Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 153) (1882 10 17)
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The Cheapest and Best Library! The Cream of American and Foreign Novels for Five Cents! ee yw a \i. ng Hy . 5 ES el 4 = D litlite. Shc » dy of o® \ Bo) hd Way Sex“ s October 17, 1882. NO.158. VoL. VI. PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST. N.Y. PRICE, 5 CENTS OT] SIN? GAME. DID SLT OR, A MAN’S DESPERATE AAA A Arrt* BY MRS. MARY REED CROWELL, AUTHOR OF ‘‘ TWO GIRLS’ LIVES,” ‘“ SISTER AGAINST SISTER,” ‘‘ THE EBON MASK,” ‘‘A DAUGHTER OF EVE,” ETC., ETC. mE i WAI H | ik ‘“WiTH A GASPING MOAN ON HEK LIPS, SHE TOTTERED DOWN THD STEPS AND OUT INTO THE £NSOW CUMBERED PATHS.”
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2 Did She Sin? | ah | A Man’s Desperate Game. A Romance of a Young Wife’s Fight with Fate. BY MRS. MARY REED CROWELL, AUTHOR OF “ VIALS OF WRATH,” “‘ SOWING THE WIND,” “WO, GURL” LIVES,” ETC. CHAPTER I. & BEAUTIFUL WOMAN AND A GREAT SORROW. Ir was at the close of a roy Bese day. All day long, and all the night before, the thick, steady storm of snow-flakes had been coming down, until to-night it seemed as if all the world was lying lost under the high heaping ness. Marchbrook Park looked like some enchanted place, with its hundreds of tree-branches sway- softly and silently with their burden of the white coldness. There had been scarcely no wind: since the storm had commenced, so that every tiny twig, every leafless vine, bore its full- est capacity of the beautifying snow. Here and there were dotied the evergreens, looming vividly dark from out the white arms that seemed caressing them; the fountain was = with graceful precision in different rows rom base to apex; the roofs of the summer- houses looked like peaks of crystal—there seem- ed no paths, no way out of the beautiful limit- less wilderness that stretched away from the windows of Marchbrook, and melted into the tender dunness of the fast-coming night. At one of the satin-draped windows of the drawing-room at Marchbrook a young girl stood, looking out into the quiet beauty of the storm; a young girl whose exquisite contour of figure and poise of head, and lissom grace of carriage was apparent at the slightest glance. She had been standing there some time, the amber satin curtains lined with ware red velvet, sweeping each side of her. 6 twi- light had deepened since she had been standin there; a footman had come silently in an lighted the gas; the roaring fiye in the open grate had been brightened and replenished, and now was a bed of solid golden red comfort; a package of newspapers and letters had been I» ‘d ona center-table of inlaid mosaic, and the tall liveried man-servant had left the room and yet the-gir] did not stir from her place. Outside the darkness deepened, and a ia laace of light from between the curtains parte by her presence, streamed warmly out on the snow; the darkness deepened, until even her young eyes could see nothing beyond that bar of li it, and at last she turned away from the indow, into the brilliance and luxurious mag- nificenee of the room. She fulfilled the Sa ate ees her graceful shoulder and back and proudly-carried head had promised. She was exquisitely beautiful, of that rave type of perfect blonde loveliness that is not often seen. Her face was delicate and high-bred, pure and lovely beyond expression, such a face, such a countenance as one would instinctively know accompanied fine intellectual qualities and a sweet, sensitive nature. The complexion of this face was as dainty as a blossom—pure ivory with the merest warmth of a blush pink, that contrasted gloriously with i her large velvety blue eyes, full of spiritedness yud fearlessness and innocence, radiant as stars oma frosty night, Her mouth was small, with warm scarlet lips—a_ temptingly bea mouth, with the possibilities of deep passion in its tender curves, ree equal possibilities of pride and self-control. Her lovely hair that had gleams of burnished = allthrough it when the sunshine or the gas- ight fell on it, that was of a richly pallid shade, and grew low on her fair white forehead, was arranged in a becoming and fashionable coif- fure of puffs and flossy frizzes. _Her dress was a simple dinner toilet of black silk, trimmed with velvet and fringes, its dark- ness only relieved by the old yellow lace at her | throat and wrists, and the delicate hue of a blue | silken tie above the heavy gold necklace and | — she ia a mF .. lal otal © was a beautiful, intelligen’ gir accustomed to the eréme de la aa of society ; she had lived all her life in the midst of the most extrav: t luxury; she was of a warm, ardent dis tion, and joyous, high prin- ripled, ond the pet of her widowed fot’ ~ Judge May, who had retired from active life , duty to tell him—that I think he has an ey® to him every tender. DID SHE SIN? at the ac age of seventy and was peace- fully, happily, ending his days in his magnifi- cent country-seat—Marchbrook. This one daughter of his—fair Cecil May— was not the only child. Besides her there was a son, Oscar, as unlike Cecil in appearance and disposition as it was possible for Swe Des | ga ings to be. People said he was more like 4 May, while Cecil was one of those freaks of Na- ture who resembled nobody, was like nobody but her own sweet ‘elf. Cecil came awa the searching light of the gas one could have seen there was a look of anxiety among the shadows of her blue eyes, as if her young ie toe cumhioned speing Wonghig-dimts that w a oned_ sp’ sood before the glowing coals ind sat down, her elbow on its arm, her chin resting on her a her blue eyes looking in the hot-hearted e “T wonder what bag will say when I tell him about—about—Mr. Valence? Her thoughts brought a slight increase of that clear blush-bloom to her cheeks, and a gravity to her eyes; then, as she remembered afresh the words Sydney Valence had spoken to’ her not three hours before—words he had braved the storm to ride to her and say, the flush deepened, and her look of gravity gave place to a. smile of girlish delight. Her brief recalling of her lover’s words was ended by the entrance into the room of Judge May, aud Cecil arose to meet him, going for- ward and linking her arm affectionately in his. “ Papa, I am so glad you feel well enough to come down for dinner to-night. You cannot imagine how lonely it is for just Oscar and » yd He smiled indulgently down in her sweet up- lifted face. : “So my little girl misses me, does she? Well, Cecil, I am glad I am strong enough to be down to-night, if only for your sake, It will seem quite like old times for you and I to have a chat together before dinner. Sit down, dear, where I can seo you; tell me all about everything. What have you been doing to-day?” : Judge May had taken his accustomed chair to the left of the open fire, and Cecil drew a low hassock near him and seated herself on it, and then it was, that, looking at her face, as both firelight and gaslight flooded it, the judge saw the traces of care and anxiety on the per- fect features. ~ ; “T am especially glad to have you in your old place to-night, papa, for I have something very particylar to tell you. Papa, you wanted ow what I had been doing to-day—Mr Valence called this afternoon.” Her voice dropped to a low, exquisite key, and she turned her head partially away from the grave eyes upon her. “Yes, my darling, Sydney Valence called, and he came for what?” The pink flush deepened on her forehead as she went on, with drooping eyes and averted face: ; “* He told me he—loved—me, and wanted me | —to marry him,” The grave, kindly eyes were resting still on the fair drooped head. “ And you told him what, Cecil?” Noimmediate answer came to the kindly ques- tion, asked in that peculiar tone that indicated Judge May’s anxiety as to the reply—and Cecil knew, before she answered, that Sydney Valence’s suit would not be favored by her father, while at the same time she was equally certain he would not positively prohibit “T told him, papa—I was not sure I—loved him; that I had not thought much about him— that—that—he had better speak to you.” Judge May stroked the soft, silky curls fondly, his keen frosty eyes looking intently into the fire as if there he could find a solution for the difficulties that seemed to annoy and perplex him, that made his forehead wrinkle into heavy, thoughtful frowns. 5 A silence so long that it made Cecil almost restlessly impatient, followed her shy, halting explanation, broken after several long minutes by Judge May: ““ Well, daughter, you acted suitably and mai- denly under the circumstances. Let Mr. Syd- ney Valence come tome, I will tell you, frank- ly, that I do not think he will come; but, if he oes, I will receive him for your sake,” Cecil looked up, surprisedly. ** Yo@ think he will not come! Papa, why?” There was a flush of mortification on her cheeks as she lifted her face. “Because, dear, I hardly think Mr. Sydney Valence will relish what I feel it will be MY from the window and under | uality of her | the fortune you will take him; that I think he is pr : in paying his addresses to you when he is such a comparative . Don’t tay O19 Rapaat edi ioe him, you. membe: . you love him, his character anding bear the investi- tion to which I shall certainly subject them, that I shall allow you to be governed by your own discretion.” _ Cecil’s fair face grew shadowed and thought- ful. > ‘Papa, I never would marry any one of whom *ou did not seRcre Iam not sure I—care for Mr. Valence; 1 tho —perhaps—I did. But ‘if you say no, papa, know it 1 be for my own + darling! Now let me tell you somethin else. This morning, while he were busy with our duties, I had a call in my room—a long terview, and you were the topic of interest. Little girl, it isn’t every young maiden who has two offers of ™arriage in one day—but you have had. Clyde Carriscourt was my caller, and your suitor.” Her forehead, cheeks, even her neck flushed warmly. , ) ‘Mr. Carriscourt, papa! I did not know Mr. Carriscourt cared for me, at all. He has never intimated such a thing, How strange that he whom I have always been accustomed to rever- ence and ct and love as a dear friend of yours and mine, should—want to— y me.” Judge May smiled. . ‘Then you have always liked him, dear? He is older than you are, considerably—about twice as old—and you are seventeen: He is one whom I have known all his life, have watched him grow from boy to man, and know him thor- oughly—his mental and moral worth, his in- | creasing popularity as a lawyer of repute and keen, conscientious intelligence, his comfort- able, yes, his large fortune. Clyde Carriscourt is a man to whom I would dearly love to see you ite yourself—yet not unless you loved him. Jecil, you have your choice. Take time to de- | cide, and I can promise you that if it is in my power to make you happy, you shall be so.” He smiled lovingly at her, but she saw how pale and weary he looked, and instantly her own face was all eager reproach of her own thoughtlessness in thus allowing the very first py ee of his convalescence te be so burdened as it had been. _“T have been cruel to let you become so ex- cited and exhausted, papa! You are pale and faint—you were not able to be down, I am | afraid. Lie down on the couch, papa, do!” ' ‘ | But he smiled her fears away. _“‘Nonsense, girlie! Droop your head nearer me, so I may lean against you. I am a little tired, but that is perfectly natural after the | unusual exertion of getting down-stairs. There rom.es Oscar.” ' The entrance of his son of course .put an end to all further affectionate little confidences be- bween them. He was a tall, severe-faced man, with intense- ly dark eyes that were piercing in their regard ; with a clean-shaven face that displayed the firm, compressed a ae Cecil often thought were almost cruel in their expression. is hair was jetty black, and cut closely to his head. He dressed elegantly, and always looked the gentleman. — he came in the room with a bow and a smile. _ “Tam very glad to see you down, sir. Cecil, it is four minutes a seven; will you see why dinner is delayed . She instantly obeyed. All her life r had ruled her, not by affection, not b dness or severity, but by some power he over her, and which, amiable and graciously sweet as she was, she never resisted. That very moment the butler en’ Ve, a a ‘“ Miss Cecil, dinner is served.” Rdg with . iene - ee = ‘We are read me ‘ome, haven’t taken oe out for so long, rit’ so ars iy cae om “aie hing face so sh er lov e ob oak she’ tened up with might oe i xno a look of horror an . “Papa! What isthe matter? Oscar!—Oscar! What is the matter with him?” : In an instant Mr. May was at his father’s / side—looking at the placid, kindly face that was | pale and set—at the face that would never smile more, at the eyes that would never see oe 3 tion of a heart-throb, in th or. ep a throb, in the | twinkling of an eye, Judge May had died | | And bending frantically over him, calling imploring name, this fair ‘
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RIES SSE ARN a en ON sinh DID SHE SIN? 3 girl was all unconscious of thé terrible complica- tions cy Fate in store for her, that his death meant! oe CHAPTER I. A HEARTLESS MAN AND A GREAT WRONG. For days Marchbrook had been wra in that terrible silence and gloom that follows a death and precedes a funeral. Without, the storm had fallen steadily, until it seemed as if the heavens above were superloaded with snow whose abundance would never cease. Within, shut out from the light of even the duggray skies, with Judge May lying dead in his‘toom; with the servants going about with quiet tread and solemn faces; with people coming and go- ing on business connected with the final cere- monies; with desolation and gloom, crushing sorrow and numbing woe reigning over her, Cecil somehow lived through those days, some- how got over the torture of the funeral cere- monies, and somehow found herself settled into the customary routine of daily life and duty. The funeral was over; the dear, kindly face was gone forever; the chair he used would be forever vacant of his presence; but the house was rid of its tokens of woe, the shutters were opened, the servants’ voices were less lugu- brious, their tread less oppressively slow and solemn. The storm had ceased, and the glad sunshine poured in a flood from a cloudless blue sky over the oxpanse of dazzlingly white earth waif adding its share to the cheerfulness that Cecii realized was best for them all. In the large, cheerful morning-room she had wrought her work, and was sitting there, brave- ee feel resigned to the terrible afflic- on. had befallen her. She was dressed in ron mourning, and her sweet face was pale and piteous. Her blue eyes bore unmistakable signs of tears, and her lips occasionally quivered in spite of her resolute efforts. She had been there alone, sitting between the lowing grate-fire and the window, when Mr. y entered, and came across the room toward her with a deliberate urpose in his step and manner that reminded her at onze his presence was not accidental. She looked up, smiling faintly, “T thought perhaps you would come here. You remember you told me yesterday you wanted to see me.” ‘ “Yes, I did say so. I expected to find you ere. He did not seat himself, but walked slowly up and down the long, pleasant room, where everything betokened unlimited indulgence in taste and wealth, His shrewd, keen eyes roam- ed over the elegant articles of furniture and decorations, from them into the conservatory beyond, where such rare flowers bloomed, where fountains played. He looked out of the heavy plate glass win- dows, from which the silken draperies were drawn back, into the wide-reaching, snow-bound ‘park, whose boundaries were beyond his vision and a slow smile gathered on his compressed lips, and gleamed in his cold, calculating eyes. “Tt is a glorious inheritance,” he thought, jubilantly. ‘‘It is mine, too—all mine, by the death of my father. It was a pity that he should have died and left it all, but since he did die, it hascomeinto rightful, Po ee pains- taking hands. Marchbrook is a heritage of which royalty would have no need to be ashamed!” 6 was not pleasant to look at as he walked slowly to and fro, occasionally sending a keen look at Cecil’s drooped face and golden head. He was @ man who one would instinctively know was not given to fine, generous impulses, man whose heart was cold as ice, whose brain was keen and calculating, whose temper was well under cepa whose nature was a grasping—as complete an o ite to his genial, water bere wholé-sonled. ather as it “ae hu- manly possible to be, Presently he sat down, and it cut Cecil to the heart to see him pig’ Ce aed up Judge May’s favorite easy-chair to the fire, and occupy it. ‘Yes, I certainly wanted to see you, Cecil. Of course you know that death in a family oft- en necessitates changes, while in some instances, as this, for example, it imperatively demands great changes.” She listened, as her fair hands tremblingly es- sayed to set the stitches, I have not thought much about it, Oscar. I have been so—so heart-sick thinking—about— Ae her almost impatiently. “Tf you are to cry, I shall leave you at once, If you have any delicacy about you, re- serve your feeling for times when no one will see thé display. T have come to discuss business matters with you—important matters that con- cern you intimately. In the first place, I have a statement to make, ae naturally star- tle and surprise you, which perhaps you may not believe, but which I can substantiate by ample proofs among my father’s papers.” is mysterious words, his cold, hard manner sent vague thrills of dismay and bewilderment through her. Her hands dropped to her lap, lying ike lilies on her mourning dress; her wondering eyes looked up in his face. “You puzzle me, already. What have you “ie oko at ber ent—perhaps his cruel 6 looked at her amom ps his crue hesek met hima second, But only fora secon ‘** Are you prepared to hear it? Do you think you can it? Her heart was beating fiercely by this time. Her face, even her lips, were pale, ‘“ Yes! yes! Whatever it is, tell me, at once!” ‘You are a brave girl, Cecil. I will teil you. You are not my sister, you are not Judge May’s daughter, youare not my mother’schild. When you were an infant you were adopted by my mts; who you are, or what your ntage is, we never knew. You werea nameless found- ling, taken from poverty by my father’s chari- t ” 1t almost frightened him to see how she heard him. She did not speak a word—of horror, or rotest, or surprise. She did not move a muscle, ut the most deathly expression of dumb wilderment and agony and wild fear crossed her white face, and stared mutely from her blue eyes. et know it comes like a shock to you; I re- t very much having been obli to break this newsto you. Butit wasanimperative duty, and one which justice to us both demanded be performed. You understand?” e had changed her pa by this time, but there was most awful, unspeakable anguish and bewilderment in her face. ** Not papa’s child! not papa’s daughter!” She iiates gasped the words in a piteous Mo oy “No, Cecil, you are not. Consequently, you are in no way related to me. Do you yet com- prehend all that it means? Do you understand now what I said when I told you that my fa- ther’s death demands great changes?” Then, it all occurred to her. Then the full | force of the terrible truth came home to her. She was an alien in the home where she had been so loved and cherished, where she had been so happy, where care and trouble and sor- row had never blown their cold breath on her. She was suddenly come to the end of all that be- cause she had been there only on sufferance, as it were, only because Judge May had loved her, and now, her one dear friend end benefactor dead, she was an intruder whose presence was undesirable. She did not presume to try to reason it all out; how it was that she was not a daugh- ter of the May’s whose name she bore—such pitiful, shaking surprises cannot be reasoned out until the bitter sting of anguished revela- ticn has worn awe, But, she realized it; she ea ag it as a truth, recalling, with wonderful fidelity, little things that had nepgenes in the conrse of years past, at which she then had vaguely, briefly wonder- ed, but which now, in the searching light of this revealed truth, explained themselves, and added truthful force to this cruel testimony. Not a May! The words rung in her ears, through her soul and brain. Not Judge May’s child—not his natural offspring as she had al- ways bign sy but—oh, Pen yes, the child of his heart, the daughter of his love, to whom she owed all her ha ppy, beautiful life. She would never forget that, never! And a at gush of tears came springing to her sad lue eyes, tears that relieved the in on her nerves, the tight crushing agony at her heart. She looked through her tears at Mr. May, “He loved me, though; he was always so good, so good tome! To me he was father, to me he always will be my dear beloved father!” It would have touched yy wee: steely heart than Oscar May’s to have heard her tender tribute. Instead, he frowned. “Of course you should be grateful. Now, further on the subject. You may, or may not, know that the judgo left no will, so that every- thing tome. You areentirely unprovided for. ow, I come to the pith of the entire matter. What is it you propose to do?” “To do?” It was pitiful—that surprised reécho of his words. **Precisely. You are—let me seventeen ears old, and comeeaoeray able look at hings in a sensible, practical light. Of course, your remaining here, in what will be my_bach- elor establishment, is outof the question. While my father lived, of course it was different, but now, remarks would be made—” A hot flush surged over the marble or of her cheeks—the first tinge of color that had vis- ited there since Jud, ay’s death. * Remarks! Oh, ar, how can you such a word to me. Remarks! When no one in all the world knows I am not your—your “s He shrugged his shoulders, ‘Tam not so sure of that. Besides, we both know it, and so longas I am not your brother, I can see no satisfactory reason for assuming that relationship. As your friend, you may rest as- sured I will never see you want for any- thing.” : 2 Tinetl—Stadtk- Oar, I am turned out of Marchbrook, because you don’t want me here?” Her voice quivered piteously, and the pain in her blue eyes touched him—even him. “Tt is nonsense to call things by such hard names, You will admitit is advisable for you to seek a home elsewhere, where, as I said, you shall want nothing. Now, sig you haye borne all this unpleasantness like the resolute woman I knew you to be, and @ know you will look your future in the face with equal bravery. Consider me your friend to command—consider me your friend to advise, and just here, I want to speak of another matter. Are you engaged to marry Sydney Valence?” There came a faint flush over her face. “No. Iam not.” ‘* Because,” he went on, with a little frown at her nee ee ee seems to dees that a marriage with him wo avery way out of your difficulties. Mr. Yesanie te a fine ntlemanly, handsome fellow, and although I o not know exactly the state of his money af- fairs, yet I would not hesitate to advise you to marry him—if he asks you.” His cool, calculating, heartless words sent a feeling of utter homesick longing over her. She realized keenly how less than a friend he was— this man whom all her life she had regarded as a brother, —— never feeling fraternally at- tached to him. e realized her utter friendless- ness, when she heard him deliberately advise her to marry to get out of the difficulties that presented themselyes—to take tie first chance that offered itself for securing a position for herself. Utterly, wholly desolate and friend- less, all her sad, sad heart looked out of her beautiful, pitiful blue eyes. “‘Papa—yes, I shall always call him ta had spoken to me about Mr. Valence, and I shall wry to follow his advice.” he flushed a little, remembering her lover's ardent words, remembering how they had thrilled her own heart; remembering Judge May’s injunction never to marry any one, under a cireumstances, unless she loved him. nd she wondered, with another tremor, that was iningled with pain and bliss, if she did not love Sydney Valence. Her momen indulgence in her thoughts was cut short by Mr. May’s addressing her, ‘* You will want money, Cecil; here is a check for two hundred dollars, which you will under- stand Iam under no obligations to give you, but do so of my own free will.” She refused it, almost haughtily. “Thank you; I do not wish it. Papa kept me plen Yy supplied with money. I have all Titi 8 at her spiri and re- ey ag the c in his Nag rate loth so 0. “TI more than half admire your motive. It means you are proud and independent—two god qualifications for one in your position, ou will at least let me offer my good wishes for oe future happiness.” She looked at him earnestly, drearily. “It seems to me that I have forgotten what happiness is. Oscar, you have hurt me sorely ay, but I will try to forgive you. I will im- peng ne A go away. My trunks can be packed and ready in an hour—will you have them sent to the station? I prefer to walk myself; I want to get reid 5 ay aay en is head approvingly. ‘Saunders bit see <9 yout ic She almost smiled. % 2
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4 ~-—— DID SHE SIN? ‘‘T shall never forget anything you have said, pyres ghastly-faced, wild-cyed girl, our later, a y- , wild-eyed gir dressed in deepest mourning, stood on the threshold of Marchbrook house; there was piteons; dumb yearning and an agony of half- earful despair in her face as she looked aroun on the dear happy home from which she was ejected. There came a swift, sudden look of puzzled bewilderment when she saw Saunders take her trunks away, as if, even now, she did not comprehend it Then, with a sobbing, gasping moan on her lips, she tottered down the steps, and into the snow-cumbered paths—started on her hidden journey through life, unconscious of the future, or the fate that was lurking in wait for her girlish footsteps, CHAPTER IIL LUOIFER AND AN ANGEL. Tr was four o’clock of the same afternoon on which Cecil left Marchbrook—and_on the wide Ferenne and carriage-way of Fifth avenue he snow Fay fe deep and almost undisturbed purity, for the unusual and extended severity of e storm had greatly interfered with travel oon that aristocratic thoroughfare. Although not later than four o’clock, it was getting dark; the street lamps were lighted, and ie quiet and gloom of a stormy winter night was wir down on palatial mansion and snow- enshrouded avenue. In one of the handsomest houses on the ave- nue—a high, broad double house of elegance of finish and artistic design—lights were gleam- ing warmly from many of the windows into the cold, white shadows outside. On the lower floor, every one of the six long French windows glowed like stars from the illumination within, while on the upper floors there was sufficient in- dication of the occupancy, or anticipated oc- cupancy of the brilliantly lighted rooms, to give to the chance passer-by its own tale of gladness and cheer. - Within, it was a scene of luxurious magnifi- cence and almost extravagantly oriental splen- dor, Fires glowed in ‘all the grates, sending goldenly warm red lances of light over Aubus- son carpets; dozens of their delicately tinted globes; luxuriant vines were trailed over pictures, around pillars, on the chandeliers; gorgeous flow rs and rare tropical foliage had been rifled from the conservatories and were banked in the windows, on the mala. chite mantles, around the balustrade in the hall over the doorways; rarely elegant laces floated in the deep, long windows, over sheeny-satin draperies; costly, unique furniture decorated the rooms, paintings adorned the lofty walls; ser- vants in livery moved to and fro—everything was unrivaled for delicious, luxuriant elegance, and refined, almost sensuous comfort, It was the residence of Griffith Pemberton, and here he lived in bachelor loneliness, amid all his magnificence and embarrassing wealth, with only hiz nah of servants for his household, and his frien 1s for his companions. He was a singularly fine-looking man, past fif- ty years cf age, but grandly dignified and erect \ bearing, with very much the mien of a mili- vary man—tall, commanding, eagle-eyed He was fine-looking, with a clear, fair com- lexion that was its own witness of the simplici- y and purity of his life; with keen, frosty blue eyes, laughing when he was pleased, gentile as a woman’s when he was so willed, terrible in their lightning gleams when he was offended and looked straight at one from under his bushy white brows; with luxuriant, loose-curling hair white as snow, through which he had a trick o ee his large, white ers when he was disturbed or displeased, or impatient; with a heavy, drooping, frost-white mustache, no hair of which human eye had ever seen discolored or one iota removed from its snowy purity. He stood before the grate in the dining-room that snowy winter afternoon, his hands behind him, his keen, pleasant eyes glancing around the elegant appointments of the room—a tall handsome, finely-proportioned gentleman of culture and refinement, to whom fate and for- tune had been very unusually kind—at least so all the world'said, At one side of the fire, seated in a leather re- clining-chair, was a gentleman perhaps thirty- feb years old, with’ 4 dark, ae face, a palely-clive complexion that harmonized well with his dark curling hair and mustache and A gentleman of extreme vce of whom + as-jets burned inside | d|said, ‘“A man get f 5 | the child I am looking for. | in Florence to arrange for her coming to me— | whom Mr. Pemberton need be, as he fs, justly proud.” But of whom, if one were a keen, close observer of human nature—if one were ac- customed to the magic meaning of certain pe- culiarities of manner, and habit of expression, and trick of speech, would be unhesitatingly devoid of principle; a a soaring ambition and mean, vain, selfish so unbridled passions put into a fair bedy; a man’ ome & who only lacks the ome only to pars “te he villain capable of wounding his dear- est friend; and whose capacity for treachery is only exceeded by his wonderful duplicity in be- ing able to concealit.” And the nine guessers out of ten would be wrong; for the truth is told of Cuthbert. Pemberton when it is recorded that never a more deliberate villain lived than he; never a more successful one ever hoodwinked te val oF ail livi oy le thi d nd 0 ving people this n merous- hearted, whole-souled Griffith Pemberton, his distantly related cousin by marriage, loved, trusted and admired him. They did not live together—Cuthbert had said he preferred his own way best, boarding at a hotel—but he often passed days at the Fifth avenue mansion, where he was always wel- comed. He knew, for Mr. Pemberton had told him, that he was to be the main heir to the Pemberton riches; he accepted from Mr. Pem- berton an allowance that was princely, and lived on itin hisownway. He kept horses and a yacht, and was ‘‘hail fellow! well met,” with young bloods of his own style; he was regarded as an eligible parti by Murray Hill youn ladies, and altogether his star of destiny seem et yf in the ascendant. Tt is s» good to be at home again, Cuthbert, and so thoughtful of you to arrange such a wel- come forme! Homesick as I’llconfess I was all the six months of my tour abroad, I think it was worth it to get back again—to all this!” Mr. Pemberton looked around with pleased glances that finally settled kindly on his rela- tive’s handsome, aristocratic face—the face that always wore a mask for him. ** W ell—yes—it does look rather nice. I gave Frost carte blanche, and he’s rather up in such things. So far as Tam personally concerned I am glad to see you again—for all I am totally in the durk as to whether the result of your mis- sion abroad will affect me pleasantly or the re- verse.” He had a pleasant, well-modulated voice, with a slight languid drawl in it; and no one now would have detected the keenly intense interest and almost unendtrable suspense hidden behind the low, well-bred tones. Mr. Pemberton’s face lighted instantly. ‘““My mission, yes! I thought of doternting my report until we were comfortable over our Widow Cliquot. But I will tell you now, Cuth- bert. I was as nearly successful as I could have hoped to be in my search for the young girl. have discovered she is living, and beyon I have left Nelson and then, my boy, I will be the happiest man in the world—hap y for the first time since poor Genevieve died, and left her daughter to my care.” He was not watching Cuthbert very closely, or he could hardly have failed to see the shadow | that crept in the young man’s dark eyes. But he went on, almost in direct answer to the un- spoken question Cuthbert would have asked. ‘* Of course my finding Genevieve’s child will make no difference to you or your prospects, my dear boy. I have enough for us all. The irl will come to us to brighten up the ouse, and, Cuthbert, I have thought, tiiae and again since I heard she was seventeen y<ars old, and remarkably pretty, what a grand good thing it would be if arr should marry her.’ Cuthbert shrugged his shoulders, one, Mr. Pemberton, to reserve my opin- ‘¢ The bait is a tempti T'll admit, but I’m oblig ion until I have seen the young lady. She ma not suit me, orI her. Like other young men, have my standard of girlish beauty and excel lence, and if this fo te young lady should fall short of what my ideal is, certainly any | fortune she might bring could not compensate, Or, if she possessed every love her, I would not ma her.” He uttered his admirable sentiments with a quiet conviction that would have been extreme- | ly difficult to have realized were totally at va- riance with his true principles. But, it was by the display of just such mock views that Cuth- bert Pemberton helped keep up his enviable re- | putation. Mr. Pemberton’s fine face glowed with appre- | ciative satisfaction, doubt | qv et old | virtue, and I did not | **-You make me proud of you, my dear boy; the woman whom you win for your wife will. be honored and blest. Cuthbert, you are right. Although I cannot imagine my sister Gene- vieve’s child as wanting in any of the requisites: of girlish sweetness and purity of character, and nobility of soul, still, when I take into con- sideration the fact that she may have been ne- glecwe or misdirected since her mother’s early eath, it may be true that she will not be quite/’ all I could wish. However, with the Pemberton blood in her veins she cannot be altogether, amiss. She ought to be very pretty, too—her mother was the most exquisitely lovely pir I ever saw—fair as a lily, with glorious lack. eyes and hair like a raven’s wing.” Cuthbert listened courteously. aaiet te the young lady resembles her fa- er Mr, Pemberton’s face darkened wrathfully. ‘Ah, her father! If I could only forget —my poor, poor Genevieve! Never mention him to me, Cuthbert; curses on his beauty that—” His voice choked, and he left the sentence un- said, while a little demoniac smile was creeping under Cuthbert’s mustache—that mask that. served him so well, that so completely covered. his cruel, pitiless, sensuous mouth, which, alone of all his features, would have betrayed his true nature. A silence followed, broken almost abruptly by- Mr. Pemberton. ‘By the way, Cuthbert, I have been going to» ask you several times since I came home, if you have heard anything of that rascal of a icone of yours lately? The last I heard, he had been up to altering some bank-bills, and was particu- larly wanted.” Cuthbert laughed. ‘Oh, Syd! No, I haven’t heard from him in a dog’s age, nor have I any desire to hear. If he keeps out of my way, it is all I ask; if he | should bother me often I don’t know what I | wouldn’t be tempted to do, The remarkable: | likeness between us would make it extremely | awkward for me.” Mr. Pemberton stood gazing thoughtfully at | the glowing coals. ‘*As you say, the resemblance between you and your brother Sy ney is re- markable. I think I never was able to distin- guish you when you were children. The very | trick of voice, carriage of body, were identical. | But, Cuthbert, I thank God tle resemblance is | only outwardly. When I think of you, brother | to a forger, gambler, and roué, I sometimes wonder if Nature has not excecded herself in the comparison she has made. You are alll can ask, my dear, noble, considerate boy!” Cuthbert took the hand extended so warmly | —took it with a close, affectionate grasp. ‘“‘You overrate me, Mr. Pemberton. Yet, in my heart, I know you have no truer friend, no: warmer defender, no more honest well-wisher than I—who am a dependent on your bounty.” He lookegl so genuinely true and good as he | spoke. Inwardly, he thought, “ Blind old idiot,, to be so helplessly twisted around my finger!” Just then the butler came in the room, follow- ed by his assistant, and ina very few minutes dinner was served. Then, over the wine and walnuts, the two dis- cussed the coming of the young girl whom neither had ever seen, the young girl whose fu- ture would be a rosy dream, ‘*But you have not told me her name, Mr. Pemberton. What name, did your sister give this fortunate little heiress?” Cuthbert was scientifically peeling a walnut phyeally, _ as he spoke. | Mr, Pemberton’s forehead gathered into a dark frown for a moment, and his frosty blue eyes shot out lightning gleams from under the bach’ f bushy white brows. ‘Her father’s name she shall never bear; it has never passed my lips, it never shall be spo- ken in this house. eis worse than dead to me —he and his memory are accursed for my dead Genevieve’s sake. Her name shall be the name rer mother bore, the name I bear—your name. She will be Miss Pemberton, Griffith Pemberton’s niece and heiress,” Cuthbert wi his mustache daintily with his snowy nap his diamond ring gieamin on his white, slender hand—the hand that could be, that had been so strongly cruel, so p‘tiless— that would be merciless yet eT ‘But her Christian name, Mr, Pemberton— es is ont . ty ‘ name I do not particularly care for—but, for her mother’s sake, whose Prlish, romani ancy was pleased with it, we like it— | Elma.”
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DID SHE SIN? 5 Cuthbert a it. ‘Elma! like it. ‘Elma Pemberton!’ It * gounds well. I wonder how it will all end?” Ah—if he had known! CHAPTER IV. A WOEFUL STEP. Cxcr, May walked along toward the little secluded depdt belo exclusively to March- , i as well as she nab pd gd gtd gad vom been partiaily remo ong the way. Her pride and i tion had revolted too thor- oughly to allow herself to be comfortably con- veyed in any carriage belonging to Marchbrook, and had it been ible for her to have taken her trunks away herself she would have done it. She had mie Fete trust herself to say good- by to any of the servants whom she had been mistress over so long—with the exception of Kitty, her own maid—a bright, sensible, intel- ligent girl of il’s own age, and in whom ‘Cecil had a warm, kindly interest, based on the excellence and honesty and integrity of the irl’s character; and who, in turn, fairly wor- iped her young mistress with a fervor of de- votion and a discreet observance of the wide difference in their positions that attested to her good on asso To Kitty Cecil had briefly told her story, and her intention of.at once leaving Marchbrook and had felt that she had at least one true friend Jeft when she heard Kitty’s indignant protests and weet Be hig 3 oe and eager entreaties ‘to be allowed to go wherever her mistress went. But Cecil had told her how impossible it was that she should go, and the girl had tearfull submitted to the wiser judgment; and the pe ted darting for whom every path had heretofore been so carefully smoothed, went out into the new, untried future, verily a lamb among ra- vening wolves. She had gone perhaps half the distance be- tween Marchbrook and Marchbrook station, when she saw a horseman coming along the road she was taking, swiftly as the condition of the snow would allow—Sydney Valence, whom she had not seen since that never-to-be-forgot- ten day when he had offered her his love and begge hers in return—that dreadful day when dea - had come and her Fate had commenced its wor A quick, conscious flush stained her face as she ; a look of perfect astonish- ment was on his dark, handsome features as he stop beside her. 3 ! What are you doing here? On foot, in the snow—in your traveling dress! What is the matter?” He dismounted, and took her hand with un- a ess and delight. 6 looke aaghe' A at him, with an uncon- scious, sweet, shy tenderness in her pure eyes. “Tam going away, Mr. Valence. Since —since Judge May’s death, I have leatued 1 or the first time [am not bis daughter, and that conséquently, brook is not my rightful hhome. Her voice quivered a little, but it was brave and grand in its fearless truthfulness. The young man looked at her in blank amaze- ment for a moment; then, he suddenly grasped her hand again. “Tt seems incredible—and yet, strange as it is, [believe it. [always thought you different from the rest of your people—better, nobler, ‘purer—every way superior; far too high and good for me, Cecil! But I am almost glad it as happened so—I can prove to you it is your- self I want, and not your money. My darling! I have been inves. 8 so impatiently to hear from you, and now I was on my way to se» you. Have you an answer for me now? Did | you k to your—to Judge May?” A little flush crept to the edge of her hat again. “Yes, Mr. Valence; I told him what you said, and—he—he—” “f understand,” he broke in, bitterly. ‘‘He naturally enough said his consent was impos- sible—that Ihad nothing to recommend me— that you were as far above meas a star above the gutter—that his hopes of your future were for a grandly brilliant marriage—that I was nobody or nothing, and that we must part! And, Cecil, # he said all that, he only did his 5 oy you, and spoke the truth!” is face was flushed; hers pale as the snow around her. “Oh, Mr. Valence! You must not speak so baranly of yourself! And, besides—papa—he did n a aA a Prsdiadece . He told me he feared it wds ambition, and not love that was your motive.” m Young Valence’s eyes looked eagerly into ers. “But you know it is not ambition! You know I love you, my darling; I want you as much this hour, when you are homeless, pos: less, as when I ht you Judge May’s daugh- ter and heiress! i, my love, will you take me? You must—you must, for I cannot give you up!” He was so eager, so earnest, so tho hly the im oned lover. His hands were cling- ing to her own, his‘dark, handsome face droop- ed near her, his pleading eyes ng her very soul. He loved her—he certainly, certainly loved else why his renewal of heed wes ve all was sunshiny prosperity nd—try though she did, with all her girlish strength, to remember Judge May’s counsel—try though she did to harden her heart against love, against this lover—to act according to the dictates of stern duty—to think that Judge May would have chosen Clyde Carriscourt for her husband even while he had left her unfetteréd to make her yer Pa as she did, Sydney Valence won the ay. “You will not go out into the cold, wicked world alone, my darling! I will not let you! Look at me, Cecil, and tell me you will be my wife—at once! Don’t refuse me! You are lonely, friendless, homeless—give me the right - care for and protect you! Cecil! Dearest! y yes! The girl’s heart was beating tumultuously. It was passing sweet to be so wooed, to have such blessed promises made her, to hear such a assionful voice pleading with her. But—was it right that she should yield? Despite her posi- tion, which Mr. Valence truly described, ought she to consent to this sudden eg tag ol : He stood in suspense beside her, hearing his own heart throb with quick, mighty strokes while he watched the conflict going on in the girl’s heart, the momentarily changing result of which was distinctly mirrored on her pure pale | ace. And the final result? It could have ended but one way. With the girl’s er, passionate nature; her natural craving for love, protection; her utter, utter friendlessness; her conscientious belief in her love for this bold, handsome young fellow, it could not have resulted differently. She lifted her glorious blue eyes, and looked into his pleading face—and he read a shy, sweet consent that thrilled his very soul. ‘‘Oh, my darling!” Then, in the lonely gloom of the early twi- light, be took her to heart, and kissed her sapturously, ‘I cannot say more to you now, dearest. You have been out in the snow and cold too lon already. Listen, while I tell you what is for ustodo. You could not ride Danger—no woman could ride him, so that you will have to walk to the Marchbrook chapel—it is much nearer than the dep6t, you know, I will meet ou there in ten minutes; we will be married here or in the rector’s rlor, and we will take the next train for New York. Ordinary as were the directions, no music ever sounded sweeter to the girl’s ears; and as he kissed her again, then sprung on his _horse’s back, and she went on, it seemed to her the world had changed in all its aspects. It was not a long walk to Marchbrook chapel, not fifteen minutes’ walk even in that weather, and Cecil found her lover in impatient waiting when she reached it, her face flushed with shy, sweet happiness, her blue eyes wearing a min- gied expression of grave thoughtfulness and rest- ulness. ‘* Everything is ready and waiting, my dar- ling,” he ssid as he met her eagerly. ar Danger and I fairly flew over the snow-drifts through which these poor little feet had to ea I have seen the rector—an old, not altogether pleasant dear, but he will answer our pur- gentleman. Come, Cecil—come, ose as well as any other. ove!” There was sudden, eager entreaty in his voice again, for there had come into the girl’s face a swift, terrified look, as if she had suddenly re- alized the awful solemnity of the position in which she was about to place herself. Her blue eyes look piteously in Mr. Valence’s face, as if searching for advice or relief. . “Come, Cecil, EEE Yee, the parlor is lighted, and the maid is holding the door open for us. Everything is in readiness; only a little courage, dear, and then a life of happiness. Come, Cecil.” He took her trembling chilled hands in his and led her into the house, into the warm, comfortable parlor, where wine stood on the table, and where the old rector stood awaiting them. | And still the , sudden ic held her + its gripe. She tee that she tees fly from e She felt the crushing importance of _the act she was about to perform, and her (pees angel was urging her to retreat before t was forever too late. Yet—she did not fly. She did not retreat. She looked wistfully, eagerly, into her lover’s face te read there only love and devotion and entreaty; and then, as if in a dream, she stood | there by his side and the ceremony went on. in a trance she heard the questions and _— t responses of her lover. Almost without owledge or volition of her own she answered suitably. And then Sydney Valence turned to her with a smile and a kiss, “My wife! My dear, dear wife!” It was done. tever had prompted her— folly, loneliness, over-persuasion, thoughtless- ness, it wasdone! Inamoment she had sown the seeds from which was to spring up a har- vest of woe so terrible that even her wildest imagination could not have realized it. Ina moment had been performed the act whose re- sult would envelop her in the most utter dark- ness—whose shadow already cast its gray gloom of vague presentiment over her. Once out of doors again, in the carriage which her husband’s thoughtfulmess had pro- vided, Cecil turned solemnly to him. “Oh, Sydney, have we done right? Every- thing seems so changed to me in these last few minutes that I cannot think it has been right, Sydney, tell me!” He smiled in her grave, wistful blue eyes. ** Tt has been right, my darling. As you say, everything has changed—you and I are all the world to each other now, and from this hour I swear to you to love and protect and cherish you as you deserve. You will make a better man of me, Cecil, now that I shall come under your sweet, pure influence. Hereafter, my life shall contain nothing your pure, sweet eyes should not see. From to-day, I shall make my eee of which you shall be proud, little wife. His voice was tender and grave, and his face was earnest and honest. She listened, wonderingly. *“You make me afraid; your nn life has not been what it should have oo yy” He fiushed pai as he held her slender, chill hands in his own, - “T will be frank with you, littk girl. My has not been what it should have been. il, I have been wild, and fast, and dissi, 8 at times—when you look at me like that you make me feel how wickedly wrong and selfish I have been in apg 2 PN: to marry me; it was wrong, and yet ows can save me and makea man of me! Llove you, Cecil, as purely, and sacredly, and as all utterly bad?” Ob, my darting, only forgive , utter , my g, ve me for vias I did before ever I knew you; onl trust me and help me, and I swear you shall never regret this day!” is dark, handsome face was passionful in its eager leading; his low tones went home to her sympathetic heart. ; “Sydney, I will trust you, and help you, and believe in you! I will not say I do not care be- cause of the record of your past, but I will say I will not ask you to confess ittome. Let the future atone for it.” His voice was husky with emotion as he an- Wives aak‘kevw vesivihin ou s ow ev g, my generous little w fe. “You shall know that dviskiog occa- sionally and gambling were my besetting sins. I have been an adventurer, Cecil, shiftless and lazy, but I swear to you that women have never been my prey. WeakI have been, and despe- rately wicked, but never—that way. And once Cecil—look at me with your sweet, shocked eyes that will lead me to goodness and virtue again —once, I committed a crime—don’t start, don’t! | —once I forged my uncle’s name, and rioted on | the proceeds. Then it was that I was kicked out of house and home, and my twin-brother, my teacher in vice, my superior in magnificent treachery, who could do Hlackest deeds with an innocent face and plausible tongue, took my place—my brother, Cuthbert, whom I would curse but for your sorrowful eyes, Cecil.” She sat listening, white as death. ‘Now tell me—do you utterly abhor me? I have left no sin unconfessed. ou see me just - Tam, in all cast me off? Can you still put your in His lips were firm and set. His handsome face touchingly appealing, his eyes full of mute, eens Ta
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6 DID SHE SIN? passionate, despairin denly smiled and laid love. And Cecil sud- her hand on his shoul- der. “Sydney FO peat my husband, we will trust God for e Tuture , And he leaned his head on her shoulder and sobbed—strong man that he was. CHAPTER V. A GLIMPSE OF PARADISE LOST. THE little dep6t at Marchbrook was lonely and desolate Mn og when Sydney Valence eye his bride aligh from the carriage, and he paid and dismissed the driver. On the platform were Cecil’s trunks, labeled in full with the name to which she nevermore could lay claim. Around, as far as one could see in the semi-darkness of the early dusk, lay the unbroken fields of snow, through which the railway tracks wound blackly like twin ser- pents writhing their way along. Inside the small building a Paya was sitting in the ticket- office ane ay 2 ape any chance traveler who ight require his servi mig ces. rag ge Valence bought two tickets for New York and secured checks for the luggage, and | then bag 5 walked up and down the platform waiting for the train that was to take them into the new life that had opened so suddenly before them. It was only a few minutes before the train came along; only a moment’s delay while the trunks were tossed aboard, and then Cecil realized, as she had not even yet realized, that of a truth the old life was done, the new one be- ginning. Through the darkness the train dashed along, never once halting in its s , until, away on toward the gray dawn of the morning, the cit was reached and the passengers went their various ways, and Sydney Valence and his bride started for a hotel where rest and break- fast could be had. ‘“‘T will get a carriage, while you remain.here in the waiting-room. will not be long, and soon you will be comfortable once more.’ He smiled brightly in her pale, tired, lovely face as he ensconced her in a quiet. corner of the big half-lighted room, then went on his er- ran. It seemed as if he never would come back. Cecil was itive he had been gone a long, long while beyond what was needed for his pur- pose; she looked at her watch again and again, and at length, in a vague, wondering terror went to the street door of the depét—to meet « liceman on his way in, who instantly ad- essed her: ‘Tf you are the lady who is looking for Mr. Valence, you will find him in the druggist’s half a block up. It’s a great pity, madam, that it happened just as it did. Maybe you'd rather not see him just now?” Her white, wondering face seemed suddenly to rs ee to . : A ed? What has happened to Mr. Valence? What do you mean?” He looked compassionately at her. * a my darling, and be my wife! Will you oi His ww ga voice broke through all restraint of will, and thrilled in a fervor of intensest pas- sion on the girl’s ears. He reached out his arms to caress her, but her blue eyes made him hesi- tate, so full of angnish and despair were they. ‘‘Oh, Mr. Carriscourt, no, no! Please, no!” She whispered her answer, huskily. “Cecil! Then I am repulsive to you! The one darling this world holds for me, you-tell me ‘no, no,’ with quivering lips and horror- stricken eyes! Oh, Cecil!” His voice fairly vibrated with sudden heart- sick doubt that smote ‘her to the very soul. | ‘Not that, Mr. Carrisc ourt! How could I be repelled, when you are so good, so good to me? her, almost | Was it—could it be possible the electric tones
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. DID. SHE. SIN? a in his impassioned voice, the deep intensity of eyes had touched a chord in her heart she never knew had existed, and not only ao that unknown, hidden chord, but sent it thrilling in blissful unison with the mas- ter touch? ‘ In her very uttermost soul she had not dreamed she ever had cared for Mr. Carriscourt. For years she had known him as a frfend; she had always admired him for his qualities which could not have failed to command admiration; she had known and seen him the handsome, dis- tinguished-looking gentleman he was, with his clear, keen principles of right, his bright, grand intelligence, his brave nobility of soul, his ten- der chivalrousness of heart and exquisitely win- ning grace of manner, And yet, never once, in all the years of his acquaintance at Judge May’s house had it ever occurred to her to love him—not even when, to her surprise, she heard he had proposed for her in m age. But now—a sudden, strange, in- explicable sweetness seized her, and in all the bey walt of her young soul, the truth shone out of her blue eyes for one startlingly blessed min- ute, while Mr. Carriscourt’s anxious face and pleading eyes were bent upon her. Then her quick, faltering answer was spoken, and as by some divination, he read all the truth of ae heart, and his countenance lighted radi- antly. 5 y darling! You do love me! Come to me, Cecil!” And as his arms opened to receive her, all her new sudden happiness glowed in her face and smiled from her blue eyes. Her beautiful head drooped nearer him, almost Messier his breast, and then, all of a sudden she recoiled, and the smile vanished from her eyes and lips, and de- spair and pain {ook their place. ‘Mr. Carriscourt—I—I—love you, but I can- not—I must not—oh, I must not let you love me! “You must not, darling? But if you cannot help it? Listen. Your father—he whom you loved and obeyed as your father—gave me his cordial consent and God-speed to my wooing of you. You, dear, admit-you love me—your sweet eyes would have told me that even had not your tongue confessed. You are alone, friendless, homeless. Ihave a beautiful home waiting for you; is it reasonable for you to de- clare I must not hope to have you for my be- loved wife? If*you think I care for the few months of your absence, where you were—so that you were well cared for—you are mistaken. My darling, if those months hold any secret, it is your own, and yon shall religiously keep it. I know you never did an act or entertained a thought that was not purity and nobleness itself. Iam satisfied—I loye you, oh, my lovely little pu. You are all life holds of worth to me, my ling. You love me—you do! Now, my dearest, my love—look up and tell me you are all my very, very own from this moment!” His face was gloriously alight with the tender mighty passion thatswayed hersoul equally with hisown, He moved nearer her, and placed his arms around her waist, and drew her head to his shoulder, despite her piteous efforts to resist him. He pushed off her hat, and gently ca- ressed her forehead. “My own darling! I am waiting for your answer. Ah, Cecil, I shall take this sweet si- lence for consent—that you are my betrothed wife. Dearest, lift your face!” He stooped to kiss her lips in passionate eager- ness, but she suddenly broke from his circlin arms, and retreated to the furthest corner o the carriage, her blue eyes agonized, her hands wringing hopelessly, as the memory of that other marriage rose up between them. “Oh, Mr. Carriscourt—no—no! I cannot, I cannot! I should not have permitted myself to admit I loved you, but—I never, never can marry you! Oh, never!” CHAPTER VI. THE FIRST LINK IN THE CHAIN OF FATE. THE library in Mr. Griffith Pemberton’s Fifth avenue mansion was brilliantly lighted, and warm, and temptingly cosey, ee Cuthbert Pemberton, stretched at full length on a green damask sofa, with his bold, handsome eyes steadily regarding a middle-aged man who sat oe h was thinking of the pleasant places in which his lines of Fate had fallen, The middle-aged man was Mr. Pemberton’s business agent and confidential servant, Hiram Fletcher, who had been in his 's aay ever since he had been a boy, and Griffith Pem- berton a few years older. He was a quiet, intelligent, rather good-look- ing man, who always dressed suitably ard well, and who had in the long course of his service amassed quite a little sum of money which, by prudence and shrewdness in speculation, had increased of late years until it was very gene- rally understood that unless he had so chosen, it was not in the least necessary for him to con- tinue in Mr. Pemberton’s employ. But—he quickly put asin from any source, and told his employer, with whom he was on those trusted, friendly terms that only long years of patient servitude can warrant, that so long as his services were ac- ceptable and useful, he preferred to remain. ether or not it was for a reason that he never had uttered, or would wish to have be- trayed, will remain to be seen. Fletcher and Cuthbert Pemberton were on excellent terms. More than once the young man had borrowed money to tide him over a “streak of ill-luck,” and tt Fletcher knew the character and life of fast young gentlemen, he certainly kept his knowledge to himself, and was always respectful, without being servile. ‘*Tell me all about her, Fletcher,” young Pem- berton said, stretching his supple, handsome figure lazily on the sofa, ‘‘The old gentleman will be in directly, and I want to hear all about it before he comes.” Fletcher looked thoughtfully in the glowing bed of coals just beside fim. “*Well, Mr. Cuthbert, there isn’t so very much to tell, after all. You know your uncle and I ae der be to Italy on the same apparently hope- ess quest that has occupied so much of our time —and you have heard Mr. Pemberton say that, very strangely, very miraculously, I may say it tarned out that the last clew was a correc one, and we traced it, in and out, until—we have found the object of the search of years— the living daughter of Mr. Pemberton’s dead sister, the young girl who will be the heiress of the noblest fortune, one of the finest estates in America.” _ Cuthbert lay’ A eat watching the keen, intel- ligent face of Fletcher as it lighted wp almost triumphantly—doubtless at the thought of the success ‘‘that had crowned so many hitherto futile efforts.” ‘*But how did you find her, Fletcher? Have you seen her? Are you sure, absolutely sure, aie the child of Mr. Pemberton’s deceased sis- r? Fletcher’s face relaxed into a slow smile, and he caressed his well-trimmed whiskers com- placently. ‘““There is not the shadow of a doubt, Mr. Cuthbert. We have always known that Mr. Pemberton’s sister died at Florence, leaving a child about two or three years old, and from that city every clew has started, only to prove cruelly false. This time, however, I myself struck a sudden and unexpected trail, for which I had been hoping for years. 1 discovered an old woman who rememberéd the dead lady, and who put me on the right track, after so many, many years. Step by step I traced my way, until, a week after Mr. Pemberton sailed for home, I found the girl, made all the neces arrangements to have her sent to us, and fol- lowed in the very next steamer.” The gleam of intense interest deepened in Cuthbert’s eyes. “Tell me about her! Is she pretty? Is she well-bred, or has she been brought up in igno- rance and vulgarity?” Fletcher's sallow cheeks flushed a trifle under the pointed questions. “She has been fortunate in the extreme. From papers and letters her mother left, it was evident to the woman to whose charge she was given—a Miss Ogden, a very worthy middle- aged lady, who will accompany her as maid hereafter—that the child belonged to a family of note and wealth, althoughno name was given anywhere among the memoranda, Acting upon that belief, and the child being remarkably bright, and attractive and pretty, and perhaps also from motives of policy, extra care was iven her, and the result is that Mr. Pember- on’s niece and heiress is amply fitted by educa- tion and manners to take her birth entitles her.” : During the deliberate recital of the details, Fletcher's keen eyes had never once left young | Pemberton’s face, and all the increasing inter- est and eagerness was plainly evident to him. ‘Yes! Well—spare me any more particulars, Fletcher; I want to know how she looks. How old is she?” “She is between seventeen and eighteen, Mr. Cuthbert. She is tall, and as graceful asa ga- zelle, with a supple, willowy figure that will en- chant you. She has black eyes, liquid and love- the position to which | e all suggestions | ly, and a creamy fair skin, and fair hair—a combination of personal charmsas rare as beau- tiful. She sings and wets and dances, and, al- Paget, I think you not find it very diffi- t to reconcile pete) to the fact that a second cousin has ss in between you and the fortune you so,confidently expected.” A dark, malignant look swept across the oung man’s face. : “T§ would go against the a of the most patient man in the world to thus set aside, although the old gentleman assures me it will make no material difference to me. And, by Jove, it shall not make much difference, al- though the remedy is almost as bad as the com- plaint, for I detest the idea of matrimonial shackles. All the same, Fletcher—I’m deter- mined to marry my beautiful cousin, and thus secure the fortune in the family, at least.” An odd, swift smile played on Fletcher’s thin lips. mi Isee I have succeeded in awakening your ad- miration ior the heiress, Mr. Cuthbert. Well, in my opinion, if you will allow its expression it is just and natural, and right that you should take the view you do. I, myself, would like te see the property remain in the family, and if I can be of any service to you—you have only to command me.” Cuthbert laughed. “Thanks, Fletcher. I suppose the young lady is heart-whole? And yet, with such beauty and attractiveness, it would be rather astonish- ing.” Righe is entirely heart-whole, Miss Ogden as- sures me. I think you have a fair field, and, sir, you ought to win.” fi “One question more: when is my cousin ex- pected to arrive?” i : Firm, prompt footsteps just outside the libra- ry door prevented Fletcher’s reply, and both he and Cuthbert arose as Mr. Griffith Pember- ton entered the room. His grand face was alight with excitement, and his frosty blue eyes were shining with an | agitation thaf was very unusual. “The cablegram has just arrived, Fletcher. Your arrangements were perfect. Cuthbert— congratulations are in order. Your cousin Elma, my niece and heiress, has to-day sailed from Liverpool.. Ina few more days she will have arrived at her rightful home, and this eat house will know what it is to be ligh by a girl’s voice and merry laugh. Fletcher, never can repay you for what you have done for me, in this affair. You have lightened my later years, and lifted a burden I never dared hope would be lifted, in finding my sister’s child!” He extended his hand in an impulse of warm friendliness and gratitude, and Fletcher respect- fully took it, then dropped it, courteously. “y always try to serve you, Mr. Pemberton. Duty brings its own. reward. Do I understand you that Miss Pemberton sails to-day?” “In the Scythia, And there is very much to be done before she arrives. I want the western suit of rooms on the second floor thoroughly overhauled and refurnished. Go to Punitan to- morrow, Fletcher, and have him come and look at them, and give him carte blanche to decorate them in the handsomest manner imaginable. Give him a description of my niece's personnel, and let him be strictly particular as to the colors and style most becoming to her.” Fletcher quietly took the elaborate order down in his memorandum-book,. ‘Will there be anything further?’ he asked, pausing, pencil in hand. “Yes,” Jaughed Cuthbert, as he leaned inst the low silver mantel, ‘‘I am sure Mr. Reanbachon will never forgive himself if he hasn’t the wardrobe full of toilets when our fairy princess comes. Honestly, sir, you ought to get a modiste to make some p ead for my cousin. A description of her style and figure can be very accurately obtained from Fletcher here I am sure.”’ Mr, Pemberton smiled. “A good idea, my boy. Yes, Fletcher, see a ah eg artiste, — have r ; pect neces- sary for a young y’s outfit; mind, every- thing from be to toe—arranged and delivered here by next Thursday. And if there’s any- thing else you can think of that will serve to show my niece how thoroughly welcome she is, see to it—any little delicate ‘attentions in the way of flowers, or jewelry, or anything that young girls like.” And so, very peas preparations were made to receive this fortunate young girl, where it hardly seemed possible that improv d be suggested. It was a lovely suit of rooms that awaited
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ys Elma Pemberton’s coming—rooms that would have been exquisite enough for royalty. There id y aaiyg tae suite—the front te: Lal ing desi for her sitting-room, with lofty aes = car a delicious pallid pink relieved by a narrow silver cornice. A pink-and- 1 Aubusson carpet covered the floor. ce curtains and pink silk subdued the light from the balconied windows. Lovely pictures hung on the walls, suspended by silver cords, Lit- tle brackets supported statuettes in Parian | and bronze; odd little marble-to tables held books; an inlaid writing-desk, superb- | ly supplied ; silver and crystal vases for flowers: | the mantle-shelf was ornamented with two or | three little articles of bijouterie ; a pink silken couch protected with a white swiss cover, a couple of low easy-chairs, a small piano and ac- companying well-filled music portfolio, made the large apartment magnificent and luxurious as the most cultured taste would wish. Adjoining was the age an, de peda mar- ble bath and every imaginable toilet luxury, its | floor covered by a thick, snow-white rug into which the feet sunk deeply. And at the rear of the suite, looking out on | the elegant garden, was the large, commodious | sleeping-room, with its dressing-suit of ivory- white celluloid, its carpet of white just touched | with faint blush-pink, its snowy lace and silk | draperies, its pink-and-silver dressing-case orna- | ments, its beautiful cushioned prie-diew in a dusky corner draped off by a silken canopy. Luxury and magnificence unlimited, awaiting the girl whose life was unfolding like a wild ro- mance, whose warp and woof of destiny were already becoming strangely entangled with the ae of other lives of whom she never even CHAPTER VII. A SWEET TEMPTATION. THE in which Clyde Carriscourt and | Cecil were sitting went easily, steadily on into the fresh beauty of Central Park—and yet, de- spite the perfection of the day, the exhilaration of the sweet, pure air, the loveliness of every- thing about them, poor Cecil’s face was full of the pain and misery that were busy at work. Since she had uttered her piteous, passionate answer to Mr. Carriscourt’s appeal, she had not said another word, but sat back in a corner of the carriage, with her pale, sweet face and dreamy eyes making his heart ache to take her = his arms, and kiss away the wretchedness she t. For several minutes he did not speak, but sat looking thoughtfully through the open window, until, a?) he turned toward her ge his face full of tenderest oo ee Ss voice | thrilling with sweetness and gentleness that made all Cecil’s pulses quicken in response. “T cannot satisfy myself with your answer, Cecil. Will I annoy you if Iask you two or pe pat eset Can you be forbearing, and er me Questions! Her face grew ashade paler. It. seemed to her as if he was about to uncover the | secret she would guard with her life. She bowed in silent assent. Yes, he might | ask her, but if never must pass her lips. **You have let me know you loved me, Cecil. Answer me this—are you sure you do? You do not mistake friendshi r possibly a feelin of impulsive gratitude—for the true deep fave t ask in return for mins? Becauss it seems to me, | little one, that if you truly loved me, you would not with the next breath refuse to give yourself | to me. He had suggested the only means of escape. for her—to admit she migut have mistaken a grateful impulse for affection. She looked at him a second, and her sweet voice quivered as she answered: | “T—I—am afraid it is not as you wish, Mr. | Carriscourt. I—do not—” | But, truthful to the soul as Cecil was, she could not utter the falsehood. She hesitated, | and his eager, kindly face shadowed. | “Well then, dear, I will accept your answer —you do not love me, after all. But, Cecil—do you care for any one else?” | Her answer came prompt enough, *€Oh, no, no, I do not!” DID SHE SIN? **Uh, Mr. Carriscourt, how would it be possible for me to have any such feelings toward you? Indeed, indeed, you are the n dearest friend to me in all the world, and—” A smile of exultation brightened all over his ace, *Tt is not a step from there to the love that will come, Cecil, to the love that must come, persuaded by such love as Ican give you. You admit you like me better than any one else— | and, now that I come to think of it, how do you know but that the sweet pure friendship you can give me is not love itself? What should a maiden like you know of the mighty passion | that I feel for you, that sways and controls m whole heart, and governs my very life? Cecil, without knowing it, I believe you do love me, my. honest, darling little girl.” e was caressing her hand now, smiling, | pleading with his eyes as be looked at her drooped face—a look she felt, though she dared not meet it. She sat and listened—such tumult of thought surging over her. ‘What shallIsay? What ought I to do?” she | 6 loves me—I | ace asked herself, confusedly. know he loves me, and it would be so sweet, so restful, to accept the protection and cherishing affection such a home would offer to me in my utter loneliness. I know I could make him happy. I know I would be as happy as his wife me ever can expect to be with the secret I-must carry with me as long as I live. I wonder—” and her heart gave a fierce, suffocating throb— iF wonder what he would say if I were to tell him? ‘She dared not lift her eyes for so much as a shy glance at his face. And just at that moment he spoke. ‘*Well, my darling? Shall I tempt ther? Shall I tell you of the bright, life you shall have at Carris Court, surrounding as congenial as your at Marchbrook was? I am a ou fur- utiful with every lovely home rich man, Cecil, and can amply afford to indulgeall your fancies | and wishes, and it will be the pleasure of my life to make you happy. We will travel if you pre- fer, or occupy my city residence in winter and spend the summer between Carris Court and the fashionable resorts. Come to me, my darling; share what I have; honor me by being my wife —for it is an honor, a great honor that you would 1 tid An honor—and she the wife of—! Some protest trembled on her lips, but he si- lenced her, authoritatively, lovingly: “ Do not say me nay, Cecil! Because you are a — girl—because you are not the daughter of an aristocratic, influential man, is less than nothing to me. Of course I deeply, truly re- spect an honest, decent lineage, and your man- ner, your Dh ree prove you are of such, my little girl. Nothing but disgrace, or a vile connection, would make me respect and love | ou less, my pure little star-eyes, and those, we th know, are as incom d dation with an angel. Cecil—” and of a sudden his patient, reasoning tone changed into quick, passionate eagerness, “‘I must have my answer. And it must be yes!” And she had thought to confess to him, for one insane moment! For one minute her thoughts ran confusedly: “Papa wished it to be so—have I any reason- able grounds for persisting in making Mr. Car- riscourt unhappy; and myself lonely and wretch- ed? Poor Sydney is dead; the marriage was but in name; it will never be discovered; there is really nothing but my own sentiment to pre- vent my marrying Mr. Carriscourt. I dare not test him—I dare not go to him with the fact in my heart that I am—” A look of d she suddenl them. “‘T cannot,” she wailed out, sharply. ‘‘Iam not worthy—I am too faulty 44 And he silenced the anguished outcry of her poor, struggling heart, by folding her in his S. ‘* Your self-styled unworthiness is perfection to me, and your sweetly-confessed faultiness just what I want. My Cecil, you are mine! My little betrothed bride.” And, overcome by her own arguments, over- | whelmed by this lover’s mighty passion, Cecil tible with you as) ration was in her blue eyesas | & | And so Cecil put away that dark, yet guiltless episode of her girlish heart, and, as was perfect- | ly natural, the tempest of unrest and un- certainty through which she had passed was over, there came a new, sweet calm and peace to her that rejoiced her own heart and delighted her lover’s in those few days that intervened be- tween the betrothal and the immediate mar- riage on which Mr. Carriscourt insisted. e found a pleasant, retired boarding-place for her, whose price she was able to pay from her own tiny fund, and while she remained there those intervening days Mr. Carriscourt went back to Carris Court to prepare for the coming of his bride—with his heart swelling with rapturous delight and sweetest anticipa- tions as he went from room to room, suggesting here, altering there, so that everything might | be as nearly perfect as possible for this dainty little girl he loved so truly, so te:derly. | While Cecil stayed quietly in the pleasant lit- tle home prepared for her—a charming room | fronting on one of the avenues, where she could | see all that was pessing, and where more than one passer-by had involuntarily glanced the se- cond time at the pure, dainty face at the lace- draped window—and among them was Cuthbert Pemberton, ‘*She’s the most superb creature I ever saw in my life,” he said, enthusiast cally at dinner, the very first day of Cecil’s abode in her temporary home, and Mr. Pemberton had smiled at the un- usual animation in this blasé young gentleman’s tone and manner. ‘Reserve your heart until to-morrow,” he said, as he pushed his tiny glass for the spark- ling Moselle. ‘‘ To-morrow Elma arrives,’ uthbert filled the glass slowly, “T wish you could see this exquisite girl,” he went on; ‘‘she is the most superb creature I ever saw in my life, and that is saying a great deal. She is a perfect pronounced blonde, sir, with the most entrancing face I can imagine. I have already driven pest several times pur- posely to see her—I would like you to go your- self, simply to have the pleasure of seeing the most perfect face in the world.” “You infect me with your enthusiasm, Cuth- bert. Suppose we drive past to-.aorrow, simply, | as you say, to gratif ee | eyes by such a vision of loveliness. But 1 will confess I have only eyes for the girl who is coming to-morrow, whom Fletcher pronounces rarely lovely.” The next day, at the same hour at which Cuthbert Pemberton had several times before | Seen Cecil’s face at the window, and always droo over some book she was reading, the Pemberton carriage drove otf by, and Mr. bo Pemberton fully indorsed his nephew’s nion. oP It is the most perfect face I ever saw Cuthbert! I would give half I possess to find os as beautiful as that girl! Who can she # Se pena Le ae ech wh ‘*T was not exaggerative in m , then? She must be a stranger, for I Pf sure I should have known such a face anywhere the second time. I have made inquiries, but as act learn- ed nothing. But I do not despair of finding out her name.” Cuthbert had leaned back in his seat after his one eager, admiring look at the pure, high-bred face, with its be Be og long-lashed li His face was momentarily averted, and in that one moon, while LR sag hey ge was mn avely, t gazing at her, Cecil sud- enly boked up, and the full light of her glori- ous eyes met his, in one straight, steady glance. And the carriage passed on, every nerve in Mr. Pemberton’s frame vibrating from that lance. ‘““My boy—it is the sweetest, purest. face I ever saw! Her eyes are blue as a sapphire, and soft as velvet, and full of a wistfulness and en- chanting modesty that went straight to my old heart as no eyes have done this many a year.” Cuthbert laughed. ‘Take care, sir!” | Mr. Pemberton looked gravely at him. | “Tt is not that,” he said, quietly. “TI feel | that I would like to know more of her, hear her speak. I could worship such a girl, and I have no higher hope than that Elma may be like her. A part of that grave shadow lifted off his suffered him to kiss her quivering lips over and My dear little Elma! In two hours I shall see ‘“Thank God for that! Cecil, »gain—as hon- | estly as ever you spoke a word in your life— do you feel any repulsion or dislike, or indiffer- | ence toward me?” _ And he could not restrain the eager anxiety | in his tones while he spoke, watching her lovely, expressive face, over again. ; - If ever you should repent,” she said, wist- ully. Hie amuiled, epafidentiy.. i “Repent? Oh, my darli my own dar you have yet to understan hoe dearly I love ou! There is no repentance for us—we will e too happy.” _her—to think of it! And yet I am full of a shrinking fear lest Fletcher’s report has been overcolored and the child Iam prepared to love ) and cherish better than my own life may prove not what I want. Ye e is Genevieve’s child!” |“ And T shall marry her,” Cuthbert said, in | his own heart, as the carriage rolled on, ‘I
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shall marry her, no matter what she is—nand yet my pulses stirred—as they never stirred be- fore—at sight of that woman's other face at the window yonder. Ihave loved many women— but—this glorious creature has somehow made me feel that all other loves would be a farce compared with what I could feel for her, I must find out all about her! I must know who she is!. And then—” : There was an eager look in his dark eyes, and a complaisant smile on his dusk-mustached li While Cecil, sitting still beside the window, had dropped her book and was gazing thought- fully out, not seeing the passing promenaders, “Whata magnificent face that was! Can I ever have seen it before, I wonder? Such no- bility, such haughtiness and yet such gentleness seems somehow strangely familiar to me. I suppose I have seen such a face before on the street. And it was a long while before she could en- tirely dismiss the sensation of which she had been conscious when Mr. Pemberton had looked her in the eyes with his own. CHAPTER VIL WAS SHE HIS NIECT? Tae beauty of the bright, mild, mid-winter day had changed suddenly into the gloomy cloudiness that a sharp, biting north-east wind brings. The bank of somber clouds that had been slowly gathering and lying low in the hori- zou had overspread all the sky, and the lovely sunshine and genial south wind had vanished as if at command of a magician’s wand. The Pemberton mansion was all ablaze with lights at the earliest dusk. Within its walls was no sign or suspicion of the raw, bleak weather outside. Flowers from the conservatory were placed in costly vases about the room, and banked in rich, fragrant profusion on low tables, in circular form on the magnificent mantle-pieces; vines, that swayed their tender green leaves and tiny starry flowers, hung from brackets and crystal globes, and were artistically wreathed about the massive frames of pictures and several ex- quisite statuettes in shadowy niches. The magnificent suit of drawing-rooms had all been thrown into one continuous apartment, di- vided into the three proper, by the velvet per- tieres that draped so gracefully and artistically. Floods of light streamed from the great cluster of chandeliers over the pale blue and lemon vel- vet carpet, that covered the entiresuit, and that was in one entire piece. The coverings from the furniture were removed, revealing the lus- trous magnificence of the blue velvet upholstery. uffed with lemon satin that was in the front rawing-room, the lemon damask that was in the iniddle room, and the elegant, odd pieces of French and Italian styles, whose prevailing tints were en suite with the others. The blue satin golden-lined curtainsdraped the plate-glass windows that opened on a wide, iron- railed balcony that, in early summer days, be- fore the house was closed for the fashionable season abroad, was handsomely ornamented with growing plants, and vines, with camp- chairs in secluded recesses, and over alla gay, wide awning. Mr. Griffith Pemberton, in full evening dress, walked up and down the long suit of rooms, waiting to receive the child of his dead sister the fortunate girl who was coming toa life of elegance and luxury such as even her wildest imagination had not supposed possible in real, everyday life. An hour before, the clarence had been sent, in charge of Fletcher, to meet the travelers at the steamship wharf, and it was reasonable to ex- pect them at any moment now. Everything was in readiness, and Mr. Pem- , berton’s frosty, handsome blue eyes were full of eager impatience as he walked slowly up and down, listening for the roll of carriage-wheels at his door, “T wonder what she will be like?’ he asked himself, in those last moments of expectation and uncertainty. ‘‘ Willshe be another Gene- vieve, lovely and amiable, high-spirited and proud with the genuine old Pemberton pride that sears only to do wrong? Will she be high- bred and distinguished and loving and charm- ing as my sister was, or—” and a savage, bitter look came into his face, and he involuntarily quickened his steps, and stroked his white mus- tache in fierce agitation—‘‘ or will she be like— her father, a smiling, treacherous scoundrel, Jazy and unprincipled, who richly deserved the death he died after the life of dissipation he led —after the life of heart-broken pain he eaused my sister? One look at her face, one syllable of DID Sok SIN? ber voice will decide whether I shall take her to my heart, or only endure her.” The minutes ticked rapidly off; the wind bowled dismally around the stately mansion, and surged with a shrill wail through the park opposite. Mr. Pemberton grew more pee tient, and a look of vexation came into his eyes. ”“ Cuthbert should have been here to receive my niece—no business, no engagement should have been too pressing to have kept him on this occasion. Ah!” The little sharp ejaculatiGn escaped him in- voluntarily, for the unmistakable sound of car- riage-wheels stopping at his door made his eyes lighten and his heart beat faster for a mo- ment. Then, the door was opened widely by the hall porter, and Mr, Pemberton caught a passing | glimpse of two vailed ladies, in plain traveling 13.tire, escorted by Fletcher, who said a few vords to the housekeeper and a young maid- servant, who were in respectful waiting in the little reception-room on the opposite side of the hall, and who immediately led the way to the rooms in readiness, followed by the young stranger heiress and her attendant. A second later Fletcher received. his order from Mr. Pemberton to come into the arawing- room. ‘She has come, I see, Fletcher,” were his first words, spoken with an agitation unusual to him. ‘* But why did she not at once come to me? once,” ‘* Tt would have been not quite suitable, sir, I think. Miss Pemberton is travel-stained and somewhat fatigued, and, as she naturally pre- fers that your first 9, ee should be favor- , able, she requested to be allowed to rest a few moments and make a change in her toilet.” ‘Oh, very well,” Mr, Pemberton returned, a little impatiently, ‘‘1 dare say it is all exceed- ingly right and proper, but I should have thought Genevieve’s child would have come straight to my arms.” Fletcher saw the slight frown on the stern, handsome face, and hastened to dissipate it. You should have brought her to me at | | calm face wearing a strange “Pardon me, Mr. Pemberton, but a house- | hold of men, such as this is, cannot be expected | to know the necessities and requisites of young ladies. It will be a glorious thing for you, sir, | & that Miss Pemberton has come. [t will be like living to have a young girl’s fair face to look at, her voice to hear, to have the charming token a woman's actual presence all over this great, magnificent place. It will make a young man of you again, sir, to be entertaining and escort- ing your beautiful niece, to be her confidant in her girlish joys and griefs.” Mr. Pemberton smiled briefly. “Yes, and you put it very poetically. Evi- dently my niece has infatuated. you, Fletcher, Well—how much longer will I te obliged to wait before I have the pleasure of seeing her?’ Fletcher instantly arose to bring her; that sarcasm of impatience in Mr. Pemberton’s voice warned him that it was time to effectually ap- se the rising vexation. 5 must be ready now, sir. I will bring r— “And her attendant, too. I want to see this Miss Ogden at the same time.” Fletcher went directly up the stairs to the door of the front room of Miss Pemberton’s suit. His knock was at once answered by Miss Ogden, a tall, ladylike woman, with fairly good-looking face, intelligent, shrewd, resolute. Her hair was becomingly and fashionably arranged, her traveling dress had already been exchanged for a stylish, modest toilet.of dark-brown silk She wore laces at her neck and wrists, and carried a watch and chain. She was quiet, and perfect] self-possessed—a lady who Was apparently ad- mirably fitted to Sommpy. the position she held. She met Fletcher with a slight, pleasant bow. ‘Will you come in? Elma is not quite ready to go down to see Mr, Pemberton yet.” look of concern syrent over his face, “Tt will not do to keep him waiting longer, Already his patience is exhausted. He isa man | accustomed to have everything his own way, as I have told you, and Miss Pemberton cannot too soon be thoroughly instructed so,” The look of anxiety on his face was reflected in Miss Ogden’s as she rapped on the door of the dressing and toilet-room. It was opened by the young girl herself, and as many times as Fletcher had seen her since he had discovered her, he actually started in as- tonishment at the radiant vision of youth and grace and beauty and hauteur. She had had hermaid dressherin dress of white swiss and white full eveni silk, that ore | marks. velously enhancéed the ivory fairness cf her comp.exion, and the lustrous brightness of her large dark eyes, Her golden hair was stylishly arranged: from the princely collecticn of jew- els in the casket Mr. Pemberton had placed for her acceptance on the dressing-case, she had se- lected a diamond cross suspended from a black velvet band, and similar ornaments for her beautiful half-vared arms. She bestowed a little nod of recognition on Fletcher as she entered. “T will go down now, but I wish you to have a lunch in readiness for me when I come back. I shall not stay very long, for I am tired and prefer to be in my own rooms.” Her voice was sweet, but there was a super- ciliousnessin it that made Fletcher tremble with consternation. ‘‘ Mr, Pemberton is very anxious te see you, Miss Elma. I am waiting to take you to him.” “You are! Well, in a moment, I shall be ready myself. Mr. Pemberton can afford to wait a few minutes longer, when he has waited so many years.” Fletcher's face paled. “Tt will not do to keep him waiting Miss—” She turned imperiously toward him, ‘Be so good as to understand I allow no dic- tation whatever, I fully understand my posi- tion here, and I ako fully understand yours, More than once you have attempted to ure an advisory manner toward me; once for all, [ shall not permit it.” Miss Ogden looked despairing*y at Fletcher, | whose face slowly flushed under the girl’s haughty manner, ‘*T am sorry, Mr. Fletcher,” she began, depre- catingly, ‘‘but Elma is willful and imperious, and she will nave her own way in spite of every+ thing.” Elma laughed. “Of course I will, Get me my fen, Miss Ogden, and then T’ll go down. Only, I shall not have any more of your uncomplimentary re- Tyoderstand that.” Miss Ogden quietly handed her the fan, he: inscrutable lool as she gave Fletcher one rapid, curious glance. Then the party went down-stairs, Fletcher a and Miss Ogden following the young girl. Mr. Pemberton came forward to meet them, his grand, handsome face full of pale agiiation, his keen blue eyes shining like stars as his glance fell on Elma. Fletcher briefly presented Elma, and for the first time in Mr. Pemberton’s knowledge of him, Fletcher’s voice trembled painfully, and a look of swift, furtive fear gleamed in his eye. “Sir, T have the honor and pleasure of pre- senting your niece, Miss Pemberton, the dauhter of your deceased sister.” Elma had halted, in a graceful, rcspecti._ at- titude at the beginning of the cddross, her beau- tiful lips half-parted in a smile of glad, shy greeting, her lovely head slightly drooped—a picture of perfect maidcnhood. Miss Ogden, with ber shrewd, intelligent eyes looking from Mr, Pemberton’s kindling, critical, impassive face to Fletcher’s agitated one, was herself a trifle paler than usual. And so, for a moment, this quartette stood, a tableau which the hand of Fate had arranged. Then, a smile deepened on Mr. Pemberton’s face. He stepped up to Elma, took her hands in his, and kissed her on her fair brow. “ At first [felt strangely sure you were not my sister’s child, for although you have the same dark eyes and fair hair, there is no look of re- semblance between you. But, for your own sake, it would be hard not to love you. You are very beau child—and, if after I have driven ferever away this sudden, inexplicable suspicion that seized me the moment I saw you, I can—” He paused abruptly, and then, all the stern- ness that was in his nature came surging into his bag, mrad voice, as he turned and addressed Miss Ogden. / ‘* Miss Ogden, I believe?” and he bowed, cold- ly. “T have one or two questions to ask you. efore the God who will one day be your judge, will you swear that this girl before you is the identical child intrusted to your care by my dy- ing sister? Has she never been from under your care and supervision?” His frosty blue eyes seemed to pene her very soul as the solemn words left his lips. And even Fletcher, himself, paled as he beard them, and saw the agitation on her face. But her reply came, earnest, convincing. “T swear it, sir.” ** And where are the proofs?” She handed him a copy of the registered
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mete birth of ‘‘ Elma, daughter of Roswell Vernald Fairfax, and Genevieve Pemberton Fairfax, at San Delano, on Tuesday, Oct. 30th, 1858.” e He read it with flashing eyes and compressed 8. ; Anat name is never to be whispered inside these walls,” he said, pointing to the name of his sister’s husband. ‘“‘ And you swear this isa genuine verbatim copy of the official register of this girl’s birth?’ ‘*T swear it.” “Very well,” and he put the document in his memorandum-bgok. ‘‘I accept your testimo- ny. I have every reason to think Fletcher is himself conscientiously satisfied. And,”—he al- | gentlemen, and their portmanteaus, containing lowed a moment of ie a silenco to pre- cede his announcement—‘ I yet ee, thi. young girl to be my sister’s child, my lawful niece, and the heiress of my name and estates.” CHAPTER IX. AT CECIL’S SECOND MARRIAGE. Tne few intervening days between the time when Cecil engaged her board and room tempo- rarily at Mrs, Sayre’s, and the day she had con- sented should be her wedding day—the early day to which Mr. Carriscourt had so impetuous- ly and impassionedly persuaded her to ee, ed rapidly and pleasantly. Cecilfound Mrs. ayre to be a genial, cultivated lady, who at once proved an admirable counselor and friend, and who passed as much of her time as was de- sirably necessary with the lonely young girl. Every one of the few days, there came a charming letter from her lover, and once he came to see her for an hour or so, and it was then, in that really first interview Cecil ever had had with him, that she saw whata grand, masterful man he was, what a tower of strength he would be to her, what an upright, high-principled man he was, on whom one could rely implicitly and emphatically, and who would be a friend better than all friends beside. And yet—realizing all that, and knowing in her heart of hearts that she loved him—yet, Cecil could not bring herself to entirely recover from the scar of that cruel stroke of fate she had received in that other marriage, to be hap- py in Mr, Carriscourt’s love, or to make him as absolutely happy as she knew she could make him by speaking just two or three passionful words which were always in her heart. ‘Tt was such a silly fancy,” she thought, one day—tbe day before the wedding-day. ‘‘AsI look back now, I cannot see why [ even thought | I cared for poor Sydnéy Valence, I shiver when I think—if he had lived! How foolish and wicked I was—and yet, in such innocence and unconsciousness! And my punishment is | the sick pain and fear I feel because of the se- eret with which I must go to Mr. Carrisceurt, which must remain ever like an unseen yet un- bridged chasm between us. And he is so noble, | so proud, so honorable, that, although he is| tender and gentle as a woman in his love to me he would be terrible in his anger and contem t and scorn if he thought me unworthy, and he | would, he would, for I am! I—the widow of a bler, a forger, a suicide! Oh, Heaven! I are not think, or I surely must retract my promise yet!” She did not again allow herself to give way the last impressive words were said, and to such morbidity of reflection, She endeavor- ed to decide positively and finally, that the se- cret was securely hidden, that no possible harm could ever come to Mr. Carriscourt through them in her shy, sweet, gracious way. that one little hour of mistaken folly—that it Mrs. Sayre conducted them to the dining-room was only herself who would ever suffer or ba ae a superb wedding breakfast awai em. the wiser. And with those final resolutions, Cecil’s wed-| ding-day dawned on her—as glorious a day as ever was blessed and a balmy westerly In the morning Mr. train from C Oscar Ma y expressed her willingness to have witness the an marriage ceremony, although she knew she her. never could be on the old friendly terms again. | The bitter pain of inflicted h such a tem forgotten, although she forgave him and bore t the slightest malice or revenge. Yet—the| ‘‘I wonder what I ought to do with it? I prt ps tea | wonder if I had better keep it? It is all that scar would never be effaced. What had passed between Cecil and Oscar May Mr. Carriscourt never exactly knew, and while he honored Cecil for keeping her own counsel and not Siping Mr. and while he was too d to ask fn Wek tne trouble ourt knew that something’ was, Mr serious had occurred which never would be en- know, that, God or ey | me, when the time tirely righted. I the merciless blow he had lay a little tin box, which she unlocked, takin settled down into a grief that with therefrom a golden locket—a superb rament as Cecil’s would never be’ workmanship, bearing her ini confession, and—the life from which he had Afterw: to change her dress for her traveling dress, and with Bs gg winter sunshine, | pi her especial, gentle request, she was left , one. Carriscourt took an baie And the first thing she did was to lock her s Court, in company with Mr. door, and go down on her knees at her bedside, from Marchbrook, whom Cecil had in ) pad hat God would bless this marriage DID SHE SIN? Nevertheless, he desired to have Mr. May at- tend Cecil’s marriage ceremony, and so the two their wedding suits, arrived at the Fifth Ave- nue Hotel several hours before the time fixed for the ceremony, which, at Mrs. Sayre’s warm invitation was to be solemnized in her parlors, at high noon. At a little before twelve the coach containing the minister arrived, and almost immediately another in which were Mr. Carriscourt and Mr. May, who, after being shown to a dressing- | & room for any possible retouching of toilet, pro- ceeded to the elegant parlors to await the bride. Cecil came down promptly, attended by Mrs. Sayre, and Mr. Carriscourt’s heart fairly leap- ed to his eyes at sight of her, so pure, so dain: -, so sweet, in all her royal dower of maiden modesty and grace, and wealth of beauty. She was dressed very simply, for she had had | no money to buy bridal finery, and would have stood up in her street suit rather than have asked Oscar =, for money, or to have accept- | ed the delicate, loving offer Mr. Carriscourt had made her. So, with the out..7f a mere trifle for white satin ribbon, and gloves, she had | madea snowy swiss dress that was in her trunk answer admirably for her wedding-dress. She wore no jewols, but from the magnificent | bouquet Mr. Carriscourt-.d sent her that morn- ing, she had selected the white and blush roses | and buds, and wore them at her throat, in her | lovely gleaming hair, at her side. And a fairer bride never greeted groom at the altar than Cecil, as she went into the room, to be met near the door by Mr. Carriscourt, who pressed her hand fervently and gave her a look of passionate adoration and pride that thrilled through her. Mr. May stepped up and extended his hand art- effusively, smiling and bowing as if their ing had been not the hard, cruel thing it had been, and Cecil quietly accepted his eeting, returning it with a charmingly indif- | erent grace that delighted her lover. Mr, Carriscourt then presented the minister, and then introduced Mrs. Sayre and Mr. May. And then—the bridal pair took their places, and the solemn, beautiful ceremony began—Mr, | Carriscourt looking handsome, and satisfied and proud as he stood there in all the glory of | — manhood; Cecil, with drooped head, and | ace pale as her dress, listening to the solemn words, and thinking with a be n that was al- | most unendurable, of that other ceremony in the dusk of the day, in the dim little lor of the Marchbrook vicarage; of that other mar- riage and the brief bridal tour, and—the awful tragedy, but for which, she would not have been standing at Clyde Carriscourt’s side—this splen- did man, with all his superb virtues, his noble principles, all the rose-hued promises of the life into which he would take her, And she remembered Sydney Valence, with his dark record, his impulsive sins, his bitter saved her—for this! The service went on, and the words were said, the vows made, the ete ley § put on her cold, fair finger, and Cecil was Clyde Carris- court’s wife at last. . Then Mr. Carriscourt leaned toward her, as kissed her lips. **Cecil, my wife!” Congratulations followed, and Cecil ted | en ard, Cecil was escorted to her room make her worthy the love that was given Then she went to‘her dressing-case, on which piece ts) oy Oi in tiny Hl sparkling diamonds. Sydney ever gave me—and now it seems to me | I should not keep it any longer.” She looked at it in grave thoughtfulness, then re it in the box, and relocked it, and put it in her trunk, locked and strapped the ; “I cannot decidé now; but this one thing I comes that I am assured I have secured such a amiliar | & | sincere] | that beyond ti hold in Mr. Carriscourt’s love and esteem that potte of can alter it—that then I will tell im. And a sweet, peaceful smile was on her face as she made her change of toilet. A moment afterward, a servant tapped on her door, to deliver a message. “The gentleman down-stairs, Mr. May, please, sends his compliments, and would like to know if it would be agreeable for you to see him a few minutes before you and Mr. Carriscourt oes. Cecil sent her answer back to Oscar May, waiting in the parlors below: ‘*T will see Mr. May, Catherine, in a few min- | utes. Tell him he may step up to my sitting- room, please.” ‘* He wants to be my friend again, now that T am to be mistress of Carriscourt, and the near- est neighbor to Marchbroock,” she thought, bit- terly, all her pride revolting at the idea. Then her natural sweetness and gentleness overcame, and she thought: ‘*‘Itis right that I should accept any over- tures Oscar may make. I can afford to forgive him—I will forgive him, although it would ve beyond human power to forget what he did in my hour of greatest need. es, 1 want to be ood, and just—for Clyde’s sake—to every- Her lovely lips quivered, and there were sus- picions of tears, that were not sorrowful tears, on her eyelashes, She heard Mr. May’s steps on the stairs, and | she waited to open the door, little imagining all thai was to come crushing down on her heart before she left the room again. He eame forward promptly, pleasantly, and took the chair Cecil indicated, one opposite her own. “T thank you very much for this mark of your confidence and good feeling, Cecil,” he be- an. ‘‘ And as Carriscourt will be back with the coach to er you to the depét in a very few minutes I shall say what I came to say, . briefly. First of all, that I congratulate you on your new relations, and that, as far as 1 am concerned, any unpleasant mem- ories shall be forever buried and the old-time delightful interchang* of courtesy between Car- so Court and Marchbrook shall be contin- ued, He waited for her reply, that came, in Cecil’s low, sweet voice, with just a little accession of color to her face. **T am sure it will be best as you say, Oscar, and I think—my husband—would indorse your words. His wishes are my law.” Mr. May bowed. “Thanks. Then that is settled. And there is another point, which I think is due to you to mention. You remember, Cecil, when you learned that “ten were not Judge May’s child, at bare fact you learned nothing. At that time I knew no more to tell you. Since then, from examinations of my father’s papers, I have learned some facts relative to your birth and life antecedent to my mother’s adoption of you, an infant, of two years of age.” Cecil had suddemly straightened in her seat, o- eee ng painful teheredt: her hands in- voluntarily din a nervous , ** Oh, Onan! Cel it be possiblet Who were ap Fae and my father?’ . May went on, lucidly: ‘To make a long story short, Cecil day while in Florence, sixteen years one * ago, |or thereabouts, my mother came across a beautiful child, just old enough to run about and be entertaining in its baby ways—a love- gl my father’s record says, with gold- like woven sunshine, and eyes blue Italian skies—an aristocratic, spirited, call, affectionate baby of two years— you cil, whose mother and father were th dead, shen you in care of a youn married woman who told my mother she ha promised your dying mother to watch you and care for you as for her own little one who was about the same helpless age—and a b t, will- ful, saucy little girl. Brefly—my mother pre- vailed on the woman to give you to her. Le- gal documents were drawn up; and you be- came the adopted daughter of my parents, and although your mother never di her maid- en name, and your own name my fa- ther’s memory, you see, Cecil, that you have no robable cause to blush for your birth, even ough you never learn who = parents were. And this, which was carefully sealed in my father’s safe, is my weddin it to you onl tangible link that b you to your dead mother.” He handed her an exquisitely-painted por-
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servants, who would be sure to think an changed all the world to her. DID SHE SIN? trait on ivory—a woman’s face, fair and sweet, spirited and gracious, with eyes that awoke all the sleeping want of motherhood in Cecil’s heart, as she reverently kissed it with her eager My mother! My darling angel mother! Oscar, I can forgive and forget everything for the sake of this blessed treasure.” He smiled as he arose to go. “That is all, Cecil. I hear a garriage at the door, which is for you—and there is only time to catch the train. Good-by, Cecil.” He shook her hand and left her alone. She went over to the window to look again at the angelic face that was already so dear to her; she kissed *¢ warmly, whispering sweet words to it, and then, casually glanced up out of the window—to be suddenly frozen with horror—to be suddenly paralyzed with awful terror and fear! For chero, opposite the window, looking straight in her eyes—God! she scarcely breath- ed in that one agonizing second before she fell fainting, to the floor, with a gasping whisper on her pallid lips. “ God be merciful! Jt is Sydney Valence! Sydney Valeiico is alive !” CHAPTER X. A FIGHT WITH FATE. Crcm had just slidden quietly to the floor, with the horrified words on her lips that sud- denly grew so blue and cold, as her huspand rapped ~ontly on the door, having passed Mr. May in i %oll below and knowing from him that his >.ide was in readiness to depart. He had hastened through the few necessary duties devolving upon him for the time, and now «ought his bride, to look in her shy, sweet ey - ‘e moment, to tako her to his heart, to hear er whisper a name that would go thrilling along his veins. No answer coming to his summons, he turned the handle of the door, which instantly yielded, and tho first glance in the room showed him Cecil, ing prone on the floor, in a dead faint, so like death itself, that a cold chill of horror seized him. He sprung forward to her, calling her name in agonized tenderness and dismay; then, he eaught up a toilette bottle of ammonia and cologne that stood on the dressing-case, and bathed her rapidly and gently on her death- white face, and almost pulseless wrists, in doing which he saw the » oval painting that still was clas tightly in her rigid fingers. ‘Can it be that it has anything to do with this?’ he thought, as wisely an qpigtty he stepped back to the door and turned the key. tis oe only natural that my little Cecil should faint like this, after ’1e long strain and tension on her nervous system that the past few weeks have been. My beautiful, precious wife! my lamb, my treasure!” Ye leaned over her, and kissed her tenderly on her mouth, that yielded no response to his swift, loving caress, hut, by the faint warmth he detected on her flesh, and a slight cating of that ghastly, ashen pallor into a more life-like tinge, he was convinced that the swoon was not at all alarming, and that he had acted well and rudently in not alarming the house, and per- create an unpleasant gossip among the say there was another lover in the case. Mr. Carriscourt was still bending over her when she suddenly gave a ing sigh, and stirred sneaaiy and opened her eyes, that fairly appalled him with tle look of terror and despair that was in them. ‘““My darling! You are better! You have been in a swoon, dear, but it is all over, now. Let me put you on the lounge until you feel stronger.” He lifted her as easily as tho she had been @ baby, and carried her to the little silken couch, placing the lace-ruffled pillow under her head, and the brilliant Afghan over her, as tenderly as &@ woman could have done. ‘‘What_ was the matter, Cecil? Were you frightened at anything? Or, did Oscar commu- nicate any unpleasant news?” She saw the look of gathering displeasure in his eyes at the bare thought of any one’s pre- suming to annoy her with anything unpleasant. She dared not speak, even if she could have done so. It see to her that her — would never lisp a word again; asif the sight of that dark, handsome face outside the ow had . Carrriscourt sat beside her, gently ca- ressing her cold little hand, on which the wed- din; glistened so goldenly. He smiled re- | ed senuringty te ber were wisttal, horrified eyes, and yet Cecil never said a word in all those ter- rible minutes in which she was trying to bring reason and judgment to her aid. **You must tell me, dear, what this means,” he said, directly, and there was a quiet com- mand in his tones that Cecil knew she dared not disobey. ‘‘If you have been frightened, dear somebody must be punished; if you are ill, I shall send fora physician, and defer our trip until you are able to bearit. Are you suffer- ing, my darling?’ he nodded, dumbly, her lips quivering at sound of his tenderly solicitous voice. Then she gathered all her strength and will by a desperate effort. ** Tt—it is nothing, Mr. Carriscourt. I will be better soon, I think. Only—if you would— ip me for a few moments, until—un- til— She looked wistfully at him, with that same pitiful, affrighted stare frozen into her blue eyes, He looked at her a moment, gravely. “Tf you wish to be left, Cecil. Shall I send Mrs. Sayre, or a servant?’ She shrunk back into the lounge. . “Oh, no! I want to be alone—only a few minutes, please.” And, the instant the door closed behind him she sprung wildly to her feet, trembling and reeling with every labored step she took toward the window. She saw with one staring glance that the face had disappeared, and, the reaction setting in, she staggered back to the lounge, covering her white, despairing face with her cold hands. ‘**] saw him, I saw him, alive, and he saw me; he looked at me with just the same look he use to have! Oh, great God—what am I to do what am I todo? Sydney Valence~is not dead —not dead—and [ am married to two husbands. Can’t I die? Can’t I die?” Her fierce prayer was accompanied by sobs that shook the lounge she was on; and then, as if the fearfulness of the situation was unendu- rable, she sprung up again, and, turning the ko: of her door with trembling hands, walked over to the low marble mantle, and leaned her head upon it, pressing her hands upon the beat- ing temples. *T cannot thi--’: fast enough,” she though‘ in a confused, desperate attempt at calmness. ‘I must instantly decide what to do—instantly. He is down _there—I saw him, and he saw me, and knows I am here, knows, in all probability, or will very soon know, that I am again mar- ried—-I—married, and both husbands living! Is it any wonder my senses seem leaving me? Is it any wonder ‘ feel that it would be justifiable to take my life in my hands? Oh! I knew I ought not to have married Mr. Carriscourt; I felt all the time it was not right—and now—oh into what a horrible mire of disgrace have I dragged him! ‘hc scandal—the sensation, the cruel gossip that will drive him mad with their stings! Oh, why did I not die in that long, lon sickness when 1 was so willing to die? Why di I live for this, for this ?” She straightened herself in an agony of agita- tion, wringing her hands in utter despair. “But Lam not deciding, Iam not deciding,” she told herself, in a dazed, frozen way: “I must not waste another thought, or sentiment, or regret: it is unavailing. For Mr. Carris- court’s sake, what must I do? I cannot fly, I cannot get-away from the house unknown or unseen, or God knows I would bury myself and my pitiful secret beyond all human finding. That is impossible. I cannot get away, leaving him in ignorance. Then—what?’ She drew her breath in long, hard inept tions, as if the effort were almost beyond her power. ; “‘T must not live with him,” she whispered, in a wild, piteous voice. ‘‘ Before—before this, I thought it almost a sin to be his wife, but now —now—the crime—oh! God be merciful, and show me my way through this maze of horror!” Poor Cecil! Poor, desperate, lonely, strug- gling child! All this cruel 1 of dread bear- ing on her shoulders, crushing her girlish heart, blighting her young life, and she so innocent, ~~ 5, blameless, yet such a plaything of ‘a She stood a second, ashen, agonized. ‘*T wonder,” she said to herself, ina hollow undertone, ‘‘I wonder—can I have been mistaken? Would not Sydney have sent to me come tome? Would he not have claimed me Can it be a mistake—can it be?” It was the first line of reasoning of which her tortured brain had been capable; and the bless- ed hope grew as she more reasonably consider- it. I ‘* Yes,” she said, slowly, ‘‘I think if Sydney 14 were alive he would never have left me in ig- norance. Even if be lost all clew to my where- abouts, he surely, surely would have come now, or sent a message, or stayed where I could see him again. No—” and a ray of pitiful hope flashed faintly in her eyes—‘‘it must have been either a strong resemblance that startled me, or a hallucination, perhaps not improbable un- der the circumstances,” It seemed as if a Merciful Father sent the in- spiration to her poor tortured soul. For, sure- ly, although her prayer was so fierce and wild and confused, He read the eager want for help and light and guidance. ‘“‘For Mr. Carriscourt’s sake I am bound to avoid the cruel scandal my recone to go with him as his wife would bring upon him. I dare not take the responsibility of ruining his name, his hopes, with one sudden blow. I must go with him as though nothing had happened, and while in the eyes of the world I will be his wife, yet, it must be between us as though no mar- riage ceremony had been said. I must be a wife to him in the emptiness of its sacred name only. And the kind Father who has directed me thus far will open still wider the path for me to tread.” Her face had lost nearly all its trace of agi- tation, although it was still pale when she touched the bel], and directed the servant to tell Mr. Carriscourt she was ready to start for the train. He came immediately up to her, his face showing his anxiety on her account, and his eyes lighting with gladness as he saw the change on her countenance, “You are better, my darling! You must tell me all about it when we are on our journey, Ce- cil. I am afraid I shall have to hurry you, dear, if we intend to take this train. Can Ibe of any assistance to you?” She thanked hint gently, saying that every- thing was in entire readiness. Just then Mrs. Sayre came in the room, to of- fer her last services, and then, her vail over her sweet, pale face, Cecil walked down to the car- riage in waiting, and started off on her wed- ding-trip. Her second wedding-tour; and even as her first had ended in a tragedy, this had begun with a complication of pitiful misery that sent pe forebodings over her. And—how would it en CHAPTER XI. DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND, AN hour had passed since Mr. Pemberton had dismissed Elma upon Miss Ogden’s request that she might be allowed to seek rest and refresh- ment in her own room. Mr. Pemberton had re- tired to his library and was in consultation with one of his men of business. The servants were Se i in a gossiping conclave in the house- eeper’s sitting-room, eagerly discussing the manner and appearance and prospects of the heiress—so that the grea‘i, Bey house was un- usually deserted when Cuthbert Pemberton let himself in at the front entrance, and walked ery = the brilliantly lighted room. “Miss Pemberton has arrived, beyond 4 doubt,” he thought, “and I have timed my pur- posely late arrival well. She has had the all- important interview with the old gentleman, and retired in state. I wonder what impression she made on him? I wonder what impression she will make on me? I rathor think a not very forcible one—es y just at present, for I am haunted by that glorious face at the window; it makes my veins tingle to think of her.’ To look in her eyes must, be heaven—but she never has raised her lovely-lashed lids for me, yet.” His handsome, sinister facelighted at thought of Cecil May. “‘ But—now to the task of winning this fortu- nate young creature who has stepped in be tween me and the inheritance I have always looked forwad to with double interest since Syd mortally offended the old gentleman, and was cut a in a moment fury and ion. Well—perhaps it wasas well; certainly it is bet- ter for me that he was detected, while I, the master-brain, escaped. Poor Syd! Wonder what became of him? [t's a deuced long while since I’ve heard of him.” He had been standing in front of the cheery, glowing grate-fire—steam heat and furnaces be- Ing innovations on comfort and health and ar- tistic homencsc that Mr. Pemberton would not pg ir a co of coals that Phe ving rubies, w e heard the frou-frou of a woman’s trained silken skirts on the grand stair-case, and the dainty fall of feet that could a that house—to no one but Elma Pem=- n. \
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412 He turned instantly around, with a look of expectant eagerness in his eyes, and went swift- ly toward her, Lemar in all her grace and style and independence at one rapid glance, during which his face lighted up, and his handsome dark eyes smiled ape It was indeed Elma, who. in one of her inde- pendent impulses, had come down-stairs again after she had partaken of the delicious lunch Fletcher had ordered up toherroom, She had not changed her dress, and had simply gone down again, knowing, from what Fletcher said, that Mr, Pemberton was busily engaged in the library, and therefore supposing the parlor would be unoccupied, for the a purpose of looking critically and exultingly about her, to revel in anticipation of all this gt fortune that ‘ had come to her, to gloat over the prospect of possessions that were promised her. She had gone half-way across the room he- fore being aware of Cuthbert Pemberton’s pres- ence, and, upon seeing him, halted and bowed slightly, her black eyes showing not the faintest sign of embarrassment at this sudden rencontre with a stranger. While he, whom nothing could have embar- rassed or confused, advanced, smiling and cout- teous, ‘*My cousin Elma, I am sure! If it is not tardy, allow me to welcome you to your new home, and hope you will be as happy in it, and among us as we—as I—am delighted to have you with us.” He spoke in his soft, mellow voice that held a peculiar, well-bred deliberateness, especially fascinating to women, and that did not fail to charm this cool, critical girl, who smiled and inclined her head graciously and extended her hand to his own. ‘*T am very glad to see you, cousin; of course = are Mr. Cuthbert Pemberton, of whom I ve heard so much, and--so favorably.” She parted her red lips in a bewitching little smile, and Cuthbert’s fingers closed over her hand in an impulsive, caressing pressure, ‘*T hope the impression you may have of me will corroborate Fletcher’s friendly report, cousin Elma. I sincerely wish we may become |. very dear friends,” | ¢ *There’s not the least doubt of it, on my part,” she said, lightly, disengaging her hand, and moying across the room to a specially lux- urious-looking divan. ‘‘ Come, talk to me, and tell me all about everything.” He had watched her graceful, gliding wall | across the room, his phere shrewd eyes full of koenodt terest; When he seated herself he enly resumed his dévoté, cavalier attention, and followed her, taking up his position beside | the low mantle-piece, and leaning his elbow upon it, and watching her as one watches a face, or manner, for the temperament, the char- acter beneath, *“T would much rather talk about yourself, cousin Elma, Let me tell you how tiful 7 are, what a genuine sensation you are und to make in society, and how extreme- ly fortunate I consider myself to have the honor and pleasure of sarodnang ee Only” ~—and ho» leaned nearer her and his voice deep- ened into a persuasive tone—‘‘ you must prom- - mo not to be too fascinating to the other fel- ows. Elma laughed—a melodious little laugh that showed her dimples, and the pretty curves of | her mouth, and her pearly-white teeth. “Do you really mean that? Of course, I ex- t to make a sensation! Why shouldn't I? he niece and heiress of Mr. Griffith Pember- ton ought to make a sensation, Besides, I am oung, and new to New York society, and—yes, might just as well be frank about it—I know TI am quite pretty, and Iam resolved to have a glorious time.” A look of new interest deepened in Cuthbert’s eager eyes. “She is just what my first impression told me,” he was thinking, while he listened to her. “She is vain as a peacock, and elated with her fortune. She does not a@ remark- able depth of character, and, I am equally sure, her principles are not what one would suppose the old gentleman’s sister’s child would be. I take her to be shallow and stubborn, willful and bold, and—not quite the well-bred lady Fletcher represented her, All the same—she s mar- ry me. ‘There is one thing,” Elma resumed, after a second of silence, and she leaned back against the shining lemon-satin chair-back, twisting her diamond cross slowly, ‘‘and that is—Mr. Pem- berton, (uncle Griffith I sup T shall call him hereafter), between you I, cousin Cuthbert I’m not going to like him. He is too severe and -DID SHE SIN? stern and aristocratic for me, and he: must know from the very first that 1 am not a baby in his hands. I havea will and a mind of my own, and I intend using them to my own satisfac- tion. And besides—” Ph hesitated, looking a little distrustfully at m, “T suppose what I say to you is confidential? It certainly should be, cousin Cuthbert.” “Tt is sacred. You may class me first on your list of friends—a friend who will devote himself to you and your interests and your hap- iness. . She rewarded him with a coquettish little glance and a smile, ** All right, then; I will tell you one reason why I particularly dislike uncle Griffith: be- cause he actually doubted whether or not I was his hefress—actually insisted "7°" ***** O~den’s swearing that I was his sister’s child! As if I were some fraud whom they were attempting to palm off on him!” _ | Cuthbert Pemberton A curious little light glittered a moment in | Cuthbert Pemberton’s dark eye. “TI do not wonder the suspicion distressed you. But you will forgive it, Iam sure, when you see how we shall make your life a bright rose-colored dream of happiness.” aa She had turned her head toward the glowing | fire and sat gazin rig ety yee at it, and Cuth- bert stood watching her, his thoughts running briskly on: ’ “It is strange that I momentarily enter- tained the same suspicion,” he mused, with intense, though quiet interest. ‘‘ Somehow, I had always imagined this cousin of mine would be a dainty, pure, high-bred creature, as different from this girl as a star from a gas-jet.. Elma is undeniably pretty—yes, unquestionably handsome and brilliant, but there is a prononcé way with her, a lack of maidenly reserve, that grates on one, involun- tarily—that reminds one of a paste gem. And yet, it is absurd in the extreme to entertain the suspicion, for the proof isindubitable, She is undbubtedly my cousin, with a strain of some foreign blood marring the purity of the Pem- berton characteristics, But, I'd give my soul if &hé was like ¢ a pure-fated, angelic creature I cannot forget, night or hoe Elma abruptly scattered his roaming reverie. ‘* And I perfectly hate that man Fletcher. I never saw him in all my life until a few weeks ago, but the way he attempted to establish a footing of actual friendly familiarity was sim- ply disgusting. Miss Ogden took to him at once —ind friends, long separated.” bert li stened, attentively. You have mentioned her She is your companion, I | Cuth “Miss Ogden? twice, cousin gear rl ‘ ¥ » yes—1 suppose herself. Y She is good enough when she wants to be, but of course she doesn’t presume to dictate tome. Sheis the nurse to whom mamma left me in charge when she died.” Her flippant words jarred on his senses—bold, designing man that he was. “‘T admire your spirit, cousin Elma. I fore- see that you and 1 will become fast friends. And now, I will presume to give you just one— word of counsel. May I?” He smiled persuasively in her curious, hand- some eyes. ‘Oh, of course, you may give me all the ad- vice you choose—but you know I may not fol- low it, cousin Cuthbert!” “T hope you will,” he said, with a grave ea-— rness in his tone that had } srewry e effect e intended it should have—that of riveting the irl’s attention, and pleasing her desire for flat- ry. ‘I hope you will,” he said, “for een own sake—for my sake, cousin Elma, for I am sure you could succeed in making me very un- happy if you chose. It is this—one of Mr. Pem- | berton’s resolutions in regard to you, is, that you entertain no lover, no offer of mt such as you will be sure to have, without sanction.” Y She smiled, and flushed under his bold, hand- some eyes. 5 What nonsense! Come, cousin Cuthbert take me and show me some of the beauties of my new home. yt hour or more wasspent in looking —-_ the conservatories, the picture-gallery, the bill- | iard-room, music-room, then Elma bade him good-night. “He certainly is the very handsomest e- man I ever saw in my life. He means that it would be best for us to marry and keep the money in the family—as if it took any discern- ment to understand that. He is handsome. | e that is what she calls | ble fool. Dead! How do you know, | well-bred, aristocratic and elegant, and I think |I shall like him rica dl well. Ard if it wasn’t for my promise to poe Thors- | by! he was heart-broken when I left him—I be- | lieve ’'d win my handsome cousin at my own. good pleasure. I wonder what they’d all say if they knew about Thorsby and I?” And then Elma allowed Miss Ogden and the maid to prepare her toilet for the night, CHAPTER XII. A VILLAIN’S GOOD LUOK. Two days had passed since Mr. Griffith Pem- berton and his promising nephew had driven | past Mrs. Sayre’s boarding-house to catch the | coveted glance of Cecil May’s bewitchingly | lovely face; two days since Elma Pemberton | had arrived at her uncle’s Fifth avenue man- | sion, and, notwithstanding the exceedingly good _ terms on which the two cousins had already es- | tablished themselves, it was impossible for to divest his mind and im- agination of the fair face which perpetually haunted him. Two or three times daily he had made it his business to drive or walk past the windows of Cecil’s room, but never had it been his good. | fortune to catch a glance from her eye. It was the evening of the second day of El- ma’s arrival at her new home—the night be- fore Cecil’s marriage--and after she and Cuth- bert had given some very fair Keer of par- lor music, that gentleman had, with apparent reluctance, torn himself away from her society —in reality, glad to go, for her vivacity and prononcé style were not at all in accordance, with his critical taste. So he had pleaded a pressing, unfortunate prior engagement, much» to Elma’s boldly-expressed dissatisfaction, and. betaken himself, with a few choice cigars, to a quiet little room on the upper floor of the house where he was quite sure of finding Fletcher— and of whom he wanted to ask a special favor. He found Fletcher, enjoying his after-dinner cigar with as much ease ard freedom as though: he were himself lord of the manor. He re- ing-chair pear the open fire, and the two men prepered tur & egal talk, yOnderful rarity Was Spénéd by Fle ~ “‘T have been waiting soveral: days for an op- portunity of seeing you, Mr. Cuthbert, and I | am especially glad you took the notion to come up to my den to-night. I accidentally stumbled upon news of your brother Sydney a short time ago, and I supposed you would want to I should have thought they were old | hear it,” *The poor devil! Oh, yes, of course—tell me what you know, Fletcher. Only I hope he isn’t after mone — from you.” Because Cuthbert himself had come to Fletch- r fora very similar purpose. ‘“No,” Fletcher answered, gravely. ‘*Swd- ney will not trouble any one for more money anything else again. He has been deach for: months. Not the —- suspicion of di or re-- gret or emotion showed itself on bert’s ‘ace. He knocked the little cap of ashes. off his: cigar, into a convenient ash-receiver, with, as, little concern, and as accurate a toueh, as though: Fletcher had remarked on the chilliness of the; May evening. “Dead, is he? Well, I am not sure it’s the worst thing that could have happened to him. He must have lived in constant fear of the de- tection of his crime, poor, unfortunate, misera- ; Fletcher?” “It was in the papers at the time, I have. since learned, and by oe at a Herald of the ‘given date, I found a brief account of a mo- eng § encounter, at early daybreak, near the Grand Central depot, between‘a young man, on. whose person were cards bearing the name of ‘Sydney Valence,’—your brother’s first an middle names, from which he ped the fami- ly name for reasons that are obvious—and a sudden act of suicide on his part. That is all. the Deva og There was very little attention S to it. @ coroner granting a permit for urial on the attest of several who swore his death was suicidal, and no one to blame but himself. This was in December, on the 17th.” ‘And now it’s May the 28th. Over five | months ago. And yow never heard of it until renee’ “ Until a week ago, when, having occasion to: require the services of a couple of extra police- men to guard the funds in transit from the bank to the manufactory, the conversation, during the two hours’ drive with the officers on the in- side the coach with me, took a turmin which he rehearsed this accident on his beat, last winter, and which interested him in consequence of the: /
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romance connected with it—for there was a wo- man in the case.” Cuthbert smiled. ‘*I never suspected Syd of that style of mis- chief,” he’said, rather contemptuously. “She was with him, and they had come in on the down-train. Your brother had left her in the ladies’ room, presumably to call a carriage, and the scrimmage occurred outside. It seems one of the party said something to the effect that ‘it would all come out, now,’ whereupon, like a flash, Sydney put his revolver to his tem- ple, fired, and fell dead.” Cuthbert looked thoughtfully into the dying embers. “Syd wasn’t a coward, either. He had some good reason for shooting himself.. Well—what else? What about the girl?” ‘Larkins is of the opinion that she was his ‘wife. She was a thoroughbred lady in manner, appearance, dress and voice, and, Larkins says, the most beautiful girl he ever saw in his life, She was a perfect blonde—with a bewitchin face, as fair as a lily, and lovely blue eyes, aan bright, waving gold-colored hair. slender and graceful,” Fletcher had pictured the girl at the window, and Cuthbert’s Goat gave an involuntary throb, although with the next breath he realized the reais gg of the vague thought he had enter- tained. **'There are hundreds of beautiful blondes in this city,” he thought, ‘‘and men’s estimates differ.” “When Larkins found her still waiting in the ladies’ room, some little time after, and asked her if she was looking for Sydney, and told her what had happened, she fainted, and the swoon becoming dangerously prolonged, he had her sent in an ambulance to the hospital, where she remained ill with brain fever for weeks and weeks.” “Did she divulge nothing during her de jirium? if that police-officer was so interested, he should have made all possible inquiries.” ‘* He did, he says,” Fletcher returned, quietly. ‘** Among the few words they could understand during her unintelligible fever raving, were the names ‘Sydney’ and ‘Cecil’ and ‘ May,’ and the theory is that the latter was her own name, and Cecil perhaps another lover, or a brother.” “May!” How strange it was that the name of ‘“‘May” would so completely suit the fair girl at the window, and, despite himself, Cuth- ert Pemberton began to feel an eager interest in this romance of his dead brother. ‘“Weoll—when she recovered, what?” “When she recovered, she left the hospital; that was less than a week ago, and Larkins con- fessed to a actually grieved at having com- pletely lost all trace of her.” Cuthbert sneered. ‘Larkins is a superannuated old fossil! What the deuce has a pretty girl to do with him?” “ Until to-day,” Fletcher went on, gravel ig- noring the impetuous interruption. ‘‘ And to- day, while he was going through Madison ave- nue, near 23d street, he glanced up at a window of Mrs. Sayre’s private boarding-house, to look at some lovely plants blooming on the balcony, and saw the young girl again. Cuthbert sprung excitedly from his chair, his dark eyes flashing eagerly. “At Mrs. Sayre’s! The exquisite girl with the fair pure face and the hair like siquid sun- shine! By the great Olympus, Fletcher, if it isn’t the most astonishing thing 1 ever heard of! Why, she’s the ver girl l’ve peen raving about; that I made the ol ntleman drive past to see —the most dainty, gloriously beautiful creature Tever saw!” \ A. look of swift displeasure crossed Fletcher’s face at Cuthbert’s impetuosity, * Sixeepting your lovely cousin, Mr. Cuth- an Don’t forget your intentions regarding er. Cuthbert laughed shortly. *‘ You're suspiciously anxious to have me marry her, Fletcher! One would almost think there was policy at bottom.” For one swift second, Fletcher’s eyes droppéd. The next, he looked straight in the young fel- dow’s eyes, ** Yes. Pll admit there is policy at bottom. { don’t want to see the property leave the family.” _ Cuthbert flung his half-smoked cigar in the cuspidore, and began a restless promenade of the room. “‘[ wonder who the deuce she is? She was really suppose they were married, Fletcher? I ean’t understand how such an angel could fancy 8yd, but then—” Fletcher waited a moment for him to con- Do you ; DID SHE SIN? tinue, then took up the thread himself, with a patient indifference that was like gall and wormwood to the other: “They weré married—that I happen to know, partly from a letter your brother wrote me last winter, in which he describes this young girl, saying he hoped to marry her, telling me of his faith and trust that she would effectually re- claim him. The letter, asking for funds, I laid before your uncle and received my orders to pay no attention to it.” thbert listened, almost fiercely. ‘What was the postmark?” “‘Marchbrook, a village up the Hudson,” *Marchbrook! Marchbrook! The name sounds somewhat familiar. I remember, Car- ris Court is near there, and there is another es- tate belonging to the May family, after which the village is named. By Jove, Fletcher! There’s the name for you—that girl is a May!” ‘Yes. Ihave learned that during these last two days, sir. I wrote to Marchbrook to learn if there had been a marriage solemnized there between a Sydney Valence, or a Sydney Pem- berton, and a young girl whom I described. And the answer came—yes. By the rector of the parish, on Dec. 16th, and the names of the parties were Sydney Valence and Cecil May.” ‘Great Jupiter, what a brain you possess, Fletcher! I don’t know whether you are most vo be admired or dreaded.” Fletcher smiled slightly. **There is but one link now in this curious chain to bring us to the present time, and while- { have been working at the furthest end, Larkins has made another discovery here. Miss May— or properly speaking Mrs, Sydney Valence—is staying temporarily at Mrs. Sayre’s, and is to be married to-morrow noon to a Mr, Clyde Car- riscourt.” Cuthbert uttered a curse between his lips. His forehead corrugated into a frown, and ibe turned sharply away from the espionage of Fletcher’s eyes. _‘‘Married! My brother’s widow! My beau- tiful sister-in-law! That glorious girl whom of all the world I could love as I could love no other living creature! What a curious Fate! And to marry Carriscourt of all men—that haughty, high-bred aristocrat who, as she by the name of “e Cecil May at the boarding- house, can know nothing of that former mar- riage! And from what I know of Carriscourt he wouldn’t marry her if he suspected his bride was what we know she is.” His face slowly took an expression of exult- ant malignity as his thoughts ran on: ‘* Married, to Carriscourt, who knows me for —well, perhaps pretty nearly what I’m worth! Consequently,”—and the exultant look in his eves deepened into an evil basenesss—‘‘I shall change my tactics somewhat. I still p to cultivate the fair Cecil’s acquaintance, but, hardly asa lover. If my theory, that has come like an inspiration, is correct, Carriscourt’s love- ly bride has deceived him, and keeps her own counsel—depending, of course, upon her belief that her first husband is dead. Now—Carris- court is a rich man, and able to supply his wife with a magnificent allowance. I amin perpetu- al need of the same desirable medicine. Iama counterpart of my dead brother—why not trade on that fact, and—raise the needful by showing myself tomy charming sister-in-law, and then purchase her secret on my own terms?” His face was alight with satanic triumph as he mentally resolved to pursue that bent of thought evolved from his diabolical brain. The very next day—the day of Cecil’s second marriage, he put his plan into operation, with the success that attends Satan’s own. ‘She saw me, she recognized me!” he told himself, exultantly, as he went away from op- posite Mrs, Sayre’s: house, and from the cur- tained window of his carriage watched the wed- ding coach leaye the door. “She is playing straightinto my hands! I saw the look of fear and horror in her blue eyes when she saw me, and I have fully convinced her that her first husband is yet alive! I saw‘her reel and sud- denly drop—of course in a swoon. Evidently she has never heard of Syd’s twin-brother, ond she never need. Enjoy your wedding tour as well as you can, fair Cecil—for, after you ar- rive home—” And his dark face glowed with the merciless wickedness of his heart, as he leaned back against the cushions of the carriage. CHAPTER XIIL SO NEAR, AND YET S50 FAR. THE short drive to the dep6t was passed in al- | to te | henceforth the business of my tife to make you | little crystal and gol 138 most perfect silence by Cecil, who sat back against the cushions with her vail closely con- cealing the expression of her face. Mr. Carrisccurt, with a delicacy and thought- fulness so characteristic of him, did not press her to converse, even on the most trivial sub- jects, but chatted pleasantly and freely on pass- id topics that required but few answers from Yr’ er, Upon the train, bound to Niagara, where they were to make their first stop, Mr. Carriscourt secured an entire compartment in a palace car, where he left undone no effort that could con- duce to Cecil’s comfort. He spe her with books, and the daily papers, and the magazines which the train-boy peddled. He arranged her a cosey seat with head-rest and footstool in the shaded corner, and then seated himself opposite, and looked at her while she read, her Set face bearing traces of her recent struggle with fate. After a while, he softly laid his hand on the open magazine she was examining, and Cecil looked up to meet his tender, pessionful eyes. “* You have not yet said one word to me, my darling, beyond a few syllables of everyday conversation. [am yearning to hear you spealr as ref precious wife should speak to me. I want 1 you how dearly I love you, and how it is happy. My darling, lay down your book and Iet me look in your sweet eyes.” His grand, noble face was full of affectionate yearning over her, and Cecil gave a littie in- voluniary gasp of pain, and her face whitened with agitation as she tremblingly lifted her vail —revealing all the pitiful misery, all the sharp distress which she could not longer restrain from his loving espionage. . He straightened instantly into eager attention of attitude, his facebetraying his astonishment at sight of hers. **Cecil! What have you been doing with yourself? What does this mean?’ His voice was pained and Erave, and it made her poor crushed heart sink, and her mouth quiver with distress. Then she suddenly covered her cold, nerveless hands over her face, and he saw the desperate effort all over her slender frame, to keep from yielding to the storm of passionate tears that threatened to overwhelm her. She dared not speak; she felt she had no con- trol over her voice; and so he waited vainly a moment for her answer, before he spoke again. ‘My darling, tell me what is the matter with yor Do you feel ill again? Do you feel the aintness you had this noon coming agnin? Speak, Cecil; ye alarm me,” She shook her head, in a pitiful little dumb dissent, and reached out her hand to detain him as he sprung from his seat. ‘*No—no,” she whispered, with an effort. “I am not sick; do not be so terrified, Mr. Carris- court. Wait—a minute.” Her voice, constrained though it was, reassured him, and he sat down again, watching her closely, his face full of tenderest solicitude and jealous alarm. Cecil leaned her head back against the cush- ions again, in a weary, dejected attitnde thas sent a vague thrill of concern through him, What could it mean? What was it that ailed Cecil, on this her wedding-day? Just after the ceremony she had faintedgand now, what did this pained, blanched face, with its pallid, quiv- ering lips, its agonized eyes, mean? What could it portend? He asked himself the question only once, with a thrill of dismay, and then, banished it from his mind as un- worthy attention. “Tt can mean but one thing,” he assured him, self, positively. ‘‘ Cecil isin a state of nervous depression, and that comes from physical weak- ness. She has not fully recovered from the ill- ness she tells me she endured; she is excited un- duly, as is natural under the circumstances, and this is the result. My poor little girl. What care I shall take of her, now thatshe has given herself to me.” Those were his thoughts, as he rapidly un- locked Cecil’s traveling satchel and found the smelling bottle he had been told by Mrs. Sayre was there, for any possible emergency. He removed the tiny stop- r and held it for her to scent, and then chafed er cold hands tenderly and wrapped her shawl about her, for, despite the lovelinessand warmth of the May afternoon, Cecil was chilly with nervousness, And she accepted his delicate, womanly at- tentions, with an increasing outward calmness that effectually reassured him, while within the woe was keener than ever because of this new | proof of his goodness and tenderness.
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4 ¥or half an hour or more she lay with her head against the cushions, her white eyelids drooped, scarcely daring to move, lest the slight cvatrol she had secured over herself should give Way again. hen, as the appalling uncertainty, the heart- sickening realization of her position came fresh- ly over her, Cecil uttered a little sighing moan ee vainly tried to stifle. Mr. Carriscourt’s face shadowed again, not with alarm, this time, but with a slow, sorrow- ing gravity of pain. ‘Cecil, you must tell me what this means. It is not physical distress your are suffering; of that Iam convinced. Whatever the trouble is, share it with me, dear. I am correct, am I not, that your grief is mental?” She whispered ‘‘ yes,” in a low, almost inaudi- ble murmur. ‘*¢ And I may help you bear it, dearest?” She shook her head, and he noticed the pitiful restless motion of her hands. His eyes darkened with distress. ‘*T think I already know the cause of your distress, Cecil. I will spare you the evident pain of telling me that—you regret having given yourself to me, to be my wife.” Ho command- ed his voice perfectly, but there was an anguish in the brief words that cut Cecil to the very soul. And yet—he had spared her the telling! She looked at him, a touching, appealing ex- pression in her sad blue eyes, ‘Tt has been a mistake, Mr. Carriseourt. I— did not know—until—” The desperate confession was actually trem- bling on her lips—the confession which would at once have corrected all the mistaken ideas that were doomed to cause them both such suf- fering in the coming days. But—she hesitated, in fear and dismay, and Mr. Carriscourt, entirely misconstruing the broken sentence, took it up and finished it ac- cording to his own impression. “I see,” he said, witha gentle, pitying gravit that esd concealed the cruel anguish wit which each of her halting words had hurt him ‘“‘my poor child, 1 perfectly understand it all now. I over-persuaded you, thinking such love as I could give you, could not fail in compelling love in return, and it was not until the irrevo- cable words were said, not until you actually realized you were married to me, that you dis- cco”... what a pitiful mistake you had made.” She dared not lift her eyes to his, or she would have seen a deeper sorrow and unspoken grav- ity of suffering there than she would haye thought possible. As it was, every one of his pityingly, infinitely tender words, each one of which was brimming with heart-sick disappoint- ment, stabbed her to the soul, that she thus had to wound such a spirit as this. She did not an- » sh but sat gazing wistfully through the win- ow. “My poor little girl,” he went on, “I do not wonder at your distress, {ft must be a terrible situation for a woman to find herself in—only you told me, you assured me, Cecil,” and his voice thrilled eagerly, ‘‘that you cared for no other man. “T do not—oh, indeed I do not!” she whisper- ed, eagerly as he had put the words. ‘Still you feel you have done that which causes you pak inmarrying me, Cecil. Cecil!” and shefelt the might throb in his low, intense tones, ‘‘do you wish to be free again? Do you wish me to give you your freedom?” A little piteous cry came from her lips, more eloquent than any words Cecil could have spoken, Mr. Carriscourt was astonished, What was the mystery of Cecil’s conduct? He put thé question to her plainly. “ Cecil, what is the meaning of all this!—for that you have some reason for this unaccount- able conduct is positive. My dear little girl, tell mé all about it—no matter how hard vou — hit me.” e turned impetuously toward him the tears rushing to her eyes. “T cannot, Mr. Carriscourt, I cannot! TI feel! 60 strangely—I am so unworthy of such perfect love as you give me—I do not dare accept it—it | was all’so sudden—so—so unexpected—and I must have more time to—to make up my mind_| —to—to decide—oh,. Mr. Carriscourt, I dare not speak of it—please wait a little while!” She was incoherent, and she knew she must) be. He listened patiently, trying to put her | pitiful little protest into a coherent story. “You puzzle me, Cecil, [ will admit that, much. You told me frankly you feared you did not love me well enough to m me, and, dear, Ia to accept the friendly re- gard you confessed you entertained for me. | DID SHE SIN? in the sweet, suré hope that the love I desired would come. Now—you tell me you re marriage even on those perfectly understood terms, Cecil! Something, hag occurred to bring about this state of affairs. You fainted just after the ceremony. Had that sudden illness anything to do with the cause of this condition of affairs?” He was looking straight in her eyes, command- ing her attention by his earnest, resolute man- ner. She shrunk away from him in a panic of ; fear. **T—cannot tell you.” “You cannot tell me?? She nodded dumbly, “Then, it is apparent that something’ has happened of which I am not to be the con- fidant. That must be just as you please, Cecil, for I shall not demand your confidence. Then —what remains to be done? You are my wife, and I cannot give you your freedom. The scandal would be more than I could well en- endure. What shall I do, Cecil? You cannot leave me—I would not let you go out all alone in the world again, even if you wished.” His voice suddenly changed from its quiet sternness into tender compassion, *T am not deserving of such devotion,” she said, brokenly. ‘Oh, Mr. Carriscourt, what must I say? If—if—I might go with you—just the same—to everybody—but ourselves.” She could not utter the words that were the death-warrant to Clyde Carriscourt’s happi- hess. And he, with his ane face pale and grave, his eyes showing the keen distress he was experiencing, supplied the words himself. **T understand,” he said, gently. ‘‘The world must never know of this worm in the bud of our life. To the world, society and our friends we owe the duty of concealing the misfortune that has fallen upon us; to them you will be what ou will hot be to me—my wife. I understand, tecil; it shall be—” and he penny) hesitated, looking at her with all his great love, all his reat sorrow in his eyes, and drawing a lon reath, with stern, compressed lips—‘it sha be as you suggest—until the time comes when —_ can come to me and say you are ready to my wife in truth as well as name. Till then, Cecil, look upon me as your best, nearest earth- ly friend, your devoted brother.” The tears dropped slowly off Cecil’s lashes. “Tf I could only tell you!” she burst forth, in a little agonized impulse, then adding, dreari- ly and hopelessly, “ but if cannot, I cannot ! lomething has happened, but it is only I who i I who ought should carry the secret. It is onl shall suffer! to suffer, and to my dying day But [ cannot tell you!” The train swept on, and this fated pair sat there, busy with their distressful eo a — silence fallen between them, broken by arriscourt: ‘Tt seems advisable for us to alter our plans somewhat, Cecil. I think it preferable that, in- stead of going to Niagara and Montreal, as we intended, we go directly home to Carris Court, which we will reach in twenty minutes or so.” She gave him a grateful little smile. **Tt would be best.” And so, they began the new life, CHAPTER XIV BEGINNING THE NEW LIFE, CARRIS Court, although not in the gala attire of glad welcome in which it would have been had the master and his bride returned at the a’ pointed time, was still looking as it always did, magnificent and grand, and as the carriage for which Mr. Carriscourt had telegraphed, at the station ahead, rolled up through the wide- open gates, and into the spacious grounds, it was a beautiful sight to see. The May afternoon was at its zenith, anda flood of sunshine lay on the well-trimmed lawn, where the grass was vivid as emeralds. The stately old trees were just bursting into leafage, and swayed their branches in the light westerly breeze. Back of the mansion, clouds of snowy and roseate blossoms were on the fruit trees of the immense orchards for which Carris Court was famous, while reaching far and wide weré the superbly cultivated acres of vegetable gar- den, pineries, nurseries, grapevines. It was a fair home, at sight of which Cecil’s heart gave a thrilling throb of a oe the heaviness of her spirits, and her husband saw the interested look she gave oe as the carriage rolled smoothly along the beautiful wide drive, on either side of which were scores of wide-spreading trees which would afford an avenue of exquisite coolness and shade in the sultry summer weather. On one side was the lakelt, its blue bosom rippling and shining un- nt our | der the sunshine; on the other a gently descend- | ing slope, green and velvety, terminating in a deer park, where the graceful creatures were lazily browsing. Through glimpsesin the bud- ding shrubbery and from turns in the road, Ce- cil caught sight of lovely summer-houses, stately fountains, beautiful rustic seats in spots that commanded vistas, and an airy elevated Chi- nese pagoda, that served for a music stand upon occasions of festivity. It was all perfect. It wasa home upon which cultivated taste and unlimited means had left their impressions everywhere—a home tio which a bride should have been so proud, so pleased to come. And, despite the trouble that had fallen upon them, Cecil could not keep the sparkle of proud delight from shining in her blue eyes. ‘It is more beautiful than I dreamed any- thing earthly could be,” she said, in a little burst of admiration that went very far toward rallying Mr, Carriscourt’s depressed spirits. “Tt is all yours, Cecil. If devotion and atten- tion to your welfare can make you happy here, you shall be so.” A few minutes’ longer ride brought them to the grand entrance to Carris Court, and with the sunshine glittering on the dozens of plate- glass windows, the gay show of striped awnings and the rich luster of silken curtains inside, the exquisite symmetry of the huge building with its bay and oriel windows, its towers, and chim- neys, its piazzas and marble-paved courts, Cecil thought thatit wasa veritable palace transport- ed from fairyland. The promise of Carris Court as given from the outside was more than fulfilled within. The rooms were numerous, spacious and luxuriously fitted up. There were all the appliances of art and wealth, and clinging to everything was that air of refinement and naturalness and ele- gance that is so often missing in decorations and adornments, Mr. Carriscourt’s unexpected arrival had found everything just as a well-regulated household should found, and in the time that intervened between the receipt of the telegram ordering the carriage to the depdt, and the ar- rival of the bridal pair, Mrs. Siddons, the house- keeper, had arranged an elegant lunch. As the earsege drove up tothe door, Mrs. Siddons and Blake, the butler, were in respect- ful readiness to receive their young mistress, and Rollins, the porter, flung the massive door open with a royal obeisance to welcome her. In the magnificent hall—a spacious square apartment, opened to the dome of Carris Court, through which the sunshine fel] through tinted lass that made brilliant shadows on the tesse- ated marble floor—Mr. Carriscourt stopped a moment to introduce Cecil to Mrs. Siddons and. Blake and to say a pleasant word to them. Then, when she had received their respectful courtesies and stately words of welcome and congratulation, young Mrs. Carriscourt was conducted by her husband inte a delightful lit- tle reception-room opening from the main hall —a gem of a room, but whose beauties seemed lost. on Cecil, who sunk wearily in the nearest chair. “You are tired, Cecil; you had better retire to your own room, and seek rest and quiet. If you prefer, I will ring for Mrs. Siddons to show you your apartments, but as it isa pleasure to which I had been looking very eagerly forward, I would like to be permitted to show you there myself.” er pale cheeks flushed slightly under his eyes, that were full of cold bitterness of Peet ia ment, but only for one brief second; then he held out his hand, and led her through the grand, majestic hall again, chatting pleasantly, and pointing out specially interesting or beauti- ful o — He led the way up the grand staircase, that besides being rene | wide for three or four per- sons to comfortably walk abreast, afforded equally ample accommodation at both ends of each stair for the rare potted palms and fern that thus double lined the entire flight, while the center of the stairs was covered with mossy velvet carpet. Cecil walked silently beside him, seeing all the luxury and beauty to which he had brought. her, and asking herself, over and over, why it was that she could not have been left alone by a merciless Fate, and have 5 og her contented quiet life in this fairy home her lover’s love given her. “This suit is to be devoted entirely to your peivate use, Cecil,” he said, opening a door at he end of a long wing on the western side of the building. ‘‘Of course I had intended—dif-
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ferently, but you will find it very convenient for you own separate use.” Cecil crossed the threshold as he spoke, and a little involuntary cry of rapturous admiration escaped her lips, as her eyes kindled at the beauty of the four apartments, all spacious, lofty, sunshiny, picturesque. From the en- trance, she. could i through the entire suit, the rear room of which was the sleeping apart- ment, the next the bath-room, the third the dressing-room, and the fourth in which she stood, her boudoir. All were furnished en sutte, the prevailing tint a dainty cream, reliev ‘ with dashes of luscious crimson and shining silver. There was absolutely nothing lacking that could have been imagined. Every luxury that a connoisseur could have selected was there, every dainty elegance, every extravagant lux- ury, beauty in every form of statuary, flowers, paintings, laces, deep springy couches, soft snowy rugs, rare crystal ornaments—not an elegance missing which the most covetous im- agination could desire. meet Ty She turned to Mr. Carriscourt with quivering lips and humid eyes: “Oh, how can I thankyou! It is so perfect— and I am not worthy of it.” : He utterly ignored her last half-whispered sentence. 7 ‘I thought you would be satisfied. See this, Cecil—this is your own pave garden, I had it made hoping you would find many hours of delight in it. e flowers are thriving finely, and under Hyssop’s care it will be a perfect bower shortly. See, Cecil.” He pointed to a lovely, partly shaded plot of ground, just beneath the windows of her rooms, that was terraced in wide parterres, and inclosed with a thick shrubbery, just beginning to blos- som, in the soft May weather. “ You can see the turrets of your old home, you see, Cecil, from your windows—that will, of course, be a very pleasant source of contem- lation for you. And here, leading to the gar- San and terraces below is the preane flight of stairs which communicates with no other part of the house. The key is always on the inside, and you can let yourself in and out at your pleasure.” He was so solicitous for her welfare and her comfort and happiness, and somehow Cecil felt as if she were an intruder among all this beauty he had arrangea for her. “JT thank you,” she said, simply; it was all she could say, and then, he escorted her to a large po page vd in the bay window that. commanded such a glorious view of lawn and park, just as Mrs. Siddons tapped on the door, and on being bidden, entered, followed by a couple of ser- paca bearing lunch, which was deftly, rapidly “T will attend to Mrs. Carriscourt myself, Mrs. Siddons,” Mr. Carriscourt said, pleasantly, and the housekeeper withdrew, leaving them to partake of the t@te-d-téte lunch. He was pleasunt, friendly in his manner, cour- teous and attentive. Cecil was grave and charm- ing in her gracious reserve; only once, when ske had been taking a long, w‘stful look at him, as he sat, slowly stirring his tea his gaze fixed far outside on the fair scene—once, Cecil almost cried aloud,as she saw the change that had come over his handsome face in these few little hours. He looked so much older, and so ave, so unspeakably troubled. All the glad ight was gone from his eyes, all the debonnaire cheeriness from his face, and—it was her work, her blighting work. She sat looking at him, all her heart in her eyes, and as if he felt snaqneticaliy, the power of her glance, he turned his head towagd her, meet- ing her intense, pitying eyes. She flushed, painfully, and dropped her lids, but he made no remark. After lunch was partaken, he excused him- self, bidding Cecil take an hovur’s rest, and telling her he would send Mrs. Siddons up with the new maid he had chosen for her, so that her young mistress might be in readiness vith her toilet when she arose to dress for the eight o’clock dinner. : _.Then, when ‘he had left her, Cecil walked slowly through the luxurious rooms, her pure, be face full of deepest pity and hopelessness, ‘How will it end? Oh, if I only were sure— sure—how can I learnwhether it was a mistake, or a terrible truth?” ' And then, with a glad little exclamation Cecil’s old friend ar maid Kitty, trim an pretty, came through the rooms to her. “Oh, Miss Cecil—Mrs. Carriscourt, I mean!” And while Cecil greeted the Young girl kind- ly, her heart was full of thankfulness that was ost a pain at her husband’s kindness. DID SHE SIN? 15 She allowed Kitty to arrange the couch fora short siesta. Later, she arose, bathed and dressed, ready for the elaborate dinner that was always served at Carris Court. After dinner, she and Mr. Carriscourt went into one of the drawing-rooms, where he showed her many of its marvelous attractions. She played and sung for him, while he leaned back in a shadowy corner, watching her in all her love- ly girlish beauty and grace, that was so en- hanced by the pale blue silk princesse dress she wore—one of the many elegant toilets she had found in her wardro: another proof of his kind thoughtfulness and delicacy, and thinking how vitifully life was beginning for them. As it struck eleven, Cecil arose to retire. Mr. Carriscourt offered her his arm, and escorted her through the quiet, silent halls to the door of her room, and there, turned toward her with a grave face, “*Good-night, Cecil. My duty ends here. Be- fore I leave you 1 will give you this—it locks the | door of communication between your apart- ments and those which, to avoid gossip among | the servants, I have been obliged to take for my | own. The door is locked, Cecil; this is the only key in the house that will unlock that door. I give it to you.” She took the key with her hand ‘trembling, her lovely face paling at thought of the sorrow she had brought upon this noble, generous man, She bowed, not daring to trust herself to speak, and retired to her room, while Mr. Carriscourt returned to the library below. And that was the way life began at Carris | Conrt for them. : Aad between the beginning and the end—if either had but foreseén the misery of the way! CHAPTER XV. THE MAN THAT WAS TRUSTED. Tue addition to the Pemberton household of Elma Pemberton was certainly marked by the | novelty of several new departures from the hitherto bachelor character of the family. Mr. Griffith Pemberton spent a portion of every evening in the parlor, listening to Elma play and sing, which she did very creditably and with a perfect consciousness of her own ability that more than once amused and puzzled Mr. Pemberton. ‘You are not in the least like your mother,” he said to her. ‘‘My sister Genevieve was re- served and shy almost to coldness, and yet she had a heart warm and loving as ever beat. You certainly are not like her in some re- spects.” - ltaa had gone on softly striking chords while e spoke. “fT dare say I am like my father,” she said, carelessly, when Mr. Pemberton interrupted her fiercely : ‘* We never mention that person within these walls, either directly or indirectly; remember that, Elma.” A little gust of temper shors in her black zyes, and she arose from the piano-stool angrily. ‘*T am sure that no onv has the right to for- bid me speaking of ay own—” She involuntarily, «tepped on the threshold of the offensive word, for Mr. Pemberton’s face was white with scarcely-restrained passion that actually terrified the girl. “Tt is net necessary to’ discuss the subject. You understand my command, you have only to obey it.” , And after that Elma was a little particular what use she made of her independent whims before her uncle, although in her heart she re- belled, and hated because she feared him. That same evening, while Elma and Mr. Pemberton and Cuthbert were together in the parlors, Hiram Fletcher and Miss Ogden were discussing the girl, in Miss Ogden’s sitting- room, a pleasant, comfortable apartment, which, with a bedroom, had been assigned to her special use by the housekeeper. “Te will never do for Elma to act as she does,” Fletcher was saying, almost severely, and Miss Ogden sat with cold, impassive face listening. ‘I have already explained, over and over again, how exceedingly important it is that she should seek to please and attract Mr. | Pemberton by sweetness and obedience, rather than so persistently demand her own way, and give him such sharp answers. It doesn’t speak well for the way you have brought her up.’ Miss Ogden’s sallow cheeks flushed. _“* How could you know all the trouble she has venme? You were never with—I mean Elma is headstrong and willful, and from her baby- hood she has been so. -I have devoted my life to her. I have sacrificed—you know the sweet privileges 1 have sacrificed—and now. this very day, she became angry with me be- cause I reproved her for expressing her aversion to you, and she threatened to—discharge me!” Fletcher’s pale eyes flashed, then a still more impassive lock settled on his shrewd face. “Thatis part of what was to be expected. So she has an aversion for me, has she, and threatens to discherge you? Well—” and a lit- tle, slow, cold smile crept to his thin lips, and (he caressed his long, carefully-trimmed whis- | kers, in a meditative sort of way, while Miss | Ogden watched him anxiously—‘‘I cannot see | that there remains anything for either you or I but to accept the young heiress’s opinion and | treatment. But—this one thing must be under- | stood, and that is, that Elma shall change her | treatment of her uncle. I happen to know that he is not as well pleased as he expected to be, and, if she continues to make an unfavorable impression upon him, it would be just like him to alter all his plans, and refuse to make her his bairess ” “In such a ease, Mr. Cuthbert Pemberton would be the heir?” “Undoubtedly. And therefore you will ap- reciate what I wish further to speak of. Ima left any lover behind her?” Miss Ogden looked confused for one brief min- ute. Her face paled before this man of whom she evidently was in some fear. ‘¢ Elma has never entertained an idea of love or marriage,” she said, hastily. ‘She has no affection in her heart for any one. She is not capable of love or even ardent friendship. -I am sorry to say it, but you must already have seen | she cares for no one besides herself. No, there | never was a lover. Elma is ambitious, and I dare say would be glad to make a grand mar- riage, and certainly there was no one in Flor- ence to attract her.” “‘Then—she must be distinctly told that a rand marriage is possible. She must marry uthbert Pemberton. He is disposed to rather admire her, and has frankly told me he would marry her for her money, if for nothing else. You see how it will be? In case—anything happens—such a marriage will be extremely convenient.” His shrewd pale eyes glittered excitedly as he explained himself in a low, guarded tone; and Miss Ogden listened intently. “Yes,” she almost whispered, “Elma must marry him.” Fletcher arose to go, bidding her an indiffer- ent good-evening. He went quickly through the dimly-lighted, silent corridor, until he reached the main hall, and then slackened his walk, looking about him with keen, gloating in- terest in his eyes. Fs‘* It will be a good inheritance,” he thought, jubilantly. ‘A princess might be glad to fare "¢ well as Elma has the Bee gated pag! of doing. There are riches unlimited, and all that riches cancommand. Thereis position that cannot be taken from her—as Cuthbert Femberton’s wife. She will reign here, and be respected and happy —she will occupy just such a position as I would like to occupy were la woman, But—” and his pale eyes gleamed redly as he heard the girlish sound of her laughter floating up from the par- lors—‘‘since it is not possible, in the course of human events, that J should ever possess a tithe of a title to the Pemberton estate, or the Pem- berton position, or the Pemberton name—the next best thing is that--Cuthbert Pemberton should marry—his cousin Elma!” And with a curious little mirthless laugh he entered the hall cemieny Pes Mr. Pemberton’s office, where, a moment before, Mr. Pemberton himself had conrfie directly from the parlor. His face was clouded and gloomy, and in his blue eyes were traces of the smothered rage he had felt a little while before upon exhibition of Elma’s insolent independence. He answered Fletcher’s light tap preparatory to his entrance. “Come in! I have just left the young people together in the parlor. Fletcher ”—and he | pe ps heavily—‘I am disappointed in that girl. | Fletcher’s face twitched under cover of the _ hand he suddenly put before it. | “Disappointed, sir? I am se 3 grieved to ear you express yourself so. She is certainl <= pretty and elegant and well educated, an — | ‘* Yes, yes, pretty and elegant, and in a mee- sure well enough book-learned,” Mr. Pemberton interrupted, impatiently pulling at his frosty mustache. ‘But it isa prettiness that is not | soul beauty, and an elegance that comes rather | from the set rules of some fashionable finishing | institute for young ladies than the trze cour- 'tesy that arises from a refined nature. ig | Fletcher, I am disappointed—and yet, when
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2 ( ri _ ae DID SHE SIN? consider that her father was just such a bold, dashing, superficial person, I ought not to be disappointed so keenly.” He walked slowly up and down the room, his eyes bent thoughtfully on the floor. 4 ‘“*T have been as her,” he re- sumed, gloomily, ‘‘and I have discovered that she has a soul no higher than delight in pretty dresses and show and gayety. She cannot converse intelligently on art or literature, al- though she has all the popular trashy novels of the day by heart. She openly confesses she never studies, declaring she has finished her | education. She says she never sews, or makes charity visits, or engages herself in any occupa- tion but that of enjoying herself selfishly. There is very, very little of the Pemberton blood in her,’ and he contracted his brow in dis- pleasure. ‘*And yet—she is my niece,” he add- ed, gloomily. au es, Mr. Pemberton, she is your own sis- ter’s child; nothing can alter that fact. If, as you think, she has inherited more of the Fair— more of her father’s traits than her mother’s, I am sure you cannot blame the girl for it. You can educate her and elevate her to your.own standard, and make her just what you wish.” He was looking almost anxiously at Mr. Pem- berton’s cold, stern face, that was momentarily growing more stern and cold. “Tam not sure of that,” he returned, bitter- ly. ‘She is willful and—insolent, yes, actually insolent, Fletcher. Less than an hour ago she answered me saucily and defiantly—and I as sure you, Fletcher, she is the only woman who ever presumed to set me at defiance, and ”»—and his eyes rained menacing lightning—‘“ she must not attempt it again.” Fletcher’s thin lips compressed themselves ag he listened, an enraged light gleaming in his pale eyes, “T will see that she does not offend again, sir. I will speak to Miss Ogden, and Miss Hima will doubtless understand her thoughtless error as she should understand it.” Mr. Pemberton’s lips curled beneath his droop- a white mustache that he still pulled almost vindictively. ‘ ‘In confidence, Fletcher—as I have many a time spoken to you before—I am convinced that I never shall be able to take that girl to m heart as I had hoped so many years to do. j dare say I have placed my ideal too high, which is one reason of my keen disappointment in her. But—there is something about her that, from the bottom of my soul I wish was’ different— something that dissatisfies me almost to a dis- like, almost to a repulsion. Strange, too, that in such a short time’ she should leave such an un- fortunate impression upon me.” He knit his brows as he walked and talked, and Fletcher’s own face was unusually impas- sive and inscrutable as he followed him with watchful eyes. - “‘T am more than ever determined that Cuth- bert Pemberton shall marry her,” he told him- self. ‘‘ They shall all play into my hands, at my que pleasure. The object for which I have ved for eighteen years, worked, saved and schemed, is approaching its crisis. Fate itself is in league with me—and even were it not, I would defy it to thwart me!” CHAPTER XVI. FACE TO FACE, Lire at Carris Court went on just as it had be- gun. The beautiful spring days came and went when the fair estate lay bathed in sunshine and was radiant with life and loveliness. The birds caroled among the blossoms, that showered their fragrant snow to give place to the glad young leaves. The flowers bloomed, and Cecil’s own private garden, shut in by the tall budding syr- inga bushes Hyssop had transplanted, daily grew toa most lovely spot where Cecil spent much of her time. But—all the ecstasy of life, all the revelry of pain was without the walls of Carris Court. 0 joy or happiness found its way within to the fated two who were each going their ap- pointed way, so severed, yet so fatefully united. Yet, there was no sharp, piercing misery to endure. It was ratber a quiet accéptance of the trouble that had come—especially to Mr. Car- riscourt, who, while he failed to penetrate the secret of Cecil’s actions, did not lose his hope that soon it would be righted. They had been married just a month, and Cecil had, in that little while, come to know and to love every inch of ground at: Carris Court. During those few weeks she had become thor- Men 7 familiarized with her new home, and, had it not been for the abyss between them, she would have been perfectly happy. \ The arrangement which Cecil had made be- | handsome girl, I have heard, and destined by tween herself and Mr. Carriscourt remained the same. No brother could have been more de- voted than Mr. Carriscourt was to her; indeed, a brother would have been more affectionately demonstrative. He never kissed her—she often thought of it with bitter intentness—he never had kissed her since the wedding ceremony had been said. He always conducted her to her apartments with the same grave courtesy, never visiting lf | her rooms, unless, as Cecil sometimes did, she | invited him to take lunch in her boudoir. strangely divided life, and was in all things just exactly what Cecil wished him to be, But he never forgot for one moment the dull heartache he experienced, although Cecil failed to read any such signs. He never forgot the pitiful fact that the woman he loved had of her own accord preferred to erect this barrier be- tween them. So their life went on, not unpleasantly, and certainly marked by many enjoyments which Cecil felt not the slightest compunction to re- ceive and give. They had their daily drives and walks. They received their guests, enter- taining elegantly. They performed their social duties promptly, and servants and guests united in emphatically regarding them as a model eget so thoroughly, devotedly, unostentatious- y, and undemonstratively attached ‘to each other. This especial day was in early June, one of that royal month’s most royal days, and despite the beauty of the summer weather Cecil had been unusually weary and dejected all day. In the morning she had driven Mr. Carris- a long détowr home, returning in time for lunch. In the afternoon she had studied her German awhile, in which she was rapidly per- fecting herself. Then she had devoted an hour to hard practice on one of Beethoven’s sofiatas, but even the music did not rest or comfort her, and almost in sheer despair she retired to her rooms. “T am unusually rae and depressed to-day. I wonder why it is so? Iam_nof sick, or ener- vated by the. warm weather, but there is a ter- rible weight upon me, mentally and physically, that even with all my experience of trouble is new. : She walked up and down through her rooms, her lovely head d despondently on her breast, her hands clasped behind her. “*Tt must be because [ have nothing especial- ly depending upon me, because I am wastin all my time in selfishness. Yes! I believe tha is why I am depressed. tion for my head and my hands. I will begin this pa! f day, and, with Kitty’s assistance, I will find my charit children for whom I used to interest myself when I was at Marchbrook.” She summoned Kitty, and finding there was no material in the house suitable for the chari- table sewing contemplated, she had her ponies and carriage a drove to the adjoining village for a supply of muslins, flannels and calicoes, It was sunset before she returned, and she had only time to take her bath, and make her toilet, before Mr. Carriscourt should return from the city. She dressed with unusual care that evening. | and Kitty rapturously insisted sne never had I need actual occupa- | women and sick parish | in brought to the door, and | He never annoyed her by reference to their | court over to the depé6t in her phaéton, making | looked so lovely before as in the delicate silver- | green silk princesse dress, with its moss fringes, | sprinkled with dewdrop beads of cut crystal. | tently, thinking what a perfect creature she was, in all her girlish beauty and grace, and | thinking that it was a duty he owed her to take | her out into the gay world where she might, if possible, forget at least some of her trials and sriefs, at? I sav a friend of mine to-day, Cecil, who is | very anxious to see—my wife. He had read | the announcement of the—marriage in the pa- | pers, and his congratulations were delightful and genuine. He has sent a pressing invitation to you to make a visit at his home. His name is Mr. Griffith Pemberton, and he lives in the | city. You may have heard me mention him before.” “Tdonot remember. If he is your friend, I would be glad to have him for mine as well. you wish.” | “T think you would enjoy such a visit, Cecil. Mr. Pemberton’s niece is with him, his dead sis- ter’s daughter, for whom he searched for years before he discovered her. Shois a remarkably | At dinner, Mr. Carriscourt watched her in- | We will accept Mr. Pemberton’s invitation, if | birth, education and beauty, no less than the mmense fortune to which she will be heir, to become a star in society.” And so, by casual mention, these two women began to gravitate toward each other, all un- tonscious of the Fate that so ordained it. After dinner, Mr. Carriscourt and Cecil ad- journed to the parlor, where, as usual, there was music, and, to-night, a game of chess, Cecil told him of her plans for the poor about Carris Court, and received his cordial indorse- ment, and offers of assistance at any time. Tkey arranged for one or two dinner-parties, and then, the hour being nearly eleven, Cecil, as usual, arose to go, and Mr. Carriscourt es- corted her to her room, leaving her at the door with a quiet good-night. U: simtly he returned to the parlor, or library, but to-night he went directly to his own apart- ments, from where he could hear the soft strains of music from Cecil’s boudoir piano, at which, in ber unusual spell of restlessness, she seated herself, after she had dismissed Kitty for the night. He stood and listened, as one would hearken to melody from the heaven to which he was de- nied admittance, his whole passionate heart in his eyes, in the very attitude of his listening. And while he stood listening the music stop- d, and he turned away from the silence, his ace grave and pale and troubled. Cecil-did not think of sleep, yet. The rest- Yessness that had been partly assuaged came back upon her in full force, and she walked to and fro in a nervous excitement entirely new to er. “‘T foel as if? I never should sleep again! I feel as if something was about to happen to me. Iam alarmed, I know not why. I—’ She had that instant turned in her rapid, ner- vous walk at the extreme rear of the suit of rooms, and, as she raised her head to glance at the clock that hung on the wall, a sudden para- lyzing horror seized her ina powerlessness of ear, for, standing in the middle of the room .whose threshold she was passing, was a man, with menacing, uplifted hand, looking her straight in the eye. ‘Hush! If you value your safety, hush!” And, with a low, agonized moan of horror Cecil the name that almost refused to leave her stammering tongue. ‘Sydney !” It sounded like a whisper from a vault, so hol- low, so horrified, so heart-pitiful. It was enough. That reception of Cuthbert Pemberton told him all he wanted to be told: It at once allayed any misgiving he may have had as to the practicableness of carrying out his diabolical schemes. ; The undisguised fear and horror told him that Cecil believed that it was Sydney Valence who stood before her—Sydney Valence, the man she had married—under the roof with her, and she, the wife of another husband! A merciless smile stirred beneath his heavy mustache, a smile of satisfaction in anticipation of his easy beng A All this while Cecil stood there as if trans- formed to marble, her face deathly white, her blue eyes full of frozen horror, her hands ¢ ed in age: dismay. “Oh, Sydney! “I—I—thought you were— dead! They said you were dead!” She whispered the words that freshly con- firmed his assurance that he had nothing fur- ther to fear from her disbelief in his identity. Ber pitiful, gasping words effectually settled the affair for him. “* But you see it was a mistake. Don’t look so horrified, Ce#. Control yourself.” She walked uncertainly to the nearest chair, and actually fell upon it, trembling in every limb, gazing at the bold, handsome face that seemed to fascinate her with such strange terror. He glanced toward the inner rooms. **Ts your maid yonder?” Cecil shook her head in speechless terror. “You are entirely alone—but for me?” She drew a little quivering breath as she nod- ded again, realizing that she was so awfully, awfully alone. And yet, he was her husband; and yet, she would not, if she could, have arous- ed the household. Poor Cecil! Her heart almost seemed to Te as Pemberton stepped to the door through whic he had come—the door that opened on the pri- vate flight of stairs to the garden below, and which Cecil, in a confused sort of way supposed she must have neglected to secure—and tamed the key in the lock. “You need not be alarmed, Cecil. I have been waiting for an opportunity to see you pri-
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-vately ever sinco that day you saw me on the street. I have much I wish to say to you. First, answer me this one question, Cecil, have you ceased to love me?” CHAPTER XVIL A MAN’S PRICE. Cxrcrt recoiled with perfect horror at the ab- rupt question. ‘Love you—love you !” she gasped, in tones that thrilled with pitiful secornfulness. ‘I never loved you, never! I was a child bound down with the crushing weight of sorrow, and I thought because you urged me to—to marry you, that—that it was love that made me con- sent. But, I never, never loved you, Sydney! Oh, what have I not suffered from that one fatal act! And now, now you come to—drive me Insane—and I was sure you were dead!” ‘* And, from present appearances, very so that it is not as you thought, “Well, Cecil, was only seriously hurt, and although it was given out that I was killed, my friend, the coro- ner, obligingly received a hundred-dollar bill to help keep up the delusion. I had friends, you see, who hated to see me surrendered to justice. In reality, I was ill a long time, delirious and weak. hen I recovered my senses and my strength, my first business was to seek you, which I did—only to find you—married to an- other man.” He looked reproach’ at her, his low, intense words curdling her very blood. “Yes, yes, married to another husband,” she said, wildly, clasping her hands in an ecstasy of awful, realizing terror, ‘‘ married, and you alive!” “You have stated the case exactly, Cecil; how do you suppose I feel—to_come back al- most from the grave, another Enoch Arden— for, since I discovered you, I have haunted you continually. How do you think I feel, Cecil, not only to find you Clyde Carriscourt’s wife, but, to hear a openly declare, almost with loathing, tha bir do not love me, that you never loved me? And yet—you are my wife.” Cecil threw up her hands in a gesture of de- Spair that was heartbreaking to see. **Don’t! Don’t! I cannot bear it! Oh, my ‘God, my , be merciful and show me some way—any yeep escape from this terrible ‘consequence of my unconscious wrong-doing!” _ Pemberton’s vile heart involuntarily throbbed in swift sympathy for the meee despair- ing es ye in her voice, But only for a sec- ond. e next he repeated his quiet, cruel words: “Yes, Cecil, you are my wife—yon—” “TF tell you to be silent! I cannot, I cannot endure this! I—” He interrupted her coolly: ““{ do not see how you can help enduring it, Cecil, It is through no fault of mine that you have placed yourself in the unenviable position of a woman with two_husbands—placed your- Self so that, if, in case T claim you as—” She shrunk away in quivering horror, her sweet face ashen, her blue eyes almost starting from her head, “Claim me—claim me! You dare not do ‘that—oh, you could not be so cruel, so awfully cruel!” He smiled; that made her shiver with repul- sion, and he, the man she had been so mad, so mad as to marry, imagining she loved him! “If you call it cruelty for a man to desire to have his wife,” he said, “‘I call it very natural and proper, apd the laws you have violated would agree with me. Besides—you are a very charming woman, Cecil; any man would be proud of you for his wife.” Her blue eyes were dilating in agony and fear as she listened; then she suddenly sprung from 1 her chair and confronted him. . _ You shall never claim me! I will take my ife in my own hands, and die before your eyes efore I would go to you as your wi’e! Yes—I would let them arrest me for—the crime you say I have committed against the Jaws of. the country—but not against the law of my God, oer Valence!—remember that—remember a All her womanly courage had Aes to the brief contest. Her face glowed palely, her blue eyes shot ont fires of desperate determination as she stood before him in all her sweetness and spirit and grace. His heart thrilled under her intensity of word and dramatic strength of manner. Her spirit and menacing audacity delighted and fascin- ated him as even her beauty had not done. ‘She is a royal creature,” he thought; “a foeman worthy of my steel. Refined, sensitive, pure as an angel, brave yet completely crushed DID SHE. SIN? by the circumstances sie thinks are genuine: just what my ideal woman should be. By the great Jupiter Pluvius, if my cousin Elma were such a creature, ’d marry her off-hand to-mor- row, without a dollar to call her own!” He was the picture of insolent coolness as he sat there, in the very chair Mr. Carriscourt pre- ferred to use on his friendly formal accepta- = of Cecil’s sisterly invitation to lunch or “Very well, then,” he retorted, an evil gleam in his black eyes as he softly caressed his long, luxuriant side-whiskers, ‘‘since you prefer ei- ther death or disgrace to returning to me as my wife, I will select for you—and then, claim you still. Cecil—” ay She interrupted him with an imperious ges- ture of her hand. ‘Please to remember that I prefer to be ad- dressed by the-honorable name by which I am known. rs. Carriscourt, if you please.” Ho smiled, sneeringly. “Yes? It is very immaterial by what name you are called, especially since. you have no more claim to this one than any other you might select at random. But to please you— Mrs. Carriscourt”— and the sneer in his voice appalled her—‘‘I will leave you, for the pre- sent, and seek—Mr. Carriscourt. I dare say he has not retired, or, if he has, he will see me, I think. Rather romantic, isn’t it?’ And this the man she had imagined she loved! He would arouse the house, seo Mr. Carris- court, and thereby bring down upon their heads the terrible ruin she would gladly have given her life to avert. Allher courage forsook her, as’the pitiable con- sequences came faceto face with her. The ashen pailor iS ee on her face again, and the un- speakable anguish to-her blue eyes. Pemberton saw it, and sinited wickedly. “TI thought you would reconsider your de- cision,” he said, coolly. ‘‘Itis not such a licht thing for a woman who has deceived and be trayed one husband by representing herself a maiden, when she imagined herself the widow of a criminal, and in reality was his wife—ta deliberately brave him.” “But I thought you were dead. Everybody thought so. It was a mistake any one under the same circumstances would have made. Be- sides "—and again that undaunted spirit flamed up in her agonized young voice—“ I never really was your wife! You know it was so—that, be- yond the simple marriage ceremony, there was no ——. . “Yes,” Pemberton said, shrewdly followin the lead she was unconsciously giving him, ‘ know that. But I also know thisthat you de- liberately prefer Mr. Clyde Carriscourt, because he is rich and noted, but to whom you have no shadow of a right, for your reputed husband, rather than the criminal whose wife you really are. “T prefer Mr. Carriscourt because he is a noble, true-hearted gentleman, whom no one could help respecting and revering. Oh, go away, go away now! I have only such bitter, deathless dislike and aversion for you.” He smiled slowly—that smile that made her blood change, in feeling, to creeping drops of ice, ‘i m: Is that all? Are you not omitting one emo- on? He straightened from the lazy insolence of his sition, and looked smilelessly, mercilessly, at er. She did not answer, but sat there wonderi = -_ could happen ! er, i ou fear me,” he sid, slowly, emphatically. ‘And it is right a-.. natural you should tear me, lam guiltless in this affair, while you ”— and his voice was as stern and reproachbful as though he had been indeed in solemn earnest— “you have laid a terrible sin on your con- science, sullied your fair honor, deceived and cruelly outraged the trust reposed in you by two men—your two bashed! Yes, you do well to fear.” She had drooped her lovely head on her breast, his words sweeping over her like a storm over a swaying lily. Then she lifted her face, gray to alarmingness. *‘T am not afraid—of what you can do to me. My heart was crushed long ago—it needs a very little more—and £ would welcome it, I would welcome it! But for him—him/ innocent, no- ble, unconscious as he is—the man to whom I gave my latest, truest vows, he shall be spared —because—because—I Jove him, I love him! And I will spare him if I die to do it!” There was a look in her eyes, a ring to her voice, a wild, passionate d ir in her manner, that told this villain he had gone nearly to the end of his tether for that occasion, +7 ‘¢She’s the gamest little creature I ever saw, Sey ove! and the truest woman that ever lived, Ill swear!” he thought, hastily; then aloud: “‘T would not like to drive you to despera- tion,” he said, with thoughtful and admirably assumed gravity. ‘‘ You do not spare me by hesitating to express your feelings toward me, | nor do I see any necessity on my part for con- cealing the motive that brought me here. Ce- cil, you will not deny that you are my wife. You will honestly admit that Mr. Carriscourt has not the shadow of a claim upon you. I will say this—that, while I will never give you up, while I shall insist upon being afforded the privilege of seeing you when and where I choose, I will consent that affairs remain in statu quo—provided—” Cecil’s _ curled in hot scorn and contempt. “Tt is like you! You will buy your silence | with money! My God! To think I ever even ‘cared for this man! Here! Here is money— the price of my peace, the price of his peace! Take it, and go—oh, leave me before I go mad!” She snatched a handful of bills from the little safe near her, and thrust them in his hand, and then, her hands clasping her throat, clutching as if for breath, she saw him bow, coolly, smil- |ingly, as he stood at the head of the flight of | stairs. | ‘You have saved yourself until I see you again, Cecil, my dear! Until the next time— gu revoir!” CHAPTER XVIII. WILL SHE OR WILL SHE NOT? CUTHBERT PEMBERTON’S evil, handsome face wore a smile of elated delight as he hurried down the inclosed flight of stairs leading to Ce- cil’s garden, through which he could readily and silently escape, to the main grounds, and from thence to the small side-gate of whose ex- istence, and infrequent use, and great privacy, he had learned during the few hours of close espionage he had given to Cecil’s surroundings, — a still closer study of the way of reaching er. As has been seen, he was successful—so suc- | eessful that he went leisurely down the stair- way, and through the garden, little imagining thata pair of astonished eyes were watchin him sae ee Carriscourt’s eyes, of a piteous, passionate pain. Outside the gate, on the quiet a road, his horse was picketed—one he had hi from the neighboring village upon his arrival in the afternoon. Hesprung upon him, cram- med the money in his vest-pockets, and galloped back to the tavern, where he told the landlord how charming his romantic ride had been, how beautiful the country was in the solemn mid- night hush, ‘ter *s paid liberally for his ac- commodations, lettin:, ~ word or two drop, ap- parently very inadvertently, about it being a farewell visit to a neighborhood that held pain- ful recolloctions, but which he never e ted to see again; signed his name on the travelers’ register as Sy ney Valence, shook hands with mine host and caught the owl train for the city. Three hours later, he was comfortably en- sconced in his easy-chair in his room at his ho- tel, a cigar between his lips, a pile of bills on the table beside him, on which his eyes gloated jubi- ntly. es have stumbled upon a veritable gold mine,” he thought, triumphantly; “but it was a deuced close risk to take. I was not suse she would not detect the truth that I am not Syd, but it could not have turned out more to my satisfaction than it did. She honestly believes T am her husband, and—Cuthbert, my boy, it will be because you’ve parted with a large por- tion af your mother-wit if she discovers her mis- take in a hurry.” He leaned back in his chair, expiring tiny smoke-wreaths from his mouth, watching them resolve and fade, with a look of intense satis- faction and triumphant self-gratulation on his 2. , “It’s a risky business,” he thought—“ deuced | visky: but I am one of the sort who firmly ‘lieve that ‘nothing venture, nothing have, | What a charming sensation it would make if it | were known in social circles that I, Pemberton lof the clubs, Pemberton of the 5th avenue, nephew of the Grand Mogul, was up to this business! And Carriscourt and the old gentle- ' man on friendly terms, too! By Jove, my boy, youre aot to be precious careful, and wise asa | serpent. ) He laughed lightly, as he tossed his cigar-end away, and carefully counted the money over again, ‘ | ‘*Seven hundred dollars will do very well for
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DID SHE SIN? ”—-T verily believe she is con- toinsist upon occupying sepa- At nine o’clock he breakfasted and then, in irreproachable morning toilet, went to call upon Elma Pemberton, with the determination in his mind to lose no time in making love to | her, and persuading her to marry him. He found her just preparing to go on a shop- ping expedition. The coach and horses, with servants in livery, were awaiting her at the door, and Elma was just stuffing her portemonnaie with the bills Mr. Pemberton ae given her, as Cuthbert stepped into the morning parlor with a graceful, familiar ‘‘Good-morning.” She was looking very handsome and stylish in her toilet of black silk, heavily trimmed with jet fringes. A. massive gold beckines and locket was suspended from her neck, and instead of white lace there was a profusicn of black lace at her throat and wrists—an effect which was re- markably becoming to her pronounced beauty. Her sleeves were several inches shorter than her arms, and her plump wrists were circled with wide heavy bracelets just where her gloves ended. Her hair was a golden crépe mass of puffs and fringe over her forehead, and she wore a fashionable bonnet of black lace and jet. Pemberton took in her elegance of appearance ,at a glance, “She is handsome—there is not a deubt of it, and will attract attention and incite admiration wherever she goes. I would never have need to blush for her, as my wife—and yet, she lacks all that patrician elegance and absolutely high- bred air that she assuredly should possess con- sidering her superior birth. Cecil possesses all | those characteristics, whicl even in her distress are so marked—the grand, proud, beautiful spirited creature! By ore, there only could be a fairy transformation!” Elma snapped her portemonnaie with a pleased, self-satisfied air—unlimited supplies of money, a credit account at Stewart’s and com- mand of all the luxury she desired, was such a delightfully novel experience to her. “You are very welcome, cousin, but you will have to excuse me,” she said, ve to leave you, and I am afraid I shall be gone until quite late.” ‘* That is —let me go with you on your shopping tour? I am a capital escort—patient and a connoisseur in laces and silks, e will have a delightful lunch somewhere, quite téte-d-t(te, and go to the matinee afterward.” Her black eyes sparkled. “ That would be lovely! Yes—you may go. Besides, I want to talk to you.” “You are an angel,” he said, in a low, intense tone that was full of the broad flattery he knew Elma liked. ‘**And I particularly wished for the opportu- nity of having a quiet talk with you, Elma,” he said, after they had taken their seats in the car- riage and the order was given to Stewart’s, ‘*So we are both suited,” she said, gayly. ‘I want to know if you can tell me whether or not my uncle Griffith is obliged to make me his heiress, or—if he chooses, can he leave his pro- perty and money elsewhere—to you, for in- stance?” The boldness of her point-blank qnestion would have epee any other man. As it was, the want of delicacy grated unpleasantly upon him, even while it instantly occurred to him that she had given him the very best possible cue to the attainment of his own ends. He softly stroked his long, jetty silken whis- kers—a habit he had when something was spe- cially at stake. “Since you have seen fit to confide in me suf- ficiently to ask me such a direct family ques- tion, Elma, I will be oacery frank with you, and tell — the precise truth. I am positive that Mr. Pemberton will use his discretion and judgment and inclination in willing his immense ‘TPrqne re “ a T'ten Vryvert* t, act athe, very fow 4 He shrugged his shoulders eloquently. | Pemberton’s black eyes sparkled at her earn- ést question. ‘“*Tt will certainly be one of us. For yourown |sake—I hope, most sincerely, to see you own the Pemberton possessions.” ‘You speak asif you had misgivings.” ment. | ‘* You.should not press me, Elma, to say any- thing which can vex or disappoint you. Let me change the topic somewhat and tell you of a are beautiful.” She blushed slightly, and shot him a furtive glance, and he saw the swift, pale confusion that had been on her face at his first words, dis- appear into intent curiosity. “ T hope you will not think I am hasty or ab- rupt, or that so short an acquaintance does not your grace, your sweetness, have charmed me as no other woman ever has been able to do. I have never considered myself a marrying man for all the many chances that have been offere me. But, you have made me change my mind. You made me love you the moment I saw you. I can think of noth ng but you; Elma, will you marry me?” He was in intense earnest so far as wanting her for her money. He was competent to per- fectly simulate a passion he did not feel. He knew the gitl’s inordinate love fo¥ undiluted compliment, and he measured his length in her favor exactly. She sat looking at him, smilingly, pleased with his wedi speech, and thinking at sounded just like a novel. Instead of accepting him, or paling or blush- ing in the orthodox way, as he certainly ex- pected, Elma looked thoughtfully at him. ‘Then, it is by marrying you that I ay “a the raciously as she | come rich? Then, you are the heir and not gathered up her train scientifically. ‘T really | heiress?” “Do not make me utter such cruel words, 0 cruelof you! Couldn’t you tem- | per mercy with—perhaps deserved justice, and | Elma. Tell me you love me, and will share the riches with me. Such a marriage will be very acceptable to Mr, Pemberton. an enviable position in society. We will en joy ourselves as we please, and I will devote my ii ) to you, Elma. ill you marry me?” he twisted her heavy bracelets in thought- fulness, He was not specially flattered at her manner, and a new fresh feeling of repulsion flashed over him beautiful though she was; and an involuntary thought of Cecil Carriscourt and her loveliness accompanied it, “You must let me consider the honor you have paid me, I like you—very well, cousin Cuthbert, but I am not sure I—care to— Wait afew days, and I will tell you.” And, for the first time, Cuthbert Pemberton respected this girl he was so ready to marry for her money, ‘I must see what I can do to quiet Thorsby,” : Elma told herself as she tumbled the silks on Stewart’s counter. And Pemberton, lounging easily behind her, clever little finesse, CHAPTER XIX, INTO DEEPER WATERS, THAT night, after Mr. Carriscourt had seen the departure of Cuthbert Pemberton from Cecil’s room, he had not as much as thought of sleeping or retiring to bed. His first thought had been that a burglar had forced his way inta the house, but a second glance during he had snatched his pistols from his dressing-bu- | reau, had shown him the utter absence of any appearance of ruffianism in the well-dressed, gentlemanly fellow who wore a boutoniere in is coat. She leaned forward toward him, intent and | /earnest. He pretended an admirable embarrass | way in which you may become as rich as you | warrant me in telling you that you have com. | | pletely captivated me, Elma. Your becuty, | ou will have | was congratulating himself on the suceess ot ais | | His second thought was one of sickening de- spair. A sudden, swift storm of jealousy and rage and all the passion of love he had for nes wife, surged hotly over him, and it was only by | a violent effort at self-control that he restrained himself from rushing to Cecil’s room, demand- ing to know who it was and what it meant, de- manding and upbraiding her, for this secret that, although he had known lay between them, he had never dreamed was—like this! it was only for ene brief moment that he per- aitted bimself to entertain such a suspicion of iue woman he loved so truly. “It is not that—it is not that,” he assured himself, passionately, while his splendid face grew white and haggard with the pitiful vigil | he kept all through the gray night. “There is a secret, a mystery, but my dariing is true and pure as the angels! I will not even think of such a cruel thing—but it is so hard, so | hard upon me!” He went down to breakfast, his fair face | showing that he had passed a sleepless night, ind his eyes full of a gravity that was deeper than their usual expression, but his manner to- ward Cecil was unchanged—friendly, pleasant end devoted as usual, despite the look he saw in aer eyes that betokened the misgivings of her mind—the natural consequence of the events of the preceding night. Several times during breakfast Cecil happen- rd to meet his glance—and it made her shrink with fear and pain, so full of a wistful, passion- ately stern inquiry it was, Could he have any suspicion? Was it possible that he had guessed the truth? Was it possible that he had obtained a clew to her pitiful secret? And her heart beat fast and wildly as she strug- pen to maintain a composure she was so far rom feeling. Mr. Carriscourt did not intimate by any sign his knowledge of her visitor of the evening pre- viously, but after breakfast was over he ordered | the horses and carriage as usual for their morn- ing drive, and was in every respect the same levoted brother, so that Cecil’s horrible, momen- lary misgivings vanished, and, in spite of the actual misery that confronted her, her girlish _ hope and spirits rose, and she was more joyous | than usual, bewitching Mr. Carriscourt with her loveliness and graciousness into even deeper love for her than ever. “Tf only I can succeed in keeping the truth from him, if only I am able to spare him,” Cecil | told herself; ‘“‘something may happen—some- ing must happen, to bring about my escape. t will try to patient and trustful in God, who knows I never meant to offend Him.” And so, from noble, sweet conscientiousness, Cecil strove to do the best she could, and the intercourse between herself and Mr. Carriscourt | grew daily into a more beautiful and abiding viendship, that had in it nothing of restraint in their brotherly and sisterly relations, As the days went on, and Mr. Carriscourt, watching her still closely, saw her exquisite wo- manliness, and tender graciousness of manner that only befitted the truest and best of women, | he became more and more convinced that al- though it had been ill-advised in Cecil to have received her guest in her private sitting-room, me she certainly had some good m for it. till, he could not but feel sore at knowing how debarred he was from her confidence. ‘*She does not confide in me because I have not yet gained her trust and her affection. She perhaps incurred some little bills preparatory 10 our marriage, and the tradesman has been re- yuested to apply thus secretly. And yet—it is aot like Cecil to do even that.” The days passed—in the usual routine of light ‘uties and social obligations. There was a | grand dinner-party at Carris Court, at which becil was unu charming and attractive, and Mr. Garriecourt noted with new, eager de- | hight, how sweet, and innocently gay she was, fascinating her guests just as she fascinated him. After they had gone, late that night, they two stood alone beside the open French window, look- ing out into the exquisite summer night—Mr. Carriscourt thinking how he loved this girl at his side, despite everything, how he would have es: to take her to his heart and caress her and kiss her as he was so wishfully yearning to do, And Cecil, looking out into the starlighted warmth and fragrance was wondering—would such happiness as, somehow, this night’s influ- ence stirred within her, ever be verified? Or, would that terrible unclosed chasm ever yawn between her and thisman wkose tones and looks stirred her pulses so fiercely. Almost suddenly, Carriscourt stepped close up
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i DID SHE SIN? 20 her, looking down at her face that was so {palely radiant in the dusk. “Cecil, little wife? Is it always to go'on thus? I have tried to be patient—but is there no hope for me—yet?” ts She blushed, vividly, and gave him just, one swift glance before she dropped her lids over her blue eyes. Then he saw the blush fade into a set- tied pain of pallor that, for a day or two had somewhat lifted from her sweet face. He lifted ter hand that lay on the little inlaid table, just inside the curtains, and touched it to his lips—a tender, devoted affection that made her heart throb. Then she drew her hand gently away, and then—she glanced up with an expression in her face that delighted and puzzled him, so full of a passion she could not control, yet so eloquent of pitiful, wistful pain. “Tt is late,’ she said, gently. ‘‘I must go, ‘Mry Carriscourt. Good-night.” All the sweet sudden hope faded from his face, but he accepted her gentle little reproof, and as usnal, escorted her to her door, and then, not feeling in the least like retiring, extinguished all the gas-jets but one, and, turning that down to a tiny yellow point, he drew an easy-chair to the open window, and among the dim shadows, and alone with the starlight and the silence and the fragrance of the night, suffered his thoughts to dwell upon Cecil. While Cecil, retired to her rooms, found them in charge of Kitty, whom, as had been her custom of late, she dismissed as soon as she en- tered her apartments for the night. 2 As usual, to-night, she expected a visit from the man she believed to be her husband—as she had expected every night in a sort of terror, ever since he had been there. “Tf I only had never been so mad!” she told herself, bitterly, as she sat wearily downina little low silken easy-chair, “Tf cannot undo the past, but, I can spare him,” and a swift, passionate look flashed into her eyes as she impulsively lifted them to a splendid portrait of Mr. Carriscourt that hung over her mantile-shelf, a picture whose eyes seemed to pierce to her very soul. She arose from her chair, and stood beneath the portrait, her hands clasped in a dumb eloquence of tender- ness, her whole gesture full of adoration—just as Pemberton’s voice startled her, in a sneering, freezing tone:. — ‘Ahi T hope I am not de “4 Cecil?” » Although she had schooled herself to be pre- red to meet him at any time, still thesound of voice startled her, at the door she erepeety: left unlocked till a late hour every night, rather than perhaps disturb the servants or Mr. Carris- court by asummons, however faint. She did not him, but left her position in front of Mre Carriscourt’s picture, for the same one she had occupied upon the occasion of his former visit—the little low chair immediately near the locked door of the rooms occupied by Mr. Car- riscourt, the key of which was in her hand, For she was afraid of Pemberton, for all she honest- ly thought he was Sydney Valence. There had some strange inexplicable difference taken place in him during those months since she had thought him dead. Whether it was really a change for the worse, or whether she simply saw him as he was, in the om of her associa- tion with a man so infinitely his superior, Cecil could not satisfy herself. She only understood more and more keenly the utter insanity of which she had been capable, the terrible, h fore her, and “The less work of endurance unreasoning fear and repulsion which she en- tertained for him. He came forward, tossin his cane and hat familiarly on the lounge, an took a chair somewhat nearer her than he had ventured upon before. | “You were expecting me, I see,” he said, easily, taking a lingering, admiring look at her elaborate dinner totlette of white silk and costly lace. ‘*You are dressed fit to see a prinee, Cecil; may I venture to thank you for compli- menting me so charmingly?” His half insolent, wholly free language en- raged her. Her lips curled in a scorn that he felt to his very ta d “* Any such remarks are entirely unnecessary. And I will inform yeu now, once for all, sir, that if you utter a syllable that, by the sraallest construction I can place upon it, is other than courteous, I will arouse the house, utterly re- eee of the consequences. You will remem- you are here only on sufferance, and that, at my pleasure, your Visits cease.” She was glorious in her spirit and postin and Pemberton eyed her with undisguised admira- ion, ** Every different mood suits vou better and Mole ull.» ,” he said. but there was a look ‘ of fury in his black eyes Cecil saw was very widely at variance with his words. ‘You had better weigh your words, Cecil,” he went on; ‘‘you will allow me to suggest that a husband | spair Clyde Carriscourt ever could have even” has a perfect right to say **T am not your wife!’ “‘T am not your wife! Never, for one moment did I occupy that law, to-day, Iam free of you; you are dead to the law, you are an escaped criminal, you do not dare—” He interrupted her, coldly: ** Enough—please, Cecil! We have been over that same ground before, and settled it. You say I do not dare; let me assure you again—J dare do anything—and if you defy me with your threats, and tantalize me by your capri- ciousness, you will learn that I am a man whose will is my law.” to his wife just—” in earnest than Pemberton was, and he thorough- ly succeeded in making Cecil feel that such was the case. ‘*T would rather my occasional visits would be of a more pleasant nature,” he added, more gent- ly, as he leaned comfortably back in the chair. “Tt rests entirely with you, Cecil, to make them so. It seems difficult for me to reconcile you with the gentile, loving girl who married me.” If she disliked blue eyes ari 4 and she elutch room with the desperation of a drowning man grasping the one safety within reach, ‘You must not remain any longer,” she said, struggling bravely with herself. ‘‘ You have come—for money, of course. I have only a very little, but you may have it—to go.” He frowned. ‘Only a little! I_must have what I want, understand, Cecil. You are the ostensible wife of a very rich man, and I expect you to hand. somely indemnify me for the privilege he enjoys through my good will, You must be prepared for me at all times, Cecil—if you cannot raise the cash by one means then use another, I leave it to your woman’s wit. To-night, I will take what you have, but, remember, I shall ex- pect five hundred dollars when I come again— say in a couple of weeks.” Cecil gave a little involuntary exclamation of astonishment, “* It will be impossible—absolutely impossible! You ask of me what no woman could grant. I have already used my allowance for the quarter up on you, and it is absolutely impossible for me to obtain more money.” “Very well,” he returned, quietly. as you pices of course, Only, you will have five hundred dollars ready for me in just—say, three weeks from to-night, or I will demand you of Mr. Carriscourt and compel you to go with me as my wife.” She managed to control the desperate struggle within her, and handed him the small roll of bills—the last dollar of the princely amount Mr. Carriscourt had put in her Vittle safe, with the Carriscourt jewels, the day they arrived at Car- ris Court. He took them, and coolly counted them, be- fore he put them in his vest-pocket. “Thanks, Three weeks, please remember, I have fastidious tastes which Mr. Carriscourt must gratify if he prefers to possess you rather—” “Hush! Hush!” she said, gaspingly. ‘ You are a heartless, atrocious villain—too outrageous and depraved to let live! Leave my room, or in sheer desperation I will ring for—my hus- band!” She flung the words defiantly at him, quiver- ing from bead to foot, and, as before, Pember- ton saw it was the better part of valor to re- 8. “Do not excite yourself,” he said, with a smile that curdled her blood, as ho leisurely reached for his hat and cane, and walked over to the door leading to the flight of stairs—di- rectly over the window at which Mr. Carris- court was sitting in the quiet darkness. A pcre night, my dear Cecil—although not so delightful as your lovely room and your company. Au revoir, Cecil.” ‘ And a numb, hideous nightmare seemed to paralyze every nerve and muscle in Mr. Carris- court’s body, as, distinctly as he had heard the easy, devoté voice, he saw the tall, elegant fig- ure depart—the very same he had seen before! And all through the rest of the hours of dark- ness, Mr, Carriscourt kept his lonely, agonized vigil. Just osition. In the eyes of the | No man could have appeared more absolutely | and was repulsed by him when | he was defiant and sarcastic, she was filled with | sick horror and fear when he assumed the réle | of the affectionate, disappointed lover. Her | dilated with anguishfal alarm, | ad the key to Mr. Carriscourt’s | fectly natural. | | | | ! 19 CHAPTER XX. A MAN’S LOVE. THAT was a night of the keenest agony of de~ imagined. All through its silent darkness he she flashed out fiercely. | Sat there, trying to reason his way out of the pitiful maze into which he had come, but there was no way opened to him. All argument with himself ended where it began, in sharp, sicken- ing dismay, and the gray morning of a dull, sultry summer day brought him no hope or re- iets or even respite from this woe that had set- tled upon him. Of course, it was imperative that he should speak to Cecil about it—it would have been more or less unhuman had he kept si- lence longer, even as it was. now unnatural to longer give Cecil the benefit of his former doubt, that her midnight visitor was a creditor —which was the worst construction Mr. Carris- court had dreamed of placing upon the affair. But—the second visit, the easy, familiar part- ing on the side of her caller, her own quiet re- ception and acceptance of his light, half-endear- ing words—and the memory made his hand- some face grow sterner and more desperate | above its haggard pallor. He bathed, and made a fresh toilet, and then went down to the breakfast-parlor, where Cecil was already before him, arranging eut flowers on the table, and he noticed the weary anxiety on her sweet face, with a pang of fierce, over: whelming be Nag : ‘“‘Great God—how can I think ill of ker? J] will not—I will not—and yet—” It all rushed pitifully over him again, and he could not restrain the coldness that crept into | his voice as he bade her good-morning, bowing gravely as he took his seat opposite her. The servants attended them, and Mr. Carris. court went through the pretense ot esting, his egg and muffin and coffee, and reading his mail, while Cecil, as was her custom, chatted a little, and was gracious and lovely. Then, the servants retired, and breakfast fin ished, Mr, Carriscourt, instead of his usual cus- tom of orderirg Cecil’s ponies and phaéton. ard inviting her to drive him to the Marchbrook dep6t, walked up beside her, as she stood before a lovely vase of roses and ferns. “Cecil, I would like you to give me an hour of your time, at home, this morning, whenever it is convenient for you.” His quiet, cold gravity struck a chill of terror to her very soul, and with afresh thrill of dis- may, he saw the look expressed on her face as she bowed, , ‘*T am at liberty any time, Mr. Carriscourt. Will you remain here, or shall I see you in my own sitting-room?” “Thank you—in your private room, immedi- ately, since one hour is as convenient to you as another.” The bitterness in his tone was so plainly evi- dent to Cecil, it seemed to her her muscles and nerves would refuse to carry her to her boudoir, so deathly weak and faint she suddenly felt— for, of course, Mr. Carriscourt must have known of her visitor the night before, or else— why this portentous sternness and displeasure? And it was this she had dreaded so fearfully— ‘this for which she had lived in constant fear and trembling all these weeks since her wedding day. Silently they walked a ny the hall and u the stairs to Cecil’s room, her heart sinking wi every step, until, when she finally entered the room, she sunk down in the nearest chair, pros- trated and pale. What was about to happen? What would he say to her? Would he reproach her, scorn her, and then—spurn her from the house, from his heart, as one all unworthy to associate with him? Great, fierce, scorching pangs seemed wrench- ing her heart asunder in those few minutes that she sat there in perfect silence, while Mr. Carriscourt stood leaning against the mantle, looking at the lovely pallid face, on which was so plainly written a weary despair and anguish, very greatly at variance from the confusion, and fear, and shame that would have been per- Nor was there any bold defiance on Cecii’s sweet angen face, but a patient hopelessness that read strangely to his stern, cold eyes. “It is better that Icome straight to the gist of the matter at once. il, as the man you promised to love, honor and obey, I resigned my share of the former in compliance with your request, which, at the time, 1 was at somewhat of a loss tocomprehend. But, as your husband, and with the authority of your husband, I come to you this morning to insist that you end this mystery between us, and give me—the name of the—gentleman—whom you dismissed at mid- night, yesterday.”
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20 , His voice was sharp with cold, bitter stern- ness, and it cut poor Cecil to her very soul. She shrunk further back in her chair, and he saw the deathly pallor deepen on her face, and the agonized fluttering of her hands at his words, Then he had seen Pemberton leave ber room, and he thought—! The sharp agony of being for an instant un- der his suspicion was like death to her pure, , sweet pride, and yet—what else would any one ‘ have thought? “Tt is part of the price I have to pay, part of | ‘my punishment,” she thought, in a confused, desperate way. Then she lifted her piteous face and sorrowful, beautiful eyes in a gaze that, 7 himself, went thrilling hotly to his very soul. ‘Mr. Carriscourt! You look as though you | thought—as though you thought—I—I—had— | had—” She faltered pitifully. ‘Tell me the name of the man whom you ad- | mitted to your rooms, at midnight, your private rooms to which I am denied admittance!” There was no use trying to prevent the deter- mination Mr. Carriscourt showed for an answer to his pointed question, so full of stern, cold pas- sion, and yet, with a shiver of pain. Cecil knew she could not give him his answer—the answer that would forever blast his happiness and crush him into hopeless disgrace. “*T cannot tell you, Mr. Carriscourt,” she said, simply, yet with more couragein the effort than she hed ever in all her life before, used. His face darkened in a sudden wrathfulness, **T demand your answer.” Then Cecil lifted up her head with the first de- fiance she had shown—but in which a great, de- spairing woe was strangely mingled. “And I refuse, positively, to answer you.” Their eyes met in a look such as had never oc- eurred before, and the anger and icy sternness and pitilessness in his face fitettened leo into a dunn terror—and yet—she would suffer every- Thing rather than let him know his own posi- Yion. She would die, under the withering scorn of hissuspicions, rather than not spare him—this man she loved better than life. And yet ifshe only might save herself in his aight! If only she might succeed in making him know the pitiful mystery was not what he —thought! Her thoughts were taking more intelligible form of decision when his quiet, awfully pas- sionless tones addressed her: ** Cecil, last night was the second time I saw this man leave your rooms at midnight. The first time I said nothing to you of it, thinking it might have merely been—well, that is of no con- sequence. But last night I heard him bid you d-night, as no man unprivileged has a Sar to bid you good-night. Cecil—it can mean but one thing. Do-you know what it means?” Her face did not flush under his cold, stern eyes, but a heart-breaking quiver trembled on her lips as she looked pleadingly, sorrowfully at m. “Oh, yes, I know what you must think,” she opeless, touching way, ‘‘ but—it is Maker in heaven hears and judges me as I speak—I have never disgraced t-o name you have given me. as that I am alive and speaking to you.” His eyes suddenly darkened with sharp an- guishful misery. ‘* Cecil, then what am I to think? For God’s sake, I beg, I pray you to tell me what you said, in a not so! As m mean? Give me the name of the man who dares , come to your room,” She shook her head sorrowfully, looking | straightly, steadily at him with such despairing | es. eT cannot tell you, I cannot explain. Oh, | believe me—that, Mr. Carriscourt, believe me, although I cannot defend myself—although iq dare not tell you the miserable secret that * separates us—oh, for God’s sake, believe me that, although I am not worthy of you, as I have told you before, I am as innocent of—what ou think, as pure as the day I was born—oh, Mr. Carriscourt, for God’s sake, believe me!” Her voice rung out with thrilling, eM 2° energy, truth stamped on every syllable, and on every feature of her sweet, eager face. **T do believe it,” he answered, oe ig et *T do not think I really for a second thought differently in my very heart. But the mystery —the damning suspicion—” “Yes, yes,” she interrupted, hastily; ‘I know, ad if you knew all, you would turn me from your door in contempt and bitter hatred! And yet, I swear before my God, I have never sulli against you or your aoe” That is as true. your name, or, even in thought, sinned | fa atm a He stood looking at her, believing every syl- lable she uttered as though an angel from Hea- | ven had visibly dictated it. But, she confessed her unworthiness, admitted ‘the unexplainable mystery, and his own eyes had seen and his own ears had heard! Cecil sat, waiting for him to speak, her lovely head drooped, her hands clasped on her lap, wondering if it would be—praying it might not be, that the verdict he would give would—kill her, because it thrust her from him. His voice was full of sharp anguish when he ke, and hoarse with suppressed feeling. ‘*Tt is a terrible position in which you place me, Cecil. I cannot accept your declaration of unworthiness, and yet I know there is some mystery connected with you. I cannot set aside our marriage vows further than I have done; thé wretched farce must continue, more I must let you go on, just | wretched than ever. please, keeping the barrier still between us— | because, Cecil, I believe you, as I believe in God’s angels. I deny the evidence of my own senses, the promptings of my jealous heart, and take your word—because, Cecil, you are the woman I love, the wife to whomT shall cling, to idolatry, to blind madness!” His voice quivered with the great passion he could not restrain, and Cecil, in a swift, pas- sionate impulse, sprung to him, and caught his hand and pressed it to her lips. to me!” ‘*No—I am good to myself,” he went on, as if the unusual caress were more than he felt he could er.dure calmly. best of, and I once told you it would be my duty as well as highest privilege to make it as pleasant to you as possible. So,” and the weari- ‘if you would like, let us either accept the in- vitation I told you my friend Pemberton gave us, to visit him, or go for a few weeks to the seaside. The warm weather is actually on us, now, and you need the change.” She looked troubled at his kindly suggestion. She was thinking how impossible it would be for her to leave Carris Court, lest her tormentor should find her gone, on one of his visits, and in his disappointment and anger reveal himself to Mr. Carriscourt. And Mr. Carriscourt, seeing the anxious, troubled look on her face, attributed it to an- other cause. “Tf you fear there would be any awkward- ness in our visiting, Cecil, owing to our—pecul- iar relations, you are at perfect liberty to sub- stitute your own plans for mine. If you prefer to remain here, and invite guests to Carris Court—” A look of relief flashed into her eyes, and as “The life that is before us must be made the | ness and gravity crept back to the tones again, | as you choose, carrying your secret as you | in whom I shall trust to the end—whom I love | CHAPTER XXI. WHO WAS SHE? ALTHOUGH some little time had been allowed by Cuthbert Pemberton to pass by since he had made his proposal of marriage to Elma, he had not been unimproving the time. He had been the very model of a suitor—pa- tient, with a suppressed intensity of mingled doubt_and hope that worked very favorably Ke ter Elma, who thoroughly enjoyed this state of passionate suspense in which she supposed her lover was suffering all the pangs of the. occa- sion. He had once or twice made delicate allusions to the answer he wanted, and at the same time that he expressed his regret at the trying delay to him in learning his happiness or his wretch- edness, he finely and daintily complimented Elma on the discretion of her judgment in weighing the matter so seriously. : Meanwhile, his other equally important affair at Carris Court was progressing perfectly to his satisfaction, and on the money Cecil had given him he was living like a lord, thereby adding si- lent evidence to what he had told Elma, that he was already a rich man, as well as prospective heir of the Pemberton estate. Despite Elma’s tardy resolve on the matter, | she had thought of little else since Cuthbert had made his offer. She knew she had failed to make a desirable impression upon her uncle Griffith, she had learned that the money need | not be left to her except at that gentleman’s op- ‘Oh, how good you are, how good you are | tion, and she had been frankly told that it was | his =e intention to make his grand-nephew hastily, and drawing his hand away from her, | his heir. Everything, so far as judgment went, pointed | her to accept Cuthbert’s offer, and, had she had she suddenly comprehended his thoughts, she , flushed warmly. ‘‘Thank you. That would suit me much bet- ter. I would like you to invite your friend Mr. Pemberton and his niece to come to us for a fortnight, or two other friends.” “Very well,” he said, consider that arranged. I ton and include his nephew also in the invita- tion. We will entertain our guests as best we can, and perhaps can somewhat forget our sonal troubles in the duties of hospitality. d there is just one other matter. Cecil.” She looked up at sound of the tender pleading in his tone as he called her name, ‘IT want you to promise me this one favor— you will not see that man again? You value /my good opinion? You care to please me? Then promise me.” Her face kindled as she met his look. ‘“*T would rather die than lose your good opin- ion, Mr. Carriscourt,” she said, ardently; then | the old pitiful pallor crossed her face again, as | she added wearily—‘“‘ but I cannot promise you. If—he comes, I must—see hi to—whenever he chooses.” | He looked at her a second, a perfect storm of | emotion in his soul. “Very well,” he said, coldly. ‘And I shali make it my business to see that he comes but | once more,” | And when he had gone, leaving Cecil alone gravely. “We will | with this new burden on her poor crushed heart, | she walked up and down her room in intensest | /nervous excitement, her hands clasped, her | streaming eyes full of woe and wretchedness bal aac where or how or when it would all | end, him. I am—obliged | and I will send for Mr. May, and one | will see Mr. Pember- | re | | | _ afford to overlook her little tempers. only her ambition and pride and vanity to con- i she would have landed her fish long before this. But—there was Thorsby, and whatever influ- ence the girl was under, it manifested itself by a look of dismay, and a feeling of mingled fear and rage whenever she thought of him. She was thinking of him, wondering whether | or not she would dare rise up in defiance, and by one bold grasp secure to herself all the golden | goods the gods were proffering. The summer day was deepening into twilight, and all the windows were open to welcome the fresh north-west breeze that stirred lazily through the rooms, swaying the lace draperies in slow, graceful motions. Outside on the balcony, the flowers bloomed and gave forth their delicate fragrance, the awnings were drawn up, and Elina could see from her bamboo rocker across the wide ave- nue, and to the — sky above. She was fully dressed for dinner, and sat la- zily rocking and playing with her fan, her black eves holding an gansually thoughtful look; and Miss Ogden, apparently busy with some trifle of lace crocheting, wondered, as she glanced oc- nen gacpe at her, what it was that so engrossed er. A tap on the door, answered promptly by Miss Ogden’s ‘‘ Enter,” was followed by the en- trance of Fletcher, sleek, gentlemanly as usual. Elma looked impatiently from him to Miss Ogden, wholly ignoring his suave bow. ‘How often am I to intimate that I do not want this man coming to my room?” Fletcher’s lips suddenly compressed, and a flash shot from his eyes. **E¥lma!” Miss Ogden exclaimed, entreating- ly, but the girl only fixed her bright eyes dis- ainfully on Fletcher’s inscrutable face. “Miss Pemberton finds it difficult to adapt . herself to her new position, that is all, Miss Og- den. I think, under the circumstances, I can Besides, my object is a purely disinterested one in eall- ing upon you—and before I go I think Miss Elma will admit it.” Elma looked coldly at him, but, her curiosity was already somewhat aroused, and she un- bended to a trifle more graciousness, “‘If you have anything to say to me, say it. I will listen.” A vestige of a smile crept to Fletcher’s lips at her imperious condescension, but he prompt- ly restrained it, and took a chair at a con- venient distance =e Miss Ogden’s invitation. “T came to speak of—Mr, Cuthbert Pember- ton, Miss Elma. He has seen fit to honor me with his confidence, regarding the one dearest wish of his life, and although he pledged me to secrecy I feel I am better doing my duty to serve him and his interests, as I have never fail- ed to serve the interest/of his family, by speak-' ing to youon the subject of—his attachment for ou, Miss . F His suave, conciliatory tone had no effect ( ‘\ y | )
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DID SHE SIN? whatever upon her. She colored angrily and met his cold eyes with a furious glance. “You would have saved your reputation as a person to be confided in if you had kept your promise to Mr. Cuthbert Pemberton, What- ever interests him or myself can by no possi- bility be any business of yours.” Miss Ogden looked apprehensively at him, but his impenetrable expression gave no hint of the cut the girl’s insolence had given him. “Tt is merely a matter of opinion, Miss Elma,” he returned, quietly. ‘“‘Allow me to continue, that, so far as Mr. Cuthbert is con- cerned, he is well-born, well-bred, popular, handsome, and will be the richest young man of his day when his uncle dies. He will be—as he is now, in fact—a great prize, and—” Elma tossed her head in an indifferent, half- eoquettish way—the low instinct in her to herald her triumph being too strong to re- strain. **Oh, you needn’t tréuble yourself to enume- rate his charms, or to plead his cause. He is amply able to speak for himself. He has al- ready proposed to me.” A gleam of triumph that was actual relief and ecstatic delight gleamed in his cold, pale eyes, and he lifted his hand to his mouth to con- ceal a smile that parted his thin, evil lips. He had expected to find much trouble in feeling his way to the knowledge of whether Cuthbert Pemberton had asked Hlma to marry him; he had prepared himself for difficulties and insults before he reached the facts; and here—he was in possession of what he desired to know almost at the outset, and because he had succeeded so well in aroustfig the girl’s meaner nature, ‘Miss Ogden smiled, joyfully, i “Oh, Elma, is it possible? Mr. Cuthbert has roposed marriage! What a splendid prospect ies before you as his wife, My dear, I heartily congratulate you?” Elma laughéd, éarelessly. “Don’t go into theatri¢als, Miss Ogden, and pray don’t make a laughing-stock of yourself, se | haven’taccepted Cuthbert Pemberton, Bub you will, Miss Elina?’ . Fletcher spoke the few words with a quiet in- tinuation that infttiated the girl, all accustomed as she was to utterly ignore the slightest inno- vation on bér liberty of opinion. “What do you mean by speaking to me like that=-and you a hired servant in this house of ich I shall one day be mistress, whether or ‘io? Remember your place, and keep your ad- vice until you are asked for it.” She was thoroughly angry, and in proportion to her anger and impudence, Miss Ogden me nervous and frightened. “Elma, Elma, you must not speak so to Mr. Fletcher—indeed you must not! He isa good friend to you, and if you—” “T will not listen to another word! I tell you I will not be dictated to by either of you. You are both hired servants, and I will have you dis- charged if you repeat the offense. Do you un- derstand me?” Her eyes were flashing like ebony fires, and ned passion was written on every fea- ture of her face. Miss Ogden had put her handkerchief to her eyes and was trembling with dismay; and Fletcher, with his impassive face, and cold, inscrutable eyes, suddenly arose from his chair and walked over to the door and turned the key in the lock, and then returned and took up a pour, standing, di- rectly in front of Elma, who, through sheer as- tonishment at his peculiar, deliberate manner, was hushed into a strange expectancy. “Miss Elma ”—and there was something in the tones of his low, quiet voice that was ter- rible oa a. Miss Elma, we ~~ ay no more ying at cross-purposes, ou will ac- cept Mr. Cuthbert Pemberton’s offer of mar- riage, and you will accept it inside of twenty- four hours, Miss Ogden fairly held her breath at sound of the low-spoken, authoritative words, while El- ma looked at him, nearly speechless with fury and astonishment. “-You—insolent—” She did not proceed any further in her breath- less defiance of retort, for Fletcher coolly inter- ‘rupted her, a slow, wily smile creeping to his mouth. “You will do pe he I say, Miss Elma. ‘You may spare yoursel pf Dey deal that will y be unpleasant if you quietly obey me, Other- wise—” She sprung wildly to her feet, “Obey you! obey you !” She would have screamed the words in’ her ungovernable rage had not a lock from Fletcher’s eyes actually frizhtened her. ~ — — “‘ Be sensible, and listen to what I intend you shall hear, and, as I said, and repeat—obey. You have made a slight mistake in defying me, young lady. I hoped and intended to be your friend and adviser, but since you refuse to ac- cept me as such, I shall institute myself your mmaster, and as such, fully intend to be obeyed.” **Oh—you horrible—creature! I will tell—” He interrupted her gasping,-vindictive words again, even more imperiously than before. “Hush! Not pa syllable. You will not tell any one a word of what has passed in this room, and, you will accept Cuthbert Pemberton for your husband, not only because you are not to be Mr. Pemberton’s heiress, and Cuthbert is to be, but, because—” He hesitated, and cast a grim, penetrating look at Miss Ogden, whose handkerchief had dropped from her pale, alarmed face. She an- swered him with a look of consternation. ‘*T am sure Elma will think better of it, and agree to accept Mr. Cuthbert,” she said, almost tremblingly, and Elme’s lip curled scornfully. **T will never—never be forced into marrying anybody, and neither one of you can make me consent!” “Very well, then. I find I am compelled to tell you something I never intended you should know—something that, unless I am greatly mis- taken in my estimate of you, will change your opinion in regard to marrying a man of wealth and “bem ion. *‘Listm. Unless you marry your suitor, all hope for you is over, for—if Mr. Griffith Pem- berton knew what I know, and what Miss Ogden knows, he would drive you out of this house within an hour. You are not his sister’s child, YOU aie rot his niece |” : For onco ta her life, the girl was completely taken aback. Her eyes looked from his terrible, stern face to Miss Ogden’s pale, affrighted one, “*J—I—don’t know what you mean,” she stammered, **No, you don’t know what IT mean, and in all human probability you never will know the secret we two have carried many years and will carry to the end f our lives. know, but—you will obey implicitly. derstand me?” There was no possibility of misdoubting him. The awful truth was written too plainly on ls grim face, in his firm, resolute words, lis quiet, compelling manner that carried positive convic- tion with it. She felt a deathly sinking of her courage, her ever ready fearlessness and defiance; she grew cold and quaking in every limb. “*T cannot—seem—to—grasp it. not able to—say—anything now—” He smiled, satisfiedly. “TItis not necessary that you say anything. The proofs I might give you of the truth of my assertion areabsolutely undeniable, irrefragable. You will do well to quietly accept my state- ment, and—without further delay, accept the offer of marriage under consideration.” He withdrew, and by the time dinner was an- nounced Elma had removed all outward traces of her emotion, and went down to the table, in almost ber usual manner. You un- I—I—am— CHAPTER. XXII INTO THE NET, OR OUT OF IT, DINNER was over in the Pemberton mansion, and Elma and Mr, Griffith Pemberton adjourn- ed to the aia By, 2 hted parlors, where shortly afterward, Cuth joined them, and still later, Miss Ogden. It was the first time for a couple of days that Cuthbert had called at the house, and Mr. Pem- berton’s face lighted gladly at sight of him. ‘*You have n quite desc.ting us, lately, my dear boy, but Iam pleased to see you. i begins to feel like getting away to the seaside, and I was just about to tell Elma my plans for the summer, but now that you have come, sup- pove you and she arrange what would suit you st. An unusually gentle mood was upon Mr, Pem- berton that evening. He had dued antes in Elma’s manner, during dinner, that pleased him, and he was ready and glad to accept it as asign that she would and could change her manner and characteristics, And it was , ate like him to go fully half-way toward accomplishing such a desirable end—consequent- ly be had devoted himself particularly to Elma, and yet, with a strange inconsistence for which he chided himself, he could not help feeling a sense of relief when his nephew came in to re- lieve him. Cuthbert shook hands with him, and then ad- vanced to Elma, whose eyes kindled at sight of him. He took her han , retaining it a second You never will | observed asub- | in a meaning pressure, and then, dropping it, took a seat near by. At Mr. Pemberton’s request, Elma played for them, in her usual brilliant style a Cuthbert leaned comfortably back in his chair, watching her, and thinking what a glorious stroke of for- tune he would accomplish in marrying this girl and securing all that she represented. She was gern, 2 extremely handsome this evening, her toilet being a light summer silk of a peculiar shade of amethyst that set off her black eyes and yellow hair to perfection. Her face was less saucy and indepenusnt in expres: ° | sion than usual, and a grave, half-puzzled | thoughtfulness in her eyes mellowea their dark- | quietly, listening between times to the ness most agreeably. After she had ably executed a Chopin’s polo- naise, she requested Cuthbert to sing, which he did, accompanying himself in a beautiful little aria from ‘* Mignon,” that showed the pleasant quality and admirable cultivation of his tenor voice. Mr. Pemberton and Miss Ogden conversed oung people, and then, Mr. Pemberton excused him- self, as was his usual custom, and retired to his | library. Miss Ogden drew a low satin easy-chair to the rear balcony and stepped out, to enjoy the lovely evening, she would have said, but really | to give Cuthbert Pemberton the opportunity to. | renew his proposal. | weeks ago I | to consider my suit. | must answer me to-night. The music over, the two young people saun- tered over to the front balcony, that lay all in shadow, and as they stood there a moment, Cuthbert seized his opportunity—for it was with this express purpose in view he had come to-night, ’ ; * You must know it is eruel to keep me in sus- pense any longer, Elma,” he said, taking up the oretty plump hand whose rings sparkled in the fight, and caressing it gertly. ‘Nearly tywo laid my heart and hand and name and prospects at your feet, and you promised Elma, my darling, you Iam ina state of uncertainty that renders me unfit for business or DS comes 1 can think of nothiug but you and my love for you, night orday. Lamina perpetual state of torment lest I shall lose you, the only ‘woman in the world I ever loved. Elma—you must settle this now. My dearest, you will give yourself tome? You will be my wife?’ His apparently perfectly truthful words were such an admirable forgery of the genuine pas- sion of which he did not feel a spark, that Elma was pleased and flattered anew, and yet, her inherent unrefinement of nature made it impos sible for her to take her cue from him and an swer in equally elegant manner. “Of course you are in doubt and uncertainty,, cousin Cuthbert, and it was my intention you should be. Anybody that wants me has got to be pretty sure of it, Ican tell you—and judg- ing from appearances, you want me very nuch.” He involuntarily shrunk from her, despite her beauty and her golden worth. ‘Yes, | do want you more than I ever want~ ed anything before,” he said, hiding his feelings beneath a smile. ‘‘ Who could help wanting you, so lovely, and attractive, and. less as youare? I have always said and ht that the girl I married must be one whose never been kissed by a lover until I kissed them, that to me should be given the maiden. love of her —_ heart. Such a girl I know you to be, Elma.” She smiled again, a curious little gleam in her black eyes. ‘* Of course I never had a lover before, Cuth- bert, and that is one reason why I have hesi- tated to accept the first offer I have received, I belicve I shall have many good chances if 1 wait a little while.” “T have no doubt but that wen will be able to boast of offers by the score ore the season is over,” he said, vely,. “but, will vamp! be desirable asmine? First, no,one will ever love you so well as I do. Second, no marriage would be such a family convenience as one be- tween us. And—you force me to say it—there is not another man in New York city with the prospective fortune I can ise you. Your uncle Griffith, whose sole Lam, is one of the richest men in America.” She listened attentively, tndorsing his spe- cious reasoning, and thinking that she had played with ber fish long enough. It was a singular complication of affairs that existed between them. ing he He not Griffith Pemberton’s heir, and ieving honestly that she would be, was urged by every possible motive ef self-interest to secure
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DID SHE SIN? aman she had begun to fear as well as hate. And, in the direct face of another fate which she knew eeey well might any minute pre- er sent itself nes ab : Cuthbert broke in upon the brief silence with tis voice of well-simulated eager passion: “ Answer me, my darling! It will be yes—it must be yes!” he added, as he passed his arm around her waist, and attempted to draw her closer to him. ‘*T suppose it must be,” she said, half-reluc- tantly, yet with a’certain coquettish gracious- ness in her voice. ‘‘But—yes—you may kiss me, of course; only once, though, for I don’t eare about kissing, Cuthbert. And I do hate ‘having my laces all disarranged and rumpled.” She withdrew from his arms, and smoothed the delicate sisse ruching which her Jover’s arm had slightly mussed, He bit his lip, but refrain- ed from any further demonstration. ‘*Your wishes sha]Jl always be my law, m dearest,” he said, gallantly. ‘‘ And now I will o at once to Mr. Pemberton and announce our trothal, and you can tell your friend, Miss Ogden. We will arrange for a ye wedding, Elma, and a bridal tour to the seaside and mountains. You shall be the ee woman the sun shines on, my dearest. nd you have already made me the proudest, happiest man in the world.” ‘“‘That is all nonsense, Cuthbert,” she return- ed, coolly. ‘‘Of course iam very glad to mar ‘you because you are rich and handsome and all hat, and I dare say I shall like you very well. But there’s one thing—I don’t believe the old entleman will consent to our marriage. He Reen's the most obliging way in the world, and he doesn’t care much more for me than if for him, and if he thinks it would be a satisfaction | to me to marry you, or any one, he would de-| cline his consent for pure spite.” Cuthbert smiled at the venom in her tones. “Then we will marry without his consent, my dearest. Do you think 1 would be cheated of my beautiful bride by him, or any one?’ “Well,” she assented, graciously, thinking what a terrible thing for her it would be if by any means the marriage were prevented, ‘I will leave it to you, Cuthbert. And I'll go tell Miss Ogden now, while you see the griffin.” He lifted her hand to his lips for a good-night, and went to the library to seek Mr. Pemberton, while Elma stepped out upon the pg A where she aroused Miss Ogden from a little -sleepy reverie. ‘*T have promised to marry him,” Elma an- nounced, amg as she seated herself on an- other chair near by. Miss Ogden was instantly all eager attention. ‘*My dear Elma, I congratulate you with all my heart. Your ¥ sang t is glorious. There is not a girl in all New York but will envy you. You will be Pye and popular and admired wherever , for, to you, marriage means smancipation and freedom and independence! My dear Elma, when I think of what you may have saved yourself from, I tremble.” Elma sat, her eyes es to the rug on the floor of the balcony, a dreamy, far-away look in them very unusual to her to indulge. “Yes, Lsuppose, you do,” she said, presently. ““T never was so staggered and put about in all my life as when that y Fletcher told me I was not the genuine heiress—not Mr. Pember- ton’s niece as ve been led to suppose for years. But I shall make myself secure by marrying Cuthbert. I will secure a ition second to none, and be, after all, just the same as though I really were his sister’s child. Miss Ogden”— and the black eyes suddenly lost their thought- ful look, and ed keen and sh on that lady’s face—‘‘it is only just and right that I red who and whatIam. And I want you to me. Miss Ogden compressed her lips in pale deter- ination m " “That I am not at liberty to tell. Iam sworn to secrecy, Elma. The girl’s lips curled in an: sneer. ‘Much you respect the ess of an oath, when you deliberately swore to Mr. Pemberton I was his sister’s ! Well, then—don’t tell me! I don’t know that a — 2 > ean zee m ‘ts were, not interfere w may boseening Mrs. Cuthbert Pemberton. But one t) I can assure you,” and her voice grew full of bitter hatred and cold fury, ‘‘and that is | ing suggestions Miss Elma let fall I was sure | drugget at —when once I am married, and mistress of this | «7nd house, that you and that insufferable wretch of a Fletcher shall be discharged from the Pember- ton service and take your miserable secret off with you. You need to be taught a lesson for your insolent familiarity with me.” And she went up-stairs to her rooms, leaving Miss Ogden to sit crying in the starlight—genu- ine, pitiful tears that were wrung from her very heart. CHAPTER XXIII. A MAN TO BE WATCHED, CUTHBERT PEMBERTON did not go to tne li- brary where he would have seen Mr. Griffith Pemberton, and as he told Elma he intended to | do, but, instead, went directly to the small room at the top of the house set apart for Hiram Fletcher’s special use, and where, as usual, that individual was found, not leisurely busy over accounts, and pleasurably engrossed in papers | appertaining to the intricacies of the Pemberton | affairs, but in the very mood Cuthbert was most desirous of finding him. He evidently was not surprised when Cuth- bert rapped and entered. A brief, inscrutable smile sped across his thin lips, and he quietly and deliberately arose and locked the door. ‘“‘T am glad to see you, Mr. Cuthbert, and you | are not entirely unexpected. From little charm- you would be here to tell me the success of your wooing. So I locked the door to insure secrecy.” He returned to his chair, settled himself com- fortably, and with a slow, calm smile on his face very much at variance with the true feel- ings at his heart, he waited while Cuthbert took two or three restless strides across the room. Several minutes passed, and Cuthbert con- tinued his silent, impatient walk, watched nar- rowly by Fletcher’s cold, shrewd glance. ‘*Perhaps I am mistaken in the object of your visit, Mr. Cuthbert,” he said, at last, his eager curiosity at fever heat to knowif Elma had obeyed his orders. F “You are not mistaken,” Cuthbert said, throwing himself in an easy-chair. ‘You are not mistaken. Ihave repeated my proposal ef marriage to my cousin, and she has accepted it.” Not a shade of more satisfaction t was oe the thing, was permitted to show itself on letcher’s face at the news that made his wick- ed heart triumphant and elated. His voice was quiet and respectful, and just enthusiastic enough to suit the occasion as he replied: “T congratulate you, Mr. Cuthbert. Your cousin is a beautiful, accomplished girl, fit to mate with the best in the land, and perfectly calculated to make youa very proud and happy | man. Cuthbert’s lips curled ever so slightly. “*T doubt it, Fletcher. The truth is, and you area man of sufficient perception to know it, that so far as love is concerned, there’s not much lost between us. I shall marry her for her money, and when once she is safely my wife, she may go to the—dickens for all I care, | I don’t like her, Fletcher, She’s pretty, after a bold, pronounced fashion, and several fellows are smitten with her dash and—questionable vi- vacity. She has the temper of the Old Boy him- self, and is mercenary and heartless. All the same—she and I are engaged to be married.” His voice held a sneer in its low, passionless tones that had the effect of making Fletcher’s impassive face slowly redden. ‘You are not over-complimentary to your future wife, Mr. Cuthbert. Unless you think i can make the Jong lady a husband, e my advice, and regract your words. Some consideration is certainly due her from you.” There was evident restraint in his words, and certainly a cold reproof in his manner, and it made Cuthbert laugh lightly. ‘You aré unnatural in your réle of virtuous sentiment, Fletcher. Allow me to say that, if she were the devil, even, I’d marry her to se- cure the fortune from which she has ousted me. Tochange the subject: I have every rea- son to believe the old gentleman will o the match. He has spoken to me indefinitely on the subject several times of late, and each time he seems more and more determined that Elma shall not receive any marked attentions for a year or so yet. Before she came, it was his earnest desire that, if agreeable, a ey should take place in course of e, but h views have undergone ac dently his opinion of, and affection for his niece have not been strengthened upon acquaintance,” ) Fletcher rie eyes looked intently ata gay yet, she is his niece,” he repeated, thoughtfully, slowly. ‘*Oh, yes; and as such he is Quixotic enough to do his whole duty by her, regardless of his personal feeling in the matter.” ‘*But, you are convinced he will refuse to sanction an immediate marriage—and in the event of a long engagement, Miss Pemberton may lose her heart to some one else,” “Exactly. And I have come to hear your | advice on the subject.” Fletcher’s eyebrows drew themselves in a thoughtful, half-puzzled frown, and he sat sev- eral minutes as if in deep consideration of the subject, pro and con. Well.” Cuthbert said, after a time, impa- tiently. **T see but one way,” Fletcher replied, de- liberately. ‘‘ There really is but one way to see. You sony. intend to marry Miss Pember- ton, your uncle as fully intends she shall not marry—yet. You are resolved not to wait— with the natural impatience of a lover. From my knowledge of Miss Pemberton, she has a vein of romance and adventure in her temperament that would render the only available alterna- a easy. Marry her quietly—secretly, if you will. He sat with his legs easily crossed, speakin in a quiet matter-of-fact tone that admirably masked his well-restrained eagerness. “Pll doit! Elma will not averse to such an irregular proceeding, as you say. I’ll marry her inside of forty-eight hours, and then—but, Fletcher,” and his face suddenly darkened— | “what could the old gentleman do about the money in case he was hopelessly angry with us? Fletcher smiled briefly, and recrossed his legs, leaning his head against the back of the chair, and resting his arms on the sides. “Being entirely in your uncle’s confidence, Mr. Cuthbert, and knowing just the sort of man he is in temperament and principles, Iam cer- tainly justified in assuring you that you take no risk whatever in marrying Miss Pemberton out of hand, Frankly, as you may have seen, I am interested in this affair, on your account. When I first became aware of Mr. Pemberton’s intention to make his niece his principal legatee I felt naturally sorry that your long-expected prospects were so materially changed. mar- riage with Miss Pemberton suggested itself to me from the very first, and now, I advise you to secure both fortune and a beautiful wife as soon as expedient. Mr. Pemberton will doubt- less be angry at your disregard for his wishes but—you can safely leave the management of that part of the affairto me. Marry her—and my word for it, it will be all right.” bt aed knit his brows with a sarcastic smile. “You are an enthusiast on the subject, Flet- cher. Do you know you impress me strongly with the same sensation I experienced when you first spoke to me of Miss Pemberton? That you have some hidden motive at stake—that you are anxious to serve your own ends, so eager are you to bring about this marriage.” etcher listened patiently, not a muscle of his inscrutable face betraying how marvelously near the thrust had come. Then he smiled coolly. “TI will admit I have a motive—an o ject to gain. If the heiress marries you, you will be master here, as your grand-uncle before you. Ifshe marries a stranger, that stranger will be master. In the first instance the prob- ability is very strong that you will Senko to continue me in charge of the affairs 1 have man- aged so long. I make considerable money by it; Ihave no desire to surrender my tion. Hie shrucged his should el es e oulders vely. Cuthbert laughed, ere ‘A fair, honest defense. Yes, Fletcher, I'll ted yea Saree and : my fair cousin -hand, relyingupon you implicitly to arran the finale of the affair—the forgiveness and = 3 conciliation, you know. And, in turn, I'll agree that so roa. Fy you wish you shall retain your as position.” , “Thank you, sir,” he returned, and then these two men, each fighting desperately for their own interest, and Cuthbert was letting himself out of the entrance, just as Mr. Pemberton stepped to the door of his li- and called him. “This way, one minute, before you Cuth- bert. . To-night’s mail hes just brousht me s line from my young friend who, with his wife, will call om my niece to-morrow and remain for luncheon. Dropin and see Mrs. Carriscourt. You der a con- noisseur in beautiful woman, and they say she is exquisitely lovely.” y . ~ ce fee eS
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ee, eS vt & DID SHE SIN? , ~ —— —_ ——+ A sudden cold chill struck him. Cecil com- ing here, under the very roof -of the house he frequented! And he—invited to meet her! The sarcasm of the fatefulness of it occurred to him with keen force, as he instantly saw there could no awkward contretemps happen since Mr. Pemberton so unconsciously warned him. But, a chill like ice dripping on bim shivered over him at the narrow escape. Sup- pose Mr. Pemberton had failed to notify him? But, Satan doesn’t often desert his own, until he gets them just where he wants them, and Cuthbert remembered that fact with a little triumphant thanksgiving. ‘*'You are very kind; thanks!” he said. “I will do my best to drop in at luncheon and see your guest; indeed, I will be quite dis..ppointed if the engagement I have with Leffington keeps me from seeing the lady I have heard is so charming.” He waited a moment longer, undecided whether or not to broach the subject of his en- gagement with Elma; then a visitor was an- nounced, and he bade Mr. Pemberton good- nigbt—not going directly from the house, but stepping into the parlor and deliberately re- moving from a magnificently lambrequined bracket a photograph of himself in its crimson velvet and ebony passe-partuut frame. He transferred it bodily to his pocket, with a smile on his face. ‘* The only likeness of me in the house, thanks be to my presiding angel! And the solitary one of Sydney’s was condemned to disgrace and the ash-heap many a long day ago. So, come to lunch, my fair Cecil, and surprise the old gentle- man by his recognition of the face at the win- dow, and I think Leffington will detain me be- yond the luncheon hour.” Then he went away, and the silence of the late evening settled down on the quiet upper streets of the city. Mr. Pemberton dismissed his visitor a little later, and a servant went about putting out the lights, and greater silence and darkness reigned as the solemn midnight approached, CHAPTER XXIV. THE SWEET FACE AGAIN. Tx clear, bright summer ae was draw- ‘emberton’s Cecil had a beautiful, unostentatious toilet of gray summer silk, that answered equally well or the short ae vgs on the train between Car- ris Court and the city, and the luncheon to which she had come at Mr. Pemberton’s house. She looked very lovely and ladylike, and Mr. Carriscourt felt a thrill of pride and delight as he was warmly met and welcomed almost at the door by his host, who could not conceal his look of admiration and expression of astonishment at sight of Cecil’s fair sweet face, He-shook her hand warmly, and, with a sud- den, tender impulse, bowed his handsome gray head and ki her brow. “You will not chide me, my dear Mrs. Car- riscourt, for such a liberty. But, besides know- ing your husband so many years, and having enjoyed a slight acquaintance with the late Judge May, you remind me of a face I saw once —not so long ago, the sweetest face I ever saw —at a window on Lexington avenue.” Carriscourt looked at , and then at Mr. Pemberton, and was just a little surprised to a traces of intensest interest on both their ces. “Tt was FP pe saw, Mr. Pemberton; I never shail forget it so long as I live. You drove by with a gentleman and looked up at my window, and it seemed to me that I always known ou. Mr. Pemberton still was looking steadily at her sweet pure face, with the everlasting sha- dows in the blue eyes, the gravity around the exquisite mouth, the warm sunshiny glory of the lustrous rippling hair, and as he looked a strange expression sates a a slowly in his eyes, and his grand face @so pallid that it was evident some strong emotion had come to him. “Yes; it is the same face that attracted me so strongly and strangely, because—because— you a dear one long lost. Mrs. Carris- court, i on will pardon this mystery of manner, dear Carriscourt, come; bring your wife into the morning-room, and I willsend a maid toshow her to a room for any refreshing she may wish to make in her toilet.” But his voice was husky and his manner full of a a4 yen agitation that could not fail to command Carriscourt’s attention. They remained in the elegant little morning- room until a servant came to escort Cecil up- stairs, and as she went, Mr. Pemberton took her hand again, in a tender, wistful way. ‘Let me tell you I am so glad you have come, a ¢ dear. I want you to see may niece, and use all your influence to make her like yourself, if it be ossible. We will serve lunchéon at one o’clock.’ Cecil smiled back in the splendid, troubled eyes that had such a puzzled, yearning look in | them, and then followed the maid from the | room, while Mr. Pemberton turned to Carris- court, “Do you wonder what is the matter with me?” he asked, balf-smilingly, but with a pale anxiety on his face. ‘‘Your lovely wife has captivated my old heart, my dear boy. She brings up memories that almost unman me, and arouses a strange, sickening fear and doubt that appall me. Sit down here a moment and let me ask you some questions—or no,” he sud- denly said. ‘I will not allowsuch an emotion to get the victory over me. It was only a thought, a passing thought, born of a sudden, yearning wish that my niece were just sucha woman. We won’t speak of it, Carriscourt. Resemblances are sometimes a little startling, you know, but there are a thousand cases where eS mean nothing.” Mr. Charpiasocath atnmed and looked almost as puzzledas Mr. Pemberton had done. strange, brief agitation had gone from his face now, followed by its habitua expression, with perhapsa little deepened pallor. “Resemblances are startling, as you say, sir. Allow me to ask, does Cecil remind you so strangely of some one? It willbe a great plea- sure to her to know she has any such recom- mendation to your favor.” ‘“* Yes, she is very like—my dead sister. You have doubtless heard the story, Carriscourt, how m r Genevieve married—a—villain, and died shortly after her babe was born—the young girl up-stairs, for whom I searched for years and years, and found so very lately ane) the unceasing, intelligent care of my man, Fletcher.” “‘T have heard, sir, something of the storv. And I congratulate you on having been so suc- cessful. Ihave heard that Miss Pemberton is remarkably beautiful, and an honor and a pride to a r. Pemberton’s face darkened. ‘‘She is handsome—if you admire that style of beauty. But, Carriscourt, Elma is not as I hoped she would be—like her mother, She is— she must be her father over again, And I hated that man with a hatred so bitter that I do not forgive him to-day as he liesinhis grave. He ruined my sister’s happiness. He killed her by his treatment, and although he has lain in his grave for long years, my curse lies heavily upon Mr. Pemberton’s blue eyes were dark with the pain of bitter memories. “‘But—for the young wife’s sake, sir, you have done your whole duty by the child.” **T don’t know,” Mr. Pemberton returned, al- most fiercely. ‘‘For my dead Genevieve’s sake I left no stone unturned to find the girl, hoping and praying it would be another Genevieve, noble, generous, loving, spirited, sweet—but— she is all her villainous father over again, high- tempered, headstreng—Carriscourt, don’t let’s speak further of it, Itis ungenerous in me to prejudice bw against my niece. Perhaps I am soured and bittered till I fail to see — qualities. Try to make your lovely wife take an inte in her, and make her as nearly like herself as she can, for she is just what I had dared to think Genevieve’s child would be.” Their communication was cut suddenly short by the sound of footsteps roaching from the upper floor, and in a moment, Elma Pemberton, in full house toilette of amethyst-colored silk, came sweeping into the room. men arose, and Mr. Pemberton pre- | e gen sontad ae to Mr. Carriscourt. She bowed, and smiled and extended her hand ina ery: coquettish welcome, “‘T have heard so very much of you from uncle Griffith,” she said, iously, and Mr. Carriscourt bowed in acceptance of the implied compyment. ‘Both myself and Mrs. Carriscourt hope to berton has acce an invitation to visit at Carris Court, and I I can safely promise him and yourself and Mr. Cuth Padianton a pleasan m, But the | **Qh, thanks,” she returned, in a prompt, flip- pant way that instantly jarred on Carriscourt’s sensitive taste—‘‘ I should love to visit at Car- ris Courtif it does not interfere with our ar- rangement to be at Long Branch by the first of July. We might come a little later in the sea- son, after wereturn from the sea-shore.” A swift displeasure gathered in Mr. Pember- ton’s eyes that Carriscourt saw he vainly en- deavored to hide. “We will accept Mr. Carriscourt’s kind invi- tation for the date mentioned, Elma. We can visit Long Branch later just as conveniently. A mutinous look came over her face. ‘*But I prefer to. go to the country later. 1 | have decided to go to the sea-shore on the first | of July, and—I am going. Iam sure Mr. Car- | riscourt will accept my reason.” She sent her most bewitching smiles to Car- | riscourt, who bowed, gravely. He was think- |ing how strangely at variance with the birth | and natural breeding of a Pemberton this little, coarse passage-at-arms was. | “Klima, I cannot permit such—discourtesy,” | he added, in a cokd, an way. ‘If you are not able to appreciate the indelicacy of your re- | fusal, I am at the necessity of suggesting to you | that such is the case. Carrisco here is an | intaglio I purchased yesterday. wish you | would look at it and give me your candid opinion, Elma”—and he turned to her again, | meeting her unreasoning fury of eyes and man- ner—‘‘ you will be kind enough to remain here until Mrs, Carriscourt comes down.” He and Mr. Carriscourt went into the library together, leaving Elma alone with her ruffled feelings. . “T will not be im 4 upon another day,” | she said, hotly, to herself. ‘‘ Uncle Griffith treats me as if | were a child in pinafores, dic tating to me as no living person shall do, r will go to Long Branch by the first of July, and if I don’t choose to go to the horrid, poky old country I won’t go at all, either.” She took a letter from her pocket, and settled herself comfortably in a luxurious chair to read it, with a curious, inscrutable look on her face as for the dozenth time she read it. It was not long, but very decidedly to the written in a bold, handsome postmarked London. And it read: “My pearrst Erma: This makes the fifth letter I have written you since you went to America, and failing to receive a word from you, I have made up my mind to follow you and learn what is the matter. Icannot—I will not—believe you have made up your mind to cut me dead, nor do I think you have any intention of trying to get out of our engagement, which, taking into account our undoubted love for each other, and the fact of so many letters, proving the engagement, being in my possession, would be a Wer hard task for you to accomplish. ‘*“T must see bey I shall sailin the steamer next after the one that takes this letter. I will be at your fashionable watering-place, Long Branch, from the first to the fifteenth of July—and you must be there. Tam all impatience to see you, to congratulate ) vu~ on the great good-fortune that came to you, and int, and it was d, and it was also, my dear Elma, to claim the fulfillment of your promise to be my wife. Ever devotedly, ‘ “'TorsBy.”” She had read the ominous letter so many times | that she did not shrink in fear as at the first =, but a vague dismay showed on her 8. ‘Poor Thorsby! I wonder how I will get out of it! Lliked him — well, but—I wouldn’t marry him for all the world. T will have to go to Long Branch and manage him as well as I can, until—I am safely married to Cuthbert, and then—nothing can undo that.” A defiant look settled around her mouth, as, hearing the soft rustle of silken skirts and foot- ey arama mg the stairs, she thrust the letter in court pocket, and arose to meet Cecil Carr” ———_—_ CHAPTER XXV. BLACK EYES AND BLUE, THE two women, both scarcely more than girls, approached each other, just as the gentle- men reéntered the room. ’ Mr. Pemberton s' forward, his eyes looking eagerly from the one fair face, with its | cpeniatin) velyety blue eyes, to the other, with | its bold, handsome b ones, and the same look of wistfulness flashed over his face Ceci had seen before, followed by a bitterness. “This is my niece, ao me Carriscourt. Elma, I have greatly desired you to become ac- quainted with this lady and her husband.” Elma bowed and Cecil extended her hand in her sweet, gracious way. “Tam so glad to meet you, Miss Pemberton. T have h much of you, and I sincerely hope | we mav be friends.”
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en ae ae 2A DID SHE SIN? Her Voice never had sounded so pure, so cul tured as in the immediate contrast with Elma’s flippant answer. ‘*There’s not the least doubt of it, Mrs. Car- riscourt, if you are at all easy to get along with. Iam pleased to see you—shall I show you some of the beauties of my new home while we are awaiting lunch?’ Cecil accepted the courtesy, and they left the room together, Elma’s silken train sweeping ostentatiously along, her jewels glittering, her French heels clinking along the marble floor of the grand hall, and Cecil, in her modest, pretty, quiet toilet, and spotless laces, her slight, per- ect figure, her graceful, springy walk. As they disappeared, Mr. Pemberton sighed. ‘‘ What a contrast! Clyde, do you wonder I am disappointed? There’s just enough of the Pemberton strain in her blood to give her her beautiful hair and complexion, but, aside from that, she is her father’s child. “Why is it that such a heartsick disappointment has come to me in my old age? Why couldn’t she have been like your wife, with her soulful, truthful face aud refined, dainty ways—just like my sister was at her best?” : His grand blue eyes were full of gloomy sha- dows as he listened to the sound of Cecil’s voice, coming almost indistinctly from the room whi- ther Elma had escorted her. “T cannot account for my interest in your wife,” he went on, hurriedly, ‘‘but she im- siege me in the most inexplicable manner. She stirs my old heart so strangely that if I did not know she was the child of a family whose name stands high in social circles, I should seri- ously ask myself whether or not there could have been, by any fatal possibility, a mistake on Fletcher’s part. And yet there could not be —of course there could not have been. Every atom of proof was subjected to the strongest investigation ; but how my declining years might have been cheered and comforted if Fate had only ordered otherwise.” Carriscourt sat back in his chair, a sudden, inexplicable sensation taking ossession of him that quickened the beat of his heart, and stirred his cer strangely. If Cecil were not the daughter of the Mays, Mr. Pemberton had said. And Mr. Carriscourt knew she was not a ay. Then— Only for one moment did that curious, con- fused emotion master him. “Tt is a rather far-fetched supposition,” he assured himself, quietly. ‘‘ Nevertheless I will investigate it at my leisure, and in the mean- time there is no necessity for my mentioning poe to Mr. Pemberton.” othing further was said on the subject be- tween them, and, the while, Elma and Cecil were having alittle womanly gossip in Elma’s ro ntvery tin is lovely,” Cecil had said ve gis very lovely, a > as she entered the charming apartments. “Ob, yes, and it ought to be, I am sure. Uncle Griffith is immensely rich, and as I am to be his heiress, it is proper that he should have everything to suit me. Buthe isa horrid proud, cross old fellow.” Cecil did not permit herself to look the sur- prise she felt. ‘He does not seem cross,” she returned gently. ‘‘To me he is the embodiment of all that is best and greatest in manhood.” ‘‘That’s because you don’t know him as well as I do,” Elma ing 9 3 a confidential way. ‘When I first saw him I thought justas you do, but now—” She shru ber shoulders, prettily. ‘¢) should think you would love him dearly, for all his kindness to you, at least,” Cecil said, gravely, kindly. % Well, I don’t. I can’t see what t kind- ness he has shown. He suited and pleased him- self in finding me, and as I am his own sister's child, he is ob iged to make a great deal of me. But, I can tell you one thing, Mrs. Carriscourt, if he wasn’t so immensely rich, I shouldn’t stay under his roof an hour longer, so cold and cross | and tyrannical he is. As it is, I expect. to be mistress of my own house before long.” .. She smiled and twirled her fan coquettishly and Cecil could not restrain a little amused smile at her vain ostentation—the first smile of | amusement that had curved her sweet mouth | for many a da y ‘What a deli 1 mystery, Miss Pember- ton. And yet, if seems hardly a mystery, be- —_ you can hardly mean but one emancipa- on. Elma laughed lightly, tapping her tiny slip- pered foot on the floor. “ Yesyou know what I mean, I-see, Mrs. a | Carriscourt. My cousin, Mr, Cuthbert Pem- | berton—you havs heard of him—and I are he- trothed, and after we are married we will see | who reigns here.” | She compressed her thin lips resolutely, and her black eyes flashed a pretty defiance, | Cecil delicately ignored her last clause. | ‘I have heard of Mr. Cuthbert Pembe™ __.— ; and I most sincerely hope that I can cowscien- tiously congratulate you. Tell me all about | him—he is handsome, and elegant, and dévoteé, | of course.” Her charming little manner flattered Elma | greatly. ‘Oh! Handsome!—I should think so. He is tall and dark, and has the loveliest curly hair, and whiskers, and black eyes.” the words of the description. Tall, dark, curl- ing black hair, luxuriant black whiskers—it was so like Sydney Valence that a deathly faintness swept swiftly over her. In a second the sensation was over. ‘‘T am so nervous and childish,” she told her- self, energetically. ‘‘Am I never to lose my fear and repugnance to tall, dark, well-bearded men, because such a one is the blight of my life?” Elma, chattering volubly on, had not observed the fleeting agitation on her guest’s fair face. and that is: I don’t care very much for him, for all his good looks and distinguished manners.” Cecil looked gravely reproachful. / ‘You would not seriously think of marrying where you could give no affection? Oh, surely, | Miss Pemberton, you are not in earnest?” ‘‘Oh, but Tam! I know somebody else—I—I like somebody else ever_so much better; but [ won’t marry him, and I certainly shall mar- ry Cuthbert.’ Cecil, experienced a sense of pitying repug- nance toward this girl who was so unrefinedly ficient in delicate, womanly principles. “You surely do not realize what a terrible thing it is for a young girl to give herself in and love. It—” Elma interrupted her, a bold little smile on her red lips. “How do you know that, Mrs. Carriscourt? Don’t you love your husband?” A flush of sensitive pride and outraged deli- cacy mounted Cecil’s pure face. ‘Miss Pemberton, if you were more inti- mately oes with my husband you would understand the utter absurdity of your ques- tion. No woman could be his wifeema not love him. What [ wished to impress upon you was how wretvhedly such marriages as yours must be, always end.” ‘I cannot see where the wretchedness will be. We will have plenty of money, and go where we pleuse. I shall have all the dresses and jewels I want, and shall do nov te what I please, independent of him. He can do just as he chooses, regardless of me. We will get along very well, and—best of all—it will spite uncle Griffith so.” A sternness was gathering on Cecil’s face. She felt it was impossible for her to listen longer to Elma’s remarks, and yet, she hardly knew how to change the subject. As it was, she did the best she could. “I suppose Mr. Cuthbert Pemberton will be here to luncheon? I would like to see him very mT axpeds he will,” El lied, careless] 6 wil ma , carelessly. * And you will also have the felicity of meeting the hatefulest old maid in Christendom—my ial aversion, my duenna, Miss Ogden.” “The lady who has been your friend since be veer in a quiet, cold reproof which utterly failed of its impression on Elma, for at that in- nounced that luncheon was served, and the ladies went down to a repast which did credit to Mr. Pemberton’s French chef de cuisine. An hour was spent in social conversation af- ter the refreshment, at which, of course, Mr. Cuthbert Pemberton failed to appear, and his apologies were made by the host, and petulant le ey gm by Elma. Then, the carria 9s ordered and the party drove to Central Park for a couple of hours, af- ter which, arrangements having been definitely made for the vist to Carris Court on the follow- in yi f Mr. Carriscourt and Cecil were driven to the cool of the beautiful evening. A little sickening memory swept over Cecil at | “‘T will admit another thing, however, about | my future lord ahd master, Mrs. Carriscourt, | sxpect you will be horrified—but it’s true that I | blunt in her language and manner, and so de- | marriage to a man she does not entirely respect | | your mother died, I presume you mean,” Cecil | stant a servant tapped on the door and an- | depot and returned home in the | CHAPTER XXVI. THE FIRST DROPS OF THE STORM. Ir was the evening of the day during which Mr. Carriscourt and Cecil had taken luncheon with Mr. Pemberton, and dinner was just about. to be served when Cuthbert made his appear- ance, with courteously-expressed apologies for his inability to have appeared at lunch, and with such apparent honest regrets at the plea- sure he had n so very unfortunately forced to forego that Mr. Pemberton accepted his ex- cuses and sympathized with his well-simulated disappointment. ‘“She is so perfectly lovely, Cuthbert,” he said, enthusiastically, as they discussed the ele- gant, elaborate dinner. ‘I never saw any one | who impressed me so strangely and strongly as Mrs. Carriscourt does, ar~ { am actually look- ing forward with keer~, light to my promis- ed visit to them. Ya were so cordially in- cluded that I insist upon your going with Elma, | and I for at least a day or so.” | A curious, slow smile crept around Cuthbert’s wicked mouth, as he thoughtfully stirred his cup of French coffee. “So your friend Carriscourt wants me to visit Lim, does he? Well—I am just a little sur- prised, for although my acquaintance with him is very slight, I have always been under the im- | pression he disliked me. And he wants me to visit him.” He spoke indifferently enough, but in his head all sorts of queer thoughts were running con- fusedly. ‘“ Was there ever such an intricate condition of affairs? By Jove, what had I better do about it? To think he wants me—me /—to visit him!” Mr. Pemberton did not observe any peculiari- ty in his expression of face, for Cuthbert Pem- berton was fully competent to permit one ex- pression to show on his face and an entirely contrary motive to be actually governing. | ‘“] think your impression is an imaginary one, Cuthbert. There is no possible reason why Mr. Carriscourt should dislike you, and you must not allow such a’ boyish excuse to inter- | fere with your social obligations.” No possible reason! The irony of the entire | affair, the sarcastic fatefulness of it, occurred with keenest intensity to Cuthbert. “You may be right,” he returned, deferen- | tially—‘‘ there is no reason, unless it is one of those unaccountable prejudices that sometimes | seize people. But—I may be mistaken. I cer- | tainly hope I am, and my accepting Mr. Carris- | court’s invitation will effectually prove it one | way or the other.” . Pemberton looked pleased at the implied / acceptance of Mr. Carriscourt’s invitation, but | before he could again ly, Cuthbert suddenly | changed the subject of the conversation. ‘“Why is not Elma at dinner, sir? I hope she is not ill?” Mr. Pemberton’s face clouded, and he answer- ed, sternly: ‘She is not sick, unless you call an attack of the sulks illness. She chose to be rather pro- nounced in her behavior to Mr. Carriscourt this: noon, and when I spoke to her of it, after my — departure, she took offense and refused come down to dinner. Of course Miss Ogden ordered dinner for her in her rooms. Cuthbert, Tam greatly ee? agg in that ay? He sighed heavily, as he almost always did when speaking confidentially of her. “She certainly did very wrong,” Cuthbert said, ‘‘but”—in an uating voice—‘‘ we should not pal that she is s young, almost a mere child, and has not enjoyed the advantages of a discipline you would have so strictly en- | joined had she been always with you.” Mr. Pemberton’s lip curled. | Almost a mere child! She.is seventeen— | yes, ep So peng old enough to bebave Lerwit, at the difference between her and—Mrs. Carriscourt, for instance, and they are about the same age. Don’t make such | Spey excuses for her, Cuthbert.” But Cuthbert stood his ground well, although | there was a trace of uneasiness in the light laugh that preceded his answer. “Tt is naturel I should seek to make excuses for her, sir. The truth is—and my dropping in to dinner was expressly to see you on the subject—I have to confess that my beautiful cousin bas conquered me. She may bea child , in years, but she has succeeded in playing a at deal of havoc with a heart I have hither- regarded love-proof.” |. Mr, Pemberton sat down a crystal dish of or ice, in sheer amazement. “What! You mean you are actually in love ' Elma, actually in love with her?” e incredulousness in his tones was not
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FR mR OW OD tere FN O! ta) o ot —" _ ON certain grounds. nanos — DID SHE SIN? ' 25 ly at the words, and at the blank astonishment in Mr. Pemberton’s face and manner. “That is what I mean,” he said, a little vex: eal: “Is there anything astonishing: in the fact that a beautiful young girl like my cousin Should rank me among her victims?” Mr. Pemberton’s forehead was corrugated in ‘@ heavy stern frown as he slowly ate his ice. . I cannot understand how any one could fall in love with her. She is pretty, and stylish and when you say that, you come to the end ob }her attractions. Cuthbert, it cuts me to the heart to have to speak such things of my owr miece, but I cannot conscientiously say te1 ‘things. I would not like to see you marry her. knowing, as I do, her ungovernable temper. You would not be happy, you would regret ‘your choice, and perhaps reproach me for con senting to allow her to becuine your wife.” Cuthbert’s evil heart was jubilant at the suc. ‘cess of his scheme thus far, for Mr. Pemberton’ had not at once said no, wk‘ch was what he had fully expected. “You are mistaken, sir,” he went on, mor eagerly than was his ordinary custom of ad- dress. ‘I really and truly love my beautiful ‘cousin, and Iam confident you have only seen the few faults she possesses, to the ignoring of her many admirable qualities. It could hardly be eapeates she would allow you to know her as well as she has permitted me to do. From the very first I saw a warm, loving heart be- neath a trifling, perhaps girlishly vain and Saucy manner, and from the very first I have been fascinated.” 4 thoughtful look gathered in Mr. Pember- ‘ton’s stern handsome blue eyes as he pushed bis chair slightly back from the table. “* Have you spoken to her about it?” **T have told her all about it, sir, and she con- fesses to a reciprocation of affection, and, with me, desires to leave it all to you.” Just a faint sneer curled under Mr. Pember- ton’s frosty mustache. “You are very considerate, indeed, consid- > ow _pemeonee? aru soma at stake.” Then © smiling sneer disappeared, and a severit showed allover his face, ; y “There is just this about it,” he said, ve quietly. ‘ According to your own words—E)- ma is too much of a child to know who she wants to merry. She naturally thinks you are the one, simply because she has had, ‘as yet, very little opportunity of comparing you with other people. Not that I mean any discourtesy to you, but—in justice to you both I tell you that the girl should have a taste of society be- fore she chooses her husband. Although as I have often said Iam sadly disappointed in her and am fearful I never can love her, yet that does not alter my duty toward her as my sis- ter’s child. Elma will be a great heiress, but her money will not make her happy. I have Seen so much of uncongenial marriages that ] cannot allow her to assume such solemn obliga- tions until she has satisfied herself beyond the possibility of doubt, that she loves you better han rf one else.” A look of contemptuous vexation gathered in Cuthbert’s eyes as he listened to the noble, ed defense Mr. Pembertou so frankly ave, ‘Then I understand you refuse to allow me to claim the hand of your niece?- And we both 80 foolishly imagined you would be so pleased at the mutual union of family interests!’ _ spoke bitterly, but not as bitterly as he “That is perfectly true,” Mr. Pemberton said ; such a marriage would please me very much But there are other sides to the question, which I am morally bound to consider. I will tell you what I will do—and if Your love and hers is as true as you say, it will Stand a far more exacting test. I will agree to & two years’ private engagement, during which time shall go into society free and unfet- tered, At the end of that time, if you both de- Sire it as you do now, you shall be married,” A look of fury glowed in Cuthbert’s eyes as th gentlemen arose from the table. ‘I think your conditions are unendurable but I see aatiaet but to accept them, sir. I will tell Elma, and let you know whether she Prefers the unnatural arrangement, or would rather end the engagement at once.’ Mr. Pemberton bowed gravely. Pane my will Be me Cpe as whe — you. ou going ou not spen @ even- ing! Then pood-night, my ov fe Py puaeneee pp nee and es took it, on made » hurrying o some other 73 easant to Cuthbert, whose face flushed slight: | “A two years’ en ent! I think not. Mr. Meee ae ! wil see to-mor- row, and arrange for a hasty, secret marriage and Fletcher shall assist us sat intercede for us. There is not much doubt but that theold gentle- man will forgive us after the first na vent of pe ae He has had such a lonely, sor- rowful life that he will only be too glad to make friends with us a; to brighten up the great grand house. Yes, Cuthbert, my boy, you are playing your cards most successfully ; you are in a fair way to be the richest man ou He was full of a suppressed exultation when he reached his hotel. **T will just drop a line to the fair Cecil to tell her ack to be surprised to see me in another poeta in her husband’s parlor, next Tues- ay. lain when I have an opportunity—I can trust her woman’s wits to make the best of it un- | der the circumstances.” He eghe wrote a note of clear conciseness, without at all destroying the truth of his iden- es Then he mailed it, and took a coupé to a notori town street. ** As I can’t see Cecil in time to get the funds promised on date, I shall have to play with the dice again,” he soliloquized, leaning back in the darkness. ‘ By Jove, I begin to feel quite de- lightfully excited over the romantic adven- tures I’m having. This visit to Carris Court | will be a literal intrusion into the fiery furnace, but I shall enjoy it all the more because of the breathless daring cf it. What a picture for the Furies it will be to see that brave, glorious girl in the presence of the two men, both of whom she believes are her husband!” A wicked little laugh was on his lips as his devilish thoughts ran swiftly on. “T can trust Cecil to manage her part of the affair, and I will manage to see her alone, as any guest could easily do. Ill trump up some plausible explanation that will satisfy her, while at the same time I’ll not lose my power over her—oh, it will be a grand game to play!” 3 moment later his thoughts took a fresh tac ‘* Before I go to Carris Court I'll see Fletcher and have the marriage take place. I'll make that safe and sound, at all risks, and then—for a rosy future!” CHAPTER XXVII. A WELL-MATED PAIR. CUTHBERT PEMBERTON’S star seemed in the ascendant, and Fate and Fortune to combine to lure him on to still more venturesome paths from whose pleasant, flowery ways he could get no glimpse of the “eT ending. “T’ve been as wicked as ever man dared to be,” he told himself, in an exultant, boastful way, that next morning, as, in accordance with a note from Fletcher, he went to that worthy’s private room. | “Thave known no law but my own will. I have never allowed myself to be disappoirtted or thwarted. I have ruthlessly removed what- ever obstacles arose in my way that threatened the success of any object [had in view—if I used unadulterated King’s English, or if I was speaking of any one else, I should say that un- principled, vile, merciless, would be very apt words to describe the character of the man that Mr. Pemberton believes has very few faults. So then, it is not at all likely I shall allow my- aelf to fail in these latest, most ambitious achieve- ments of my curious career—to marry the heir- ess, and to keep up the delightful little affair with the fair Cecil, as well as maintain in funds if the old gentleman should prove refractory temporarily. A crafty, wicked smile crept to his lips, but ashe heard Fletcher’s steps nearing the door, he instantly suppressed it. Fletcher met him | ore his usual half-familiar, half-respectful ad- ess, *“You are prompt, Mr, Cuthbert,” he said, in- dicating a chair, which the young man de- clined briefly. ‘* There is so little time to ,” he return- ed. “I have been busy all the morning ar- ranging for the marriage which will take place to-morrow. Ihave not hesitated to take your advice, Fletcher, as you will see. I have en- gaged a room at the St. Clarence hotel, whither _the course of a morning drive to-morrow I will take my cousin Elma, Of course you will be there—perhaps also Miss Ogden, to witness the ceremony the rector of the church of the Lily of the Valley will perform. Elma will re- turn home, as usual, and until such time as cir- cumstances determine no one but we four will be the wiser.” I will say in my note that I will fully ex- | ous gambling-house on a fashionable up- | | ing, and hopeful and healthy. | ness and welfare o There was an eager nervousness in his man- ner that showed how much he realized was at 8. Fleteher’s inscrutable face relaxed into a curious sort of smile. “Your promptness and keen intelligence in arranging this romantic affair is a charming compliment to Miss Pemberton. I only hope, Mr. Cuthbert, that the future will be witness to as much interest and attention and affection on your part as the present sees.” There was the merest suggestion of feeling in his tones. Cuthbert frowned impatiently. ‘Drop that, Fletcher! Of course I shall treat her well—fully as well as she will treat me. Our tastes are quite alike, so far asa love for gayety and fashionable life and a grand showing are concerned, and I haven’t the least doubt but that we will neither one kick in the traces.” Fletcher looked the least bit coldly displeased, but barely enough to be noticeable even to the sharp eyes of this man between whom and him- self such a desperate game was being played. ** You ought to be very happy,” he returned, slowly. You are both young, and good-look- There is an im- mense fortune waiting to be enjoyed that the most extravagant being can hardly embarrass. Miss Pemberton will be admired wherever she oes, and you, as her husband, will be a man to envied. Yes, a fair fate is before you, and it will be your own fault if it is spoiled.” Cuthbert laughed carelessly. ‘*T shall not spoil it, you may be sure, con- sidering that my wife will be keeper of the urse, And judging from your remarkable in- Grett in our affairs, Fletcher, you will not be likely to allow _the forgiveness to be spoiled. Do you know I cannot rid myself of the pe- culiar impression Bhd anxiety for the happi- my uncle’s niece gives me? I never saw such charming devotion; indeed were you a younger man, or my cousin older, t could easily imagine you ae ak your— friendship—or whatever you call it, to her!” Fletcher smiled—a slow, sad smile that puz- zled Cuthbert. ‘You need fancy no such absurdities, sir. I am anxious to see the money remain in the fam- ily, and you, master, where you belong; and for reasons I have before given.” “Well, I'll go now, and tell Elma—for as yet I haven’t consulted her. I hada blind faith in her acceptance of the proposal, and I am _posi- tive the end will bear me out in that belief. In all probability I will not see you before to- morrow, but you will not forget that the time and place are half-past nine, and the St. Clarence Hotel, parlor B.” He nodded and Jeft the room, leaving Fletcher standing—the very model of quiet triumph. “The puppets _ into my hands just as I swore they should. To-morrow sees the accom- plishment of the work for which I have planned and worked, lied and perjured myse To- morrow, to all intents and purposes, sees the grand estate of the Pembertons transferred where I want it transferred, to Cuthbert Pem- berton and Elma, his wife!” He walked thoughtfully up and down the room, his hands crossed behind him, his pale eyes scintillant with suppressed exultation. ‘* He thinks I have no idea of what a wretch- ed villain he is,” he went on, a slow, im ve smile animating his thin, shrewd lips. “ But I know him like a book—know that there are very few vices and dissipations which he has not committed, from’ the ruin of r, yi Sydney, years ago, to last night’s carouse in a gambling-hell. And yet in the very face, TT; of it all—Elma shall marry him—because it ir the only way!” n He remained a short time longer among his documents, and then went out of the house on matters of business, Cuthbert had gone straight to Elma’s room, but learned from the maid that she was in the | music-room, whither he followed, so fortunate | | | | / | es to find her alone, turning over music in a listless, weary fashion, Her face brightened at sight of him, and she came forward, extending her hand in greeting. “Tamso glad Pb na have come! Iam awfully blue and cross this morning, Cuthbert, That hateful Miss Ogden has been giving me some of her solemn advice, and I always rebel under it. Come, talk to me, and e me -humored. Tell me about going to Carris Court—are you going? because I’m not!” some new She paused from actual breathlessness, and sat down upon a dos-a-dos, which he shared upon her invitation. He took her hand in an elaborate. reverent
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26 DID SHE SIN? fashion, and kissed it, giving her an adorin Once away from her, a hot flood of filled lookthat he saw rieasel fardletiedsing vanity hi 4 Bs ware We will talk about Carris Court afterward, my dearest. Ihave another far more serious, and, to me, interesting subject to offer.” She looked curio y at him, her black eyes shining. “Well, what is it, Cuthbert?” “T have been to Mr. Pemberton, my dearest Elma, and the result is—he forbids our marry- ing. He is greatly displeased with you for what he styles your cavalier conduct to Mr. Carriscourt yesterday, and from what I can learn I am positive it is his intention to compel you to a severe course of discipline the next year or so. Our marriage he positively for- bade.” Elma’s eyes fairly flamed. “The mean, disagreeable old tyrant! But, Cuthbert, I won’t be disciplined!” fore a month goes over her head!” CHAPTER XXVIII. THUNDER MUTTERING, Aut the preliminaries ane | been arranged, it was perfectly easy to carry them out, and the | next morning, a warm, breezeless summer day witnessed the secret marriage of Cuthbert Pem- berton and Elma. At the usual hour, the carriage had been or- ned, apparen: ro yery fortunately, that Cut ert stepped on the brown-stone steps just a mo- ment or so before Miss Ogden and Elma entered the carriage. El]ma’s invitation to accompany them was ac- cepted, and Mr. Griffith Pemberton bowed the “Of course you will not submit to any such | pleasant little party away, little thinking of the indignity, dear, although I could not very well tell him that. And equally, of course, he can- not hinder our marrying if we choose to be de- fiant; apa’ Fi choose to be defiant and make you my wife, in spite of all the obstacles in the universe.” He looked at her with a well-simulated pas- sion in his eyes. “Ob! A clandestine marriage! It would serve him just right to prove that we don’t care a pin for him or what he says,” and her eyes | looked the coarse satisfaction her words ex- pressed, “Only,” she added, hastily, ‘he might | treacherous deceit that was being perpetrated against his patience and kindness and gen- erositiy. The party drove quickly to the St. Clarence | Hotel, and were shown to Parlor B, where Fletcher was already in waiting. Pemberton met him with a half-sarcastic | smile, ‘Your remarkable interest again, Fletcher!” “Tam in the habit of being ahead of time,” he answered, quietly. ‘‘ The clergyman is wait- ing sir—he has but to be summoned from the | ladi He was shown in here, but I | es’ parlor. disinherit you, and then—” He smiled quietly, remembering how he had | so successfully managed to acquaint himself with Mr. Pemberton’s decision regarding the | money. “you may take my word, dearest, that there is not the smallest risk. Elma, will you consent to the arrangements I have made, subject ta your sweet syproval ” She listened to the plan he had given Fletche1 in detail, her eyes shining with mingled delight at this unexpected way out of her engagement | to Thorsby St. Lawrence, and the idea of thwarting and conquering Mr. Pemberton. “Will you consent, my darling? Will you make me the proudest, happiest man in all this city? Elma, will you marry me—to-morrow?” e gave him a straightforward answer that could not fail of satisfying him by its concise ness, even if it were remarkably devoid of sweet | shy sentiment: ‘I don’t see any reason why I should refuse, I have made up my mind to marry you, and one time is Pa ' as good as another to me, There, now, Cuthbert—there’s no use polus inta ecstatics, or mussing my laces, for I am mo- mently expecting a call.’ He bit his lip in momenta was easily consoled to realize umph was. “Your sweet coyness is one of your most in- | toxicating charms,” he said, gallantly. ‘And now we will talk about the visit at Carris Court, You are not going, you say?” ““Indeed, Lam not going. Iam not disposed | to humor every whim that the griffin happens to take. I said (d not go, and Ill not. I don’t at | all admire Mrs. Garsiedourt-—did you ever see, her, Cuthbert?’ ‘She is a perfect stranger to me, although I have seen her once or twice, but never to have the pleasure of speaking to her.” use,” she continued, and not a muscle | of his face betrayed the intense interest he felt, | ‘“‘she seemed unusually interested in you, and asked ever so many questions, and I am sure she hopes on will come to Carris Court.” | He flat understood the jeousy at bottom, | and smniled Yn relief to know th 3 was no other reason, “I can assure you it is a terrible sacrifice for me to have to go to Carris Court—I shall not remain a ponent . Jon er than is absolute] necessary—how could I, knowing my sweet wife | will be here, bac bag me?” “But I shall not be here, waiting for you,” she retorted, coolly. “I am going to Lo Branch the same ng | you go to Carris Court, had wondered how I could openly mutiny, and go in spite of uncle Griffith’s commands, but now that I shall be your wife, I shall be under no obligation tohim. Miss Ogden and I will gc together, and you can come to us, there, and if the old gentleman scolds, you can just tell him we are married, and that will settle him.” He involuntarily shrunk from her vulgar frankness of speech of intention, but gave no sign of it to her, as he arose to go, as che bell rung to her visitor. ‘Don’t forget to-morrow, my darling, and try to be patient until then.’ chagrin, but he ow great his tri- | on at took the pperty of begging him to leave this room to the ladies, not knowing but that Miss | Elma might wish—” That young lady cut him short imperiously. ‘That will do, Fletcher, since you are not supposed to know what I wish. Cuthbert, I am | all ready—we might as well get over the cere- mony, asI am in a hurry to do a little shop- a 4 Ogden made a faint deprecatory re- roof, ““Oh, Elma, you surely-do not mean that the solemn service of your marriage is to be—” Elma looked coolly at her, then interrupted her, insolently: ‘“‘T am in the habit—as some other people are —of meaning whatI say. So, Miss Ogden, just understand that your position here, on this. oc- casion, is perfectly similar to Fletcher’s—you are merely servants, chosen as convenient wit- , nesses.” Cuthbert smiled at her impudent unfeeling- ness, and Miss Ogden flushed painfully. Just then Fletcher returned with the clergy- man, a grave, dignified gentleman, who was in- troduced to the bride and her attendant. And then the bridal party took their places, and the sacred, impressive ceremony was said, the responses clearly made, the elegant ring put ust the right minute, and then the two were declared man and wife and God’s blessing was asked upon the new union, And the well-feed clergyman went away, and the four were left to the Fate they had courted. Of allof them, Hiram Fletcher’s face betrayed the least joyfulness, but his heart was throbbing with wildest ecstasy at this actual accomplish- ment of the one paramount desire cf his life. Miss Ogden’s face was pale and nervous, and more than once during the ceremony she had cast a troubled, wistful, half-territied glance at Fletcher’s inscrutable face. Elma looked partly bored, partly triumphant, partly relieved, and the groom showed a quiet satisfaction at what had been done, and thereby lay to him, that wes the keenest irony of ‘ate. After the marriage, the bridal pair returned to the carriage, which took Elma on her round of shopping after it had set her husband down at a desired place, on the route, while Fletcher went out to hire a cab to take Miss Ogden | home. Left alone with her a smile of overflowing satisfaction broadened his face, and his voice and manner were those of a man experiencing the keenest realization of success. ** Well, it is done at last, and no human pow- | ercanundoit. For this we have spent nearl a score of the years of our life, but we are paid, amply paid. There will be a little unpleasant- ness when Mr, Pemberton discovers the young people’s escapade, but I have undertaken to re- concile it all. Then, the bride will be installed mistress of her magnificent home, and our old ago will be spent in peace and luxury.” He had spoken in a slow, meditative way, and Miss Ogden listened with that same troubled, half-frightened look on her face. | “Yes, it has prospered beyond my most san- | guine hopes,” she whispered, ‘‘ but, oh, Fletch- m, “Curse her! I'll show her who’s master be- | dered for that young lady’s drive, and it pep: | er, when I think of the awful risks we lave run I tremble for fear that even yet—” He hushed her, fiercely: ‘Don’t be a fool! No living soul knows the ' secret but you and I—it will go down to our aves with us, and no one will be the worse or the wiser. If you are going to be hysterical and continually gsi op he added, with a cold ang in his pale eyes, ‘* you had better go back | to Europe, and take your fright with you.’ Her lips quivered as though she were deeply hurt at his unfeeling words, and she lifted her handkerchief to her eyes. “Don’t speak so, Fletcher! Despite her | atrocious treatment of me, you know it would | break my heart. to leave Elma, and—” ‘* Then learn to display a little common sense! There’s the cab—you had better go home and see if you cannot put a permanent restraint on your fanciful fears.” He escorted her down-stairs to the ladies’ en- trance and put her in the cab, and then went about his business. At luncheon the entire party met again, in- cluding Mr. Griffith Pemberton, all unconscious of the condition of affairs, and, it seemed to them all, more gentle and gracious toward his niece than he had been of late. he, too, was in a specially complaisant mood, The knowledge of her independence, the fact of her havin trad such a romantic ad- venture, and, beyond all, that she was absolute- ly free of Thors ‘Bap Lawrence, all combined to put her in a state of jubilant affability that exerted its influence on them all. Luncheon over, Mr. Pemberton arose to re- tire to his library, his usual custom, and mid- ss of tke floor he paused and turned to his niece. ‘* It almost escaped me, Elma, to tell you that | to-day I received a note from my friend Carris- | court and his wife, saying that there will be a lawn party on Tuesday afternoon, in your espe- | cialhonor. I answered by return mail that I socegted the invitation for you, thanking them for their very charming consideration.” “Yes,” she answered, indifferently, “but T said I was not going to the country.” Mr. Pemberton lifted his frosty eyebrows questioningly. ‘* Not going? I supposed you understood what I meant yesterday when I requested your obe- dience,” : | Her Sogers were restlessly opening and clos- ing her fan, and Miss Ogden, sitting opposite her, saw the portentous flash of her eyes, and the curl of her red lips. “T understand that I shall go or stay just as I see fit, uncle Griffith, and I certainly shall not go. Ishould think that is explicit enough to satisfy you.” Mr. Pemberton’s eyes began to darken, and he looked sternly at her. ‘*Elma! You will not forget to whom you are speaking!” She Ft her blonde head Paina arin § ‘‘There’s not the slightest danger of my for- getting! And don’t you forget that I will not be treated like a baby. I am old enough to choose my own places to visit and my own hostesses. I don’t like that haughty, aristo- cratic Mrs. Carriscourt, and I'll never cross her threshold.” ? Miss Ogden was in an agony of fear, and she tried in vain to catch the girl’s an eyes. Failing, she called her attention by speaing: a tone of entreaty and reproof. “You ha h, will ¢ Your day of tyra ** You hush, will you our to) nny ended in Europe, and no other living person shall compel me to do what I do not wish. I will not go—there now—and I will not hear an- other word from any of you!” She sent a swift, defiant look around the little group, and jin so doing met the warning glances of Fletcher and her husband. ‘*Oh, you needn’t think I care the least for any of you,” she said, passionately. “I dare say you would all hugely enjoy seeing me com- pletely sat down upon by uncle Griffith—but you'll not have the satisfaction! You are a cross, disagreeable, imperious person,” she add- ed, her fury rising higher and higher, and she turned desperately toward Mr. Pemberton, who stood in icy, haughty anger, listening to the storm of passion and rage—‘‘and the sooner you once make up your mind to understand I’ll not submit to your dictation, the better!” | Mr. Pemberton still stood silent, his — old no rows heme bed rs equcne! his blue e 4 gleaming fros an S manner a | Calm of restraizt that somehow made an iin- ression on all the astounded listeners to Elma’s , burst of passion, and particularly upon Flet-
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\ DID SHE SIN? cher, in whose eyes was a look frightful to see, in its freezing inscrutableness. Miss Ogden sat, speechless and white, while Cuthbert in sheer amazement, said not a word. Then, Mr. Pemberton slightly bowed his mag- nificent white head toward the infuriated gir). “You may retire from the room, Miss Pem- berton, and consider yourself banished from my presence, and the living rooms of the house unti hia! properly te pak for your unwar- rantable language and conduct.” His eyes fairly shot lightning at her, but she answered his cold, courteous tones with a fresh burst of fury. “Then I’ll never enter either again! Do you su { care whether you are pleased or dis- Pleased?” And she flounced across the floor, and banged the door violently after her. tar Pemberton looked meaningly at Cuth- “And that is the girl you love well enough to marry, Cuthbert!” . Then, he turned toward Fletcher with a hard, sharp glitter in his frosty blue eyes. , . “Do you know, I sometimes wonder if she 1s my sister’s child?” 1 A cold sweat suddenly broke out in huge beads on Fletcher's forehead, and for once in his life, his self-control deserted him, But only for one horrifying second. ‘ “It must be a heart-breaking trial for you, sir, but, try to remember she is young and may Overcome her childish temper.” A slow, incredulous smile crept under Mr. Pemberton’s white mustache, and he gravely excused himself from the dining-room. Ogden at once followed Elma to her room, while Cuthbert and Fletcher left the house, Cuthbert in a state of half-amused, half- vexed excitement, the other, with a cold, stolid face from which the eyes blazed outa perfect lightning of terrible, yet mysterious meaning. “*T knew she had the reverse of a sweet dis- Position, but I’ll be everlastingly hung if I bar- gained for such a devil’s own temper. Fp his utter surprise, Fletcher looked sternly at him. “Don't forget you are traducing your wife. Whatever her fauilts, she is still your wife, with whom you are bound to protect and defend. She has made a mistake in her unfortunate dis- play of temper—that is all.” uthbert laughed as he turned on his heel. ‘And she’ll precious quick learn from me not to make many more of them. Good-morning, Fletcher.” While in her room, Elma was storming and rage in her fury. Dll go away, and I'll never, never come back until that horrid old tyrant apologizes to me! [ll have my trunks packed this very day, and Tl keep my room until he goes to Carris Court on Tuesday, and then I'll go to Long Branch, and Cuthbert shall tell him we are married! | only wish I had told him—the old tyrant!” And Miss Ogden cried and entreated and coaxed and humored until she succeeded in Somewhat restoring calm. CHAPTER XXIX. TIGHTENING THE CORDS. At Carris Court the two or three intervening days before the arrival of their guests had been tably employed by both Cecil and Mr, Car- riscourt. Letters had been written to Mr. Os- car May, at Marchbrook, to Mrs, Sayre, with Whom ‘a ‘pleasant correspondence had been maintained that was resulting in a true, warm endshi cially grateful to Cecil who had no ntimate pide and to several other parties whom . Carriscourt and Cecil ha’ Chosen to invite. om every one letters of cordial acceptance had been received, and Carris Court was look- ing its best and most lovely and beautiful fr: its guests, Very little had been said between Mr. Carris- court and Cecil since the last conversation on the subject of the trouble between them. A word or two from him had shown Cecil how the matter weighed upon Mr. Carriscourt’s mind, Fa the two or three days went by, and noth: g occurred to introduce the pitiful ba, = very t Cecil had been in fear of another visit from Pemberton, and yet, she had fully resolved she never would permit him another audience in her private room. She had ar- ranged to have the money ready for him, and decided she would refuse admission, handing it to him ti h the window. “T would give mv life to be free of this tor- ment,” she told herself hourly. **T cannot keep on this way always—I will not be able to sup- ply the demands made upon me. I will see him once more—only once more, and then he shall not venture inside of Mr. Carriscourt’s walls— and I will tell him I will submit no longer to his extortionate claims. I will agree to give him a stipulated sum regularly, and he must agree to that, or—” But the weary, hopeless sigh that came from lips told how terrible the alternative was. But, for reasons known to the reader, and known to Pemberton himself, he did not think it prudent to pay a midnight visit to Cecil at the appointed time, and, instead, he wrote his letter to her—a letter that by some strange complication of Fate never reached her. The fateful Tuesday dawned exquisitely fair. Heavy showers of rain had fallen during the previous night, making the foliage fresh and sparkling as emeralds. Thunder had cleared all semblance of murkiness from the atmos- phere, and a cool northerly breeze blew gently through the grand trees of the park. Early in the day the Marchbrook carriage brought Mr. May upon his first visit to Cecil, and although there could not have failed to be a curious constraint upon him, as memory recall- ed the past, yet both Mr, Carriscourt and Cecil met and received him with a well-bred courtesy and welcome that soon obliterated that feel- | in Kt intervals during the day other guests ar- rived, and late in the afternoon the party from New York reached Carriscourt b train. At the Grand Central Depot Mrs. Sayre had met Mr. Griffith Pemberton, and the two had traveled pleasantly together, talking of Ceeil and her rare sweetness and charmingness. Elma had been true to her word, and had steadily refused to accompany Mr. Pemberton. She had steadily refused to leave her rooms, and commissioned Miss Ogden with various insolent messages to him, which of course failed to br delivered. Mr. Pemberton had not once mentioned her: name to Miss Ogden, or to Fletcher, or to Cuth- bert, and when the appointed hour for his de. ie i came, he got into his carriage and ways iven with his luggage to the depdt. Cuthbert found it impossible—so he cautious- wy told Mr. Pemberton—to accompany him to Jarris Court by the afternoon train, but he would follow during the evening, after he had dispatched his imperative business—which im- perative business was, to make sure that if one mail had not taken his note of warning to Cecil, another, and the very latest, might have done so. Also, he knew of Elma’s determination to visit Long Branch, and, although Miss Ogden was to accompany and remain with her, he preferred to escort her thither and see her suitably ac- commodated, which he could comfortably ac- complish and reach Carris Court by half-past nine in the evening. So it happened that only Mr. Pemberton, of the Pemberton party, received Cecil’s and Mr. Carriscourt’s warm greeting. He shook hands with his host, and, as on the oceasion of Cecil's visit at his house, he clasped her hands warm- ly, and kissed her on her lovely white forehead. “Tam glad to see you again, my dear—would you believe me if I say I have actually missed you from my home, after the brief sunshine you brought to it?” He looked kindly, and almost gravely, in her splendid uplifted eyes, that were full of such sweet interest, “It isa case of mutual friendship, Mr. Pem- berton. Cecil looks upon you, as I am heartily look upon you, as a very | lad she does, and as r, and honored, and valued friend.” Mr. Carriscourt spoke with feeling frankness, and Cecil’s blue eyes indorsed every word. Mr. Pemberton smiled. ‘The promise of such friendship is very plea- sant to me, and I sincerely hope the future will not disappoint me.” Just a little expression of bitter remembrance showed in his grand blue eyes as he thought of how sorely he fiad been disappointed, but he did not say anything about it. “T am commissioned to make Mr. Cuthbert Pemberton’s excuses,” he went on. ‘There was some business he could scarcely leave this afternoon, much though he regretted not being able to come with me. But he will be up on the train due at 9:35 this evening—and exceedingly mony § to pay his devotions to Mrs. Carris- court. Cecil smiled and flushed a little, then, with a little bow, left the gentlemen to renew her gra- cious welcome to . Sayre. Then the two ladies retired to the room as | worships you, but yet, Cecil—an ed to Mrs. re, and enjoyed a pleasant. Wile’ Chat, after With the ea sorte of ests met in the parlor, and mutual recog- nitions and introductions took place, and everything was delightfully harmonious and pleasant. From her dressing-room Cecil heard the sounds of subdued gayety, and a pitiful, weary look crept into Her lovely blue eyes as she sub- mitted ber hair to Kitty’s skillful fingers. “ How little they suspect the ghoulish skele- ton in the closet! ow little they imagine that one immediate cause of their presence at Car- ris Court is that Mr. Carriscourt and I are try- ing to stifle a terrible trouble—tryin> > seek he forgetfulness in the duties of hos- pitality.” Her thoughts ran on as she made her toilet, and seeing the old, weary look in her eyes she made a desperate effort to drive it away. “Tt will not do,” she chided herself, resolute- ly. “I will struggle, as if for my life, to main- tain a calmness that shall pass for contentment. —until the guests are gone—and after that—L dare not think again!” She was looking most radiant and beautiful after her toilet was completed, and by sheer force of desperate determination she had ex- orcised the haunting shadows her eyes. She wore pure white—Mr. Carriscourt liked a white toilet better than anything else, and Ce- cil’s heart had thrilled with passionate love and longing as she told Kitty to lay out her white silk and lawn dress, trimmed with foamy Bre- ton lace. She did not wear much jewelry—a pair of small, magnificent solitaires in ker little pink ears, and narrow gold bands on her perfect arms | that were bared to just below the dimpled el- bows. At her throat amid a soft knot of white lace she wore a bouquet of pale-pink roses, and another at her belt—and, so attired, went into the presence of her guests, almost startling every one by her spirituelle beauty and 4 and making Mr. Carriscourt’s heart thrill eager- at sight of her, so gracious, so gentle, so ovely. While Mr. Pemberton’s face suddenly paled, and his frosty eyes grew misty, and his breath came in Jabored inspirations as he looked at her. ““My God—what a resemblance—and yet a. thousand times fairer! What can it mean? Why is all my heart, all my thought continual- ly going toward this perfect creature? My very brain whirls at the fancies that come and go, so mockingly,” All unconscious,Cecil moved among her guests the very impersonation of well-bred elegance and gracious hospitality, smiling and chatting with one, listening to another, putting every one at their perfect ease, and diffusing her charming influence as she went, followed by her husband’s longing eyes and Mr. Pemberton’s grave, bewil- dered, stormy ones. ‘ As she moved about, Mr. May stepped up to er. ‘‘ Cecil, I am especially anxious to be shown a wonderful fern Carriscourt tells me is in the conservatory, Can you not spare one mintte to show me?” Cecil took his arm and smiled au revoir to the gentleman with whom she had been conyersing, and moved off toward the fernery, Mr. May at. ones opening a conversation with her. “T want to see the maiden-hair fern, Cecil, but I could not longer wait for an oS ol nity to have a moment’s quiet congratulatory chat with you. Cecil, my dear, you ought to be the proudest, happiest woman in all the world, with such a princely home, such a prince for a husband, Surely you suffer no ungratified wish—it is plain to be seen that your husband a this is why I have ventured to take the liberty—there is a | quiet, sad, pitiful look in youreyes that one who knows you well cannot fail to see. What is the matter, Cecil? Are you not happy with your husband?” He looked down on her face, intensely inter- ested to witness the rapidly-changing expression that crossed it as he spoke, and now, first a sud- den flaming flush surged from brow to throat, followed by a paleness all the more startling in contrast. Her head drooped for a second, and he saw her lips quiver, despite her noble effort “Then, she lifted ‘up her head in ick, pas- en, she up her hea a sionate impulse, as if to haughtily and angrily ; then, surprised him by a low, thrilling answer. **T do not see how you can think such an im- possibility for a eke ov once earned my everlasting le me m é mother’s picture, Cesar, d for the ae of ‘
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28 that, I tolerate from put. And answer it tty the question you have y saying emphatically— no woman ever a husband more revered and loved than mine. If yousee shadows in m eyes, Oscar ”—and then camea pitiful little wail in her sweet voice, ‘‘remember all I have gone through—since—since—Judge May died.” He winced under her touching, patient re- oof, “ But we to b all that past Cecil,” Yhe said, a little coldly. ‘‘ You promised I should be a friend to you, and—I imagined—” {/ **You are wrong, ; r. Carriscourt is my best, dearest friend—although,” and her voice lost its brief, spirited ring, and mellowed into its usual gentle quiet, ‘‘I thank you. Now, I will show you the ferns; then, please take me back to the drawing-room.” When she went back, no one would have sup- ed there had been anything agitating during er few minutes’ absence. A little later dinner was announced, which lasted until nearly half-past nine, and the party of young people took themselves out on the beautiful tes leaving in the drawing-room only Mr. Pemberton, Cecil, and Mr. Carriscourt, sitting in low, luxurious chairs near the open French window, engaged in delightful conver- sation. DID SHE SIN? ** 4 man would prove a very miserable sort of nf if he a not renpntge his ema especially a girl so pretty and so dangerous as you, Elma. Yes, T wilowea you, and came over Par, to see you—because ”’—and he smil dl Bre po may have understood from my letter that I was growing jealous of your long silence and fearful lest you should favor some other lucky fellow.” She removed her hand that he had retained. ‘There wasn’t the least use, Thorsby, of your coming. If I had wanted you, I would have sent for you.” Her impatience was so hard for her to con- trol. All her life she had given way to every impulse, until she was the very embodiment of impulse; and this time she cid what she never before had done—she thoroughly angered Thors- by St. Lawrence. “Thank you. ciative of the devotion that actuated me. It is rather a curious reception to give the lover to whom you are betrothed in marriage. You do not seem at all like yourself. I hope the sud- | den pee to wealth and position has not So Just as a servant—like Fate en masquerade— | preceded a gentleman into the room, and, with a stately bow, announced the latest guest, ‘‘ Mr, Cuthbert Pemberton.” Mr. Carriscourt arose and immediately stepped forward, shaking hands with him with quiet courtesy. While, from his easy-chair, Mr. Pemberton sent a familiar welcome. ‘‘ Well, Cuthbert, Iam glad you did not dis- appoint us. My nephew, Mrs. Carriscourt, of whom—” He paused sharply in the midst of his presen- tation, for, Cecil had arisen from her chair, with eyes wild and dilated, her face whiter than her dress, her hands clasped in a dumb fear and horror, her lips ashen and compressed, Then, a pitiful, wailing agony in her sharp tones, she cried out, ‘‘No! No! oh, my God!” and fell forward, in a deathly swoon, in her husband’s outstretched arms. , CHAPTER XXX, THE BURSTING OF THE STORM. ACCORDING to her determination, Elma Pem- berton had left her uncle’s house for Long Branch, accompanied by Miss Ogden and her husband, within an hour after Mr. Pemberton had started for Carris Court. The party reached there before sunset, and were driven to the Ocean House, where rooms had been engaged by telegram, and where, af- ter seeing them safely settled, Cuthbert left them, just in time to catch the train that should return him to the city in time to be transferred and connect with the evening express for Carris Court. An hour later a hotel servant brought Elmaa note, in a penciled handwriting she knew onl too well, making an appointment on the san in half an hour, and designating the exact t. ats Of course it will be easy enough to dis of him, now,” Elma thought, as she crushed the mote in her hand. ‘‘No matter what he says, or threatens, he cannot compel me to keep m engagement with him. I really believe since received that letter from him, and not seeing | him for so long, and the great change that has | occurred in my pr: ts, that I have not only ceased to care for him, but actually dislike | She ordered Miss Ogden to get a pale-pink | ‘zephyr shawl from the trunks, and saying she was going out by herself for a little while, started leisurely to the place of rendezvous, fol- lowed by many pairs of admiring masculine eyes. | Half-way between the hotel grounds and the sands she was met by a tall, rather handsome man, of dashing manner and dress, into whose ood Fay eyes came an expression of extreme sa spoiled you, Elma.” The cool indifference on her face increased. ‘“* [ don’t know that it has spoiled me, Thorsby, but Ido know that I have changed my views ‘You seem remarkably appre- | on very many subjects since I have been in roy | new home.” He gazed steadily at her, his sarcastic, pierc- ing gray eyes never losing the sad smile in them that made Elma feel just a little uncomfortable, but, despite which sensation, she went doggedly on: ““T have learned one very important thing,” she said, almost coldly, ‘‘and that is, that I was very much mistaken when I thought I cared enough for you to promise to marry you. It never can be, Thorsby. Uncle Griffith would never in the world consent that I should marry “Ah! You are quite complimentary and | equally confident, my dear. understand this welcome is very distressing to me, and”—and a swift resolute look, mingled with a passion that told her that he loved her desperately despite her coolness, her harshness, swept stormily across his bold, good-looking face as he stepped closer to her in his earnest- ness—‘‘and you are equally capable of under- | standing that I shall not submit to any such treatment. You loved me not so very long ago before you dreamed you were the niece an heiress of a t man, and I hold hg) promise to be my wi at and I—loved you then, and love you just as well now. There was a masterfulness in his tones that would have frightened her had she not known that she held in reserve a fact that would ut- terl overthrow all his persuasions or threats. ou are very = be —— 9g always loves me,” she re- urned, complacent: He laughed, but tt was not a very amused laugh. ey our charming conceit is only excelled by | your frankness, my dear Elma. I'll indorse your estimate of yourself most cerdially, and add—that no sensible man who had secured your written acceptance of a pro of mar- riage would allow its retraction.’ She began to grow impatient, and he saw a | flash of wrath in her black e es. ‘But I tell youl will sat: marry you—-there now, a =e orno promise, Thorsby St. Law- rence! You have come on a fruitless errand, and you can go back as you came.” He compressed his lips with wonderful self- control, but his eyes were fairly scintillant, “Very well, Miss Pembercon. Then my next good, indeed; of course any | ou can of course | 4 well as it is, for every one but yoursel | of Mr. Griffith proceeding will be to go to the Fifth avenue | mansion to-morrow, and lay your delightful | letters before your uncle and claim their prom- | ise. I dare say you have no objection?” If he had hoped to intimidate her he failed most signally. She smiled sneeringly: “Don’t go, please. Uncle Griffith would have the hall porter put you out of the house; action and undisguised admiration as he | Co She could have bitten her impulsive-spoken | went up to her, almost eagerly, and extended his | hand, “Well, Elma! Consider yourself kissed. My dearest Elma, how glad I am to see you | 4 |.to burst on so many heads—the first mutterin sh Iaehed lightly, as she laid her hand in tongue off for the admission, but it her lips. hurry the climax of the terrible tempest about had passed F- which were already about her husband’s ears. +§ Blo, Thon, you have come all the way to | St. Lawrence smiled coldly and lifted his erica to see me, have you?” indifference of the address seemed to sur- St. Lawrence not a little. There flashed heavy brows. “Indeed? Then I will wait his return from— ‘Carris Court,’ I think you said—or, better a look inte his gray eyes she rewembered so | still, go to him at—‘ Carris Court.’” well. / He seemed to relish the repetition of the besides, he is not at home; he is at Carris | urt—” Fate ordained words that were to | > name, and his malicious manrr enraged her. Her eyes flashed like ebon stars, and her breast heaved angrily. You will not go, you disgraceful adventurer ou! You will not dare go; you would never received in the drawing-room. You are not such a looking or appearing gentleman as I have become accustomed to since—” He stepped up closer to her for one brief sec- ond; Elma thought he meant to strike her. ‘Stop, right there! lt will not be well for you to add insult toinjury. Elma, I have this vue tKuluy bo Say to you that it will be weli tor you to consider calmly: I came to America be- cause I loved you better than any woman in the world, but it would not require much more of your treatment to turn that love into a hatred you will rue to the latest hour of your life. shall we drop this unpleasantness, and be friends, lovers again, or—” All the evil in the girl’s heart was up in arms. ‘Your hatred! Do you suppose z care for your hatred any more than for your love? [ tell you, Thorsby St. Lawrence, your cowardly threats are entirely lost upon me. You can brag and boast of what you will do but I never will marry because I just despise you in the first place, and, in the second place—I am al- ready married! There now!” She flung out her feminine climax with a scornful, tantalizing triumph, expecting to see him annihilated at the information. His face pal d for one second, and he bit his lips beneath his thick mustache, but he looked unflinchingly, with intensest desperation in his eyes, straight at her sullen, angry, yet strange- ly-triumphant face. “So you are—married! And that is why you could afford to defy me, is it? Well, Miss Pemberton, perhaps it is as well that you are—married. I would have married you for—love,” and he smiled peculiarly— ‘ while I dare say the present happy man had an eye to your prospects. Yes—it is peg as and your —husband. And now, as the first of a few facts I am disposed to furnish you, allow me, in offering my sincere congratulations, to in- form you that you are not the niece and heiress emberton.” For the first time during their interview, a look of dismay came into Elma’s eyes. Thorsby St. Lawrence knew the secret that Fletcher had | said would be buried with him and Miss Ogden. He saw the fear and dismay on her face and ' knew he bad struck the blow home, despite her instantly rallied courage. ‘¢ What are you talkingabout? Are you crazy or—do you consider this a part of your revenge? Not uncle Griffith’s niece! How romantic!” . She puppet sale eee however. He bow- ed with elaborate sneering courtesy. ‘“A very romantic story, indeed, Miss Pem- | berten, and also, so refres ingly true. Shall I w ve you a little history of what I happen to ve khown these past five years? It may serve to prove te you that my declarations of affec- tion were honest and true, seeing that [ have known all those five years, that you were not the genuine heiress of the t Pemberton estate. How I learned the well-planned, better- executed story, I shall not tell you; it will be enough that I convince you that, instead of be- ing the daughter of Mrs. Genevieve Fairfax, and the niece of Mr. Griffith Pemberton, you are—” He paused, in tantalizing, smiling scorn, knowing full well the effect his slow-spoken truthful words, and his tormenting pause ha upon her. A sudden, awful dismay that deepened into a painful nervous fear with every heart-beat, was visible on her face, as he paused, the secret yet unspoken. ‘© Well—tell me, if you have anything to te!l. I knew I was not a true Pemberton,” she said, with reckless sullenness, ‘but 1 have made myself safe and sure in marrying Mr. Griffith Pemberton’s nephew and heir.” 2 His face lightened with scornful satisfaction. ‘“So he concluded you were not suitable to inherit his money, after all, I take it? And in default of a better legatee, made it over to— Mr.Cuthbert Pemberton, the man you married?” A look of actual fear shot from her eyes. How did St. Lawrence, a total bowie. @:, ponte of Cuthbert Pemberton? He answer ques- tion so visible in her looks. “T dare say you are dumbfounded, but when I tell youl have been in New York city ever since you have been here, studying up this charming romance, and that my letter to you was written nota block from your house and ; gent to a friend in London to be remailed, you ae
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CTE Simao? Cae a / ‘ DID SHE SIN? a may understand it better. Perhaps, also, you wil t it as a fact which I can prove when Lassert that Mrs. Cuthbert Pemberton is but the natural daughter of Hiram Fletcher and Miss Elizabeth ya Elma gave a little gasping shriek that the wind and the roar of the surf carried seaward. “Tt is a horrible, horrible lie! How dare you?” * Truth cannot be gainsayed,” he answered, eoolly. ‘‘Ican prove that you were born, out of wedlock, on the same day that the real heiress was born; that your mother, later, un- dertook the care of both children; that, during one of Hiram Fletcher’s visits from America the plan was adopted that has worked so well —you, their own child, were educated as the heiress, while the sweet little Cecil was given for adoption to a gentleman and wife of the name of May, who were traveling in Europe. Whether she is alive or not, I cannot say, but, if she is, she is the rightful heiress. She would be an exquisitel utiful woman, if her hahyhood fulfilled its rare promise. She was fair as a lily, with goiien hair—not yellow like her ge and eyes as blue as the Italian skies she looked upon.” A breathless horror had come over Elma as she listened, and before he had finished she re- cognized the description, the name, the circum- stances that told her Cecil Carriscourt was the heiress of Pemberton! While she—and a great fury of rage swept over her—while she—oh, it could not, it should not be—that she was—the child of the two people she detested most on ! ' She turned her death-white, desperate face fully toward him—a lion at bay. “I don’t believe it! I will not listen to another of your abominable lies! It is your revenge, but do you think I care? I will never, never look at you, or speak to you again!” She instantly walked away from him, trem- bling so, her limbs scarcely sufficed to carry her back to her room, where she burst in upon Miss Ogden, like an infuriated demoness. “Ts it true? Is it true, you vile wretch? Am f your child and—that beast’s—Fletcher’s? If it is true, I could kill you!” The swift, awful Year in the woman’s face was enough for the confirmation of the fact. She fell on her knees in agonized sobs, trying to cling to the girl’s dress. v8 knows I would have spared you this! But, don’t, don’t look at me so—my little Elma, my baby I loved so well!” lma struck her a brutal blow, that only mi- raculously escaped killing her. As it was, she staggered to the sofa, white and faint, while Elma, in a raging fury, walked up and down, up and down, until, in sheer exhaustion from temper, she threw herself on the floor, desperate to the end. While Mr. Thorsby St. Lawrence quietly stepped into the hotel office, paid his bill, lighted a cigar, inquired for the first train to New York, learned where Carris Court was, and in an hour was on his way to enact his share in the fast- coming doom, CHAPTER XXXI. A RIFT IN THE CLOUD. A CONSTERNATION naturally seized Mr. Car- riscourt and Mr. Pemberton as Cecil fell faint- ing in her husband’s arms. Mr. Pemberton sprung to the window, calling Mrs. Sayre, who, together with Mr. Carriscourt, assisted in re- storing her to consciousness, each one of them expressing their astonishment at the strange oc- eurrence—Cuthbert Pemberton alone holding the clew to the apparent mystery, and looking most concerned and kindly solicitous and sur- prised of any of them, as he stood gravely aside, “Curses on the stupid blunder that has some- how or other been committed! Is it possible she failed to receive my letter?” It was several minutes before Cecil revived, and it was a eo sight to see her lying there, still and white as the dress she wore, her eyes closed asif never to open their blue loveliness again, sending unutterable thrills of anguish through her husband as he hovered anxiously over her, chafing her cold hands, and bathing her fair temples with the fongent ammonia. Suddenly she drew a long, sobbing breath, and the blue eyes fluttered open, in an expres- sion of fear and terror evident to see, an expres- sion that verged to an agonized panic as her e fell upon Pemberton, standing in respect- , grave rise, & little aside. As their glances met, he stepped courteously fo rward, bo . “T regret, very mg having been so unfor- tunate as to agitate Mrs. Carriscourt by my very evident resemblance to some one else—per- haps a deceased friend,” His voice thrilled her with ching horror and she put up her hand, feebly, as if to ward him off, her anguishful eyes going to her hus- band’s face in piteous entreaty, then, a gasping whisper came from her lips, ust as, almost by inspiration, it occurred to Mr. May, who it was that Cuthbert Pemberton resembled. “‘Hush, Cecil,” he whispered, bending over her apparently to remove a tress of hair that was falling toward her eves, ‘for God’s sake, husb! You think itis Sy wa Valence; you are mistaken; it is only a wonderful resemblance. Don’t speak Sydney’s name—that silly engage- ment to him would anger your husband. Calm yourself.” His firm, kindly meant tones were like an elixir to her. The idea that possibly there were two people so much like one another, strength- ened and encouraged her, ne ey —suffi- ciently to avert for the moment any ill-conse- quences. Mr. May turned toward Mr. Carriscourt, smiling] “Tt is “3 Pemberton’s extraordinary likeness he a deceased friend of hers that has agitated her—for the moment she thought the dead friend stood before her.” A look of relief passed over Pemberton’s face. “‘T am exceedingly sorry to have been so un- fortunate, Mrs. Carriscourt. May I not hope you will not — my unlucky presentation ag an omen of evil?” He had walked up to her, and courteously bowed, extending his hand in ve deference, looking square in her eyes that were gathering their horror again. “Not a word! I'll not betray you!” He whispered the words rapidly as he held her hand a second, then, he turned away, not in the least agitated. Cecil smiled a wan little smile toward her friends. “*T am very foolish, I fear, but Iam stronger now. Mr. Pemberton has quite reassured me, and I hope we will all forget my extreme awkwardness,” Her eyes began to glow with the reaction set- ting in, and the rich red tint crept back to her lips, and, as she realized with still more assur- ance that the miserable secret was yet hidden from her husband, her courage increased, and her fears were temporarily allayed, and she was her sweet charming self again, except when oc- casionally she met Mr. Carriscourt’s grave, thoughtful eyes, and then it required all her fortitude to keep up her show of gayety. The evening grew toward half-past ten before the parties on the lawn and terraces and from the lakelet came strolling in in twos and threes, Then, there was a little music, an hour of dancing, and then lemonade and cake was served, and the guests retired to their rooms, where, on her dressing-bureau, Cecil found a letter from Pemberton. “Evidently you failed to receive my note of warn- ing and explanation,” it began, promptly, ‘and so I will repeat that, although to you Tam Sydney Va- lence, to the world, and in my family I am known as Cuthbert Pemberton. And the reason why I have the two names is, that in consequence of there bein a legacy left me in case I assume my mother’s taaide en name—Pemberton, uniting it with the family Christian name Cuthbert, I assumed it for the sake of the fortune, and have legally adopted it since our marriage. My true name is, and was, at that time. the one by which you knew me—Sydney Valence. hope Lhave succeeded in making this clear to you. I hope also I shall succeed in aii: you understand I mean you no ill by this visit that Fate has ordained —that while lam your guest, [remain as Cuthbert Pemberton.. 1 shall treat you as the hostess, and so charming a hostess, should be treated, and for your own sake, you will treat me as you do other guests the short time I remain at Carris Court ” The letter was an infinite relief to Cecil, who slept more soundly that night than in a long while before. The next morning she was down in the break- fast-parlor before any of her guests, looking fresh and sweet as a rose in her white morning- dress and pale-blue ribbons. She was busy at her usual duty of arranging in vases and crystal saucers the basket of cut- flowers the gardener had his standing order to bring her every morning, when Mr. Griffith Pemberton came down, the very ideal of the aristocratic old gentleman with his tless summer linen, and cool diamond studs, and grand handsome face whose keen blue eyes ighted warmly at the fair picture that Cecil made bending over the beautiful, fragrant Te te pil not necessary to inquire after your health or happiness, Mis, Carrisboutt® he 2aid, as he gave her his hand and her own nestled in it for a second; “your looks tell both. I am more than ever regretful that my willful niece did not come to see such sweetness and ray & 7” Although his words were chivalrous, Cecil de- tected the bitterness in his voice, and she an- swered very gently: ‘*T wish Miss Pemberton had come. I woulé have tried to make her contented. Perhaps another time she will accept my invitation. Carris Court will always be open to any of your | household.” Her heart gave a little sharp thrill as she thought that Sydney Valence, or as she knew him now, Cuthbert that household. ‘Thank you, my dear child. I fear I shall wear many welcomes out if you are so hospit- able, Carris Court is a charming place—finer than Marchbrook, to my thinking, although it has been years since I paid my one business call there. You must entertain very sweet, sa- cred recollections of your dear old home, Mrs. Carriscourt, and it must be a great satisfaction: to have your brother so near you.” A little impulsive quiver came to Cecil’s lips. “‘T love Marchbrook dearly, dearly,” she said, touchingly. “But, Mr. Pemberton, you are mistaken in thinking Mr. May is my brother, or- that Judge May: was my father—although ”— and the tears sprung to her sweet’ eyes—‘ { loved him just as well as though he had been.” : A sudden interest came to Mr, Pemberton’= ace, “Ts it possible? father, my dear?” ‘*T was an adopted daughter,” she said, gent- ly, ‘‘but I knew no difference. Who my own darling mother, or who my father was, I never knew. I only know I was a nameless orphan Judge May not your own | when Mr. Carriscourt gave me his dear name and love.” A subdued passion was in her low, thrilling voice as she went on arranging her flowers. | Mr. Pemberton stood still as a statue, strange,, ainful emotions almost suffocating him in ale rnate fears and doubts, and—sharp imag? nations. ‘‘ But—your mother, child! Don’t you know anytiing whatever of her? Her—her—namet and his voice trembled in awful suspense. Cecil shook her head sorrowfully. . ““T don’t know even her name, She died when I was a baby in Italy, where—” He laid his hand suddenly, heavily on her: shoulder. ; : “She died—when you were an infant—in— Italy!” j : Cecil looked = at him, surprised, a little startled, but held by his strong magnetic glance that went to her very soul. “That is what Mr. May learned from papa— from Judge May’s papers. And I have her pic- ture—would you like to see her picture?” The agitation on Mr, Pemberton’s face was almost alarming. His grand eld face was white as his linen. is eyes were full of eager, pain- ful suspense and excitement. His breath was labored and heavy, yet, withal, there was a. gentleness in his voice and manner that was in- expressibly delicate. God be merciful and grant me this sweet. hope!” he said, in suppressed, reverent tones. ‘Show me the picture—your mother’s picture.” Cecil opened a magnificent locket she wore suspended from a black velvet ribbon about her neck, and laid it on his quivering hands, just as Mr. Carriscourt entered the lor, in time to see the look that passed over his s jen tid face, to hear the mighty sob that shook hear the passionate ery of ecstatic thankfulness that went up from his 7 agg ‘‘_ thank my God—oh, I thank say oer God! Carriscourt—your wife is m nevieve’s daughter! This is my sister’s face!—I have been drawn to Cecil from the first moment I saw her. My darling, wee ? He grthered Cecil in his arms, laying her sweet bead against his dear old face, tears streaming from his happy, reverent eyes, as he gave his hand to Carriscourt in an ecstasy of journed to the privacy of Cecil’s bou- doir, where:'a long mutual conversation was neld, during which Mr. Carriscourt told Mr. Pemberton how, upon the occasion of their visit to him, th to him. “‘ We will keep our sweet secret to ourselves to-day,” Mr. Pemberton said, as he sat and caressed Cecil’s fair hand, i se Soy why there | exultant joy. They e same strange suspicion had occurred dayyand $e: twill Louie ten tae ani morrow ym Sot the. indipositiet: has ae emberton was a member of is frame, to
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30 DID SHE SIN? don’t understand it, though,” he said, thought- fully. ‘And then they separated, Cecil to go about her delightful little duties in a da sort of way, her heart thrilling with delight at thought of her new happiness, and then sinking with fear as other thoughts came crowding over her. CHAPTER XXXII. Tum day passed delightfully to the guests at ightfully e gu a Carris Court, The morning was devoted to ‘breakfast, billiards, visits to the stables and points of interest on the estates. After lunch, arrangements were made for carriage drives, and with the exception of Cecil, Mr. Carris- court and Mr. Pemberton the entire party started, in three or four of the Carriscourt car- iages, for a drive up the river. me Carriscourt had a business engagement ‘with one of his tenants that promised to detain him in his library ee of the afternoon. Mr. Pemberton pleaded his age and disrelish for after-luncheon dissipation as an excuse, and re- tired to the western drawing-room to indulge in asiesta in the cool, breezy poom, while Cecil to whom the excitement of the morning had given a headache, retired to her rooms for rest and sleep, if possible. It was about four o’clock when she arose, greatly refreshed, and bathed, dressed and de- scended to the delightful little north parlor, her favorite room on the ground floor, a small, ele- gant apartment between the west drawing- room on one side and Mr. Carriscourt’s library on the other. She took with her a dainty little lace trifle of work, and had ensconced herself cosily in a cor- ner window over which luxuriant vines crept, their green leaves continually swayed by the fresh summer breeze—ex ting to have the afternoon exclusively to herself, and greatly surprised when Cuthbert Pemberton walked in, leisurely. f , She looked up, showing her displeasure in her stern, sweet face, but he came forward, easily and enews and seated himself in a chair op- ite her. **T changed my mind, Cecil, and decided I would very much |g mee a quiet little chat with | leave the privilege of a gues little while.” She compressed her lips, as if to restrain words that she preferred would remain un- ou, seeing that 4% this evening. I to be entertained a spoken, and gathered up her strip of lace-work, | and the tiny gold thimble and gold scissors that were resting on the window-seat, and arose from her chair. ‘You will have to excuse me, Mr. Pember- | ton. I certainly expected and desired to spend this afternoon alone, and will return to my pri- vate rooms.” ; Her voice was cold and dignified, and it an- * gered him greatly. He reached out his hand, Sosaitnely: ‘*You are not going, Cecil—understand that. I came back purposely to see _ and I do not intend to be disappointed. Sit down while I talk to you—and remember that I can call a most fearful storm upon your head at any mo- ment.” pape fe geese | She looked him steadily in his wicked eyes, her heart throbbing with the old fear and mis- erable hopelessness, and yet her voice was full of intense undauntedness, “Remove your hand, sir! have to say to me, say quickly, for I shall leave the room in just five minutes.” He smiled. ‘Only five minutes for your devoted hus- - band! Cecil, that’s too cruel. Don’t be sar- eastic, or too dignified, but allow me to refresh your memory with the fact that although you are regarded as the hostess of this charming place, you are rome ee wnat. J wife.” If she could only haveknown! Her blue eyes looked piteously into his, withal that a desper- ate fire gleamed in them. ae WillT ever forget? Oh, my God, if I could only forget—for one minute!” He ed her admiringly. “By Jupiter, Cecil, what a glorious creature ouare! You are enough to make a man lose his head—see here, Cecil,” and his eyes gleam with a e fire that t a wy her con she the evil, passionate glance—‘‘do you know you never once have allowed me the smallest of a husband’s privileges? You never have permit- ted me to you—my wife! Cecil—I love you than ever—you are cruel, horribly cruel— T will bo it any scene en a, Cecil. a kiss, for are you) T will notendure I have the right to not my dent looks. “Dare to address me so again, and I will in- stantly alarm the house!” He followed her smilingly and holding out his arm. ‘‘No_ you won’t, my beautiful Cecil. You won’t betray our charming secret just yet. | Youare afraid of—Carriscourt, but you need not be afraid of me! Come, Cecil! My lovely wife—come kiss me!” But he did not advance another step, for there was something in Cecil’s face he never had seen | there before, something in her blue blazing eyes. and snow-white face and tightly-shut lips that told him he had taken just the one step he could have cursed himself for taking. “* f will not be tormented another moment by ou, vile, heartless villain that you are! From his moment I defy you—I defy you! Youhave done your worst—now, I take my turn. Mr. pret det Mr. Carriscourt! Come here at once perative summons that brought her husband in alarm to her side, and aroused Mr. Pemberton dozing on the sofa in the adjoining room, and sent him also to her in surprise and alarm. As he entered the room, Cuthbert gave her one swift, entreating glance she well enough understood, but refused to notice, as, turning | ery, she pointed scornfully at her persecutor whose face was pale as death, “There he is—that is he,” she said, gaspingly, her eyes flashing in defiant desperation; ‘‘ he is the man, Mr. Carriscourt, wkose name I dared not tell you—who has embittered and burdened my life—the man you saw leaving my room, because he had the right to denand it. Cuth- bert Pemberton—Sydney Valence—whatever you choose to call him!” Then, her high, sweet voice ceased, she droop- ed her golden head on her breast, and folded her hands in an attitude that touched even Cuth- bert Pemberton’s vile heart, Mr. Carriscourt listened, almost dumbfound- ed and horrified, his gaze freezing both her and the discomfited villain, who was inwardly curs- ing his luck. ‘What does this mean?” Mr. Carriscourt asked, looking from Cecil’s bowed head and drooping form, to Pemberton’s white, terrified face—the face of a rogue caught in his own net. A silence like death followed, broken by the voice of a servant. “Mr. Thorsby St. Lawrence, of Florence, peng f to see Mr. Griffith Pemberton, on import- ant business.” Of Florence, Italy! Mr. Pemberton looked instantly at Mr. Carriscourt. “Wit your permission, I will see this stran- | ger, here.’ | Mr. Carriscourt bowed, and Thorsby St. Law- | | rence entered the room, easy, self-assured, bow- ing courteously. ‘My business will not detain you long, sir, and, unless I am mistaken, concerns this gentle- man quite as much as yourself. I have infor- mation in my possession which it is my duty to lay before you, sir, regarding—your reputed niece, or rather, the wife of your nephew, there.’ A smothered curse burst from Cuthbert’s | white lips, and a little inarticulate cry from Ce- Whatever you cil cil. Mr. Pemberton smiled grimly. [ “Sir, your information comes just a little | late, since this morning I have learned that this lady, Mrs, Carriscourt, is my niece, and conse- quently my heiress, in place of the other young woman, to whom yourefer. You aremistaken, however, in supposing she is my niece by mar- riage.” e looked at Cuthbert, who made a pitiable spectacle standing alone in all the heart of the tempest his own misdoings had brought upon him, : | “Thave it from the young lady’s own lips, sir, that she is Mrs. Cuthbert Pemberton, Ido not think the gentleman will be so ungallant as to deny it?” | Every eye was fixed on the discomfited villain whose tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, in sheer dismay. ‘What does he mean, sir? Are you married | to Elma Pemberton? Did you dare disregard my commands?” : A sullen fury darkened his face. “It is true. We were married last week.” A lightning scorn shot from Mr. Pemberton’s d blue eyes, then a sneering smile came to Fis ninetaensas mouth. She shrunk back appalled, shivering at his ar- , her face "dear with emotion. She suddenly raised her voice in a sharp, im- | | ney Valence Pemberton, and he drop | “ony fepaiue in their toward Mr, Carriscourt, with a low, passionate | | leave m | low me a | "You are wellserved! You married her for _ her money, and I have the pleasure to inform ' you that she is less to me than yourself will be, enceforth. I have always looked upon you as a model young man, free from the faults that cursed and ruined your twin-brother’s life, but now I believe you a thousand times worse than pone Ba gney whose tragic death has atoned for much— A ele Eee scream from Cecil interrupt- edhim, He turned to her, as they all did, to see her blue eyes full of agonized questioning, this “‘Mr. Pemberton, for God’s sake, explain terrible mystery to me! You spoke of that man’s twin-brother—Sydney—and a tragio death! Who is he?” dhe She pointed her finger at Pemberton, who quailed before the glances directed at him. “He is Cuthbert Valence Pemberton.” * And he had a brother—” Cuthbert himself interrupted her ina devilish, | mocking voice: “The game is about played out! He had a ‘brother, a twin-brother, and his name was Syd- he latter name for obvious reasons before he mar- ried you, my charming sister-in-law !” Mr, Carriscourt a aa forward, his eyes ot passion. do you mean, you villain?” Cecil step up between them, pale, com- , but a light in her sweet eyes that thrilled is very soul. ‘Be patient just a little longer, Mr. Carris- court, and I will explain.”’ “T will be patient, but first this man must house. Mr. Pemberton, will you al- show your nephew the door?” ‘‘ With pleasure, and I will assist you.” St. Lawrence interrupted the rather summary | proceedings, “Tf you will allow me one word more, gentle- men, before bop proceed to business, 1 would like to have the extreme satisfaction of tellin this young gentleman whom he has married; { would like to inform Mr, Pemberton of the stu- pendous fraud Hiram Fletcher has been so eel | successful in perberrating, in palming off upon him his own and Elizabeth Ogden’s ille- gitimate child as the true Pemberton heiress.” A smothered curse burst from young Pember- ton’s lips, and he dashed out of the room, snatched his hat from the hall-stand, and left the house, to go direct as he could to wreak his wrath on Fletcher’s unconscious head, and then to disappear from New York society, a des- perate, reckless rogue, to live a life of crime and vileness that has barred him forever from even third-rate society. Thorsby St. Lawrence did not ask, and would not receive any remuneration for his inform- ation; his revenge was complete, and he went back to England as he came, Fletcher was quit of Mr. Pemberton’s house when that gentleman returned, a day or se later; and joined Miss Ogden and Elma— neither wife nor widow—at Long Branch, from which er their miserable, purposeless life be- gan, fullof quarrelsandrecriminations, Unfor- tunate speculations took all the money Fletcher had amassed, and his old age was full of bitter- ness and poverty, while Elma’s disposition grew worse and worse until she was utterly friend- less and desolate, And so wickedness had its just reward, and we drop the dark curtain, to gladly turn to Carris Court and sweet Cecil. It was the evening of the same day, and the guests were enjoying themselves in their owr way,and Mr. Carriscourt was sitting in his library, when a servant brought a message that Cecil wished to see him in her boudoir. He immediately obeyed the request, and found her alone, waiting for him. “T think it is best that there be no more secrets between us, Mr. Carriscourt,” she said, as, entering the room, he took up his aR beside the mantle-piece—just where he had stood once before, in that terrible interview they had had when it seemed to Cecil her heart would break, His face was wistful and weary—not the face of a man to whom the tidings of great joy were so soon to come. And Cecil’s own sweet face was troubled, yet not as troubled as it had habitually been of late. Le x 80, too, Cecil, and I have 2 ned my impatience since the partial revelations of th afternoon, ho ing—expecting—you would come to me, or send for me.” “TI told you that the nephew of Mr, — of my uncle Griffith, was my midnight visitor, the man in whose power I was, whom I was bound
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oe that I was under no such obligations to him, because. he is not the person I have been sup- posing him—ever since the day—of—our mar- riage. I—I—thought be was his brother whose name was Sydney, and—and—” Her voice faltered, and a swift wave of crim- son surged across her face as she dropped her ead. Only a second, then her honest, brave soul | went on mechanically. . ‘*T will tell you all, Iwas married to Sydney Pemberton—’ t Carriscourt uttered a great agonized cry. “Cecil! No! No!” Her lips quivered at the sight of his pain, but she went on, resolutely: ‘Yes, We were married in the Marchbrook Parsonage, late in the afternoon of one day. We took the train to the city, and after we left the train I never saw him again. He commit- ted suicide, and—that was the end. I never was his wife—it was but the mockery of the ceremony—I never, never was his wife in fact, Mr. Carriscourt, any more—than—tb@o yours.” She averted her lovely face, and her mouth quivered pitifully. She looked like some beau- tiful creature awaiting her doom. His «yes | were fastened upon her, the woman he loved so madly—the brave, proud, sweet girl whose life had been so ag oes He understood all the mystery now—th-t it ‘was to spare him, that it was because she be- lieved her first husband was living—that the barrier had been erected by her own courageous womanly hands, ; “ Ceci id She answered him gently, but not turning her face toward him. ‘Yes, Mr. Carriscourt,” “ Cecil—you loved Sydney Pemberton, or else—” She sprung from her chair in a sudden pas- sionate impulse, “Ob, no! No! I never loved him, I never—” He stepped up to her, his eyes shining, his face losing the shadow it had worn so long. ‘You did not love him? Cecil! Then there is no secret between us now?” “None.” ‘‘ And there is at last a hope forme? Oh, my precious wife, is it possible you can learn to love me, now?” A rosy flush surged from throat to brow for one little second. She drooped her lovely head further away for one second more, then she shyly lifted her sweet adoring blue eyes to his face—with a look that fairly took his breath for rapturous ecstasy. ‘Clyde! My husband, you have not to wait for my love; I love you now; I always have loved you!” And he snatched her in his arms, great tears dropping from his eyes on her bright golden head, and he strained her to his breast, kissing her over and over again—the happiest pair that breathed God’s summer air. And out of the great discipline of sorrow came the great peace that nothing but death can end. THE END. : THE 1 Latta Rooxn, By Thomas Moore........ ... 10¢ * Don Juan. By Lord Byron... .......... 5.9 -Oe 3 Panavise Losr. By John Milton ......... as ct 4 Tae Lavy or THz Lake. Sir Walter Scott... 10c 5 Luctum. By Owen Meredith . .............. 10¢ 6 UNvINe; on, tne Ware ’ R-Sprrit. From the German of Friederich De La Motte Fouque.... 10 For sale by all newsdealers, or sent. . postage paid. on receipt of twelve cents for single numbers. double numbers twenty-four cents. ADAMS, VICTOR & CO., Publishers, 98 William street N. Y. _ DID SHE SIN?_ Sf ns a Pl eee ae = to obey. I learned to day, for the first time, Half-Dime Singer's Library 1 Waoa, Emma! and 59 other Songs. 2 Caprarn Curr and 57 other Songs. 3 THe Garnsporo’ Har and 62 other Songs. 4 Jonnny MoreGan and 60 other Songs. 5 [uu Starke You WITH A FEATHER and 62 others, 6 GEORGE THE CHARMER and 56 other Songs. 7 Tue Bette or Rockaway and 52 other Songs. 8 Youne Freiuan, You're Too Fresu and 60 others. 9 Say Youne Grru and 65 other Songs, 10 I'm THE GovERNOR’s ONLY Son and 58 other Songs. 11 My Faw and 65 other Songs. 12 Comin’ Turo’ Tue Rye and 55 other Songs. 13 Tue Rowuickine IRISHMAN and 59 other Songs. 14 Op Doe Tray and 62 other Songs. 15 WuHoa, CHARLI£ and 59 other Songs. 16 In TH1s WHeEat By Anp By and 62 other Songs. 17 Nancy Lee and 58 other Songs. 18 I’m THe Boy THAT’s Bound To BLaze and 57 others. 19 THe Two OrpHANS and 59 other Songs. 20 WaT ARE THE WiLp Waves SAyInG, SISTER? and 59 other Songs. 21 INDIGNANT Potty Woe and 59 other Songs. 22 ae OLp Arm-CHAIR and 58 other Songs. 23 On Coney IsLanp Bracu and 58 other Songs. 24 OLn Simon, THE Hot-Corn Man and 60 others. 25 I’m in Love and 56 other Songs. 25 PARADE OF THE GusRDs and 56 other Songs. 27 Yo, Heave, Ho! and 60 other Songs. 28 "Twit Never po To Giz iT up So and 60 others, 29 Buve Bonnets Over THE Borper and 34 others 30 Taz Merry LAvauine Man and 56 other Songs. 81 Sweet Forert-mr-Nor and 55 other Songs. 82 LeeTLe Basy Mrvxe and 53 other Songs. 83 De BANJO AM DE INSTRUMENT FoR Mer and 53 others. 34 Tarry and 50 other Songs. 85 Just TO PLEASE THE Boys and 52 other Songs. 36 SKATING ON ONE IN THE Gutter and 52 others. 37 KoLoreD KRrankKs and 59 other Songs. 88 Nit DesprRaNDUM and 53 other Songs. 39 Tue Grau I Lert Benryp Me and 50 other Songs. 40 °Tis But A LitTLe F'apepD FLower and 50 others, 41 Pretry WHILEELMINA and 60 other Songs. 42 DANCING IN THE Barn and 63 other Songs. 43 ‘H. M.S. PrINAFore, comPLeTE, and 17 other Songs, Sold everywhere by Newsdealers, at five cents per copy, or sent post-paid, to any address, on re- ceipt of Sia cents per number. BEADLE AND ADAMS, PusuisHers, 98 WILLIAM Street, New Yor. walirday Jamal “The Model Family Paper —AND— Most Charming of the Weeklies.” A pure paper; good in every thing; bright, brilliant and attractive. Serials, Tales, Romances, Sketches, Adventures, Biographies, Pungent Essays, Poetry, Notes and Answers to Correspondents, Wit and Fun— All are features in every number, from such celebrated writers as no paper in America can boast of. What is best in POPULAR READING, that the paper always has: hence for Hom, Sxop, Li- BRARY and GENERAL READER it is without a rival;and hence its great and steadily increasing circulation. 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Dramas and Readings. 164 12mo Pages. 20 Cénts, For Schools, Parlo's, Entertainments and the Am- ateur Stage, comprising Original Minor Dramas, ?ieces, Humorous Dialogue and Burlesque, by 1 oted 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 Series. BEADLE’s Diwe Hanp-Booxks 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, Beavir’s Dive Hanv-Books or GAMES AND PopulLAR Hanv-Books cover a variety of subjects, and are es- pecially basse to their end. andbook ef Summer Sports. Book of Crequet. 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wn Copyright Novels 1 The Masked B: ides or, Will She Marry Him? By Mrs 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 te of Herself. By Sata Claxton. 7 A Daughter of Eve; or, Blinded by Love. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 8 Heart to By Arabella Southworth. 9 Alone in the World; or, The Young Man’s Ward. By the author of “Clifton,” “Pride and Passion,” etc. 10 A Pair of Gray Ld or, The Emerald | ly. Necklace. By Rose Kenne 11 Entangled; or, A Dangerous Game. B > Henrietta Thackera , 12 His Lawful Wile; or, Myra, the Child of | Adoption. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens. 13 Madcap, the Little Quakeress3 or, The Naval Cadet’s Wooing. By Corinne Cushman. 14 Why 1 Married Him; or, The Woman in Gray. By Sara Claxton. 15 A Fair Face; or, Out in the World. By | By | Bartley T. Campbell. 16 Trust Her Not; or, A True Knight, Margaret Leicester. 17 A Loyal Lovers or, The Last of the Grims- eths. By ‘Arabella Southworth. 18 His Idol; or, The Ill-Starred Marriage. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 19 The Broken Betrothal; or, Love versus Hate. By Mary Grace Halpine. 20 Orphan Nell, the Orange Girl; or, The Lost Heir. By Agile Penne, 21 Now and Forever; or, Why Did She Mar- iy Him? By Henrietta Thackeray. 22 The Bride of an Actor; or, Driven from Home. By the author of ‘‘ Alone in the World,” “Clifton,” ete. 23 Leap Year; or, Why She Proposed. By Sara Claxton. 24 Her Face Was Her Fortune, By Elea- nor Blaine. 25 Only a Schoolmistress; or, Her Untold Secret. By Arabella Southworth. ; 26 Without a Heart; or, Walking on the Brink. By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. 27 Was She a Coquette? or, A Strange Courtship. By Henrietta Thackeray. 28 pos Chase}; or, The Gambler’s Wife. _ By irs. 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 Donna; or, Roses and Lilies. By Arabella Southworth. $3 The Three Sisters; or, The Mystery of. | Lord Chalfont. By Alice Fleming. 34 A Marriage of Convenience; or, Was He a Count? By Sara Claxton. 35 All Against Her; or, The Winthrop Pride. By Clara Augusta. 86 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 Mose Kennedy. 38 His Own Again; or, Trust Her Not. By Arabella Southworth. 39 Flirtation; or, A Young Girl’s Good Name. By Jacob Abarbanell, (Ralph Royal.) 40 Pledged to Marry; or, In Love's Bonds; 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 Baronet’s Secret; or, The Rival Half- | Sisters. By Sara Claxton. 44 The Only Daughter; or, Brother against Lover. By Alice Fleming. 45 Mer Hidden Foe; or, Love At All Odds. By Arabella Southworth. 46 The Little Heiress; By Mrs. Mary A. Denison. 47 Because She Loved Him; or, How Will It End? By Alice Fleming. 48 In Spite of Herself; or, Jeannette’s Repa- ration. By 8S. R. Sherwood. 49 Hiis Heart’s Mistress; or, Love at First Sight. By Arabella Southworth. 60 The Cuban Heiress; or, The Prisoner of La Vintresse. By Mrs. A. Denison, 51 Two Young Girls; or, The Bride of an Earl. By Alice Fleming. 52 The Winged Messenger} or, Risking All fora Heart. By Mrs. red Reed Crowell. 53 Agnes Hope, the Actress; or, The Ro- mance of . Ruby Ring. By William Mason ’ or, Under a Cloud. eart; or, Fair Phyllis’ Love. | andthe Cream of Foreign. Novelists, Unabridged, FOR FIVE CENTS! 54 One Woman?’s Heart; or, Saved from the Street. By George 8S. Kaime. 55 She Did Not Love Him} or, Stooping to | Conquer. By Arabella Southworth. 56 Love-Mad }; or, Betrothed, Married, Divorced and By Wm, Mason Turner, M. D. | 57 A Brave Girl; or, Sunshine at Last. Alice Fleming. 58 The Ebon Mask; or, The Mysterious Guardian. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. By The Cheapest Library Ever Published! 59 A Widow’s Wiles; or, A Bitter Vengeance. | By Rachel Bernhardt. 60 Cecil’s Deceit; or, The Diamond Legacy. By Mrs. Jennie Davis Burton. 61 A Wicked Heart; or, The False and the | True. By Sara Claxton. | 62 The Maniac Bride; or, Tse Dead Secret of Hollow Ash Hall. By Margaret Blount. The Creole Sisters; or, The Mystery of the Perrys. By Mrs. Anna E. Porter. 64 What Jealousy Did; or, The Heir of Worsley Grange. By Alice Fleming. 65 The Wite’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. Weavers and Weft; or, “Love That Hath Us In His Net."’ By Miss M. E. Breddon. Camille; or, The Fate of a Coquette. Alexandre Dumas, 70 The Two Orphans, My WYoung Wife, Husband. 72 The Two Widows, By By D’Enery. By Annie Thomas. Girl. By Maud Hilton. Cecil 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 Talifax, Gentleman,” ete. By J. 8. Le the Family. By Myself. JOA ueen Amongst Women. By the author of ‘The Cost of Her Love,” ‘A Gilded Sin,” ‘ Dora Thorne,” ete., etc. Her Lord and Master. By Florence Marryat. 81 Lucy Temple, Sister of Charlotte. 82 A Long 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. The Romance ofa Poor Young Man, By Octave Feuillet. 88 A Terrible Deed; Emma Garrison Jones. A Gilded Sin. By the author of ‘Dora Thorn,’’ ete, |90 The Author's Howitt. The Jilt. By Charles Reade. Eileen Alanna ; or, the Dawning of the Day. By Dennis. O'Sullivan. Love’s Victory. By BL. Farjeon. The Quict Meart. By Mrs. Oliphant. 95 Lettice Arnold, By Mrs. Marsh. | 96 Maunted Wearts; or, The Broken Be- / trothal. By Rachel Bernhardt. | 97 Hugh Melton. By Katharine King, | 98 Alice Learmont. By Miss Mulock. | 99 Marjorie Bruce’s Lovers. By Mary Patrick. ) / 100 Through Fire and Water. erick Talbot. | 101 Hannah. By Miss Mulock. 102 Peg Woffington, By Charles Reade. 103 A Desperate Deed, By Erskine Boyd. | 104 Shadows on the Snow, By B. L. Far- jeon. | 105 The Great Hoggarty Diamond, By W. M. Thackeray. | 106 From Dreams to Waking. Lynn Linton. | 107 Poor Zeph! By F. W. Robinsen. or, All for Gold. By Daughter. By Mary By Fred- ly E. By My Young Wife’s | My Young Husband; or, A Confusion in | ; a | 129 Rose Michel; or, The Trials of a Factory | Fary. 108 The Sad Fortunes of the Rev. Amos: Barton. By George Eliot, 109 Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses. By B. L, Farjeon. | 110 The Wandering Heir. By Charles Reade. 111 The Brother’s Bet; or, Within Six Weeks, By Emilie Flygare Carlen. 112 A Hero, By Miss Mulock. 113 Paul and Virginia. From the French of Bernardin De St. Pierre. °Twas In Tratalgar’s Bay. ter Besant & James Rice. 114 By Wal- 115 The Maid of Killeema. By William Black. 116 Metty. By Henry Kingsley. 117 The Wayside Cross; or, The Raid of Gomez. By Captain E, A. M 118 Whe Vicar of Wakefield. Goldsmith. Maud Mohan. ilman. ‘ By Oliver 119 By Annie Thomas, 120 Low at ca of Warsaw. By Miss Jane: 121 The King of No-Land,. By B. L. Far- 122 Level; the Widower. By W: M. Thack- 123 ‘An de’ Pearl. By 3. L. Farjeon. Cousin Phillis. Leila; or, The Siege of Grenada. By Ed: ward Bulwer (Lord Lytton). 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