yield them to you, Ruth, more solemnly, more sacredly, than I would once have done, I believe that you, too, are more certain of yourself; and that we have less to fear from each other’s lightness and changeableness than we once had. So, sweetest, I believe that we may yet be very happy together.” ‘You are very generous, Jasper, to the foolish girl who once betrayed your trust; but you have your reward: there is not a man in the world who could make me think he was your equal.” And, as they walked up and down in the full glory of the harvest moon, these young hearts built up an ideal happiness on a far firmer foundation than that of their boy and girl dreams, One foolish girl-heart had broken away from the chains of fancy which had bound it to Otis Garner, and had moored itself in the quiet ha- ven of its childhood’s home. The proud, dark beauty of the haughty scion of the Garner tree had no longer any charm, in Ruth’s eyes, com- parable to that she found in the frank, honest, handsome face of her young lover, CHAPTER XXV. ROSES IN OCTOBER, A COLD, dull, sickening fear had for many days and nights been growing upon Honoria Appleton. She looked with wonder on little Mildred, to think sne could keep up her spark- ling spirits in the face of the fact that weeks had elapsed since Judson had gone to State’s prison, and yet no tidings had come to any one to prove the existence of her cousin. Many times Honoria longed to warn the wife not to hope so fondly—not to put such confidence in the vision of a sickly girl; but Mildred was so busy with her books, music and painting; so almost sublime in the stern reso- lution which she kept to herself—that when Otis did come, she would go, and would free him from his bonds and leave him at liberty to be happy with his splendid cousin—that she dreaded to disturb her with the preying misery of her own fears. The two girls were keeping house in the old family mansion; ina very private way, keep- ing the front shutters closed that they might not be intruded upon by chance acquaintances, the most of the heiress’ aristocratic friends still staying in the mountains or at the seaside. Mildred wanted to go away, feeling a great delicacy about being found in that house when Otis should arrive. But Honoria would not listen to her, asking what she would do, left all alone, with only servants, in that great mansion, So Mildred yielded, according to her nature, and remain- ed, while Honoria did not say to her that she felt: there would never be any reason for her going away. One hot and dusky August day the fair young mistress of the mansion had exhibited a deep melancholy all day, which had the effect to depress the hopeful spirits of her friend. Finally, not daring to put her despondency into plainer expression, Honoria came down to tea dressed all in black, Mildred looked at her in surprise which deep- ened to consternation, then glanced down at her own white robe and the pink carnations in her bosom, while the tears sprung to her eyes, Neither of the girls did more than pretend to drink their tea, As they were leaving the room the little wife wound one white arm about her companion’s waist. “You think he is dead,” she whispered. “Yes, But it may be because [ am not quite well. My head aches; and so I look at things with gloomy eyes.” “Shall I go and put on my black dress, too?” “Not to-night. I prefer to see you as you are. So longas you have hope Jshall not quite despair.” They turned into the music-room. ‘There were a few wax candles lighted here, whose silvery luster hardly intruded upon the flood of glorious moonlight which fell in erystal ca- taracts through two tall windows opening to the south, deluging the lovely room with ra-~ diance. Mildred sat down to the piano, touched the keys with a fairy touch, and began to sing to herself in low, soft tones mournful songs of sorrow and passion, A. broad stream: <f£ moon- light lay over her slender, exquisite Little fig- ure, and lighted up her fair, pure face till it was like the face of an angel, Honoria could not bear even this sweet company, wandering off into the great drawing-room, faintly light- ed by asingle moonlight globe, and the mys- tic light which fell through one window to the south, / Here she paced up and down, the long train of her black dress trailing after her, not one jewel lighting up the dusk of her streaming hair, which she had let down because its weight was too oppressive to her aching head. Suddenly she paused, clasping ter hands, and falling back a step with a gesture that would have become a queen of tragedy, but with her wholly unpremeditated. The door- bell had sounded, and for some reason, which she did not herself comprehend, the summons was full of meaning—like the cry of a friend in danger. Sho stood still and listened. The old servitor was speaking with some one at the door; then the door closed, and as nothing now was heard, she was about to re- sume her walk when the door from the hali softly opened and some one stepped into the room, “Honoria, is it you?” “Otis! Oh, thank God, you have come at last!” Their voices were vibrant with deep emotion, but not loud, and the sweet singer in the music- room adjoining—the folding-doors open be- tween the two rooms—heard nothing, and went on with her low, sad, heart-touching sing- ing. Otis held out his arms and his cousin rushed into them. Hekissed her and she returned his kiss. “T could not stay away longer, cousin; the call of my heart was too powerful. It is wrong to be here—it is against the voice of pride and the sense of duty—but I had to come, or die. There, now, I have frightened you, sweet!” ‘‘You have,” answered Honoria, tearing her- self from his arms. ‘]t does frighten me te hear you say such things. Iwas so glad to see you, alive, whom we mourned as dead. that I remembered only that you were my dear cousin—my own cousin, ever dear, ever an object of the deepest interest to me, but my cousin only. Otis, dear, where have you been Why did you allow us to suffer so much in the fear that you were dead?” ¢ Allow us? Who is ‘us,’ may I ask?’ ‘Hush! speak and move very softly, and % will show you,” leading him toward the fold- ing-doors, and signing him to look into the music-room, He did look a long, long time, very silently. Honoria could not guess what thoughts were passing through his brain. The picture in the music-room was one upon which the most indifferent person might gaze, if only for its beauty. The silver-falling moon- light, mingled with the soft glow of the wax. candles, illuminated the place with a mystic light that made more lovely its beautiful adornments, and wrapped in a magic spell the fair creature at the piano, Absorbed in her own thoughts, pouring out her own soul in thrilling whispers to the re- sponsive instrument, Mildred sat in that white moonlight like a fairy inside the ring of a fall- ing fountain. Her soft, translucent white dress fell about her perfect little figure; her white arms were bare, her wonderful gold hair glittered about her shoulders and fair throat, There were carnations in this hair and on the soft bosom, trembling to the music of the rose- sweet lips. Mildred did not look the child she had been when the man who now silently gazed at her saw her last. As pure, as innocent, was that dreamy, beautiful face, but it wore a look of dignity, of quiet endurance, of pathetic wo- manhood which had come to it through many trials, Nothing lovelier was ever seen on earth tham Mildred sitting there in the moonlight, breath- ing out her loving soul in sweetest melodies, Honoria gazed on her, too, with as fascinated a look as her cousin, Finally Otis turned and searched the dark beauty of the face beside him, as if comparing it with that ethereal loveliness of the other young creature at the piano. “Tam not so beautiful as she is,” whispered Honoria. ‘Look at her! pure as an a lovely as a lily in 1ts first bloom, That trea- sure is yours, Otis! Thank heaven for it? Otis, look at her—she is your wife-—she loves you—adores you. Do not cast away the pearl of all your tribe!” So saying his peerless cousin vanished from his side.. He looked around for her, but she was gone. Yes, brave, noble Honoria, speaking in the interests of honor and of her friend—crushing her own heart to do it—had fled to the sacred solitude of her own room. There, throwing herself on the floor, in the tender moonlight, long did she wrestle with her own passionate nature; until, utterly wearied out with the long struggle and with the darting pangs that tore her head as well as heart, she at lasc sobbed herself to sleep, with- out even a pillow under her aching head. But she awoke the conqueror. Gone was the rack- ing pain in her temples—gone the more terri- ble pain in her heart. Long since had she given up her cousin to this other woman who loved him so and who had the right to love him. But his sudden appearance, his passion- ate words, had brought back her old feelings, and she had the battle all to fight over again. Once more she was at peace. As she rose from her hard couch she perceived that there had been a light rain in the latter part of the night; the air coming in at her window was sweet and refreshing; she dressed herself calm~- ly, without the help of her maid—for it was still very early—and then sat and read her prayer-book and considered what she could do to make others happy;. until her maid came and was surprised to find her up. Then the summons to breakfast came, and she went down, pale, but becoming. Alas, the house was desolate. Otis had gone away about an hour after she left him, the servant who had let him ont of the door said; and Mrs. Garner had gone off, early this morning,.and had not yet return ed.
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eral 30' THE WAR OF HEARTS. “This is intolerable,” thought Honoria. “‘She has gone and left me alone in this great house. Go up to Mrs, Garner’s room,” she ordered the servant, ‘‘ and see if there isa note on her table for me.” The servant returned with a note. She hastily opened it, and read: “Dear Frrenp:—Otis asked me to live with him; but I did not believe that his heart was in his words. 1 do not think it delicate for me to remain in your house, under the circumstances. With ten thousand thanks for your love and noble kindness, I bid you good-by for the present. T am going back to Pentacket. I think Mrs. Fletcher will be glad to see me, and I am sure I can do 4 little something to pay for my board, Fondly, your ** MILLA.” So Honodria was forsaken; nor could Otis come freely to see her, for it was in the will that he should never so much as take a meal in the house. Mildred had left him her bank-book with word that she should never draw the money; and he, with all his pride, was driven by dire necessity to make use of it himself, So long as this money lasted Otis gave him- self atreatof idleness. But ‘time hung heavy on bis hands.” Henoria always received him gravely, as if she thought it was not just right for him to seek her society; and thus he was driven, more and more, to think of that lovely, pure face he had seen bending over the piano, while the echo of that passionate, sweet voice lingered in his memory. In tke mean time Mildred found a warm welcome in Pentacket. The Fletchers were delighted to have her with them; while her tasteful accomplishments were in constant requisition, for there was to be, on the first of October, in that old homestead, one of the grandest weddings ever celebrated in that part of the country. Ruth, now that her mind was at ease, had recovered her health and appetite, and was daily getting back more fully the dimples and the roses which had once made her so very, very pretty. She was the happiest girl in the State; but not more happy than her lover, who was being repaid in a double measure of joy for all he had wrongfully suffered. Little Mildred was consulted at every step of the preparations, and always appeared cheerful and interested. 1f she shed tears she shed them in solitude. About three weeks before the wedding she received by mail a bulky package. Opening it in some consternation she was astonished to find that it contained a deed of gift of half the Garner estate—amounting to a round million —to Mrs. Mildred Garner from Honoria Ap- pleton. She had no idea of accepting this mu- nificent gift, but was too busy to decide what to do about it just then, laying it away in a locked box, and really thinking very little about the preposterous thing. The first of October soon came round—a gor- geous day, that shone down Jike a benediction on the roomy old house, every corner of which had been put in order, since many guests were expected during the day, and to remain over night, besides the many invited to the evening festivities. The best room had been reserved for Miss Appleton, who had accepted her invitation. Mrs. Fletcher was a little flurried at the idea of so grand a guest, but Mildred laughed at her, and declared she would take all the care of the lady, and, since the house was crowded, share her room with her. The house was sweet with flowers and quaintly handsome with its old-fashioned adornments. Guests poured in—Miss Apple- ton among them—and merry laughter, music and feasting soon brought the starry evening, when all the respectable people in Pentacket flocked to the wedding. Ruth made a sweet, girlish, pretty bride. Her long white-silk robe, her vail, her orange- flowers, her smiles and blushes, were charming; buf she had a rival in the popular interest; for no living being in that mass of friends had ever seen so Jovely and sylph-like a creature as the fair girl who stood by the bride, dressed also in white and wearing a necklace of costly pearls about her white neck, and white roses in her gold hair. There was a faint, soft flush on Mildred’s cheek, and a glory in her great violet eyes which Honoria, intently watching her, could not entirely understand. She would have understood it had she seen the love-letter which nestled near Mildred’s fast-beating heart—the first love - letter the child had ever received—and which told her that her fairy-prince was coming to claim his bride, at last. Not a rose in the rose-gardens of Persia could have rivaled Mildred’s cheeks when, just after the wedding ceremony between Ruth and Jasper, Otis Garner walked into the room and canae up and gracefully congratulated them; then turned and kissed his fair little wife be- fore them all, and, taking her on his arm, led her out to supper. Honoria was not married for three years af- ter that, though she had suitors by the dozen; but she did, at length, meet a true and noble gentleman, well worthy of her—far more worthy of her than Otis Garner could ever have been, though Otis, after all his foibles, makes a tencer aud fond husband to his little wife. It was a shr~p way of cheating old uncle Garner out of sis vengeance which Honoria had taken wl she divided her fortune, not with Otis, but ‘ith his wife; and she bad the pleasure of s mg her cousin restored to his rights withov. sreaking the word—though she did the spiric -of that ill-tempered will. THE END. Half-Dime Singer's Library 1 Wxoa, Eyota! and 59 other Songs. 2 Caprarn Curr and 57 other Songs. 3 Tae Garnsporo’ Hat and 62 other Songs. 4 Jounny Moraan and 60 other Songs. 5 un Strike You Wirs a Fearuer and 62 others, 6 GeorGE THE CHARMER and 56 other Songs. % Tue BeLte or Rockaway and 52 other Songs. 8 Youne Feiian, You’re Too Fresa and 60 others. 9 Say Youne Girt and 65 other Songs. 10 I’'« THE GoverNnor’s ONLY Son and 58 other Songs. 11 My Fan and 65 other Songs. 12 Comin’ Toro’ THE Rye and 55 other Songs. 13 Tae Rotiickine IRIsHMAN and 59 other Songs, 14 Op Doe Tray and 62 other Songs, 15 WuHoa, CHARLIE and 59 other Songs, 16 In THis WHEAT By anv By and 62 other Songs. 17 Nancy LEE and 58 other Songs. 18 I'm THE Boy THAT’s Bounp To BLaze and 57 others. 19 Tae Two OrpHans and 59 other Songs. 20 WHAT ARE THE Witp WAVES SayineG, SIsTER? and 59 other Songs. 21 InpIGNANT Potty Woe and 59 other Songs. 22 Tae OLp Arm-CHarr and 58 other Songs. 28 Ox Coney IsLanp Bracn and 58 other Songs. 24 OLn Smon, THE Hor-Corn Man and 60 others. 25 I’m rs Love and 56 other Songs. 25 PARADE OF THE GuaRDs and 56 other Songs. 27 Yo, Heave, Ho! and 60 other Songs. 28 "Twit, Never po To Gin ir up So and 60 others, 29 Biur Bonnets Over THE Borper and 54 others 3) Tae Merry LauGHine Man and 56 other Songs. 31 Sweer Foraet-mx-Not and 55 other Songs. 32 LEETLE Basy Mrve and 53 other Songs. 33. De Banso AM DE InsTRUMENT For Me and 53 others, 34 Tarry and 50 other Songs. 25 Just To PLEASE THE Boys and 52 other Songs. 36 SkaTING oN Ong IN THE GuTrTER and 52 others. 37 Kororep Kranxs and 59 other Songs. 28 Nm DesPERANDUM and 5% other Songs. 39 Tae Grau I Lerr Bexinp ME and 50 other Songs. 40 'Tis BuT A LirTLe Fapep F Lower and 50 others, 41 Prerry WariHecatia and 60 other Songs. 42 DANCING IN THE Barn and 63 other Songs. 43 H. M.S. Prvarore. COMPLETE, and 17 other Songs. Sold everywhere by Newsdealers, at five cents per copy, or sent post-paid, to any address, on ree eceipt of Six cents per number, BEADLE AND ADAMS, Pus.iisuers, 98 Wituram Street, New Yor«. BEADLE AND ADAMS’ STANDARD DIME PUBLICATIONS. Speakers. BEADLE AND ADAMS have now on their lists the fol- lowing highly desirable and attractive text-books, prepared expressly for schools, families, etc. Each volume contains 100 large pages, printed from clear, open type, comprising the best collection of Dia- logues, Dramas and Recitations, (burlesque, comic and otherwise.) The Dime Speakers for the season of 1882—as far as now issued—embrace twenty-four volumes, viz. : 1, American Speaker. 13, School Speaker. | 2. National Speaker, 14. T.udicrous Speaker. 3. Patriotic Speaker. 15. Komikal Speaker. 4, Comic Speaker. 16, Youth’s Speaker. 5, Elocutionist. 17, Eloquent Speaker. 6. Humorous Speaker. 18. Hail Columbia Speak- 7. Standard Speaker. er. 8. Stump Speaker. 19. Serio-Comic Speaker- 9, Juvenile Speaker. 20. Select Speaker. 10. Spread-Eagle Speaker | 21. Funny Speaker. 11. Dime Debater. 22. Jolly Speaker. 12. Exhibition Speaker. 23, Dialect Speaker. 24. Dime Book of Rec itations and Readings. These books are replete with choice pieces for the School-room, the Exhibition, for Homes, ete. They are drawn from FRESH sources, and contain some of the choicest oratory of the times. 75 to 100 Declama- tions and Recitations in each book. Dialogues, The Dime Dialogues, each volume 100 pages, em brace twenty-nine books, viz.: Dialogues No, One. Dialogues No, Fifteen. Dialogues No. Two. Dialogues No. Sixteen. Dialogues No. Three. (Dialogues No. Seventeen. Dialogues No, Four. Dialogues No. Eighteen Dialogues No. Five. |Dialogues No. Nineteen. Dialogues No. Six. _ |Dialogues No. Twenty. Dialogues No, Seven. piglognes No. Twenty-one, Dialogues No. Eight. ialogues No. Twenty-two. Dialogues No. Nine. Dialogues No. Twenty-three, Dialogues No. Ten. Dialogues No. Twenty-four. Dialogues No. Eleven. Dialogues No. Twenty-five. Dialogues No. Twelve. Dialogues No. Twenty-six. Dialogues No. Thirteen. DialoguesNo. Twenty-seven. Dialogues No. Fourteen Dialogues No, Twenty-eight. Dialogues No. Twenty-nine. 15 to 25 Dialogues and Dramas in each book. These volumes have been prepared with especial reference to their availability in all school-rooms, They are adapted to schools with or without the fur- niture of a stage, and introduce a range of charac- ters suited to scholars of every grade, both male and female, It is fair to assume that no volumes yet offered to schools, at any price, contain so many available and useful dialogues and dramas, serious and comie. Dramas and Readings. 164 12mo Pages. 20 Cents. For Schools, Parlo s, Entertainments and the Am- ateur Stage, comprising Original Minor Dramas, Comedy, Faree, D ess Pieces: Humorous Dialogue and Burlesque, by roted writers; and Recitations and Readings, new :nd standard, of the greatest celebrity and interest. Edited by Prof. A. M. Russell. DIME HAND-BOOKS. Young People’s Seriés. Brapie’s Dive Hanp-Boors ror Youne PEOPLE cover a wide range of subjects, and are 2specially adapted to their end, They constitute at once the cheapest and most useful works yet put into the market for popular circulation. Ladies’ Letter-Writer. Book of Games. Gents’ Letter-Writer. Fortune-Teller, Book of Etiquette. Lovers’ Casket. Book of Verses. Ball-room Companion, Book of Dreams. Book of Beauty. Hand-Books of Games. Brabie’s Drwe Hanp-Books Or Games AND PopuLaR Hanp-Booxs cover a variety of subjects, and are es- pecially or Ae to their end. andbook ef Summer Sports. Book of Croquet. Chess Instructor. | Yachting and Rowing Riding and Driving. Cricket and Football. Book of Pedestrianism. Guide to Swimming. Handbook of Winter Sports Seeians ete. Manuals for Housewives. Beapie’s Dre Famrmy Serres aims to supply a class of text-books and manuals fitted for every per- son's use—the old and the young, the learned and the unlearned. They are of conceded value. 1, Cook Book. 4. Family Physician, 2. Recipe Book, 5. Dressmaking and Mik 3. Housekeeper’s Guide. linery. Lives of Great Americans i Are presented complete and authentic biographies k of many of the men who have added Juster to the t peta by their lives and deeds. The series em- TACES: , I.—George Washington. | VU.—David Crockett. ; Tl.—John Paul Jones. .—Israe] Putnam. TI.—Mad Anthony Wayne X.—Tecumseh, TV.—Ethan Allen. Abraham Lincoln, ete. —Ulysses S. Grant, VI.—Daniel Boone. :) The above publications for sale by all newsdealers will on receipt of price, by : ILLIAM Sr., N. Y. xI.— V.—Marquis de Lafay-| XII.—Pontiac. tte xn—UI | or be sent, | BEADLE & ADAMS, }
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TROTH STRANGHR THAN FICTION! A New Library Expressly Designed for “Our Boys” WHO LOVE True Stories of Stirring Lives! Tales of Actual Perils and Adventure! Romance of Sport on Field and Flood! Daring Deeds and Great Achievements! On the oceans and seas—in the deep, silent forests—on the boundless plains—in the mountain fastnesses and the untrailed hills— over the wild game ranges and the cattle ranches—on Jakes, rivers and lonely lagoons—over the world, everywhere; thus being something Wholly New and Novel, and giving a literature which in quality, kind, and exciting interest is PECULIARLY THE AMERICAN BOY’S OWN! NOW READY AND IN PRESS. 1 Adventures of Buffalo Bill. From Boyhood to Man- hood. Deeds of Daring, and Romantic Incidents in the early life of William F. Cody. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 2 The Ocean Hunters; or, The Chase of the Leviathan, A Romance of Perilous Adventure. By Captain Mayne Reid. as" An extra large number. 1 3 Adventures of Wild Bill, the Pistol Prince, Remarkable career of J. B, Hikok, (known to the world as “ Wild Bill”), giving the true story of his adventures and acts. By Prentiss Ingraham. 4 The Prairie Ranch; or, The Young Cattle Herders. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. 5 Texas Jack, the Mustang King. Thrilling Adventures in the Life of J. B, Omohundro, ‘Texas Jack.” By Col. P. Ingraham. 6 Cruise of the Flyaway; or, Yankee Boys in Ceylon. By C. Dunning Clark. 7 Roving Joe: The History of a Young “ Border Ruffian.” Brief Scenes from the Life of J. oseph E. Badger, Jr. By A. H. Post. 8 The Flyaway Afloat; or, Yankee Boys "Round the World. By C. Dunning Clark, 9 Bruin Adams, Old Grizzly Adams’ Boy Pard. Scenes of Wild Adventure in the Life of the Boy Ranger of the Rocky Mountains. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 10 The Snow Trail; or, The Boy Hunters of Fur-Land. A Narra- tive of Sport and Life around Lake Winnipeg. By T. C. Harbaugh, 11 Old Grizzly Adams, the Bear Tamer; or, The Monarch of the Mountain. By Dr. Frank Powell, 12 Woods and Waters; or, The Exploits of the Littleton Gun Club. By Capt. Frederick Whittaker, 18 A Rolling Stone: Incidents in the Career on Sea and Land as Boy and Man, of Col. Prentiss Ingrabam. By Prof.Wm. R. Eyster. 14 Adrift on the Prairie, and Amateur Hunters on the Buffalo Range. By Oll Coomes. 15 Kit Carson, King of Guides; or, Mountain Paths and Prairie Trails. By Albert W. Aiken, 16 Red River Rovers; or, Life and Adventures in the Northwest. By C. Dunning Clark. 17 Plaza and Plain; or, Wil? Adyentures of “Buckskin Sam,” (Major Sam §. Hall.) By Col. Prentiss Ingraham, 18 Rifle and Revolver; or, The Littleton Gun Club on the Buffalo Range. By Capt. Frederick Whittaker, 19 Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer; or, Life ina Log Cabin. Incidents and Adventures in the Backwoods. By Ed. Willett. 20 The Dashin Dragoon; or, The Story of General George A. Custer, from West Point to the Big Horn. By Capt. F. Whittaker, 21 Deadwood Dick as a Boy; or, Why Wild Ned Harris, the New England Farm-lad, became the Western Prince of the Road, By Edward L. Wheeler, . 22 The Boy Exiles of Siberia; or, The Watch-Dog of Russia, By T. C. Harbaugh. 23 Paul De Lacy, the French Beast Charmer; or, New York Boys in the Jungles. in Africa, By C. Dunning Clark. 24 The Sword Prince: The Romantic Life of Colonel Monstery, (American Champion-at-arms.) By Captain Fred. Whittaker. 25 Round the Camp Fire ; or, Snow-Bound at “Freeze-out Camp.” A Tale of Roving Joe and his Hunter Pards. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. 26 Snow-Shoe Tom: or, New York Boys in the Wilderness. A Narrative of Sport and Peril in Maine. By T. C. Harbaugh. 27 Yellow Hair, the Boy Chief of the Pawnees. The Ad- venturous Career of Eddie Burgess of Nebraska, By Col. Ingraham, 28 The Chase of the Great White Stag and Camp and Canoe. By C. Dunning Clark. 29 The Fortune-Hunter; or, Roving Joe as Miner, Cow-Boy, Trapper and Hunter. By A. H. Post. 30 Walt Ferguson’s Cruise. A Tale of the Antarctic Sea. By C. Dunning Clark. 31 The Boy Crusader; or, How a Page and a Fool Saved a King. By Captain Frederick Whittaker. 32 White Beaver, the Indian Medicine Chief: or, The Ro- mantic and Adventurous Life of Dr. D. Frank Powell, known on the Border as “ Fancy Frank,” “Tron Face,” ete. By Col. P. Ingraham, 83 Captain Ralph, the Young Explorer; or, The Centipede Among the Floes. By C. Dunning Clark. 34 The Young Bear Hunters, A Story of the Haps and Mishaps of a Party of Boys in the Wilds of Northern Michigan. By Morris Redwing. 35 The Lost Roy Whalers; or, In the Shadow of the North Pole. By T. C. Harbaugh. / 36 Smart Sim, the Lad with a Level Head; or, Two Boys who were ‘‘ Bounced.” By Edward Willett. 37 Old Tar Knuckle and His Boy Chums; or, The Monsters of the Esquimaux Border. By Roger Starbuck. 88 The Settler’s Son; or, Adventures in Wilderness and Clear-, ing. By Edward §, Ellis. 39 Night-Hawk George, and His Daring Deeds ard Adventures in the Wilds of the South and West. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 40 The Ice Elephant; or, The Castaways of the Lone Coast. By Captain Frederick Whittaker. ; 41 The Pampas Hunters; or, New York Boys in Buenos Ayres. By T..C, Harbaugh. 42 The Boy Whaler; or, The Struggles of a Young Sailor Boy. By C. Dunning Clark, Ready September 27th. A New Issue Every Week. BEADLE’s Boy’s Liprary is for sale by all Newsdealers, five cents per copy, or sent by mail on receipt of six cents each. BEADLE AND ADAMS, PusrisHERs, 98 William Street, New York. A Story of Adventure, Peril and Sport ©
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American Copyright Novels and the Cream of Foreign Novelists, Unabridged, FOR FIVE CENTS? The Cheapest Library Ever Published! 1 The Masked Bride; or, Will She Marry Him? By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 2 Was It Love? or, Collegians and Sweet- hearts. By Wm. Mason Turner, M. D. 3 The Girl Wife ; or, The True and the False. By Bartley T. Campbell. 4A Brave Heart; or, Startlingly Strange. By Arabella Southworth. 5 Bessie Raynor, the Work Girl; or, The Quicksands. of Life. By William Mason Turner, M. D. 6 The Secret Marriage; or, A Duchess in Spite of Herself. By Sara Claxton. 7 A Daughter of Eve; or, Blinded by Love. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 8 Heart to Heart; or, Fair Phyllis’ Love. By Arabella Southworth. 9 Alone in the World; or, The Young Man’s Ward. By the author of “Clifton,” “‘ Pride and Passion,” ete. : A Pair of Gray Eyes; or, The Emerald Necklace. By Rose Kennedy. Entangled; or, A Dangerous Game. By Henrietta Thackeray. His Lawful Wife; or, Myra, the Child of Adoption: By Mrs. Ann §. Stephens. Madcap, the Little Quakeress; or, The Naval Cadet’s Wooing. By Corinne Cushman. Why I Married Him} or, The Woman in Gray. By Sara Claxton. A_ Fair Face; or, Out in the World. By Bartley T. Campbell. Trust Her Not; or, A True Knight. By Margaret Leicester. A Loyal Lover3 or, The Last of the Grims- eths. By Arabella Southworth. Hiis Edol; or, The Ill-Starred Marriage. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. j Whe Broken Betrothal; or, Love versus Hate. By Mary Grace Halpine. Orphan Nell, the Orange Girl; or, The | Lost Heir. By Agile Penne. Now and Forever; or, Why Did She Mar- | ry Him? By Henrietta Thackeray. The Bride of an Actor 3 or, Driven from | Home. By the author of “ Alonein the World,” “Clifton,” ete. Leap Year; or, Why She Proposed. By Sara Claxton. Her Face Was Her Fortune. By Elea- nor Blaine. Only a Schoolmistress; or, Her Untold Secret. By Arabella Southworth. Without a Heart; or, Walking on the Brink. By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. Was She a Coquette? or, A Strange Courtship. By Henrietta Thackeray. 28 Sybil Chase; or, The Gambler's Wife. By rs, Ann §, Stephens. 29 For Her Dear Sake; or, Saved From Him- self. By Sara Claxton. 30 The Bouquet Girl; or, A Million of Money. By Agile Penne. 31 A Mad Marriage; or, The Iron Will. By Mary A. Denison. 32 Mariana, the Prima Wonna; or, Roses and Lilies. By Arabella Southworth. 33 The Three Sisters; or, The Mystery of Lord Chalfont. By Alice Fleming. 34 A Marriage of Convenience; or, Was Hea Count? By Sara @laxton. 35 All Against Her; or, The Winthrop Pride. By Clara Augusta. 36 Sir Archer’s Bride; or, The Queen of His Heart. By Arabella Southworth. 37 The Country Cousin; or, All is not Gold ; that Glitters. By Rose Kennedy. 38 Wis Own Again; or, Trust Her Not. By Arabella Southworth. 39 Flirtation; or, A rome Girl’s Good Name. By Jacob Abarbanell, (Ralph Royal.) 40 Pledged to Marry; or, In Love’s Bonds. By Sara Claxton, 41 Blind Devotion; or, Love Against the World. By Alice Fleming. 42 Beatrice, the Beautiful; or, His Second Love. By Arabella Southworth. 43 The Baronets Secret; or, The Rival Half- Sisters. By Sara Claxton. 44 The Only Daughter ; or, Brother against ver. By Alice Fleming. 45 Her Hidden Foe; or, Love At All Odds. By Arabella Southworth. 46 The Little Heiress; or, Under a Cloud. By Mrs. Mary A. Denison. ; 47 Because She Loved Him; or, How Will It End? By Alice Fleming. 48 Xn Spite of Herself; or, Jeannette’s Repa- ration. By 8. R. Sherwood. 49 His Heart’s Mistress; or, Love at First Sight. By Arabella Southworth. 50 The Cuban Heiress; or, The Prisoner of a Vintresse, By Mrs, Mary aioe, 51 Two. Young Girls; or, The Bride of an Earl. By Alice Fleming. 52 The Winged Messenger; or, Risking All fora Heart. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 53 Agnes Hope, the Actress; or, The Ro- mance of a Ruby Ring. By William Mason Turner, M. D. 54 One Woman’s Heart; or, Saved from the Street. By George S. Kaime. She Did Not Love Him; or, Stooping to Conquer. By Arabella Southworth. Love-Mad ; or, Betrothed, Married, Divorced amd ——, By Wm. Mason Turner, M. A Brave Girl; or, Sunshine at Last. By Alice Fleming. The Ebon Milask; or, The Mysterious Guardian. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. A_Widow/’s Wiles; or, A Bitter Vengeance. By Rachel Bernhardt. Cecil’s Deceit; or, The Diamond Legacy, By Mrs. Jennie Davis Burton. A Wicked Heart; or, The False and the True. By Sara Claxton. Whe Maniac Bride; or, The Dead Secret of Hollow Ash Hall. By Margaret Blount. The Creole Sisters; or, The Mystery of the Perrys. By Mrs. Anna E. Porter. What Jealousy Did; or, The Heir of Worsley Grange. By Alice Fleming. The Wife’s Secret; or, "Twixt Cup and Lip. By Col. Juan Lewis. A Brother’s Sin; or, Flora's Forgiveness. By Rachel Bernhardt. Forbidden Bans; or, Alma’s Disguised Prince, By Arabella Southworth, 3 Weavers and Weft; or, ‘Love That Hath Us In His Net.” By Miss M. E. Braddon. Camille; or, The Fate of a Coquette. Alexandre Dumas. The Two Orphans, By D’Enery. oe Woung Wife. By My Young Wife’s usband. The Two Widows. By Annie Thomas. Rose Michel; or, The Trials of a Factory Girl. By Maud Hilton. Jecil Castlemaine’s Gage; or, The Story of a Broidered Shield. By Ouida. The Black Lady of Duna, Fanu. Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. Rowson. Christian Oakley’s Mistake. By the author of “‘ John Halifax, Gentleman,” etc. My Young Husband; or, A Confusion in the Family. By Myself. TOA ueen Amongst Women. By the author of ‘The Cost of Her Love,” ‘' A Gilded Sin,” ‘‘Dera Thorne,” “From Gloom to Sun- light,’’ ete. 80 Her Lord and Master. Marryat. 81 Lucy Temple, Sister of Charlotte. 82 A Leng Time Ago. By Meta Orred. 83 Playing for High Stakes. By Annie Thomas. 84 The Laurel Bush. By the author of “ John Halifax, Gentleman.” 85 Led Astray. By Octave Feuillet. 86 Janet’s Repentance. By George Eliot. 87 The Romance ofa Poor Young Man. By Octave Feuillet. 88 A_Terrible Deed; or, All for Gold. By ma Garrison Jones. 89 A Gilded Sin. By the author of “Dora orn,” ete. 90 The Author’s Daughter. By Mary Howitt. 91 The Jilt. By Charles Reade. 92 Eileen AJanna; or, the Dawning of the Day. By Dennis O’Sullivan. 93 Love's Y*ctory. By BL. Farjeon. 94 The Quit Heart. By Mrs. Oliphant. 95 Lettice A nold. By Mrs. Marsh. 96 Haunted fearts; or, The Broken Be- trothal. B\ Racbel Bernhardt. 97 Hugh Melon. By Katharine King. 98 Alice Learmont, By Miss Mulock. 99 Marjorie Mruce’s Lovers. By Mary Patrick. ia oo By By J. 8. Le By Florence 100 Through ire and Water. By Fred- erick Talbot. 101 Hannah. By Miss Mulock. 102 Peg Woffington. By Charles Reade. 103 A Desperate Deed, By Erskine Boyd. | 11¢ 104 Shadows on the Snow. By B. L. Far- jéon, = 105 The Great Hoggarty Diamond, By W. M. Thackeray. 106 From Dreams to By E. Lynn Linton. 107 Poor Zeph! By F. W. Robinson. 108 The Sad Fortunes of the Rev, Amos Barton. By George Eliot. 109 Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses. By By Charles Waking. B. L. Farjeon. 110 The Wandering Heir, Reade. 111 The Brother’s Bet; or, Within Six Weeks.’ By Emilie Flygare Carlen, A Hero. By Miss Mulock. Paul and Virginia. From the French of Bernardin De St. Pierre. 114 °fwas In Trafalgar’s Bay. By Wal- ter Besant & James Rice, The Maid of Killeena. By William Black. 116 Hetty. By Henry Kingsley. 117 The Wayside Cross; ot, The Rajd of Gomez. By Captain E. ‘A. Milman, The Vicar of Wakefield. Goldsmith. 119 Maud Mohan, 120 Thaddeus Porter. The King jeon. 122 Lovel, the Widower. eray. 123 An Island Peart. 124 Cousin Phillis. 125 Leilas or, The Siege of Grenada. By Ed ward Bulwer (Lord Lytton). When the Ship Comes Home. By Walter Besant and James Rice. 127 One of the Family. By James Payn. 128 The Birthright. By Mrs. Gore. 129 Motherless 3; or, The Farmer's Sweetheart. By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. 130 Homeless} or, Two Orphan Girls in New York. By Albert W. Aiken. Sister against Sister; or, The Rivalry of Hearts. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. ' 132 Sola for Gold; or, Almost Lost. By Mrs. M. V. Victor. 133 Lord Roth’s Sin; or, Betrothed at the Cradle. By Mrs. Georgiana Dickens. 134 Did He Love Her? By Bartley T. Camp- bell. 112 113 115 By Oliver By Annie Thomas. ot Warsaw. By Miss Jano 121 of NosLand. By B.\. Far- By W. M. Thack- By B. L. Farjeon. 126 131 135 Sinned Against; or, Almost in His Power, By Lillian Lovejoy. 136 hens She His Wife? By Mrs. Mary Reed rowell. 137 The Village on the Cliff. By Miss Thackeray. . j ‘ Poor Valeria! or, The Broken Troth, By Margaret Blount. * 139 Margaret Graham. By G. P, R. James. 140 Without Mercy. By Bartley T.Campbell, 141 Honor Bound; or, Sealed to Secrecy. By Lillian Lovejoy. 142 Fleeing from Love. By Mrs. Harriet Irving. 143 Abducted; or, A Wicked Woman’s Work, By Rett Winwood. 144 A Strange Marriage} or, Jokn Foster’s Heiress. By Lillian Lovejoy. 145 Two Girls Lives. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. . Ge ets, Desperate Venture; or, For Love's fer uae Sale. By Arabella Beinwuth, 147 The War of Hearts. By Corinne Cush- man. 138 148 Which Was ie Woman ? or, Strangely . B ‘a Claxton. a Ready September 12th. 149 An Ambitions Girl; ote pene Be TESS. ces Helen Davenport. AP AES ¥: Ready September 19th. A new issue every week! er Tue Wavertey Lisrary is for sale by all News- dealers, five cents per copy, or sent by mail on re- ceipt of six cents each. z BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, $8 William street, New York,