Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 158) (1882 11 21)
The text was read from the page scans by machine (OCR), so it has mistakes and its columns may run together. See the pages · About this title · At the Internet Archive
Page 1
Le ~ - ; The Cheapest and Best Library! Tuc ‘Cream of American and Foreign Novels for Five Cents! (SF No IY 1 ies Sop 30 Sosa ln tsa | $a had se dfn 0 tu ree aon bd : A BITTER MIST AK Es oA YOUNG GIRL'S FOLLY. BY: AGNES MARY SHELTON. | . per PRS ony ar iaea, THE LAST Gari be 2 aig teak pice ae met : :
Page 2
2 A BITTER MISTAKE. A Bitter Mistake; — OR, Z A YOUNG GIRL’S FOLLY. ' BY AGNES MARY SHELTON. CHAPTER I. THE ECCENTRIC BOARDER. THERE was certainly some excuse for the cloud of discontent which overshadowed the face of Penelope Heathcote. Although the season was spring, a chilliness in the air made her shiver, and a drizzling rain caused. all ob- jects in the streets to assume the dejected ap- pearance common to things, animate and inan- imate, on a rainy day in Camden. Moreover, . the large but not scrupulously clean kitchen in which she stood, with the handful of fire in the, rusty stove and the square of torn carpet in the center of its flooring, forcibly reminded her of the poverty which had been her portion for so many years; but for all that she had not yet learnt to,endure the latter with equani- mity, | | ( The tone of Penelope’s mind was generally in indignant protest against Fate; and as che carefully smoothed the creases out of her brother Bertrand’s only coat—a garment that had seen much service—she looked, so grim that the little maid of all-work who waited on the Heathcotes and their boarders opined that ‘‘missis was in one of her tempers,” and fol- lowing the teachings of experience, was careful not to intrude upon her notice. Penelope was a tall, straight, rather mas- culine-looking woman of nine and-twenty, with an aquiliné nose, thin compressed lips, thick black brows, almost meeting above eyes of a curious reddish-brown hue, which, when she was angry, seemed to emit sparks of fire; but, when she smiled, danced with a vivacity which illumed her whole countenance. Her coarse, dark hair was drawn back from her forehead, and fastened into an untidy knot at the back of her head, while the defects of her angular figure were reudered more apparent by the ill- Milly, have you taken up Mr. Billerton’s at” shé asked, sharply, breaking the long “ Yes, Miss Penelope, more than half an hour ago. oo 4 Ga 4 “Did he seem better than he was this mori- “He looked awful bad,” answered Milly, ui _ pausing in her task of clearing up the kitchen, in 1 order ie emphasis and solemnity to her words. ‘He was sitting in his arm-chair a- abling and shivering with cold, though he Before her mistress could reply, the bell of a pote oe ea and Miss Heath- rel ustomed to similar impatient m itted the precincts dedicated to dome tie , and ascended to the sitting- im, K : know I hate to sit moping: here all WO cae at * 4. ed. “What have you been doi ying to make you look a little more resentable when next you dine with your pa- irs, Mr. Harbury,” she answered; “but this coat is so shabby it defies all my efforts at im- | “And that fellow, Fitwell, positivel fuses to make another until I sett! count,” observed Bertrand, moodily. is of no great consequence, for ina: ss I pete ee my bx , as bode, a him, it is not likely that 1 shall ‘again gain be in- ee his hospitalit; be so foolish? I thought Mr, Harbury had / ' exclaimed her biden oor , | commissioned you to paint him another pic- ture.” _ “YT believe there was some half-promise of the sort; but the man was so dictatorial, be- sides being niggardly, that I could bear his whims no longer,”’ “Then how are we to live?’ questioned Penelope, sternly, ‘‘ You know he has always | given a fair price for any picture that took his fancy; and you know how difficult it is to please the regular dealers, not to mention the hard bargains they always drive. ‘+hat do you mean to do, Bertrand?” “T have not yet had time to give the mat- | tera thought,” he rejoined, affecting an air of | indifference. “Will you give drawing lessons if I can find you pupils, Bertrand?” “Certainly not. I should not have patience te direct and lecture a set of tiresome school- boys who have no taste for art, and girls are not much better. What a pity it is that there should be any necessity for working! Labor destroys all enjoyment of life, and this per- petual obligation of studying ways and means to provide bread and butter weighs down one’s spirits to a point that is most often too heavy to bear up under.” ‘‘-¥Yet such will be our destiny to the weary end,” said Penelope, frowning at once at her brother’s speech; and grieving at the unpro- mising prospects which now presented them- selves to her. “Perhaps not; we might become possessed of a. fortune; in which case I would have a luxurious home, replete with every comfort and attraction wealth could furnish; while you would marry Walter Maxwell, and, of course, be happy ever after.” A cold, half-sneering smile curled on his sister’s lip as she answered, ‘‘I am afraid that while you are building castles in the air Walter and I must grow oldand gray. Our engagement has already lasted several years, and we are pre- maturely aged by trouble and anxiety. Only to- day I noticed a few silver threads in my hair; and when I remember that I shall soon be thirty years of age, it seems as if I were even now toe old for love, hope, or happiness.” “You are, no doubt, losing fast all your good looks,” observed Bertrand, with that brutal candor brothers sometimes affect. ‘If Walter were to ery off, one could scarcely lengthy engagement is risky for a man, and suicidal fora woman, One or the other is sure to grow tired of waiting, and only quarrel and part when it is too Jate to form new ties.” “What could we do?” she asked, after a gloomy, mental survey of this disagreeable picture. ‘ You know Walter has been unfor- tunate in business, and was glad to receive a clerkship of six hundred a year. Would you | have me marry upon that?” “Certainly not,” was his bitter answer; | “you would be committing a folly which is | generally punished more severely than a crime In your case, Poverty would wield the scourge ‘to frighten away Cupid. Now if you had only had the good luck to attract some rich man’s fancy when you were young, bow dif- ferent things might now be with us botb!” “JT should not have loyed him so well as Walter.” _ “That matters little, I would marry one of the Gorgons if she possessed a comfortable independence; and even in your case I believe that common sense in such an emergency would have caused you to giye ‘up the chance of love in a cottage for a more brilliant match, But, unfortunately,* you have never been tempted in that direction.” Penelope’s eyes flashed fire. Though her | faults were many, she was a woman of strong | affections, and had a capability for loving that | her brother did not possess, She was term | faithful to Walter Maxwell, and would not ave deser one, - vishly 4 @. ted him to become the sharer of a b - Though stung for the moment, she was too much accustomed to her brother’s blame him. I warned you long ago that a taunting speeches to attempt recrimination; so. after a short pause, she adroitly changed the | subject of conversation. ‘¢Old Mr. Ellerton seems very ill, Bertrand.” ‘What, our first floor—the mysterious man, who came three months ago, paid in advance, gave no references, and seems to have no friends? Well, Pen, if he is going to die, per- haps he will first make a will in our favor.” The lady tossed her head contemptuously. ‘*We should not be much the gainers. He is poorer than we are, with his shabby clothes and frugal meals, for which he daily doles out a few cents to Milly, giving her strict injunc- tions to make no extravagant purchases, In- deed, I have been anxious to speak te you on the matter, and to ask your advice. Suppose the old man were to be laid up with a long ill- ness, which terminated fatally, and did not leave enough money to pay all the expenses, should we not be in an awkward position ?” Bertrand stroked his long, fair mustache meditatively, and assumed a thoughtful expres- sion which, by so doing, made his resemblance to his sister, whose junior he was by several years, all the more striking. His hair was several shades lighter, his skin paler, being al- most cadaverous in hue; but the flickering eyes beneath their beetling brows, the long, thin mouth, and well-shaped nose and chin, were like Penelope’s. ‘“* As you say, it might be awkward,” he as- sented, at length; ‘‘ yet the old fellow, so far, has paid regularly, so I am loth to give him notice. Shall I go up-stairs.and pay him a visit ? I might manage to gain some knowl- edge of bis pecuniary affairs, or at least find out whether he has any friends to whom we could apply in case of need.” “Just what I was about to suggest, Ber- trand. He surély cannot be quite alone in the world.” hte ‘“We must endeavor to find that out;, your hints have alarmed me. We must not allow ourselves to be put to the trouble and expense of nursing a sick pauper: so if there is any chance of our being out of pocket by Mr. Eller- ton, he will have to go.” Saying which, Bertrand arose from the ecuch with an air of decision, which was in striking contrast to his former languor. The prospect of bis boarder falling into’ arrears, perhaps dying on the premises, dispelled bis dreamy indolenee, and startled him into vigor- ous action. ae eee Bertrand Heathecte was not disturbed by scrupulousness. He was full of that self love which rarely or never regards the claims of others. What mattered it to him how long or how much others might suffer, provided be himself escaped annoyance and injury. — He went up the narrow staircase, and knocked at the door cf Mr. Ellerton’s room. It was the first-floor front, and for years had been let by the Heathcotes to eligible single gentlemen, whose payments were found con- venient in assisting to pay the rent of the small, dingy bouse in Budd street, Camden, A high-toned, quavering voice bade him enter. The old map had drawn his chair close to the fire, and the ruddy blaze shone full upon his meager form, which was wrapped in a faded dressing-gown; upon his wizen, sharp- featured face, long white hair, which nearly reached his shoulders, and into his wandering eyes of lightest blue. A gray, unkempt beard, hanging down upon bis breast, gave him a venerable, though somewhat weird, appear- ance. In his younger days he might have been tall of stature; but he was now so bent by age and ill-health, that it seemed an effort to ‘raise his head and look with inquiring scrutiny upon his visitor. ‘ _* Good-evening, Mr. Ellerton!” began Ber- trand, slightly disconcerted by his earnest geze. “My sister tells me you are unwell, and—” “Ab, yes, Mr. Heathcote; to be sure! I did not recognize you at once, for my eyes are failing, though my hearing is as good as ever. So you came to ask after my health? That is EE
Page 3
my luck there.” * enrich? ne , ‘A BITTER MISTAKE. 8 eee eee —eeeeeeeeeeEeEeEeEeETETETEOOOEEEEE=E=E=EaEaaaEe=>ETTTE—E—E—E—E—E—E—E—E—EE—E—_ EEE failing, too. I am not the same man I was | Mr. Elierton grew accustomed to their pres- even six months ago. for not being in the humor to entertain visitors.” Bertrand, in no way discomfited by this speech, sat down, uninvited, and glanced fur- tively round the room, thinking he might thereby discover some indication of his board- er’s pecuniary condition, A sea-chest, which seemed to have seen rough service, and a bat- tered valise stood together near the window; me were invisible, and no other r. Ellertou’s 1 propert warded his scrutiny. reiobiigerpein bic You should have medical advice, sir, from Somme clever practitioner,” he recommenced, blandly. “There is a doctor living in this very street. You may have noticed the red i il his door. I can highly recommend ‘‘Povh!—nonsense! I want no long doctor’s bills! The bottle of medicine Milly heb me from the druggist round the corner is just as efficacious, I dare say, as if it were prescribed by a regular physician, while it saves at least a dollar,” . But for the satisfaction of your friends?” Friends!: Why, I have none! I am an old man, and have outlived all that were worthy of the name. I have been absent from America nearly fifty years, Mr, Heathcote. I bave traveled half over the world, seen many Strange sights, and have had all sorts of cu- a aa tk As you may imagine, I Pe iene quite a stranger in my owe “Yes, indeed; that is a long period to be a wanderer,” said Bertrand, se to win his red by degrees into the old man’s confidence. * ou must have undergone many vicissitudes.” we You may well say so. Why, sir, I was in ¢ wilds of Australia when fortunes were made in a week, and when the man who often arrived a beggar left and went home, before many years, a millionaire. Not that I was so fortunate myself, though at one time I had no Peet to complain; but if I won at one time, -4ost at another, and this went on year after year, until, tired of it, I went te Brazil to try “ i And there?” questioned Bertrand, eagerly. I did well—very well; but I placed too much confidence in my partner, who turned out & rogue and a cheat, I quarreled with him, and grew tired of the country; so off I was eee after mnch travelling by sea and , OnCe More put f Aftioan hat Bs we pewene to the test at the Where you were successful ” sai ee Toh, Seterroustirele. eh neath 8 there is nothing like enterprise!” Mr. Ellerton’s rather iin faim sae bo coe Men who pass thvir lives at 2 “ds _ lacessantly, and are only just able — ° 16 wolf from the door. The digger is , Fa sustained by the hope of being raised o the pinnacle of his ambition by a lucky chance, If he has patien, L DY sooner or later rhc his pea and work, When Bertrand retired it was wi suspicion that his boarder was _ sind being of miserly habits, who, having amassed wealth, loved to hoard rather than to spend it. From his own account, he wags friendless in the world; so who would those hoards ultimately If any persons, sufficiently alive to their own interests, studied Mr, Wjlerton’s whims, and ingratiated themselves in his good graces, they might be his heirs, and have a goodly reward for their trouble. _ From that day a perceptible change came over the Heathcotes’ behavior toward their boarder, They ministered to the old man’s wants and wishes with praiseworthy assiduity. Penelope smoothed her ruffled brow as she busied herself in giving his apartment a more comfortable homelike appearance, while her brother would relieve the tedium of illness by half an hour’s friendly chat or reading aloud the evening newspaper. Nor were their efforts altogether unsuccessful, You must excuse me ence, and was inclined to be sociable. Some- times, however, he would repulse their ad- vances without reason, and would incase him- self in an armor of reserve just at the moment they fancied they had secured his favorable regard. He would have fits of distrust which he did not attempt to conceal, and would ab- ruptly interrupt a conversation that was grow- ing confidential with hints as to the propriety of every reasonable man keeping his private affairs locked in his own breast. Brother and sister would occasionally lose hope, and relax their exertions, when a chance word from Mr. Ellerton would brace them up to fresh endeavors. CHAPTER It. ENID’S HOME, Far away from muddy Camden, near a small town in the Berkshire hills called Dale- bury, stood a low-roofed white house of some pretensions, which was approached by a car- riage-drive, and boasted of a well-arranged flower-garden and smoothly-shaven lawn suit- able either for lawn-tennis or croquet. This was Sunnymead, the residence of Mrs. Ormes- by, widow of the late rector. One morning she, with her daughter Jessica, lingered at the breakfast-table, though the morning was already far advanced. Mrs. Ormesby was a stately, imperious woman about forty years of age, exhibiting the re- mains of great beauty, which her daughter had partially inherited. But Jessica would never boast that majestic hight and well- developed figure, nor was she possessed of those lustrous orbs and exquisitely-chiseled features which had once caused the fame of her mother to be spread throughout the county. ‘Well, Jessica,” began the elder lady, as she slowly sipped her chocolate, ‘‘you are strangely silent this morning. I expected you would give me a full account of the birthday party yesterday at Mrs. Brooke’s, which I was unfortunately prevented from attending in consequence of a wretched headache. Did it go off well?” “Very well, mamma, “You danced a great deal, of course, and had agreeable partners?” “Oh, yes!” “T suppose Basil Clifford was there, and helped to make the evening pass pleasantly?” “We danced together once or twice.” ‘Jessica, do not be provoking,” cried the mother, with some irritation, ‘‘ You give me no particulars when you know how anxious I am.” “ Why are you so anxious, dear mamma?” asked the girl, with assumed simplicity. ‘That you should, one day be Mrs. Basil Clif- ford, of the Hall,” answered Mrs. Ormesby, slow- ly and impressively. ‘‘I have planned for you that future, my child, and I am inclined to fancy that the dictates of your own heart ap- prove my conduct.” A bright blush dyed the girl’s face, rising even to her broad, Jow forehead. “T fear—I mean I think that will never be,” she faltered. ““Why not, Jessica? Iam not apt to form plans which are not to be realized. You and Basil were playfellows in childbood, and even then I encouraged him, and smiled to hear him call you his little wife. Since then you have been thrown much together, and I have noticed with pleasure that the childish friendship has suffered no diminution as the years have passed on, but rather has steadily progressed.” ” ‘‘ Friendship is not love, mamma,” bazarded the girl, timidly. “ With young folks it is hard to say where the line is drawn,” remarked Mrs. Ormesby, with a complacent sense of her own sagacity. ‘Believe, me, my love, I have had some ex- perience in such matters, and do not doubt that the day will come when I can congratulate you on your conquest.” There was a moment’s hesitation. ‘Perhaps I am mistaken; but sometimes the fancy crosses my mind that Basil is in love with Enid,” replied Jessica. Mrs, Ormesby gave a little scream of indig- nation, ‘What! in love with that pale-faced, silent, dreamy-eyed child, when he has had the oppor- tunity of seeing, associating and of conversing with you, Jessica?” ‘She has greatly improved during the last two years. I have several times lately heard it remarked that there is something in her face more striking than regular beauty. Then that pale golden hair, which gleams in the sunshine like threads of light, and ripples all over ber head, defying band or comb to keep it in per- | fect order, is a great attraction. Irdeed, mamma, itis no use shutting our eyes to the fact that Enid is a dangerous rival.” The elder lady remained silent for awhile, evidently in deep meditation. She was anx- ious that her daughter should marry well, and years ago settled in her own mind that Basil Clifford would be an acceptable son-in-law when Jessie wasof an age tymarry. He was young, handsome, with a fine estate and an extensive income. Clifford Hall was at no great distance from Sunnymead— in itself a recommendation to a mother in selecting a husband for her only child. / 2 Altogether she had grown so familiar with the idea, and liked the plan so well, that she was resolved not to accept defeat, especially from a girl like Enid Lisle, an orphan niece of her late husband, the rector, to whom he bad given a home, after her parents had died of fever within a few days of one another. “What has given rise to your wild supposi- tions?’ she inquired, after mentally deciding that she would not submit tamely to bave her schemes frustrated, but would endeavor to lead Basil and her daughter to that happy future which, unaided by her, they might never reach, ‘‘Tt is preposterous to think of Enid as mis-. tress of Clifford Hall; and surely Basil has not spoken to you on the subject?” ‘““Of course not, mamma; and I may be wrong. Yet he seemed so disappointed that — you had not allowed her to accept Mrs. Brooke’s — invitation for last night, and was so eager to know whether he might expect to meet her at the Greys’ musical ‘party next week, that I felt sure he prized her society highly.” Mrs. Ormesby gave a sigh of relief. “Your opinion rests on a poor foundation, my dear,” she said, lightly. ‘‘ You know that some people think Enid has a fine voice, so Basil might look forward with pleasure to an opportunity of hearing her sing at the Greys’, without any feeling of which we might dixap-_ prove.” She smiled encouragingly at Jessica as she rose from the table, the matutinal meal having now been over some time, and Jessica faintly returned the smile, Yet an inward monitor told her that she was right in her belief, and must relinquish the hope of having her first love-dream realized. Meanwhile Evid Lisle, unconscious that she had proved such an interesting topic of con- versation to the ladies of Sunnymead, bad walked briskly down the quiet road leading to Dalebury, in crder to execute a commission which Jessica had given her the previovs day; to-wit, to order some materials for fancy-work, and to try tu match some trimming, when she had leisure; and the young girl, scorning to ask for the use of her aunt’s pony-pbaetun, had set off on her expedition, before either Mrs. Ormesby or her daughter had descended to the the breakfast-parlor. To her it seemed pleasant to have the fresh, cool air playing on her cheeks; to listen to the song of the robin amid the thick green foliage waving overhead. Sometimes a butterfly flit- ted aercss her patb, or a wild flower of more than ordinary beauty tempted her to gather it, On reaching town, Enid quickly completed her purchases, and was about to turn her steps homeward, when she noticed Basil Clifford standiag by her side, rs ag oe om ie 2 ae. oy he ‘ye ng ae 2 { Fi
Page 4
y% Pe i . “T thought I was not mistaken,” he ex- | nearly nine years older than you, sometimes do claimed, joyfully. ‘‘You passed Mapleton’s while I was buying gloves, and I hurried to overtake you. How fortunate that we should happen to meet!” She gave him her hand, and for an instant they looked into each other’s eyes, In Enid’s beamed shy happiuess, in Basil’s ardent love. “You are going home, I presume; may I walk with you?’ he asked, persuasively; and although the girl was conscious that her aunt would disapprove, she had not the courage to deny his request. ‘©T was disappointed at not seeing you last night,” he said, as they walked on together, ‘‘ What is the reason you so seldom accompany Jessica into society? Do you dislike parties and dancing?” , ‘‘ Not ia the least. On the contrary, I like them very much; but aunt Ormesby raises many objections. In the first place, she says I am almost too young; next, that my uncle had scruples concerning various amusements, and ‘that, bad he lived, he would be sure to have disapproved of my participating too freely in county gayeties.. Dear uncle! either living or dead, his wishes are sacred to me, for he was al- ways kind and loving!” ‘*Mrs. Ormesby is not so conscientious with Jessica,” he remarked, rather bitterly. ‘Ty would be unreasonable to expect her to be influenced by my uncle’s opinion, since she was only his step-daughter,” said Hnid, with decision. ‘You must not be offended if I ask you a question most young ladies would think imper- tinent,” he began, after a short pause, smiling upon her under his thick mustache. ‘I should not be so rude, only I perceive your aunt treats you as a cbild, while I have reasons for wishing you to grow quickly into womanhood, How old are you, Enid?’ “ Kighteen on the twenty-first of next Octo- ber,” she answered, demurely, “And we are now in May. Not much longer than five.months to wait before I shall claim a precious gift from Mrs. Ormesby. If she consents to bestow on me the treasure which I crave, I shall come to you for the ratification of the bond, Enid.” He looked down from his stately hight on the slight petite figure of the girl beside him, who, with her lovely flowing hair and unadorned dress of simple gray, looked even younger than she really was. ‘! They were silent for awhile. Enid’s mind was in a sweet tumult, for even her girlish in- |. experience and simplicity could guess a mean- ing in the young man’s words—words which thrilled her heart with joy; while he, still un- decided whether or not the important words should be spoken, walked on beside her, content to watch the color rising on her cheek, and the flickering smile on the sweet sensitive lips, which he took as a token that she understood his allusions, and at least in some measure re- turned his affection, ‘‘ Would it make you very unhappy to leave Sunvymead?” he asked at length. ' “Oh, no,” she replied, innocently; ‘‘for though aunt Ormesby is kind, I often feel I am an intruder in the house where she and Jessica might be happier without my continual pres- ence. Itis hard to describe exactly what I mean, but there is no real sympathy between us. Oh, if my own dear mother had but lived, I should have been a happier and better girl.” “ Happier, perhaps; I will not. hear of your being better. You are quite good enough for this work-a-day world.” | “You do not know me thoroughly. I am often willful and obstinate, apt to act upon the impulse of the moment without calculating the - consequences of my rash folly; and then, when too late, I abase myself in bitter repentance, making all sorts of good resolutions—resolu- ‘tions, however, which are unfortunately oftener broken than kept.” . ‘‘ You underrate your own good qualities,” he answered, smiling, ‘‘and exaggerate your faults, Thoughtless you may be—I, who am ‘ things of which my better judgment disap- proves—but I will not believe you are willful and obstinate unless I obtain ocular demonstra- tion of the fact.” She shook her pretty head gravely. “T can assure you that Iam not taking too harsh a view of my failings.’ Even uncle, dear, indulgent uncle, used to scold me occa- sionally; and nurse Rachel, who is so very, very old that she remembers my grandmother when she was a little girl, says I am like her both im face and disposition.” “Was your grandmother, then, a very bhead- strong old lady?” asked Basil, laughing out- right. ‘She never lived tobe old,” answered Enid, with a pensive air. ‘‘ She died of consumption a few years after her marriage, and though she left a kind husband and two little children, she was quité willing to go. Rachel says that she was never the same girl after ber parents forbade her to think any more of young Hller- ton, but. fretted and wasted away, so that her health was quite broken when at last she was persuaded to marry grandfather.” ‘Who was young Ellerton?” inquired Basil, with but faint interest in this story of proba- bly over fifty years ago, yet liking to hear Enid talk so earnestly. ‘“He was her father’s clerk, and she loved him, though he was very poor, and altogether unsuited to be the husband of a wealthy mer- chant’s daughter. She was wayward and headstrong, refusing to be advised by those who were older and wiser than herself. So her parents sent her for a while to a convent, and her lover emigrate to some, outlandish coun- try and was never heard of more,” ‘* Quite a romance of the olden time,” smiled Basil. ‘‘I wish it had ended more happily.” ‘So used I to wish; but Rachel says a re- bellious spirit is never contented in any condi- tion of life; therefore, things might not have been much better if Enid the first—her name was the same as mine—had been allowed to follow. her_ own inclination.” "Would you, then, Enid, tamely submit to be separated from the man you loved? Nay, you need not.answer in words; there is a flash of indignant dissent in your eyes that suffi- ciently settles the question. May you be as tender and true as. your, namesake, but far more fortunate; amd may the happy man who wins your hand be the possessor of your heart’s best love!” A turn in the road brought Mrs. Ormesby and Jessica in sight, The beauty of the morn- ing had tempted them forth for a constitu- tional. Jessica looked grave, and the elder lady accosted her niece with an air of frigid displeasure. “Tt am surprised, child, to see you out at this hour of the morning when you should be practicing your music and drawing. Pray lose no more time, but hasten home as quickly as you can. I like young persons to be dili- gent in their studies,” ' Then, fearing lest Basil might not be in- clined to relinquish his position as escort, she added, ‘‘I think, Jessica, we will not continue our walk, as lam rather weary; so you and Mr, Clifford can talk over Mrs. Brooke’s party while I give Enid directions regarding the em- ployment of her time until luncheon. Come, my love,” turning to the latter, “you look warm and tired, and will be glad to walk ata slower pace.” So Mrs. Ormesby enjoyed the satisfaction of watching her pretty daughter laughing and talking gayly as she moved onward beside her companion, who politely exerted himself for her entertainment, though his heart lingered with Enid. | CHAPTER III. OLD ELLERTON’S HEIRESS. In the course of a few weeks, Bertrand Heathcote became quite intimate with his somewhat eccentric boarder. He would sit for hours listening to the old man’s rambling con- A BITTER MISTAKE, — PERT SO EDT TD RR SE EET ETS LS EEE IDET IE TES PTE SE OBLTT ‘Na -| versation, which often turned on deeds of past prowess, culminating almost invariably in an encounter with some bushrangers or wild beasts, wherein Mr. Ellerton performed prodi- gies of valor and put his enemies to flight. Fortune was at a low ebb in the house in Budd street. Bertrand idled away his hours, producing occasionally a water-color sketch which brought in small gain; while Penelope, always most industrious and energetic, found time to instruct’ a few pupils in music. Thus they struggled on, managing to make enough to supply their daily wants, But it was a weary, anxious life, and Bertrand had some excuse for his earnest longings after the riches in perspective, which he fancied might one day be the reward of his attention to’old Ellerton. Meanwhile, the invalid rallied corsiderably —perhaps the extra care and kindness gave fresh vigor to his nearly worn-out frame—and regained a modicum of strength, When the weather was propitious he ventured forth upon long, solitary strolls, refusing all companion- ship, This was rather annoying to his self- appointed protector, wko was jealous lest Mr. Ellerton should make any new acquaintance who might rival him in the old man’s favor. One evening, on paying his usual visit, Ber- trand found Mr, Ellerton seated at the table with a desk before him full of papers which he was examining and sorting. He looked more than ordinarily bright and cheerful, and greet- ed his friend with cordiality. “Sit down, Mr. Heatheote—sit down; you do not disturb me. I am always glad to see you. Lam making the most of my time now that 1am comparatively strong and well, set- tling all my affairs, and seeing that everything is ship-shape and as it should be, ‘This im- provement jin my health may not last long. What can a man expect who is over séventy years of age, and has led a hard life?) Never mind, we shall all take our turn, and now my heart is at ease, for my task is accomplished, and my will has this day been properly signed and attested.” Bertrand flushed with excitement, and list- ened eagerly for further revelations. ‘*'You may not suppose me to be a wealthy man,” continued his companion, ‘because it ‘is my whim to live quietly, without show or osten- tation. Money can do wonders, IJ loveit as a mi- raculous power that can remove difficulties, and gives us in many cases life’s choicest blessings, For me it came too late! How happy a por- tion of the gold I now possess would have made me years ago, when my frame was strong, and my heart lighter! I could then bave had a blissful home, the sweetest and dearest of women for my wife, perbaps chil- dren prattling round my knees, to be my pride and solace. For want of money that hope was crushed. Ihave passed through life alone—a solitary, disappointed man!” ’ “You can still enjoy the sweets of friend- ship, sir,” observed Bertrand, blandly. ‘* Both my sister and myself have the highest’ regard for you.” “Thanks, thanks!” he muttered, mechani- cally. vt ag Then, fumbling in bis desk with feeble hands, he brought forth a faded miniature, on which he gazed with evident rratification. “Tf many years would roll back into the past, and Enid Vere come to life again in her well- remembered loveliness, I would lay my fortune _ at her feet, and tell her how I struggled to win ° | the gold which would have purchased © her father’s consent to our union. Work—good Heavens, how I worked!—although my. early efforts at money-making proved futile, and al- though long before I scored my first success’ I learned that she was married.” ‘’ Women are proverbially fickle. It is strange how often they repay our love with falsehood,” observed Bertrand, anxious to ap- pear sympathetic. : The old man turned on him almost fiercely. “ False!—-who told you she was false? One. might as well suspect an angel of treachery! No; she was cajoled or forced into a marriage ie r > ee
Page 5
" 4 — A BITTER MISTAKE. from which her heart revolted. It was no | be concealed altogether. ‘How did you ferret wonder she died so young!” “She has, then, been dead for many years?” “Yes, yes; if was the very summer T se- cured that grant of land from the Mexican Government which proved such a good invest- ment that I saw the announcement in a news- paper that had made its way out to the diggings. Look on her sweet, pure countenance, young man, and never more associate with falsehood the name of Enid Vere!” Bertrand took the miniature held out to bim with some curiosity. It was the likeness of a woman who had inspired this enduring passion of a lifetime. He saw a slender figure, clad in a short-waisted white gown, with a blue scarf thrown lightly around it. The face was refined and delicate, her eyes were pensive, and there was a profusion of light golden hair, arranged in a quaint, old-fashioned style, Bertrand, who preferred showy, black-eyed beauties, piquante, striking, with an expression of pertness rather than melancholy, inwardly marveled at his taste, : “You have now some notion of Enid’s beauty in her youth,” said Lionel Ellerton, compla- cently, as he received back his treasure, and carefully deposited it iu a drawer of his desk. “Tt was ber farewell gift, and has accompanied me over land and sea. You cannot even guess how I have prized it!” “You were speaking about business mat- ters,” hinted Bertrand, anxious to ‘bring back the discussion to the point whence it had strayed, ‘“‘Can I be of any service? Have you been well recommended to the lawyer to whom, I pre- sume, has been intrusted the drawing up of your will? Excuse my interference, but I am anxious for your interests, and there are so many rogues in the profession.” “Thank you; I have my own lawyers. When I returned from the Cape I brought a letter of introduction to a respectable firm, NX a a s whom I authorized to undertake a case which I had much at heart. They have acquitted themselves of their task entirely to my satis- faction, and enabled me to carry out my whim.” ~ This speech sounded somewhat mysterious, and Bertrand waited impatiently for the next. “There are many charitable institutions I might have benefited,” pursued the old man; “but I prefer settling the bulk of my wealth upon one who will cherish my memory with tenderness and gratitude. Two hundred thou- sand dollars is a large bequest to a person in no way related by blood to the testator; is it not, Mr. Heathcote?” Bertrand assented, and his heart seemed beating as if it would burst during his brief agony of suspense, The sum mentioned ex- ceeded his wildest calculations; and as Mr. El- lerton bad no friends, and did not intend mak- ing charitable bequests, surely the future inheritor would be himself rather than Pene- lope. Mc You must understand,” continued his com: panion, with the provoking deliberation, pecu- liar to age, “that if my relatives were living I should not consider myself justified in mak- ing such a will. But I am the last of my race, and free to act according to my pleasure. My heiress will be Enid Lisle, now residing with a Mrs. Ormesby at Sunnymead, near Dalebury, Mass., grand-daughter and only surviving de- Scendant of the woman I loved.” Bertrand had difficulty in preserving an out- ward appearance of composure. He would have liked to lay violent bands on the venera- ble graybeard, and accused him of a heartless deception. “The girl is very young, I am told,” pur- Sued the unconscious cause of his disappoint: ment, ‘‘and may by chance resemble the sainted lady whose name she bears. My heart yearns toward her.” © ne eed ~ “J wonder how you got to know of the girl’s existence when you had been half a century absent from the United States,” said Bertrand, Petulantly, for his vexation was too great to her out?” “The lawyers managed that matter for me. I commissioned them to spare no expense in making inquiries, although all was to be done quietly and without publicity, Of course, it was a work of time, for many changes had |, taken place—marriages, deaths, and removals complicated affairs, and raised difficulties. Finally, however, they were successful in their quest, and to day the document was signed that makes the second Enid my heiress.” “Ts she to be made aware of her good luck?” inquired Bertrand, moodily. Mr. Ellerton pondered before answering. — “Well, no, I think not; when I'am gone it will be time enough. She may not resemble my lost love in face or character, so it would be a disappointment if we met, and I would not like to disturb the portrait I have formed of her in my imagimation, Unless my plans are somehow altered, I do not mean to see her; but I have written a letter. which will be forwarded, when the proper hour arrives, by those who will inform her of my death and of the will I have made in her favor.” There was silence for a moment; the aged man had an opportunity to brood over his own thoughts; but suddenly he burst out into a loud, triumphant laugh, “Ha, hal It is amusing to reflect that old Vere, who was too proud to let me marry his daughter, died a ruined bankrupt; while the last of his line will wear diamonds a duchess might envy, the gift of poor Lionel] Ellerton, whom hescorned and contemned. You little thought, Mr. Heathcote, that in the sea-chest ycnder is an iron box containing stones of such value that if they were in your possession you would be independent for life.” He looked up and met the full gaze of Ber- trand’s eyes fixed upon him—eyes gleaming with hungry eagerness and greed for wealth. Perhaps the old man was struck by the revela- tion so obtained of his companion’s nature, and began to distrust him; or he may have become conscious he was talking wildly, © ‘ Whatever was the reason, he paused abrupt- ly, and passed his hand across his forehead, as if to chase away the shadows from his brow. His next words were uttered in a tone quite different to that which he had used during his late excitement. “T am growing rather tired, Mr. Heathcote, and shall be better alone. I think, too, my mind has been wandering a little—indulging, in fact, in flights of fancy, We old travelers, you know, get into bad habits, and you must not believe all we tell you. Good-evening— good-evening.” ; Betrand had no resource but to’ take his leave, and seek Penelope, whose sharp eyes soon discovered there was something amiss. She listened in silence.to her brother’s aé- count of his recent interview with their boarder, and the disappointment ‘of his hopes. “T think the old man is mad!” she exclaimed; contemptuously. “TI always doubted him.” “Because you have ‘no insight into charac- ter. For my own part, I am convinced not only of Ellerton’s sanity, but that his wealth is as great as he represents it to be. 1 discovered the moment when his suspicious nature reas- serted its influence, and when he would have given worlds to retract bis words, but it was then too late.” | “At any rate, it is clear we have not a chance of being a cent the better for all these boasted hoards,” rejoined Penelope. ‘That remains to be seen,” _ “How perverse you are, Bertrand! Did he not tell you that he had willed away ‘his money?” ‘ “But a bright idea has just struck me, TI will not relinquish the prize for which IT have striven, and may possibly win it after al).” “What is your brilliant project?” sneered Penelope. ° tet: oe ath “Tf this girl, Enid Lisle, is an heiress,” he answered, impressively, ‘‘she will be able to enrich the husband of her choice.” er 5 “Well, what then?” ‘Why should I not marry her?” Penelope stared at Him with open-mouthed astonishment. ‘*Marry a girl you have never seen! nonsense you are talking!” ‘*T mean to seek her out without delay. The idea is plausible; at all events, it is worth while spending some time and trouble upon it before giving it up asimpracticable, If I woo, win, and wed Miss Enid while she is uncon- scious of the impending change in her fortunes I shall obtain the character of being a disinter- ested lover, and afterward reap the reward of my devotion.” 3 “Ts it likely her friends will consent to such a marriage, even if the girl approves? You must own, Bertrand, you could not be consi- dered an eligible match.” < “They may not have the opportunity of re- fusing. “Young girls are romantic, and do not object to an elopement with an ardent suitor who: pleads his cause well. If she is poor— living in dependence upon relatives or friends —she will not have been pestered with wooers, and I shall have less difficulty in persuading her to listen to my vows.” “Your plan seems to me beset with dangers and difficulties,” observed Penelope. ‘IT frankly confess I do not like it.” “What special apprehensions assail you, sis- ter mine?’ “The old man may linger on for alter bis will at last.” “We must run a risk, like all other specu- lators. If his frail life was all that stood be- tween me and the wealth I crave, I have a presentiment he would not linger long.” “ Bertrand!” 4 ap *“Well, Penelope, why do ycu look so scared? Presentiments do not always come true; and if mine did, you would be none the poorer, You should have a dowry of ten thousand dollars when you married Maxwell, if I were master of old Elierton’s money.” “Hush, Bertrand! We will not discuss the subject further. I fancied just now I heard a step on the landing outside. Perhaps Milly is listening.” , a. But if the household drudge had been diver- sifying her mcnotoncts labors by applying her ear to the keyhole, she managed to dive down stairs in time to escape detection, for when the door was opened, and Penelope Iooked over the balusters, all was gloom and silence. sa hcr. What years, and CHERE TOR FY 100 ert Sed hit MRS, ORMESBY'S MANEUVER; Enrp LIsLE sat near the window of the morning room, looking out upon the sweet- scented garden, where countless roses opened to the sunshine, and filled the air with fra- grance, Her eyes, however, were apt to stray in the direction where she could catch the first glimpse of Basil Clifford if he approached the house, ; . rt apt Nearly a week had elapsed since his last visit, and a week seems like a century toa love-sick maiden whose beloved is absent. ’ Generally Basil was able to find some plausi- ble excuse fer calling regularly’ every day. There was sure to be a book either to lend or borrow, a duet to practice, or Mrs, Ormesby’s co-operation to obtain in some plan of amuse- — ment. He was always cordially received as a — favored guest, so Enid felt a vague sense of uneasiness, both at his’ continued absence and the silence preserved on the subject by her aunt and Jessica. bee “Again idling away your time, my dear Enid!” sighed Mrs. Ormesby’s voice behind her. “The task of training you to habits of industry is beyond my strength. relinquish ~ it in despair!” — ’ p . “Indeed, aunt, I only came bere five min- utes ago, and have done all you bade me.” _ _ “My dear, you are an incorrigible idler! Do not contradict me by denying the fact. I wish J did not feel so acutely the responsibility
Page 6
_ year soon slips away. GE a eee ee A BITTER MISTAKE, laid upon my shoulders; but it is my nature to endeavor to perform even unpleasant duties to the best of my ability.. You must be aware, Enid, that your education is not so thorough and ‘complete as your dear uncle would have approved.” “T did not know—” began the girl, then stopped, embarrassed by the stern, judicial gaze fixed upon her. Mrs. Ormesby gave a frosty smile. “Of course not, my dear; you are only a child. It is for your elders to judge of such matters, and remedy that deficiency, I have lately given much thought to the important subject, and have made arrangements which I trust your good sense will recognize as satis- factory. What say you to a twelvemonth passed at Madame Belleville’s establishment for young ladies in New York, “Oh, aunt,” exclaimed Enid, in consterna- tion, “ you would not send me away from Sunnymead! I have never lived among strangers. Their ways will be new tome, I shall be always regretting the home and friends left behind in dear Dalebury.” “Very natural and proper, my dear; but these home-sick feelings will soon pass away. Both Jessica and I will miss you; but we must stifle our selfish sorrows in the reflection that the brief separation is for your welfare. A You can then ‘return with your education finished, and be ready to be introduced into society.” Enid knew it would be useless to rebel against an arrangement ostensibly made for ee _ cidedly her own benefit, though the prospect was de- able, She did not at the moment conjecture that Mrs. Ormesby was desirous of removing her out of Basil’s way as a dangerous rival to Jes- sica, | She had even a vague idea of enlisting his sympathy and persuading him to intercede on her behalf. He was such a favorite at Sunny- mead that he might be able to induce her aunt to change her mind, and not insist on carrying out this unwelcome project. This hope lightened her trouble. She dashed away the gathering tears, and said, half smiling, ‘‘ At least I need not make my- self miserable until the hour of departure ar- rives; that will be time enough.” ‘*T am glad you are so reasonable,” observed the elder lady, surprised as well as gratified at her niece’s ready acquiescence. ‘To-day you _may employ in packing such things as you desire to take with you, though Madame Belle- ville has instructions to attend to your ward- robe, and to provide all that is necessary. We wt, start for Bow York by an early train io-mor- Tow.” - mo-ghirbw! Enid could only repeat the word that sounded the knell of her hopes. ““Why not?” inquired her aunt, sharply. ‘We are not going to take a voyage "round the _ world, that a month need. be spent in prepara- tion. The journey is a mere trifle, and I shall place you myself under madame’s charge.” ‘*T should like to wish my friends good-by,” murmured the girl. “J will give them your adieux and mes- sages, People will understand that you had no time for leave-taking.” “Do you think Mr. Clifford will call to-day?” asked Enid, carelessly, though her face was suffused with crimson, and the hand that put ‘back an intrusive spray of honeysuckle, which persisted in looking in at the window, trembled as it rformed its task. at an extraordiaary question!” remark- ed nae aunt, severely, “I never thought that you would feel interested in the young man’s ae’ 43 visit when matters of far more importance bs is excessively ill-bred. Basil is at present up claim your attention. But I musttell you that he is not Jikely to return from the Highlands ag aunt, ; | until his friend is out of danger.” “The Highlands! Is he there? you never told me!” “Pray, Enid, do not get into a silly way of Hehoasiee. words and asking idle questions, It ‘ ,) the Hudson, whither he was summoned to the sick-bed of a friend, who met with serious in- juries in a railway accident. They had been school-fellows and college chums, or something of the sort, and as the poor fellow’s relatives are abroad, Basil has decided ‘to stay with him while he can be of any use.” “You knew all this, aunt, while I was won- dering as to the reason of his long absence!” Jane Ormesby’s large, dark eyes flashed with wrath. The audacious girl dared openly to proclaim her interest in the young man’s move- ments. She weuld have liked to shake her, yet she controlled all outward display of anger, and answered with an air of indifference. “It would have been strange if Basil had not enlightened me as to the object of his sud- den journey, since I disapprove of a direct correspondence with Jessica until their engage- *ment is made public.” A mist arose before Enid’s eyes, and the sound of rushing waters was in her ears, Mrs. Ormesby secretly enjoyed her manifest confusion. “I did not know he was engaged to Jessica,” said Enid, in a constrained voice, ‘* Oh, it was a settled thing months ago. But I cannot consent to part with my sweet child at present, nor permit the whole town to gossip over her intended marriage until the day is absolutely fixed, Jessica is so shy and sen- sitive that she dislikes any allusion being made to the subject; therefore,I warn you, Enid, not to repeat what I have told you.” Enid made an inarticulate response. Her heart was now the prey of love and jealousy. Why had Basil dealt so treacherously in winning her affection when he was pledged to another? It did not occur to the maiden of seventeen that her aunt was capable of overstepping the boundaries of truth. Although she did not love the austere lady who exercised a stern guardianship over her, she respected her too much to believe her guilty of uttering a willful falsehood. The ordeal at length wasover. Mrs. Ormes- by swept her silken draperies out of the room, and Enid, thankful to be alone, stole quietly to her own chamber. She could not have pre- served the semblance of composure a minute longer, but must have given vent to her grief, shame, and anger. So great was her cortempt for Basil’s conduct, that she almost hoped her love would turn to aversion. If he intended to marry Jessica St, Aubyn, why had he neglect- ed. Mrs. Ormesby’s daughter so frequently in order to seek the society of her humble little cousin, with looks and words no unfettered heart could withstand? - She paced the small apartment, blaming, ‘by turns, her own folly, her lover's perfidy, and her aunt’s cruelty in banishing her from home. Madame Belleville’s “ finishing school” was a large square house, with extensive gardens in the rear. It had long narrow windows, with green shutters, and a sort of court-yard at the side, to which admission was gained through a tall iron gate, whose repellent aspect was in- creased by being studded with rusty knobs, as if intended to withstand a siege. There was an air of conventual seclusion about the place; the windows commanding a view of the street had their shutters closed and barred, while the foot of man was never allowed to tread the pre- cincts where madame superintended the edu- cation, health, and morals of her youthful charges, Enid Lisle, transplanted from Sunnymead to this large, dull house, where everybody sur- veyed her with critical eyes, and no one offered a kindly word of welcome, felt her heart sink with despendency. Mrs. Ormesby had driven away with inward relief now that her task was finished; and Enid, sensitive and impulsive, felt like a prisoned bird, powerless to try its wings, longing for liberty, yet condemned to pine in captivity, and sing only at its master’s will, ae As days lagged slowly on, the iorictousis routine of school life, to which she had never been inured in childhood, became more unen- durable. Her mind was restless, her temper | irritable. She could not forget Basil, and pic- ‘tured him often by Jessica’s side, paying her lover-like attentions and basking in her smiles, while she, with whom, for pastime, he had flirted, was scarcely honored with a passing thought. There was a girl at the school, whose name was Rosetta Marsden. She was a short, plump damsel, about sixteen years of age, with an equable temper, and a capability of being, like the immortal Mark Tapley, “ jolly under any circumstances.” It is not surprising, then, that. Enid and Miss Marsden soon became constant. companions, if not friends. “ You are positively growing quite thin, Enid!” exclaimed this lively maiden, as they walked side by side out of the recitation room. ‘‘ Your cheeks have a washed-out appearance, as if they were never to be revisited by a tinge of color. I believe you are homesick, Why not follow my example? Make yourself as. comfortable here as madame’s bad temper will permit, and look forward hopefully to a future. which cannot be long in coming.” Enid’s answer was cold and brief, “‘T am not homesick, nor can I look forward with hope, for the future will bring me no. happiness.” “Oh, my dear, it is very bad to give way to such gloomy thoughts! No wonder your spirits are depressed. I shall begin to imagine you have been crossed in love.” ‘‘-You are quite mistaken,” said Enid, stiffly, elevating her proud young head in anger at the suggestion. ‘And, Rosetta, you know madame would be very angry if she heard us. talking in study hours,” ‘Ob, I am not to be silenced so easily! She ~ would "find it difficult to make me hold my tongue if I wanted to speak. Besides, I did not mean any harm, only I thought if you bad quarreled with your lover, and knew he was. now anxious to see you and make it up, you. would be ever so much happier.” ‘“‘T cannot understand you, Rosetta,” said. Enid, her heart beginning to throb wildly with undefined hopes. ‘‘ Well, he is a fine young fellow, with a. mustache which makes you remember the Spanish proverb, ‘A kiss without a mustache: is like an egg without salt.’ He has followed you from Massachusetts, and hung about the house, having found out, goodness knows how,, where you were liviog; so, out of common gratitude, you ought to reciprocate such evi- dent attachment,” “Dear Rosetta, do be serious if you have really anything to tell,” “ Anything to tell! I like that! Why, it. was quite an adventure, end adventures are scarce enough at Madame Belleville’s, I can see by your blushes that the hero of my ro- mance is a favored swain, soif you are very good you shall hear the story. " Glancing slyly into Enid’s face, to which. alternate bope and fear lent an ever-varying expression, the girl continued, “You know that I spent yesterday, being a holiday, with my friends the Banks, As the day was fine I persuaded them to take me to the Park. Oh, I had such a five time! I only wish you had been with me! Such gayly-dressed crowds, laughing aud talking, and the driving! But there! I see you are growing impatient, so I will tell you about them another time. Wo had not been long in the grounds when [ noticed a tall, gentlemanly man was eying me with great attention, and following our party at a respectful distance. I thought I had made a conquest; but I was never more deceived in my life, for though I was the object of attraction, it was noton my own account, In the museum I got separated from, the Banks, and, to my consternation, found my supposed admirer was making his way’ toward me through the crowd. In vain I looked reund for Mrs, Bank’s white-plumed bonnet ox oe +
Page 7
Marie’s smiling face; they had disappeared, and the intrusive stranger was at my elbow. His first words, however, told me the real object of his interest in me. He asked me if I were nota pupil of Madame Belleville’s, and if a young lady named Enid Lisle was in the same establishment.” “¢ What did you answer?” asked Enid, almost breathless with anxiety. “‘At first I was inclined to seek refuge in dignified silence; but he pleaded his cause so well that I was induced to relent. It seems he bad fallen in love with you before you left Dalebury, and had taken no end of trouble to follow and find out whither you had gone. Last Sunday he happened to see us coming out of church; but of course we were chaperoned by the ugliest and most grim-looking of the teachers, so he dared not approach. He recog- hized me as your friend when he saw me in the Park, and took courage to speak. Oh, Enid, it must be charming to have such a devoted lover; and now that you know he is fond and faithful you will no longer wear such dole- ful looks, but be as happy as the day is long.” In the joy of believing that Basil. Clifford loved her, and had taken the only means of Communication that lay in his power to assure her of that love, Enid at first forgot ber jeal- ousy of Jessica. It returned now with full force, and she said, coldly: ‘If this mysterious stranger is the person whom I. suppose, he owes me an explanation, without which I could not receive any pro- ~~. of love,” s ® said he could explain everything,” cried Rosetta, eagerly, delighted with her role 88.confederate, “if you would only grant him an interview.” “* That seems impossible,” said Enid, thought- fully, “Do you think madame would dines mato see him if he called?’ Tam certain she would not. Madame ob- jects to gentleman visitors even if they are re- lations; and unless she had special directions from your aunt to relax her rules in your favor, your friend would have no chance of gaining admittance.” _ . “Then I cannot see him,” said Enid, in a dejected tone. “You Sstion we are never al- lowed to go out alone,” “Pooh! nonsense!—you are easily disheart- ened. I have been at school much longer than you, and know there are means of eluding the vigilance of madame and her spies.” “Tell me, Rosetta, what to do, and I will follow your advice.” “Suppose, then, you make up your mind to meet your handsome adorer at the foot of the garden when all the rest of the household have retired. He told me he would be there to- night.” “How could I leave the house when all the doors are securely fastened?’ asked Enid, trem- ulously, almost determined to run any risk rather than lose the promised delight of a few minutes’ conversation with her lovér. You can descend from the window of our sleeping-room, which luckily happens not to be very far from the ground, and has a friendly tree standing close at hand, whose strong branches will serve the purpose of a ladder. I promise not to —_ ; “It would be so bold, so wrong!” stam the poor girl, troubled by contflicting cadien “'Fhere is not much harm. ‘Love laughs at locksmiths,’ they say; and if madame is cruel enough to attempt to separate two confiding hearts by arbitrary rules and regulations, it is necessary, in self-defease, to resort to artifice. Think of the poor young fellow scrambling as he best can over the high fence, and standing in the dismal garden counting the moments un- til his lady-love appears! What would he bis dis- appointment if he did not see you! He would make up his mind that you were quite indiffer- ent to his devotion.” Enid, after a sharp struggie between duty and love, yielded, in defiance of her better nt, to these specious arguments, ‘ 4 ¥ a5 ‘ k y ‘ oa y ” ; m ‘ é : . 4) Pee . PA Pa re ee ee ees eee oe eT Sa We ee eT a ee ee ENS ES aE Ae a EET ee Se Te TE ED A BITTER MISTAKE. CHAPTER V. A YOUNG GIRL’S FOLLY. Tse night-wind was whispering amid the trees, the moon hung clear and bright in the summer sky, when Enid stood in her quiet room, looking pale and agitated, but withal resolute, as she gazed out into the night. The other inmates of the house had long been sleep- ing, except Rosetta, who remained awake to see the fun, as she phrased it, or give any as- sistance her friend might need. A church clock chimed forth the hour of the intended meeting, yet Enid lingered. ‘¢ Enid,” murmured Rosetta, from her little white bed at the further end of the room, ‘(did you not hear eleven strike? Are you not going?” Enid turned a pale face toward her. “You are positive that he really wishes to see me, and said this would be our only chance of exchanging a few words?” “ Don’t ask such silly questions! Of course Iam certain. His entreatie-vere quite heart- rending; and you must be cold as an icicle if you disappoint him.” At that moment a tall, manly figure was seen moving amid the shadows cast by a group of trees at the end of the garden. It was un- recognizable, owing to the distance and partial darkness; but Enid’s last scruples vanished at the thought of her lover’s presence. Slowly and noiselessly she opened the window, and, standing on the sill, her heart beating quicker than usual, prepared for the descent. She was soon seated on a strong branch capable of bearing twice her weight, and it was not long before she reached the ground. From the shadows the tall figures stepped forth to meet her, and she stood face to face with—Bertrand Heathcote! A low ery of terror and dismay escaped her lips at the sight of this stranger instead of the familiar form of him she loved. Faintness crept over her, she tottered and would have fallen had not Bertrand caught her. “*My dear Miss Lisle, pray be composed,” he whispered, in honeyed accents, ‘It isso kind of you to meet me here!” His voice and touch roused her more quickly than the most reviving cordial. She extricated herself hastily from his arms, and exclaimed, with flashing eyes, “ There is some mistake! What brings you to this place? Why did you dare send a message to me—a stranger?” “ Because I love you, and have followed you from your home to tell you of my love,” an- swered Bertrand, with well-feigned warmth. “Sweet Enid, do not look on me so coldly. I hoped for a kinder reception.” ‘“‘T never saw you before,” she stammered, in bewilderment. ; “ But I have seen you, and fallen a captive to the power of your beauty. Did not your good-natured little friend repeat the message I sent you yesterday—else why are you here to- night?’ ‘I expected to see a very different person.” “ Ab, I can guess his name—Mr. Basil Ciif- ford.” Enid started. Had this strange man come as embassador from her lover? Was she mis- taken in supposing he pleaded his own love? In her confusion, nothing seemed too wild or improbable for belief. “* Has he sent you ? she faltered. “I do not hold my services at his disposal; but as I have lately come from Dalebury, I can give you tidings of your friend. I warn yeu, the news may not be agreeable; so, if you pre- fer, I will keep silence.” ‘¢ Anything is better than suspense,” she mur- mured, inwardly. ‘Speak on, sir, if you have aught to tell me,” she added, aloud. “You know that in a country town people will talk when any special event is likely to take place. A grand weddmg, for instance, is always the subject for gossip, particularly when bride and bridegroom are well known and respected,” 9 ‘Ts Basil married ?’she questioned eagerly, forgetful of all else but this threatened death- blow of her hopes. “Not yet, but I believe the day is fixed. Do you wish to know the name of the fortunate fair one ?”’ “T can guess.” ‘‘No doubt your suspicions are correct, for it seems an old attachment, Miss Jessica St. Au- byn, the late rector’s step-daughter, will be envied by many of the ladies in the county who might desire to rule over Clifford Hall.” Enid made an effort to rally her spirits, and ~ hide all outward sign of suffering. . “IT wish them every happiness,” she said, firmly. ‘They are both my friends, and I trust have a blissful future before them.” “You are courageous, Miss Lisle.” remarked Bertrand, with deliberate emphasis. ‘“ You bear the news well; yet I bave been told that you were sent away from Sunnymead because you threatened to become your cousin’s rival. Mrs. Ormesby was too shrewd a mother not to — observe your partiality for her daughter’s be- trothed.” Enid looked almost with fear into the calnr face before her, and to which the moonlight gave a ghastly pallor. “How have you learnt all this? You are to me a stranger, yet seem to know what I thought to keep secret from the prying gaze of those who can have no interest in the matter.” ‘My interest is in you, Enid. Have I not said I love you ?”’ ists “‘ Leave me,” she said, proudly; “your pres~" ence is an insult; your protestations of love in-— I have been weak and foolish to credible. come here to-night; but you will let the mad folly of which I am guilty be buried in oblivion if you are a man of honor.” ‘One word of kindness would purchase my secrecy more effectually than these airs of cold disdain, Even from you, Enid, I will not brook a command, although your smile might ~ bend me to your will.” ‘You would not betray me?” she faltered. “Only think of the temptation!” he returned, with a mocking smile, ‘I should be able to boast that Enid Lisle, the lovely niece of Dale- bury’s late respected rector, met me alone at midnight while her worthy teacher mt never dreaming of ber pupil’s escapade. But w will not speak of this now. Rather let me tell youhow you may sbow your aunt and Mr. Clifford that the knowledge of this approaching matriage gives you no pain.” ; ‘* Ab, if I could only die!” she said, bursting into a flood of passionate tears. ‘No one loves me. 1am forsaken and despised by those whom I most trusted.” “Do not talk of dying; you must live to. forget the past, and enjoy a future which shall be made happy by the devotion of a constant heart. Waste not another thought on Basil Clifford, Then seizing her hand, he poured forth im- passioned vows of love, and told the false story he had concocted concerning a first meeting at Dalebury, where he kad been struck with her beauty, though himself’ unnoticed, and how that from that hour he had lost his heart. He of- fered to take her away from the hated school, and bear her to a pleasant home, where, as his beloved wife, she would no longer be depen- dent on Mrs. Ormesby’s bounty. “Tam but a poor artist, dearest,” he said, ‘and our bome will have few luxuries; yet you shall be bappier than you have ever been before. My life will be devoted to shielding you from every care; and my sister Penelope, | a noble-hearted and amiable woman, will re- ceive my young bride with open arms.” fat While be thus spoke, Enid, at first indignant and wrathful, became gradually calm; and it. must be confessed that, in her state of mind, the picture he drew was not devoid of charm. She was reckless as to her own future, but re- joiced in imagining aunt Ormesby discomfited and Basil’s vanity wounded when they should hear that she was married. _ It is not to be supposed the girl deliberately \
Page 8
Pt) ee ee Lt 7 } = ee = terview, but she listened to his pleading more patiently than was prudent, and was at length prevailed upon to walk in the garden at a cer- tain hour next day, for the purpose of picking up a letter which should explain more fully than time just then pees the aspirations of her new lover... = When they seperated, he was justified in considering he had made good progress. _ “I shall succeed in winning her,” he thought, “though [ wish it)were possible to. get posses- sion of her: fortune without the accompanying incumbrance. ..She ‘is rather pretty; but, too pale and. lackadaisical for my taste, I wish she were, more like Rose Burton, the variety ac- tress. eis a fine woman, and no mistake! Then this. Enid is evidently over head and ears in Jove with the fellow.of whom Rachel told’ _ mei: Indeed; I may thank that gossiping old: - woman forall her correct information regard-, ing. her former nursling. A little money! ju- diciously bestowed, and a great deal of ‘soft sawder,’ work miracles.” | In pursuance of this resolution, Bertrand continued; the campaign with dogged perse- verance,, No knight in days of chivalry fought more energetically to win ‘his, fair lady. . But, |. the weapons used |were, neifher sword’ nor spear; they were skillful probing of human weakness, falsehood dexterously insinuated, or truth suppressed. . Before starting for Dalebury he, had raised a sum of money by borrowing from a loan office: and selling: his watch and chain, also.a, few old- fashioned trinkets belonging to Penelope; so he had plenty of. funds to, carry out his scheme, He. managed not only to live respectably, but to secure allies even in Madame Belleville’s strict establishment by liberal bribery, . Sym- pathetic ‘domestics. were ready to oblige bim by taking, letters and) messages for a suitable a. and." to assist bin in. his romantic a ee were Shiehaod he the. exertions of Rosetta,’ who: coaxed. her. ‘friends, the Banks, into becoming promoters of the matcb. It-is scarcely. wonderful that Enid, surrounded by these influences, gave way to the impulse of her own, undisciplined nature, and before a month was.over became the peer wife of, Bortrand Heathoote. “ik Lom ts CHAPTER VL, AN, UNPLEASANT, SURPRISE, “PENELOPE HEATHCOTE, as we haye seen, was, ee ‘Bilis _ at, the, best a, person of gloomy and anxious temperament, ever. prone, to» see, gathering clouds in the distance, which foretell the speedy departure of those interludes of sunshine. that. are mercifully. allowed, to brightem the, most troubled lives, . 4 One. particular afternoon toward the close of August: she, seemed, more burdened than usual with the weight of care, now pacing the room _ with feverish energy, now/casting herself into a, chair, and burying her face in ber hands, while she.gaye way to a train of reflection, evidently the reverse of soothing, » 4‘ Why does’ be not write?” she said, half aloud, apostrophizing her absent brother. ‘It is of the greatest importance that he should | learn, what, has happened, yet iawn not where a letter would. reach him,” 4 As if. in answer to her impatient apeceh, she heard the slight, noise, made by a lateh- -key turning in the lock of, the ‘outer, door, followed _ by a familiar footstep, in the hall. .; Bertrand | i} walked into the room, alert and smiling, tri- j inp impressed onevery lineament.,, | “ Well, Pen, I am, at. home at last. How have gore getting on since I left you, I, cannot. mpliment you .on, your appearatice ; Sree ee wrotchedly ill....As for me, I have: ucceeded almost beyond) my expectations, macseoded congratulate me, my dear, Bebold in. wo ot happy heraeiniame of old. Ellerton’s, sts eed you ‘are not Maaivladlii “No wonder you are astonished. L can’ nial believe my own good luck. It required consented to marry Bertrand daira this first & BITTER MISTAKE, a 08d deal of tact and finesse, I can tell you, to bring matters to a satisfactory conclusion in so short a time. What falsehoods I was obliged ‘to. tell—what bribes to bestow in or- der to stimulate the zeal of those who assisted me! I will not bore you now with details, of the manner in which I overcame. difficulties which seemed insuperable. . Suffice it to say that. Enid Lisle, the heiress, has been converted into Mrs. Bertrand Heathcote.” Penelope made no answer, but sat rere herself; to and fro, like one in pain: “How glum you are! Is’ Maxwell. ill, or haye you got the toothache?, You might con- gratulate a fellow on’ his marriage, I, should think,’’ said Bertrand, in.an injured tone. 9 “Where i is your wife?” questioned Penelope, evading a direct reply. ‘I bave placed ber in. a cheap boarding- place for: the present, until I decide what. is to be done. So far I have»prospered, but much depends on the, next, move, Old. Bilerton’s death would simplify matters, as tbere would | be nothing to do then.except, to claim the money. Isthere any chance of sucha consum- mation?,I. have not yet,asked) after, the old gentleman.” “How can I tell. you?” ‘faltered Benelope, despairingly. “ Tell me, what?” A vague yet, terrible fear (caused his face to become almost livid.. He had cast-his allupon that one die;\and if he lost it: would be ruin}, ‘¢ Speak, woman! do; not: torture me!”’) he cried, roughly, clutching her arm until the. pressure gave her pain. ‘*Bilerton has gone—left the house!” ‘*Gone where?’ ‘TI do not know,” An oath escaped Bertrand’s lips. What with rage and impatience, bis, countenance assumed. almost a fiendish expression as he, stood before his sister looking eagerly down into her face, ‘You have'more to tell me, , Goon, go on, before I wring the truth from you!” ef Yesterday,” replied Penelope, : ‘‘ I went out: in the morning to doa, little shopping., When Lreturned Milly told.me that almost immedi- ately after my departure.our boarder sent her for a back, in» which,he drove off with ‘bis valise, giving her,to understand, that, she was not likely: to,see: him again.” Bertrand looked slightly relieved. . ‘‘T always knew he was an eccentric, indi- vidual, but we shall hear from him soon., At all events I have married the girl-he bas made his heiress,/and if,it’ is necessary to confess the fact we shall soon persuade, him, to give bis blessing.on the union,” ‘* Ah, my. dear brother, you are éver toosan- guine and rash, Remember always had my doubts... The man L believe to be,an impostor!” Bertrand stared at her in amazement; ‘he was stricken dumb, » “When I went into his room,” she continued, “ Lsawea paper,on which: he had scribbled in -pencil.a few lines “addressed -to: you, lying on the table. I ventured to glance over it, and thus was prepared for the worst. » His» great séa-chest was: open and its contents scattered about the room—a few old clothes such asa Jew clothesman,might buy for a trifle; and the famous ‘iron box, in which, instead of diamonds, were pieces of broken glass and valueless crys- tals; Ah, Bertrand, you have been cruelly de- ceived, if the man is not’an impostor, he is a raging lunatic!” ‘Give me the note!” said Bertrand, hoarse- y. She took it from a little,drawer in ber frit box, and gave it him» withoub.a word, eying him, meanwhile, compassionately.. As we have: said, she loved her brother, dearly, and invhis disappointment forgot beg own. This is what he read:— “Yin, Bertrand Herarucorr:— ‘“T have thought fit to leave your ddancal Without the usual notice, butas I always paida month agree, you PRP no loser. The contents of m ches ich are at your dis isposal, I consider a fair equivalent for any teen ence you may sustain through my unexpected departure. You are also welcome. to the diamonds which I told nate were. in- tended for my heiress. I really think that you be- lieved my flights of imagination and that my castle- building was not in the air, The shrewdest are mistaken sometimes; why not you as well. as the rest? It is probable we shall never meet again, I may go abroad, and die; it is almost time I did. Thanks to you and Miss Penelope for your disinter- ested kindness. Yours, WIONEL ERTON.”? Twice'did Bertrand read over this strange epistle. Then he crushed it in his band, and flung -it. violently to the other side of be? room, “T have been: duped by: a madman!” ithe cried angrily. ‘Fool that I was not. to de- tect the vagaries ofacrazy brainin the old idiot’s rambling statement ‘concerning: his pre- tended wealth! I must)haye been only a trifle less:insane than he!” x ‘‘T warned you to be careful,” sighed Pene- lope, who derived some solace from recollecting that she had never:entirely shared her brother’s confidence in théir eccentric boarder, ‘Hold your tongue, or utter somethirg more sensible than that! parrot-like ery!” exclaimed the enraged young man. And burrying from the room he strode up- stairs, and entered the vacant apartment where be had dreamt such gbides visions: of prosperity. More than an: hour he remained there, turn- ing over and examining the articles Mr, Eiler- ton’ had left, in the hope of finding some clew to the mystery. Every pocket: was ransacked, every.garment unfolded, but no old letter or addressed envelope came to light which would enable:him to follow up! the old man's track in order to find out the cause of his. strange be- havior. As to the value of the threadbare, old- fashioned . raiment, Penelope’s estimate was undoubtedly correct; and the rusty old: cash- box, which Bertrand’s too vivid imagination had beheld as the chosen receptacle of priceless gems, contained hoards of rubbish such as only a child;or a madman would care to amass, . And for this- you haverburdened yourself with a.wife!” said Penelope; ‘‘a foolish, head- strong girl, no doubt, or she would not have been, im such haste!, Old E)lerton’s. heiress, indeed! Why, the man has nothing to be- queath! His. wealth is a chimera, for which you bartered:liberty !”: “You need not remind me of my bondage!” retorted ber amiable brother. ‘‘1 own I have been a, fool. Let that, avowal, do once for all. Donot twit me again with my folly. | As for Enid, I must. bring her here,” “This is.a shabby home for a young“ bride, brother.” “It is the best: I. can give ber.) I wish T had never seen her pale face, nor Histened to old Ellerton’s falsehoods,” They. were silent fora time} for this was’ in- deed a crushing blow. Bertrand, who fancied that be had wealth, and the advantages which accompany it, in bis grasp, found himself poorer thanjever, since he must repay bis loan with exorbitant interest, besides having an unloved and unloving wife tied to him for life. He, always reekoned on not having long to wait for Ellerton’s demise. Perhaps the dark thought’ crossed*his mind that, if meed be, that feeble existence could be easily extinguished; a friendless old man boarding. in ‘his: house, waited on chiefly by his sister, was’ almost at his merey, ‘‘What are you going to do" now, Bertrand?” asked Penelope; for» the ‘silence was growing oppressive, ‘*T shall fetch my» wife. for her reception.” With a scowling: brow, he strode out cot: the housg, crossed the ferry, and was soon at the house, where, he had taken Enid on’ their ar- rival in Philadelphia. Enid was reading in a small but bheerfal room; the tea articles were ready for use, and she ‘had placed a bowl of late roses on the table, The young bride was striving with all her might to perform her duty as a wife, avd ‘to reciprocate the affection which ~ yeti % Get ready a seom: her busband felt forher. ungh: i]
Page 9
ar é “Had he not overcome obstacles,” she thought, ‘“‘most men would have found insur- mountable to woo and win her? Yes, there- fore she must be grateful for such love, and endeavor to repay it.” So she decked her table with roses, wore her prettiest dress in anticipation of his return, and now greeted him with a smile which, if not bright and loving, was still very winsome. ‘‘{ have been waiting for you so long, dear, Has anything detained you?” He flung himself.on’a chair opposite ‘to her. His visage now wore an expression she had never before seen there, The veneer of ten- derness and general amiability bad given place to the natural moroseness and cruelty indica- tive of a depraved nature. Shé was’ alarmed at the sudden transformation. Zz “Get on your things,” he’ said, abruptly. We must quit this place. It 'is too expensive for beggars like you and me. I shall take you home at once,”? “Do you mean to your sister Penelope? Oh, Bertrand, Iam so'glad!’ Tnever had @ sister of my own; but now I shall féel the loss no longer. Do you think she will like me?” *T cannot tell, Itdoes not much matter, She will have to put up with your society.” His voice was harsh, bis*manner brutal, and Evid looked at him with amazement. “T think’ something has happened which I ought to know,” she said, with quiet firmness. You have been away only a few hours, and have returned thoroughly transformed. What has effected this’ sudden’ change? Does your sister’ disapprove of our marriage?” mn This was the only solution to hér perplexity which presented itself to her mind. Her calm, somewhat. dignified, demeanor rather shamed Bertrand, and he attemptéd a feeble imitation of his former manner’as he answered, “ You must excuse’ me; my dear. I bavé beer much annoyed about business matters, which you! do — understand, and my temper being irritable, I cannot always keep it under control. We cis understand one ‘another better by-and- Enid’ sighed. It was so Soon to receive a revelation of her busband’s character. Her anticipations of wedded. bliss “were, of course, not brilliant, for she ‘was ¢orscious that’ Bertrand did not’ possess her heart; but she had looked ‘forward to a life of calm contént- ment, relying on his promise to devote himself to the task of trying’to make her happy, _- “Are you going to stand there ‘until night- fall?” he cried, impatiently, breaking in on her reflections. “You have not Much * baggage, and it will not take long to’ put on’ your bon- net,” Go up-stairs at once;'I ‘will settle ‘with the landlady.” -Sorrowfully she obeyed his mandate, casting alingering glance at the tastefully-arranged tea-table; the appointment of which she had superintended with all the pride of a young wife anx'ous te try her skill in domestic duties. She saw Bertrand’ take up her admired bowl of roses (purchased 6n' ‘the street at a Somewhat extravagant price) and fling the flowerg out Of the window," with a "muttéred! remark that “their strong odor mad6 his head ache.” She did not attempt rémonstrance though her heart sunk within her) Already she began to realize that she had found*her master” Such of her small possessions ag had beén un- packed were soon replaced in their ‘yaridus receptacles, and, hastily assuming hat and wrav, ‘she descended to the ‘parlor, where Sertrand; still sullen and frowning, had te- guiled the last quarter of an hour in arum: ming impatiently with his fingers on the table, and anathematizing the dawdling propensities of womankind, be Enid had barely time to bid the landlady good-by (thé latter was a kind-hearted créa- ture, with daughters of her own, and had been inclined to make much of the pretty’ little bride) when she was burried’ away. During the journey Bertrand maintained almost per- fect silence, and Evid was not in a mood for conversation. Sunk back in a corner, she fell r s A BITTER MISTAKE, into a reverie, which lasted until Bertrand in- formed her they had arrived at their destina- tion. Very dreary and comfortless appeared the bouse in Budd Street. Enid, who had no prac- tical acquaintance with poverty, shrunk back aghast at sight of the dark, narrow ball where Milly stood, ‘with her coarse bib-apron, un-' washed face and tangled bair, innocent of brush and comb. Her husband took her’ hand and Jed her into the sitting-room. ‘ ky “Here is my wife, Penelope,” he said, care- lessly. ; Enid, in timid awe, raised her eyes to the tall, dark woman who towered far above her. To her Miss Heathcote’ looked harsh-featured, middle-aged, ‘altogether upprepossessing, and different to the creature of her imagination; while Penelope regarded contemptuously the fragile form and fair, delicate face of thé child- wife who had already turned out a failure. © “What a wife for Bertrand! A woman without beauty, manner—above all, without money!” was Penelopée’s mental comment. There was no sisterly greéting, no kiss of welcome. Penelope’s cold fingers just touched Enid’s“ hand, then, turning to a fair-haired, good-natured-looking young man who had risen’ on the bride’s entrance from hisseat noar Pene-— lope’s, the introduction ‘was formally made, “Mr, Walter Maxwell—Mrs. Heathcote.” ° “Delighted to make your acquaintance, madam! This isan agreeable surprise. I had no idea until ten minutes ago that my friend Bertrand had-stolen a march ‘upon us and got married.” He gave Enid’s hand a hearty shake, and the poor girl’s heart wént out to him in silent grat- itude for his friendly’ reception. Under other’ circumstances she might have considered him ordinary in person and vulgar in manner; but at this moment she only noticed that he had a pleasant smile and that he surveyed her with an air of respectful admiration. ah * Milly will show you your recom,” observed Penelope, coldly. ‘* You have come so unex- pectedly that I have had no time for prepara- tion; but I trust you aré not over-particular?” “Oh, Hol 9 y Let Enid glanced once more at the harsh, un-’ Could this be the wo-- smiling countenance, man whom she had been promised would take her to her heart with ‘more than sisterly affec- tion? eee tata: Preceded by Milly, and followed by Bertrand grumbling, Enid ascended to the room recently occupied by old Elléerton. How little she guessed what strange influence had altered the tenor of her life! But for this man, whom ske had never seen, and whom she had heard of only in records of thé past, ‘which to her girlish fancy seémied as remote as if cen- turies had rolled away since All they told of had happened, she would have been still in Madame Bellville’s seminary, undisturbed by the atten- tion of Bertrand Heathcote. 2 ‘“ & poor, white faced, delicate thing is’ Ber- trand’s wife, to my fancy!” observed Penelope to her betrothed when they were left alone, “*T fear’my brother Will learn to repent bitterly bis bargain.” _ “I'm sure I don’t know why you should think so,” replied Mr. Maxwell. “*She seems a pretty little creature, and’the color of her hair is posi-_ tively beautiful!” **T did not know that you admired fair wo-' men!” said Penelope, coloring with anger. ‘‘Eivery man who is not blind must ‘know a pretty woman when he sees her. And she looked quite trim and smart, too, with the blue ribbon in her bair, and a hat with a jaunty feather!’ I think, Pen, you must profit by your’ sister-in-law’s tasté, and let her smarten you up a bit.” ° sagan be Penelope bit her lips. ““*T thought you liked me as I am, Walter.” “*S$o TI do, of course, dear, or I should not have kept true to you all these years. Youare a clever woman, strong-minded, and an excel- lent manager—just the partner a poor man ; P s : 9 should choose to help him fight the battle of life! Bertrand’s wife looks as if she must be petted and cherished, or else the fairies would carry her away.” rah “You are growing quite poetical!” she re- marked, coldly. . ‘““You mean I am generally such a prosy fel- low. ‘Well, never mind, Pen; we shall be well matched—a regular steady going, matter-of- fact couple!” ie , Penelope did not answer. Her bosom was often greatly agitated by jealousy when Walter Maxwell (who, by the way, was several years younger than herself) expressed his approval of any other lady’s charms; and now his praise of Enid had provoked a more angry feeling within her than she ever before had experi- enced. ~~ : She could see the sharp contrast between the girl-wife and herself. And what was more, she knew that Maxwell was conscious of it; and al- though he had clumsily attempted to pay her a compliment, it was plain that he regarded Enid as the more attractive and lovable of the’ two. “Penelope from this moment began to hate her \ brother’s wife. CHAPTER VII, «| BROKEN TIES.° THE cloud which hung over the little house- hold in Budd street on the evening when the bride came home showed no signs of disappear- ing; on the contrary, it rather threatened to increase in density and gloom. bmihecrghnac, Bertrand, soured by disappointment, threw > off altogether the mask under which his real character had been studiously concealed, and treated his wife with cruel neglect. é Forgetting that his own greed for gold had wrought all the mischief, he vented upon ‘her defenseless head the misfortunes he had en- countered in consequence of old Ellerton’s du- plicity. In his own mind, though most un justly,-he blamed her for everything that had happened. He was in great financial straits, | and instead of Mit at bis pictures to re- lieve himself, he wasted his time either in idly meditating over his troubles or searcbirg for his former boarder. But as he could not afford to emply a detective, and in the city of Philadelphia there aré many old gentlemen with gray beards, Jong white hair, and shabby brown coats, his quest’ was’ fruitless. More- over he was not now quite clear as to the ben- | efits that might acerue should the search prove successful, ; uae a Lionel Ellerton always séemed ‘childish and weak-minded, and he had’ in addition, some years before, suffered from a sunstroke. His appearance and style indicated poverty, and he could not forgive himself for the folly of listening to the inventions of an cld man’s — diseased brain. aan ws we: Enid, in ber misery, had no sympathizing friend to offer her sympathy or support, since Penelope’s dislike was most pronounced, and Walter Maxwell dared’ only treat’ her ‘with cold civility, for he dreaded greatly the dis- pleasure of his betrothed: into in that short period. ge, How bitterly she repented her foolish’ step! ‘To her, mind already the conventual seclu- sion of Madame Belleville’s establishment seemed a Paradise as compared with her pres- ent abode. ” ; ; vs ae —" Bertrand ‘was smoking in the dingy, bare, untidy-looking room he called his studio, when Enid timidly entered. A glass of brandy -and- water stood beside bim, which had been emptied and filled so many times in the course of the — evening, that the effects, although not at wardly perceptible, produced in him an acer- bity of temper, and raised up in his mind an — exaggerated estimate of his own wrongs, which ‘boded no good for the success of the young: < fe’s mission.
Page 10
‘40 a y A BITTER MISTAKE, Indeed, she could hardly have selected a more inopportune moment, but with her inex-- perience of mankind as represented by such worthless rogues as Bertrand Heathcote, she was not likely to perceive this until too late for remedy. The slight rustling made by her dress made him aware of her presence; yet he did not turn his head as she advanced to the faded lounge on which he half-reclined, and laid her hand upon his shoulder. “Bertrand, I must speak with you; I can- not longer lead this life without telling you the suffering it costs me. In what have I dis- pleased you? Why. am I treated with this persistent coldness and cruelty ?” ‘No reproaches, if you please,” he answered, turning upon her fiercely; ‘‘my temper will not stand them. It is enough to be tied for life to a fretful, sad-faced girl, whose indiffer- ence for me equals mine for her, _ I will not be bored with her complaints,” “Why did you marry me?” she asked, with indignation. ‘‘ Because I was an idiot, and thought—but that is no matter. I made a terrible mistake, _ for which we must both suffer.” ** You said you loved me,”’ she said, timidly. “T said anything that was likely to attain my end.” ‘*You do not, then?’ “«Since you force me to speak, I must say no. I am not over susceptible; if ever I did care for any woman, it was for a certain hand- some, dark-eyed witch, who had a heart to give the man who should marry her.” “ And you are shameless enough to confess that you love another?” ‘¢ That speech does not come with a good grace ‘from your lips, my young lady; you only married me out of pique, because you were so madly jealous of Mr. Basil Clifford. I mean to pay you off now for your want of taste. I was obliged to fawn and flatter, and tell lies by the dozen before I got you in my power. My turn has come at last. As for that young man, you may set your mind at ease, for though it was rumored at Dalebury that Mrs. Ormesby was anxious to secure him asa hus- band for her daughter, the gossips all allege “that he showed no inclination for gratifying her ambition.” “Then you have deceived me!” burst out Enid. A loud and mocking laugh was her only answer. Iu her despair, reproaches, wild and violent, were poured forth upon the man who had so deeply wronged her. From this moment she lost all fear of Bertrand, all restraint over her- self, and remembered only her wrecked life and her forfeiture of all happiness, These upbraidings exhausted the scanty rem- nant of Bertrand Heathcote’s patience. Pale with passion, he rose from his seat, and in another instant Enid was lying unconscious on the ground, felled by a stroke of his powerful arm, A strange sense of bewilderment, a feeling of weakness, then memory gradually returned, and like the vague fantastic images in a dream sprung up the recollection of the scene which _ had taken place in the studio. , ' She was now in her own room, with th sun shining brightly in at the open window, and a bird, putting her in mind of the feathered songsters that warbled among the trees near ; Sunnymead, perched on the window-sill, with _ his head on one side, and a knowing expression in his beady eyes, as if he wondered why she lay so still and pale, while the rest of the world were either at work or play. Penelope sat near her, darning stockings, Her lips were compressed and her countenance severe. Had the needle she was plying beea a dagger making its way to the heart of a foe, she could scarcely have worn a more appro- priately tragic expression. Enid noticed all this, but she did not speak, for her head ached, and the sound of her own voice would, she fancied, make it worse. Bet- ter lie there, enjoying the brief interval of peace, until she must again take up her burden of care. It was not long, however, before Penelope finished her stocking, and happening to glance at the bed, saw that the light of consciousness had returned to Enid’s eyes, She rose and ap- proached the bedside. “So you are better now? I was beginning to wonder when you would come round.” ‘Yes, Iam better. Have I been ill long?” ‘Not more than a fortnight. You have had a kind of low fever, and were delirious most of the time. You had better not talk before you take some nourishment.” Without the slightest show of tenderness, Penelope administered a few spoonfuls of some dark and greasy fluid, the product of Milly’s culinary skill, which was nof at all calculated, either in taste or appearance, to tempt a sickly appetite. She preserved, meanwhile, the same grim and inflexible deportment, as if she were acting under mental protest, ‘*] fear that I have given you much trouble,” Enid said with hesitation. Miss Heathcote only sighed, but it was so deep-drawn and significant a sigh that words could not have been more expressive. She looked searchingly into the cold, set face; she wondered whether Penelope knew all that had happened between her husband and herself, or whether she guessed the nature of that deadly breach, which no time or penitence could heal? ‘‘ Where is your brother?” she asked at length; for worlds she could not at that moment call him husband. “JT have not seen him since the night of your quarrel, Enid; you have driven him from home and to an untimely death!” A fit of trembling seized the poor girl, and she clasped her hands imploringly. ‘Penelope, do not speak so cruelly!” “‘T cannot hide the truth, Enid, even al- though it be unpleasant. Every one could see that. Bertrand was not happy in his married life. It might be either his fault or yours—I am no judge of such matters, though naturally I take my brother’s side. One thing seems clear—your mutual dissensions have led him to a dreadful doom!” “Surely he is not dead?” cried Enid, wildly. ‘¢ What else can I think when he disappears, and his hat and cane are found om the bank of the river,” There was a long silence. Enid, weakened by illness, could scarcely realize what Pene- lope’s words sought to convey. A.great awe and horror fell upon her, ‘“You mean that Bertrand has committed self-destruction?” “Spare me; I am his sister, and loved him better than his wife did,” said Penelope, coldly. ‘“ He may live; we cannot tell.” * As he took no money, nor even a change of clothes, with him, you may easily imagine that he had no intention of journeying either by land or sea; while the articles found on the river’s bank are, to my mind, conclusive evi- dence of the fate that has befallen him.” She moved away from the bedside, as if she wished to say no more upon the subject, and Enid, stricken with awe rather than sorrow, lay quivering in every nerve, Tears at last relieved ber overcharged heart, and she wept until exhaustion caused her to fall into a state of half-sleep, half-stupor. As the’ days passed slowly away, Enid’s health slowly improved. Her youth aud sound constitution triumphed over all disadvantages, and though her spirits were depressed and her mind full of anxiety, she was well enough to leave her room and even to resume in & meas- ure her usual avocations. ‘‘Is there any news?” she daily asked Pene- lope, to whom she clung in despair, notwith- standing that lady’s frigid and repulsive man- ner. The answer was always in the negative. aa ‘*Have you caused inquiries to be made? Perhaps the police could help you to find Ber- trand, or, at least, give you some proof of his death,” urged Enid, one morning when her question had received the same reply as usual, ‘‘Mr, Maxwell has done all that is needful.” “TI thought he was away from the city just now, on business connected with the firm,” re- marked the girl, innocently, but that observa- tion roused Penelope’s displeasure. ‘You are mistaken, unless you are speaking out of pure vindictiveness. He has been exert- ing himself, although unsuccessfully, to the ut- most in this melancholy affair; that is the reason we have not seen him lately.” “And the river has been dragged?” hazard ed Enid, timidly. “ Have I not told you that Mr. Maxwell has spared me the painful duty of directing meas- ures for the recovery of the body and of listen- ing to detailed accounts of their failure in the searches which have been instituted? I wish you were as considerate. Every reasonable person must feel that all hope is over of Ber- trand’s safe return.” Enid sat. grave and silent, troubled by a vague self-reproach. Could it possibly be, as Penelope affirmed, that she was in any way responsible for having sent the man to whom she had given her hand at the altar to a sui- cide’s doom? Surely, in their last altercation, she had been more sinned against than sinning. She began, however, to realize that her con- duct had not been such as her now awakened conscience could approve. Putting aside the ingratitude and disobedience she had shown toward her aunt by eloping from the school where she placed her, nothing could excuse the step of forming a loveless marriage. It was wrong both to Bertrand and herself. But the past was irrevocable, as she acknowledged, with a sigh, and she had not yet begun to con- template the future, ‘Ts there not a particular style of dress for widows?” she began, with hesitation, thinking it would be necessary to show at least the or- dinary outward signs of respect for the de- parted. ‘Have you ordered our mourning, Penelope?” ‘‘Mourning is expensive, and we are very poor. Your marriage has not been announced to your friends; therefore I advise you to keep it a profound secret, and return home without loss of time,” Enid stared at her in amazement. ‘‘But Icannot. My aunt will have learnt that I quitted Madame Belleville’s, and will re- quire an explanation.” “Tell her you were unhappy at school, so ran away and entered the service of a lady who brought you to Philadelphia.” Evidently Penelope had given some thought previously to the subject. ‘She would ask all kinds of questions, and I could not. weave a tissue of falsehoods,” said Enid, disconsolately. ‘ “ Then say whatever you please; but I give you fair warning you cannot remain here much longer.” ‘Oh, Penelope, what will become of me?” She was scarcely more than a child, and had always hitherto had a home, protection, and a due amount of the comforts if not luxuries of life. She now found herself estranged from her friends, almost penniless, about to be cast from the shelter to which she clung, not be- cause she loved it, but because she dreaded being thrown on the tender mercies of a cold world ever ready to neglect the claims of the poor and help!ess, The prospect was appalling, and even Penelope’s hard heart was touched by her appeal, “You had better take my advice, and go back to Dalebury,” she said, in a gentler tone; “for you would find it difficult to get em- ployment without references. You might be suitable for a governess or companion if you were a few years older; but ladies are apt to make so many inquiries, which you might find it difficult to answer. But you must do some. thing, as my small stock of money has nearly i
Page 11
. Penelope. A; BITTER lee at MISTAKE. 44: run out. The landlord presses for rent, and threatens to seize the furniture, so we have no choice but to separate.” - “What do you mean to do yourself, Pene- lope?” “‘Oh, I shall manage well enough. I may marry Water Maxwell. It is time I settled _ in life; or if we decide on waiting awhile longer, I could get an engagement as house- keeper. You have been brought up a useless fine lady; but my habits are active and in- dustrious, so I can always gain my living.” Enid, who was plunged for a time, in medi- tation, at length said, decisively, ‘It may be after all, best for me to return to Dalebury, where I have several friends who will no doubt interest themselves on my behalf; but I shall not disown my marriage.” Penelope's reddish-brown eyes seemed to emit sparks of fire, _ “You will repent. your obstinacy,” she said, in @ menacing tone. ‘I am older than you, and have advised you for the best. Once let folks know that you eloped with Bertrand, and questions would be asked, disagreeable rumors circulated, and people. might even doubt whether you were legally married.” ‘ But I could show them my certificate,” said Enid, triumphantly. “I have got it; at least,”—recollecting herself—“ not I, but Ber- trand took charge of it.” ‘y have looked carefully among my brother’s papers, without discovering the least trace of such a document. Do not imagine I wish to fe be Dien gg slur upon his memory or Tacter; it i wy Siiihacat but it is unfortunate—very This Sounded terrible to Enid, who, like most girls of her age, was totally ignorant of all legal matters, Had she been older and wiser, she would have been aware that a copy of the certificate could be easily procured by application to the. proper quarter; but not knowing this, she pictured the doubts and Sneers with which aunt Ormesby would receive the intelligence that she was a wife and widow, without any proof except her bare word. She began to ponder over the advisability of con- cealing all about it. “Will you be ready to-morrow?” asked : “ There is a morning train at 12. 80, which you had better take to make a connection in New York, “Yes; I will meekly, “‘That is well, Whatever really has done is less troublesome when pe is re, necessary delay. If I were. obliged to swim through a river, I would rather plunge in at once than wait about shivering on the shore. Suspense is worse than reality,” In the prospect of her sister-in-law’s almost immediate departu re, Penelope’s spirits became lighter; and Enid soon after heard her speak- ing to Milly in the kitchen with a cheerfulness Mies was quite surprising in one who pro- aaa = deep regret for her brother’s un- When the day was drawing to twilight’s gray vail descended a Repl Penelope assumed walking attire, and telling the little handmaiden she was going for a short Stroll, and would return shortly, took her wa Fore country road. ‘ “ It was nearly dark, and the pj comparatively deserted; but she bad an ino ceeded many yards when footsteps sounded be- hind her, and a man, wearing a broad-brim- med bat pulled down upon his brows, and a wrap round his throat, arranged so as to hide the lower part of his face (although the weatber was not cold), came up and touched heron the elbow, It was Bertrand. - Penelope did not faint nor scream, neither did she give vent to any rapturous expressions of joy; on the contrary, she seemed as little discomposed by his sudden appearance as if “ expected to meet him, which perhaps she go to-morrow,” she replied, _ “Well, Penelope, what news? Have you spoken to Enid as I directed? Is there a chance t Saas —s >» se re, We « gi ri ee of my getting rid of her without any unpleas- ant exposure?” “She leaves for Dalebury to-morrow.” ‘*Good news, indeed! And you really be- lieve she thinks me dead?’ ‘Tf she does not, it is no fault of mine.” ““Thanks, Pen! You are a clever woman and a stanch ally. Have you persuaded her to keep our marriage secret?’ ‘*T scarcely think I should have succeeded if you had not prudently retained possession of the certificate, Armed with that knowledge, I was able to manage her,” “Then I am, to all intents and purposes, a free man once more, and not hampered with a dull, unloving wife, who would hang like a stone around my neck, dragging me down to ruin. As my creditors are troublesome, I am better out of the way. Perhaps I may emi- grate, and try my fortune in one of those happy places where money is made with greater ease and rapidity than in overcrowded cities.” ‘Sanguine as ever, Bertrand. Will expe- rience never make you wise? Remember, you would not have fallen into this scrape had you possessed common prudence,” “Don’t preach, Pen. I shall come out of it all not much the worse,” “ But the poor girl?” Even Bertrand’s hardened consciencé felt a slight sting. ‘ “T know she has been badly treated. If she loved me, I could not doit, base though my morals may be; but she only married me to spite that fellow down at Dalebury, and for aught I care he is welcome to ber now.” After a few minutes more, spent in conver- sation, the brother and sister parted, and as Penelope wended her way homeward she mur- mured to herself, ‘‘Much as I love you, Ber- trand, I would not aid you in thus breaking your fetters if I did not feel that Enid’s baby- face and affected sweetness was winning from me the affection I prize above all else the world can bestow, Walter’s eyes kindle with admi- ration when they gaze upon ber, while I sit by neglected. Let ber then depart and leave me the lover of my youth, whose allegiance to me never swerved until she came between him and me,” The autumnal sky was gray and chill, while a sharp wind reminded those passengers who passed out of Broad street depot, bound ona journey northeast, that summer had departed and winter was drawing near with rapid, though stealthy strides. Enid, ensconced in a corner of a seat, of which she happened to be the sole occupant, put aside her vail to let the breeze play upon her face. She had so long been immured in the close, dark house in Budd street that the pure air appeared to have the invigorating qualities of a reviving cordial, which refreshed her frame and raised her spirits. A faint rose-tint. crept over her cheek, and her eyes iost their heaviness and languor as she was whirled onward from the smoke, and dust, and dirt of the city out into the open country, where the grass still looked fresh and green, though the trees began to lose their foliage. She did not wish to become dependent on her aunt’s bounty—if, indeed, that lady was willing to condone the past, which was more than doubtful. But Mrs. Brooke had shown her great kindness, and was renowned for her untiring benevolence to all in whom she took an interest. What was more likely, then, than that she should be able to find some situation for Enid, whether as teacher in a humble school, or an assistant in a store or work-room, where she might earn her bread honestly and keep her secret to the end? She had reached a station where the train stopped to take in more passengers. An old gentleman, with a long, gray beard, and rest- less, light-blue eyes, was standing among others on the platform. He started as his glance fell on Enid’s face, and made all haste aa { 1 4 - that his age and infirmity would permit to enter the car where she was seated. Once settled in the same seat, his scrutiny became almost embarrassing; yet such an expression of intense pleasure flitted over his countenance, he seemed so childishly happy in scanping her thus curiously, that she scarcely could imagine him to be actuated by deliberate _ rudeness, 3 Suddenly he stretched his trembling band toward her, and as if obeying an irrepressible impulse, murroured: ‘Enid Vere, have you forgotten Lionel Ellerton?” A remembrance of nurse Rachel’s stories of bygone times like a ray of light began to dawn on the girl’s mind. By intuition she knew that her strong resemblance to one now moldering in the grave had brought back to her ques- tioner the vanished past, causing the aged man to forget the lapse of years, and to believe be saw before him the unforgotten love of his youth, “JT am Enid Lisle,” she said, gently. ‘‘ Re- member that Enid Vere, had she lived, would be an old woman now, Iam her grandchild, but I know who you are, for nurse Rachel has spoken of you often.” The shadows cleared from old Ellerton’s weak, bewildered brain. He knew he had found the girlin search of whom he was at this moment on his way to Dalebury. And here it may be as well to explain the motive which led this eccentric gentleman to leave the Heathcotes in so strange a manner, causing them to believe they had harbored an impostor, ’ On the evening when, in a fit of unwonted confidence, he had chanced ‘to communicate to Bertrand his intention of making Enid his heir- ess, he was struck by tbe expression of eager _cupidity on the young man’s face while the latter listened to his narration. A feeling of regret that he had reposed so much trust in a comparative stranger, mingled. with vague suspicions that the Heatbcotes might devise some plan of robbing him (through hisown imprudence they had become aware of the valuable property in his posses- sion), caused him to form a resolution not quite compatible with strict notions of honor, though Mr, Ellerton considered he was only using pro- per precautions. Bertrand would doubtless, so he thought, take Penelope into his confidence, and he deter- mined to overhear what was said upon the subject. Very softly he stole down stairs, and applied his ear to the crevice of the parlor door. By that time the brother and sister had been some minutes in conversation; but though too late to hear of the conspiracy against Enid, he gathered sufficient to warn him of danger in re- maining longer under their roof. - ‘“‘ Tf his frail life were all that stood betweem me and the wealth I crave, I have a presenti- ment he would not linger long.” ; This was what the old man had heard Ber-— trand tell his sister, and no wonder he affixed to it a fearful significance. : The next day Bertrand had left home—os- tensibly on business, but in reality to com- mence his designs on the supposed heiress. Mr. Ellerton determined not to await his re- turn; aud asa grim kind of practical joke, as well as to prevent any chance of pursuit, be wrote the letter which entirely misled the Heathcotes, and substituted worthless imita- tions for real diamonds. Having thus in his own estimation turned the tables on his enemy, he quitted Budd street with all his valuables, and after awhile deter- mined to travel to Dalebury to make Enid’g acquaintance, He had once started on his journey, when excitement and unaccustomed exertion brought, on an attack of illness. He had seemed in such, a dangerous condition, that when the train reached the next station, he was removed by | the railway officials to a hotel, where he lay for weeks under medical treatment, thinkipg — his last hour was at hand, \
Page 12
But he had recovered, and was resuming once more his interrupted journey, when the sight of Enid made him her fellow-traveler, and resulted in mutual recognition. It may have been a proof of Mr. Ellerton’s eccentricity, or only the natural consequences of a passion cherished through life, but he who had amassed and hoarded a large fortune, be- grudging every quarter spent upon his own re- quirements, was now prepared to lavish wealth upon the girl who so forcibly reminded him of his early love. Enid was to be his adopted child, the joy and pride of his age. If she could only bear with an old man’s whims, and bestow on him some share of affection, he would be amply repaid for all the advantages he was ready to give. He told her of his disappointed youth and struggling manhood; bow at last, when age and infirmity stole upon him, and he could no longer hope to add to his store, he returned to his na- tive land, and took up his residence with Ber- trand and his sister. Enid’s heart sunk within her when he spoke of his recent sujourn beneath their roof, and the causes which led to its abrupt termination. “The man was a scoundrel—an assassin!” he concluded, with perhaps — justifiable wrath. “Sooner than he should be enriched by me, I would have flung my money into the river. I can fathom now the depths of his mean nature. He pk ssi ae to be rich, and tried to wbeedle himself into my favor; and when he found there was no chance of inheriting my gold, I believe he would have murdered me for the sake of the diamonds. I can only pray, Enid, my love, that he may never cross your path when Iam no more, for he is just the cring- ‘ing, pitiful knave who would resort to any artifice or any crime for the sake of marrying an heiress.” > _ She could not tell him now; the words died away on her cold lips, a mist obscured the wrinkled, kindly face before her; but she un- ‘derstood the plot to which she had fallen a vic- tim, and its presumed failure. Why need she speak? Bertrand was dead, so would never trouble her again; and Penelope, living in Cam- den, absorbed in her daily cares, need never _ earn that the despised girl whose marriage she pretended to doubt was prosperous and ~ What made her most uneasy was the thought of how to parry aunt Ormesby’s curiosity con- cerning events subsequent to her flight from school, which she -had doubtless learned from Madame Belleville; but, as if in answer to her uneasy reflections, at that. moment her ‘self- constituted guardian calmly inquired why she was not wearing mourning for, tho ‘rector’s widow, whose death from bronchitis he had | seen announced in the newspaper some weeks BZOn _ “Twas very ill myself, child, then, and it grieved me more than I can tell to learn that _ \ you had lost your protectress and relative, while I was unable to be of any use, ‘The news 110) | a . ; _. When she briefly stated that being unhappy at the school, she left it without her aunt’s per- mission, and placed herself under the care of a ady who brought her to Philadelphia, an in- vention prompted by Penelope, the old man _ wubbed his hands and chuckled, applauding her ‘spirit, and launched forth into reminiscences of his own school life and its exploits. Enid was grateful that be asked no particu- Jars, not even the lady’s name, but at once took it for granted that she was only guilty of a rlish escapade, and was now returning to her friends at Dalebury. ~ ; : oe - A BITTER MISTAKE. So the Rubicon was passed, and from hence- forth her short married life must be a folded page, never to be reopened to mortal eyes. CHAPTER VIII. SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. NEARLY a year had gone rapidly by since the meeting in the railway train. Stammer was in its prime. On the outskirts of Newport the glorious sunshine (which perhaps played somewhat too warmly on narrow city streets or dusty country roads) was tempered by fresh breezes, which blew steadily landward. There, over the glittering waves, white-winged gulls were skimming; an occasional pleasure yacht or fishing-smack, gliding over the broad ex- panse of waters, gave life and variety to the scene, while the intense blue of the sea was equaled only by the cloudless azure above. Two girls were walking down a narrow pathway leading from the cliffs to the beach, They were talking and laughing gayly, for the weather and scene were both exhilarating, and youth is quick to feel all outward influences, Besides, why should they not be happy—being young, pretty, beloved and loving? The taller and darker of the two was attired in partial mourning; but the younger looked charming in a dainty costume of white serge, with a sailor hat resting on luxuriant braids of golden hair. The sea-breeze tinged her cheeks with unwonted color, and her eyes were lumi- nous with hope and happiness. In the atmosphere of love, Enid had ripened into beauty far surpassing the promise of her girlhood. “Was I not right, Jessica, in persuading guardy to take Seaview Cottage? It is sucha dear, romantic place, and I am never so happy as when looking out’upon the sea.” _ You are a fortunate girl to have every whim gratified. Mr. Ellerton seems never so happy as when ministering to your wishes. I wonder you can bring your mind to leave such a guardian even to marry Mr. Clifford.” “Tam not going to be married for a long time yet.” ‘‘But in your case there is no reason for de- lay, and he tells me he is growing impatient. I do not care much for a long engagement; al- though as regards Charlie Denham and myself, it is far more prudent to wait until his uncle takes him into partnership.” Charles Denham -was a nephew of the prin- cipal banker in Dalebury, and* the accepted suitor of Jessica St. Aubyn, who had long overcome her girlish predilection for Basil Clifford. “ After all, Jess, we may be married on the same day. I do not think Basil will disregard my desire to defer our wedding at least some months longer.” She was not smiling now, and her voice bore traces. of sadness. She was thinking how little her friend Jessica suspected she was urging on the second nuptials of a ten months’ widow. There would have been no happier woman in the world than Enid could she have forgotten the past. The rich old gentleman who had adopted her as his daughter esteemed no lux- ury as being too rare, no dress or ornament as being too expensive, if they could only afford her pleasure. By his request Jessica had been invited to reside with them as Enid’s friend and companion, a desire which she was nothing loth to gratify, for owing to her mother’s ex- travagance she had been left in ratber strait- ened circumstances, and was very glad to find a home until Charlie was ready to begin house- keeping. The two girls, rid of Mrs. Ormes- by’s interference, lived harmoniously together, and were fast friends. _ .Then, to complete Enid’s felieity, she re- ceived from Basil, soon after her return to Dalebury, an assurance that his heart was hers solely, and as he bad never contemplated mar- rying any other woman, she alone could make him happy. Mr, Ellerton approved the match; Enid her- a ee Se ee ene ee ee ee self was more than willing. It was only that — grim secret which upreared its shadowy form across the course of ‘‘true love ””—sometimes presenting the appearance of an insurmount- able barrier, sometimes receding almost out of — view in the golden mists of present happiness. “ There is Mr. Clifford on the lower ridge of rocks,” said Jessica, suddenly. ‘‘I daresay he is hunting for the rare specimens of sea-weed you were wishing for yesterday. He sees us and waves his hand. No doubt,’ smiling arch- ly, “it will not be long before he joins us.” Already was the young man leaping over the rocks toward them. , He too was staying at this fashionable wa- tering-place, the attraction being in bis case the society of his fair betrothed. The young people walked and cbatted to- gether until they remembered dinner hour, and discovered that Mr. Ellerton would have rea- son to complain of their want of punctuality if they did not make great haste. While they were returning up the path by which they had descended—a path so narrow that it allowed only two to walk abreast — Jessica, who knew from €xperience that a third party is not conducive to -the happiness of lovers, tripped on lightly before them, and > made ber disappearance under the plea of dis- | liking to be hurried while performing tbe im- portant duties of the toilet. | Thus left alone together (Enid’s small hand resting on bis arm, her blue eyes upturned to his, and beaming with love and trust), Basil seized the opportunity of alluding to the sub- ject he had so much at heart. - “Darling, when are we to take the vows which will bind us to tread life’s path side by side?” “Not yet, Basil—not yet.” But why are you so obdurate, since you confess that you love me? Oh, Bnid, it is sweet to know that I am the first you ever loved, and that when you are my wife I need not fear that the memories of some unfortunate rival will share your heart with me!” A pallor crept over her face: It was true she never loved Bertrand Heathcote, yet she had been his wife; the ring-he had placed on her finger was even now reposing in a secret drawer of her writing-desk, where she depos-° ited it on the morning of her departure from > Camden. If Basil knew all this, how his con- | fidence would bé shaken! Never Gould he for-— give her, or take her to his heart again. i ‘“We are very happy now,” she faltered. ‘“Why should we desire a change?” ‘Because until the knot is tied that shall unite us forever we never can feel certain that some cruel blast of fate may not drive us far asunder. I cannot forget what I stiffered when you were at school in New York. ‘I fancied you would be carried off by some one, and be lost to me.” “But you see that your presentiment was unreasonable, Tcame back to you again,” “ Ah, yes! if you bad not I should have be- come a misanthrope, hating the whole human race, and envying those lovers who were more fortunate than I.” he. “Then it is fortunate I Saved you from such a fate?” labia She was trying to speak playfully, though every word he uttered gave a fresh sting to her already sorrow-punctured heart. ~~ “It was indeed fortunate!” he answered, in a grave tone. “Nothing can be more sad than to see a man’s whole life wrecked through @ disappointment in love. He may battle iat his trouble, perhaps succeed in hiding every outward token of regret, and mingle in scenes’ of pleasure, apparently the gayest of the gay. He may at times pose as a cynic and an unin- terested spectator of the varied scenes which make or mar our lives. He may boast of bis ‘bachelor fréedom, and affect to scoff at bis much-marriéd comrades, Yet, Enid, bow deeply ought we to pity one who lives and dies” yearning for, yet unknowing, the sweetness Of . to. bis— domestic ties—who has never clasped t« heart as a wife the one fair creature who alone
Page 13
in all the werld was endowed with the power to make him happy. “Well, dearest,” he continued, after a short Pause, “Jet us be grateful for the knowledge that our love will have a fortunate termination m matrimony. By the way, dearest, do you ever correspond with the lady who befriended you when—poor little waif!—you so sadly Wanted a friend? You should write and tell her of your approaching marriage. Where is She living now? What is her name?’ Enid, with a hasty movement, withdrew her hand from his arm and walked on a little in ad- vance. “Do not let us speak of that time, Basil. The recollection of it is hateful! I suffered so much!’? “JT have noticed, and so has, Mr. Ellerton, how strongly you dislike talking upon the sub- ject. After all, it is only very natural; still, if possible, I should have liked to be able to Show my gratitude to this Mrs,—” She perceived, that he paused, as if to afford her an opportunity to supply the name. : ‘‘Mrs, John Smith,” she answered, quickly. “T bave lost. her. address, It was somewhere in West Philadelphia. . You must not be vexed with me, Basil. I know it was stupid, but I was so flurried at the time we parted.” “Poor child!” he said, compassionately, It was lucky he could not obtain a glimpse of her face at this moment, They reached the cottage—a handsome, roomy residence, surrounded by gardens and pleasure-grounds, part of which extended to the beach. Mr. Ellerton only rented this place for the summer, while its owner was abroad. His permanent place of abode was to be at Clifford Hall. It would have seamed cruel to Basil to separate the old gentleman from his adopted child. 4 At dinner and during the evening Enid was feverishly gay. .A red spot burned on either cheek, and her laughter rippled forth so mer- rily that none guessed the uneasiness she really felt. To love, and yet to deeeive—to be trust- ed, and yet to repay that trust with treachery, ae actions alike repulsive and contemptible to all. So thought Enid, who began to percetve that to frankly confess her error and its conse- quent punishment, and not to betray the confi- dence of her lover, would have been a much Wiser course to pursue, Fah oi _ All this time Mr. Ellerton, who was not gifted with much power of penetration, was rejoiced over her apparently high spirits, “Why, child,” he said, laying his feeble hand upon her golden head as she knelt beside . him, “your gayety is quite infectious! I shall give you the name of ‘Little Sunbeam,’ for you shed light and cheerfulness everywhere around you!” It waslate when Basil rose to go. He was Staying at one of the hotels, for he did not care © take up his quarters for an indefinite period With Mr, Ellerton. The night was beautifully warm and fine, oly a passing cloud obscured the silver moon, he rich odor of many roses made the air heavy With perfume. The waves rippled on the sands With a soothing murmur. . “nid could see the liquid undulations gleaming In the moonlight as she stepped with her lover: rough one of the long French windows out upon the garden-path. They lingered a little on their way, as lovers ca apt todo; then the gate was. reached, the 88t_ go0d-byes were said, and Enid, after watch- DS the beloved and retreating form until it. Was long lost i 5 ; " ward the eet a the darkness, turned back to vefound you at Jast, Mrs. Bertrand yoy o hope it will be a pleasant sur- p a i re not widow, after aude that you a ot a : he harsh, mocking, yet familiar voice issued rom the shadows cast by a large elm tree, ‘Under which, upon a rustic garden-seat, a hing, ill-clad figure half reclined in the in- F himself. _ *, 2 - » | A BITTER MISTAKE. dolent fashion she remembered so well in con- nection with the man she believed to be dead and buried. It was not the fear of a ghostly visitant or haunting specter that made her heart sink and her limbs tremble. She knew at once that her husband still lived, and that he had now come to claim her. “ The pleasure of finding me again seems al- most too. much for you, sweet Enid, Come and sit beside me; let us talk quietly over our affairs,” He put his arm around her waist, and drew her down upon the seat. Perhaps it was as well that he did so, as otherwise she might have failen to the ground. ‘* She told me you were dead,” moaned the unhappy. girl. ‘‘Who? My sister Penelope? Then she made a great mistake. You should not have believed her. In truth, my dear, after our little quarrel, I thought it wiser to keep out of the way for awhile, until all unpleasantness bad blown over. When I returned, you had gone; and it is only lately that I discovered your good fortune in being the adopted child and the heiress of the wealthy Mr. Ellerton.” “That knowledge has brought you here to- night,” she said, bitterly. ‘‘ You deserted me because was poor and friendless.” ° ‘“My sweet girl, do not be hard upon your wedded lord, who desires a reconciliation, and will even forgive your unfaithfulmess to his memory, as so recently evinced by the tender parting with Mr. Basil at the garden-gate,” ‘“‘T know you_now as you really are—the most base and contemptible of men!” she cried. “Penelope doubted whether I was legally your wife, and if Iam not, any attempt to fetter me again will be useless.” ‘(Be under no mneasiness upon that score. We were lawfully united in the bonds of mat- rimony. The certificate is in my possession, to be produced for instant inspection if any one dares to cast suspicion on the fact. I was care- ful to provide myself with the document, think- ing that Mr, Ellerton and Basil Clifford would wish .to see it before my claims were ad- mitted.” She was beginning to gain some. measure of her self-possession. To plead’ for mercy from this man would be to plead in vain, but she might appeal successfully to his self-in- terest. ‘Tf you wish me to be turned penniless from Mr. Ellerton’s door, without a chance of inher- iting the least share-of his wealth, you will ab- ruptly proclaim our marriage,” she said, ironic- ally. ‘I, do not know whether it would suit your finances to maintain a wife whose con- tempt for and hatred of her husband will be her only dowry.” He was about to speak when she silenced him with a gesture. “You think, perhaps, that my guardian would accept you as the husband of his heiress —that, under judicious management he might be induced to receive you into his favor. You are deceived, Bertrand Heathcote! Mr. Eller- ton overheard, in the parlor at Budd street, a conyersation between you and your sister which was never intended for his ears, He learned your designs against him, and was able to judge correctly of your character, No money of his will ever, with his sanction, benefit you; and if he should discover the deception which, to my sbame, I have practiced upon him, he will de-. stroy the will which he bas made in, my favor, and leave me to the misery and want which I deserve,” Bertrand thoughtfully stroked his mustache, It was possible her views might be correct. ‘Perhaps he would pay me a handsome sum if I consent to keep out of the way,” he said, meditatively. ‘‘ You ought to bave an immense influence over such.a weak-minded old simple- ton.as he is, and be able to mold him to your pleasure, although he was sharp enough to ‘spoil my little game,’” he added, recollecting “You overrate my influence,” observ Jase ke tee Fe. ¥,, 4, > , Aes Enid, coldly, gaining courage from his per- plexity. : , ** Look here, Enid,” he recommenced, after a long pause, his eyes fixed thoughtfully on the ground. . ‘I am going to make a rational pro- posal, Sentiment and romance are not in my line, as you are aware, Now, I am regularly down upon my luck—never was worse off—so, on one condition, I will leave you in peace. Give me a written promise that three months hence you will pay me the sum of ten thousand dollars if I keep our mutual secret. With that paper in my pocket, and a few dollars for pres- ent necessities, I will-set off for New York be- fore this time to-morrow.” ‘““Where am I to get the money, supposing I agree to your proposal?” ‘From your guardian, I should think, or ”— here he lifted his eyes to her for a brief scru- tiny of her face—‘‘from Mr, Clifford. Why should you not marry bim, when I am out of the way, and, of course, be happy all your life after? As his wife, you will have plenty of nroney at your disposal, and then it would be worth your while to bestow a portion on me.” Enid had believed it impossible for Bertrand to descend to a lower depth in her estimation; yet now, when he made_ this shameless pro- posal, she folt that she had only imperfectly gauged the depravity of his vile nature. “Thank you,” ghe said, coolly. “Ihave no taste for committing bigamy; still less would I cause an honorable man to sink into the de- graded condition of your slave and victim through my sin. I understand your aim clear- ly, and how skillfully you, would work upon Basil’s love for me and his regard for the honor of his name. Had you waited a little longer, we perhaps might have been in your power, but it is now my privilege and duty to save the man I love from sharing my own wretchedness and disgrace. Act as you please, Bertrand Heathcote; Mr. Clifford sbail not be drawn into your toils through my wickedness. To-morrow I shall make him understand I cannot be his wife, and shall bid him farewell forever!” |. rigs Pag by. 2 He ground his teeth vindictively as he gazed at her, and saw that she meant every word that she uttered. Sot vat eae ae ‘I will break your spirit yet, my lady!” he muttered. ‘'As you confess you. are my wife,” he continued, after a moment’s pause, “J will assert a husband’s authority, You must either return tomy protection, or make it worth my while to leave you here. If you have no money, fetch me the diamonds which the old dolt that, calls himself your guardian has given you.” r) “J would freely render up to you the mines of Golconda were they in my_ possession, that would cause my being rid of you,” she cried, passionately. ‘‘ But you are wrong; I have no diamonds.” ‘ sr “(Old Bllerton told me that his heiress should wear jewels which a duchess might envy. You are trifling with me, Enid, Beware! I ama desperate man, and will make you repent!” ‘ T’have told the truth, The dianionds have - not yet been through the jeweler’s hands; they were intended by Mr. Ellerton as his gift when—” aS i atom “You married Basil Clifford I suppose terrupted Bertrand, as she paused. ‘As that ceremony is hot likely ever to take place, I may as well haye them myself.” ‘They are not mine to give away, Mr. Ellerton, keeps them, with other valuables, in the turret-chamber and he alone has the key,” “Enid! Enid!” cried Jessica’s voice, issuing from the direction of the house, “ where are you? Mr. Ellerton says you. will take cold if you loiter any longer in the night-air.” r Yeu “T must go,” murmured Enid, starting from the seat. ‘‘ What would she think if she saw me bere?” ; “You must meet me here again at the same time to-morrow, or I will foree my way into” the house.” She broke away from bis grasp, and hurried into the house, where her guardian received ] iy 1 ad in- ya at ¥ * 3 Y oe ee ae ten Ae, te ee a oF oe * ; &; $ . Siesta: i ok ite Pe Laas a as ie. tf
Page 14
he ere A a aR i 4 A BITTER MISTAKE. SS tere her with mild expostulations on her impru- dence, Jessica was more energetic in her re- proaches. “T expect, Enid, you will awaken with an influenza to-morrow. It was thoughtless of Basil to detain you when you were wearing such a thin dress, and you had no shawl. You are shivering, too, and your lips look quite blue, It cannot be so warm out of doors as I fancied.” / Enid made no attempt at self-defense, though she thought Jessica looked at her rather sus- piciously. CHAPTER IX. HIS LAST VENTURE. Ir was yet early on the following day when Enid sat alone on the, beach gazing listlessly upon the foam-crested waves that advanced and receded with a soothing murmur, and scat- tered gayly-tinted seaweed or glistening peb- bles. How could she best break the news to Basil? What would he say? Above all, how would he bear this terrible downfall of his hopes—this cruel blow dealt by the hand he loved? These questions occupied her mind, and evoked no satisfactory answey. But she must try to put aside, for that day at least, such depressing thoughts, and, like many others of her sex, wear a sunny smile to hide an aching heart. For it was Mr. Eller- ton’s birthday, and, at her own desire, a din- ner, followed by tableaux vivants, was to cele- brate the event. How light-hearted she had been while the preparations were in progress; helping Jessica and the others to choose the scenes and plan + the «dresses; laughing sometimes at Basil’s he replied, wonderingly. _ have never wronged me; you are the personi- wander some strange delusion. find you here. awkwardness as stage-manager and general superintendent of rehearsals. Surely the thun- dercloud which burst yesterday effaced that bright, happy Enid from the face of crea- tion, leaving a dull listless shadow bearing her name. ‘Enid, my darling,” cried Basil, who un- noticed had made down to the beach and now stood beside her, ‘‘ Jessica told me I should Are you not rather cruel to wander away alone, when every one at Sea- view Cottage isin the highest state of excite- ment, and your opinion is required on many points connected with to-night’s arrangements? Are you already tired out, love, that you look 80 grave?” - His light tone jarred upon her nerves. A lump rose in her throat which would not dis- perse. Then het tears gushed forth. | “Dearest, are you ill? What has happened? Has any one vexed you?” he cried, in alarm _ and perplexity, as he took his seat beside her. There would be no better opportunity for speaking without fear of interruption, and the _ impulse came over her to postpone no longer ‘her confession. “ Basil, I am very miserable, for I must say that which you will find hard to forgive, Remember, dear, whatever pain may be in- flicted by my words, it will recoil with tenfold ‘power upon my own heart.” _ * Teould forgive you anything—everything!” “But, darling, you fication of goodness and womanly sweetness. It cannot be”—struck by a sudden thought, while bis face grew grave and anxious —“ that you have ceased to love me?” “T never loved you so dearly as at this mo- ment, when I am about to say that Ican never be your wife.” “You do not mean to say that you will _break your promise?” “TY dare not keep it, It should never haye ‘been made,” “ Enid!” “Oh, do n-. look at me so reproachfully! It is not thrvugh caprice or unkindness that I tell you ‘ve must part, but because my mad folly in the past has placed a gulf between us.” “You must be dreaming, Enid, or laboring T have known cae you from childhood. ‘Your life has ever been pure and spotless.” He stopped abruptly, remembering Enid’s flight from the school, which had always ap- peared rather a mysterious’ proceeding to her friends at Dalebury, The letter in which Madame Belleville announced the news arrived at Sunnymead on the day of Mrs. Ormesby’s unexpected decease, and was subsequently burned with other useless papers before being read. Yet, although it was supposed that only a short time elapsed between her disappear- ance from that select establishment and her arrival at Dalebury accompanied by Mr. Eller- ton, some spiteful rumors had been circulated. Then, Basil Clifford scornfully rejected them as venomous calumnies unworthy the trouble of a refutation; now, they recurred to his memory. “Tell me the worst ct once, Enid,” he said, almost harshly. ‘‘If you have deceived me my faith in woman is lost.” His stern demeanor gave her courage, for it was easier to endure his anger than the sight of a sorrow she could not soothe. With averted face she told her pitiful story. Basil heard her to the end in silence, though each broken sen- tence rent his heart-strings. “Then you are the wife of this man—this Bertrand Heathcote?” he said, when she had finished. ‘‘ Yet you would have met me at the altar with this secret in your soul!” “T believed that he was dead. I often tried to muster courage to enable me to confess to you, but my heart failed me.” His stern look changed now into profound compassion. “Enid, I love you so dearly that I cannot desert you, You will want a friend—a bro- ther—to deal with this man, and to turn aside as well as may be his weapons of attack. No longer must I regard you as my betrothed, but I may still protect you as a sister,” He tried, though his efforts were not very successful, to inspire her with some degree of hope and cheerfulness, and they at last decided that all further discussion on the topic should be reserved until the day, with its long-antici- pated festivities, was over. They could neither bear to disappoint Mr. Ellerton, as he had been looking forward with almost childish pleasure to seeing his dear Enid the central and most-admired figure of the brilliant entertainment, “Let us return to the house now,” said Basil, at length. ‘To-day we must show the courage of endurance for his sake; to-morrow may show the necessity for action.” He pressed her hand, not with the lingering, caressing touch of a lover, but with the cordial clasp of a friend, and almost in silence they walked up the path leading to the mansion. The drawing-room, glittering with light and gay with ladies’ bright attire, rung with plau- dits as the curtain disclosed each successive scene, mostly taken from Shakespeare’s plays or Sir Walter Scott’s novels, interspersed with an occasional tableau from some old fairy tale, to give lightness and variety to the entertain- ment, Everybody agreed that Enid had never looked more lovely. Whether she wore the rich dress of Amy Robsart, or the Venetian costume of Desdemona, or the poor peasant dress of Cinderella waiting for ber fairy-god- mother, ber beauty shone alike through each, and Mr. Ellerton rubbed his hands in unfeigned delight as his ears were greeted at every turn by praises of his adopted daughter. Jessica made an attractive Beatrice, while Basil was a courtly Karl of Leicester; but though they had their share of admiration, the chief honors were reserved for Enid. There was a pensive shade upon her counte- nance, but which only served to enhance her beauty, and if noticed at all by the spectators, was imagined to be assumed for the more per- fect portrayal of the heroine she represented. ‘* Miss Lisle’s ability is perfectly wonderful,” said one lady tober friend. ‘She reveals none of the self-consciousness and difficulty in keep- a eben ri ie bh 4 . ey t ‘ ’ 10 Ged ’ pa rs ye) ing a composed countenance which usually mar — attempts of this kind but thoroughly identifies herself with the character.” It was growing late, and the room was crowded to excess, for by Mr, Ellerton’s orders the servants were allowed to assemble behind the seats upon which the guests were ranged, so that they might see the final tableau of Cin- derelia at the ball. Enid, in an exquisite dress of some gauzy white material, spangled with silver, took ber place in the front of the stage} and as the cur- tains drew slowly ayart, found her eyes fixed upon a sea of faces. Suddenly she saw, or thought she saw, among them the scowling visage of Bertrand Heathcote. It vanished immediately—so quick- ly that the thought occurred to her that her too vivid imagination had conjured up tbe person she most dreaded. The momentary shock, however, caused her to lose her presence of mind, Her countenance changed, and the hand which had been so gracefully outstretched was pressed to her beating heart. “She was over-tired—perfectly exhausted with excitement!” people said, as the crimson draperies closed hastily and bid her from tbeir view. At length all was over—the music, the com- pliments, the glare, the heat. Enid had re- ceived the congratulations and thanks of her friends with forced smiles, inwardly rejoicing when the last carriage drove away. She was soon at liberty to retire to her own cbamber, weary both in body and mind, Yet she could not sleep, even when her maid bad been dis- missed, and the profound silence reigning over the house hinted that all its other inmates save herself were sunk in slumber. She was haunt- ed by terrille thoughts, which she cculd not banish. Some misfortune was clese at band, involving those she held dear. Bertrand, in his fiendish malice, would wreak vengeance not only on her, but also on Basil or upon ber guardian. Had she really seen him in the house that night, or was it an illusion? Even then a stealthy fcotstep seemed passing her door—a footstep that sounded familiar, Was that, too, only a fancy, cr a strenge reality? Unable to banish these vague alarms, she arose, hastily threw on her dressing-gown, and looked out into the hall. The mocn sheda pale, ghastly light through the window oppo- site, but there were dark shadows which her sight could not penetrate. ‘She listened. There was again the sound of some one mov- ing about cautiously and deliberately, and her eyes beccming accustcmed to the partial dark- ness, she discerned— What was that? The figure of Bertrand Heathcote was surely gliding toward the room where Mr. Ellerton slept! Then she bad not been deceived when she thought she reccgnized her hustand among the spectators of the last tableau. Sbe could not conceive for whet purpose he had come, or wby he was now alert and wake- ful when others were sleeping; but as «ne would instinctively distrust a wild and savage animal, she felt certain he was a dangerous man, and that he must be watched. She dared not raise an alarm—not so much from fear for her personal safety as from a de- sire to avoid the degradation she must endure if he claimed her before the assembled house- hold as bis wife, which he would doubtless do if driven to extremity. », Quietly, therefore, she followed him. She was afraid to venture too near him, lest he sheuld hear her steps and turn upon her, At last she saw a faint streak of light issuing | through the crevice of the door, and she knew he had entered Mr. Ellerton’s apartment. She paused an instant, to nerve herself to meet the worst that could possibly happen. She now recollected having told Bertrand that the diamonds were kept in the turret-chamber, and she much repented of her folly. It was possible, she thought, he intended to secure the keys, of which her guardian always retained a i 4. ey Fie y ~
Page 15
4 —.) Se 1 ay as BITTER MISTAKE. 45 possession, and to rob him of the jewels. At all risks she must prevent his purpose, or she would be an accomplice in his guilt. Bertrand had left the deor open wide enough to admit her slender fignre. She entered and stood at the threshold. There was her husband, bend- ug over the bed with a cushion upraised in his ands, contemplating his unconscious victim oe he pressed it with stifling violence upon his ace, “ Help! belp!” shrieked Enid, wildly. The unexpected sound startled the would-be assassin and awoke Mr. Ellerton. The old man, who had passed a lifetime in half-civilized countries, where it behoved him to be incessantly on his guard against the at- tacks of desperadnes, had never once for fifty years slept without a loaded revolver within easy reach. Awakening suddenly, he snatched up the weapon, and presented it full in the in- truder’s face, Bertrand was a coward, as most rogues are; and the sight of a loaded revolver, even in the feeble hand of Mr. Ellerton, and the cries for help which continued to echo through the room and corridor, struck terror to his soul. _Ignominiously he turned, avd pushing aside his wife, while he uttered a fearful impreca- tion, fled toward the staircase. J _Basil Clifford who slept in the house that night, had, with Charles Denham and several of the servants, been awakened by Enid’s cries, and they came hastening from all directions. Bertrand bad no time for reflection. He might still have made his terms with those who loved Enid, A murderer at heart, he feared for his own paltry life, and his thoughts - became merged into a wild desire to escape. While flying with the swiftness that fear gives, he missed bis footing in the darkness, and fell headforemost down the long flight of marble, Steps, _Lights were speedily brought, and he was discovered lying insensible and motionless. His skull was severely fractured, and his left arm broken, _A surgeon was sent for, but long ere his ar- rival Bertrand Heathcote had expired, and Enid was indeed free! No one ever exactly knew how the would- be robber managed to conceal himself in the house so as to elude observation. Doubtless he had found it easy to obtain an entrance among the crowd of visitors, many of whom were strangers, who passed to and fro in the house that evening. His principal design was to steal the diamonds, which he had always craved, and to attain that end he had provided himself with skeleton keys and other imple- ments used by professional burglars, But he was seized with a sudden temptation when he discovered how easily he could gain access to old Ellerton’s apartment. At once he saw that he might gratify bis spite against the man who had deceived him, and enrich himself for life. He would only have to wait until Enid secured her inheri- tance, when he should make himself its lawful possessor. " So the cruel resolve was taken, The aged sleeper was sure to prove an easy victim, and the would-be murderer dared to hope his crime — be ascribed to the visitation of apo- plexy. Who will regret that such fallacious, or that Enid arrived al save that venerable life? Some folks wondered why Enid’s marriage with Mr. Clifford was being deferred 0 long and some of them uttered all sorts of dismal prophecies because a year had glided away without any preparations being made for a bridal festivity. But whatever people chose to imagine, no one save two persons knew the true reason, or suspected that the death of the stranger who slept in the quiet churchyard near the sea had had anything to do with the puzzling mystery. Only Mr. Ellerton and Basil knew the bis- tory of Enid’s error and bitter repentance; they only were aware that the man whom she had on receipt o: prevented from committing the crime of murder was her husband. She did not mourn him—who could?—but she forgave him, for no sensitive heart bears enmity against the dead. And although her widowhood was unknown to the world, she de- termined, with Basil’s concurrence, to take no second vows until the fitting tribute of respect was paid, not to Bertrand, but to the promises once made at the altar, promises which she now felt had been too lightly uttered and never rightly fulfilled. One lovely morning in early autumn, when the fields were yellow with ripened grain, and when nature wore the aspect of a bounti- ful mother lavishing good gifts upon man- kind a gay procession drove up to the ivy- covered church, where there was solemnized a double marriage—Enid being at last united to her faithful lover, and Jessica and Charlie Denham forming the second happy pair. Lionel Ellerton gave away the brides. His wedding present to Enid was a parure of diamonds, set in the newest fashion by Tiffany. Se We must leave Mr. and. Mrs. Clifford to their domestic felicity, and turn to a different picture, ; In the dreary garret of a tenement-house sits a gaunt, faded woman, whose hair is white as snow, although, judged by years, she is not old. It is Penelope Heathcote. The night is far spent, but she stitches pa- tiently on, for she cannot expect to taste food on the morrow unless that work is finished and carried to the factory, where her task will re- ceive a scanty recompense. Weary and hope- less, she plies her needle, though her back aches and her eyes are dim. Where is Walter Maxwell, that be comes not to the aid of this forlorn creature, strug- gling so feebly for a bare subsistence? Alas for Penelope! her one friend has for- saken her! . After Enid’s departure from Budd street frequent quarrels arose between the be- trothed peir. Penelope could not forgive her lover’s persistent inquiries after Bertrand’s young wife, or his almost openly-expressed disbelief in the disparaging tales by which she tried to deceive him. For the first time, he discovered her violent temper, and understood her jealous, exacting disposition. The process of disenchantment once begun, every meeting brought a new revelation, and almost before Penelope fully realized the dan- ger which ker own conduct had raised up, Maxwell transferred his affections to a younger and a fairer rival, who eventually became. his wife. As to Rosetta Marsden, through whose ro- mantic folly Bnie@ partly owed her misfor- tunes, she has long since left school, and has married. It is noticeable with regard to this young lady, that since the consummation of the Jatter event she has lost all taste for match-making, and refers to Jove and lovers as ‘‘ delusions of the youthful mind;” from which we may infer that her choice of a husband has not been un- exceptionably fortunate. All is therefore now told; and it only re- mains to be remarked, finally, that if. Enid’s error was great, it is now almost forgotten in the sunshine and happiness which illumines the path of her who committed such an error— Basil’s devoted wife—old Ellerton’s heiress. THE END. " ° *7 Sunnyside Library. 1 Latta Rooxu. By Thomas Moore......+....: 10¢ 2 Don Juan_ By Lord Byron, ......4-4-.s-++3 + Me 3 Paravisg Lost. By John Milton...... a .. 10¢ 4 Tae Lapy or THe Laxr. By Sir Walter Scott.. 10c 5 Lucite, By Owen Meredith 10e 6 Unping; or, THE WaTrr-Sprrit. From the German of Friederich De La Motte Fouque.. 10¢ For sale by all newsdealers, or sent, postage paid nf twelve cents for single numbers, adoble numbers twenty-four cents: ADAMS, VICTOR & Co. 98 William street, New York. BEADLE AND ADAMS’ STANDARD DIME PUBLICATIONS. apeakers. BEADLE AND ADAMS have now on their lists the fol- lowing highly desirable’ and attractive text-books, prepared expressly for schools, families, ete. Each volume contains 100 large P es, printed from clear, open type, comprising the best collection of Dia- logues, Dramas and citations, (burlesque, comic and otherwise.) The Dime Speakers for the season of 1882—as far as now issued—embrace twenty-four volumes, viz. : 1, American Speaker. 13. School Speaker. 2. National Speaker, 14, I.udicrous Speaker. 3. Patriotic Speaker. 15. Komikal Speaker. 4, Comic Speaker. 16, Youth’s Speaker. 5, Elocutionist. 7. Eloquent Speaker. 6. Humorous Speaker. | 18, Hail Columbia Speak- %. Standard Speaker. er. 8. Stump Speaker. 19, Serio-Comic Speaker. 9, Juvenile Speaker. 20, Select Speaker. 10 Funny Speaker. - 7 22, Jolly Speaker. . Spread-Eagle Speaker E 12, Dime Debater. Exhibition Speaker %, Dialect Speaker. 24. Dime Book of Recitations and i areme These books are replete with choice pieces for the School-room, the ibition, for Homes, etc. are drawn from FRESH sources, and contain some of the choicest oratory of the times. 75 to 100 Beclama- tions and Recitations in each book, Dialogues. : The Dime Dialogues, each volume 100 pages, em- brace twenty-nine books, viz.: Dialogues No. One. _ Dialogues No. Fifteen. Dialogues No. Two. Dialogues No. Sixteen. es No. Three. Dialogues No. Seventeen. Dialogues No. Four, Dialogues No. Highteen Dialogues No. Five. Dialogues No. Nineteen. Dialogues No. Six. Dialogues No, Twenty. Dialogues No. Seven. Dialogues No, Twenty-one. Dialogues No. Eight, Dinlegioes No. Twenty-two. Dialogues No. Nine. ‘Dialogues No. Twenty-three. Dialogues No. Ten. Dialogues No, Twenty-four. Dialogues No. Eleven. Dialogues No. Twenty-five, Dialogues No. Twelve. Dialogues No. Twenty-six. - Dialogues No, Thirteen. DialoguesNo. Twenty-seven. Dialogues No. Fourteen Dialogues No. Twenty-eight. Dialogues No. Twenty-nine, ’ 15 to 25 Dialogues and Dramas in each book. These volumes have. been prepared with especial reference to their availability in all school-rooms, They are adapted to schools with or without the fur- niture of a stage, and introduce a pangs of charac- ters suited to scholars of every grade, both male and female, It is fair to assume that no volumes yet offered to schools, ai any price, contain so many available and useful dialogues and dramas; serious and comic. and Readings. 164 12mo Pages. 20 Cents. For Schools, Parlo:s, Entertainments and the Am- © ateur Stage, odmprising Original Minor Dramas, Comedy, Farce, Dress Pieces, Humorous. Dialogue and Burlesque, by.1oted writers; and Recitations d Readi new <nd standard, of the greatest an i celebrity and interest. Edited by Prof, A. M. Russell, _ DIME HAND-BOOKS, Young People’s Series. Brapue’s. Dime Hanp-Booxs ror Youxe cover a wide range of subjects, and are 2s fon 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. ers’ Casket. Book of Verses, -room Companion, Book of Dreams. Book of Beauty. Hand-Books of Games. ‘ BraDie’s Dime Hanv-Books or GAMeEs AnD PopvLaR Hanp-Booxs cover a variety of subjects, and are es- — pecially oS to their end. andbook ef Summer Sports. Book of Croquet. Yachting and Rowing Chess Instructor. Riding and Driving. Cricket and Football. Book of Pedestrianism, Guide to pido See Handbook of Winter Sports—Skating, etc. _ Manuals for Housewives. Bravie’s Dive Fammy Series aims to supply a class of text-books and manuals fitted for every per- son’s use—the old and the young, the phen 4 and theunlearned, They are of conceded value. i Fecha, [bam ct ta a i 00) : 5 aki rT 8. Housekeeper’s Guide, linery Ae eer ' Lives of Great Americans Are presented complete and authentic biographies of many of the men who have added Juster to the Republic by their lives and éeeds. The series em- Traces: I.—George Washington. | VIT.—David Crockett. I1.—John Paul Jones: VITI.—Israel Putnam. 311.—Mad Anthony Wayne X.—Tecumseh. IV.—Ethan Allen, XI.—Abraham Lincoln. V.—Marquis de Lefay-| XIT.—Pontiac ette. XIII.—Ulysses $. Grant. Vi.—Danie] Boone. i Sig $ The above publications for sale by all newsdealers or will be sent, post-paid. t price, BEADLE & ADAMS, 08 Witun St Nye They
Page 16
24 Her Face Was Her Fortune, : 36 S f Are] y } 7 The /c mtry Cousin; or, All.is not Gold ealy . 44 The 0 By ali ‘Alice ro 50 The Cuban American Sopyright Novels. and the Cream of WeyetoH waratists’ Unabridged: FOR FIVE CENTS! The —— ee Ever Published): is 1 eae IN Bodega Bride}; or, bat She Marry | 54 One Si cancers Heart; or, Saved from the By Mrs. Mary Reed Crow 2 Was It Love? or, Gollegiore Tad Sweet- hearts. By Wm. Mason Turner, M. D. 3 The Girl Wife ; or, The True and the False. By Bartley T. Campbell. A Brave Heart; or, Startlingly Strange. __. By Arabella Southworth. 5 Bessie Raynor, the Work Girl; fea Mente oe of Life. By Wiliam WAson 6 che Secret Marriage ; tle Le Duchess in Spite of Herself. y Sara Cl 7 A Daughter wid ve; oF; ‘Blinded by Love. By Mrs. Crowell 8 Heart to bets 3} or. Fair Phyllis’ Love. By Arabella Southworth. 9 Alone in the Worid; or, The Young Man’s Ward. By the author a Clifton,”’ ‘‘ Pride and Passion,”’ etc. 10 ise or of Gray Eyes; or, The Emerald Necklace. By Rose Kennedy. 11 Entangled ; or, A Dangerous Game. By Henrietta Thackeray. 12 His Lawtul Wife;3_. or, on the Child of Adoption. By Mrs: AGS: tephens. 13 Madeay 5 the Little wants or, The oe adet’s Wooing. By €orinne ushman. im 3 or, The Woman in 17 A Loyal Lover ‘or, The “Last of the Grims-' 18 =. Hao) ae! TStars d Marriage. B ~ or, The Ill-Starre e. oy ingot Crowell. f 19 whe Broken Betrothal} or, Love versus Hate. By Mary Grace Halpine. 20 orphan "Nel; the Orange Girl; or, The ‘Lost Heir. By Agile Penne, 21 Now and Forever} or, eel Did She Mar- Him? By Henrietta Thack eray. Home. By the author of “ Alone inthe World,” “ Cliften,’’ ete. 23 Leap Wear}; or, Why She Proposed. By Sara Claxton. “QR The Bride of an Actor 3 or, Driven from | nor Blaine. 25 Only % Schoolmistress ; wa Her Untold Secret. ‘By Arabella Southwort 26 Without: a) Mleart3~ or, Walicing on the Brink. By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. 27 eae ape an Coquette? or, A. Strange A By Henrietta Thackeray. ; 28 sya Chase; or, The Gambler’s. Wife. By Ann §, Stephens. 29 For mer pest meres } or, Saved From Him- 30 he fon ae Girls $ or A Million of Money. 81: ‘ | see fa ea | 32 Mar! the OF, Roses | and i Liles. B > Pee Soneiteorth. 33 The Three. Nistorss or, caval Mystery. of Lord Chalfont. By Alice Flemin 34 gt tage a of £ Conveniences or, Was. He a Count? 35 Au Agalaety Hors, ry he Winthrop Pride. ra Augusta, ye Bride; or, “The Queen of His Arabella Southworth. that “ he iad ox tan Her Not, By 39 ¥lirtation or, A Young .G: 3, Good Name, By Jacob Aiarbaactt (Raton ph Ro al). ‘ 40 Pledzed | to eaere or, 1 pan ’s Bonds. 41 Blind De otion$ or, ainst World. Devoti Flem ial Lene: 46 ty | 58:he Wbon Masks By Elea- | 42 moar tse, fhe apna ful; or, His Second 43 oo Baronets 8 nerets on, th ie ‘Rival Half. peer on, Brother: against A5 aot ‘Hidden os or, Love At All Odds. bella Southw 46 Tike. ‘Little muelréea} or, Under ‘a Cloud. A. Denison. re € pee: Him 5 or, How will f y Alice Fleming. 48 In Spite « of Herself} or, Jeanette's Repa- ; . By 8. R. Sh erwood. 49 His Heart's Mistress; or, Love ‘at First t.. By Arabella Southworth. eiress 3 or; ight? cinaint of Vintresse. By Mrs. Mary A. Deni 51 Two Tonnes Girls; or, The Bride” of an By Alice Fleming. By Mrs. Mar‘ for a Hear 2 33 ears 1 pete vives or, The Ro- | B eines i Hein. ““ 62 The Win nged peer gers pre All 101 Hannah. (102 Peg Woffington. By Charles nadad? illiam Mason | 111 The Brother's Bot; or, Street. By George S. Kaime. 55 She Did Not Love Him, or, abort to Conquer, By Arabella Southwort | 56 Romeeteey or, Betrothed Mocriod Divorced and 7 Win. Mason Turner, M.D. 57 A Ane tir]; or, Sunshine at Last. By Alice Fleming. or; The Mysterious Guardian, _ By, Mrs. May, Reed Growell. 59 A Widow’s Wiles; or, A Bitter Vengeance, By Rachel Bernhardt. 60 Cecils Deceit; or, The Diamond Legacy. By Mrs, Jennie Davis Burtony 61 A Wicked Weart; or, The False and the True. By Sara Claxton. 62 The Maniae Brides or, The Dead Secret of Hollow Ash Hall, .. By Margaret Blount, 63 ace Creole Sisters 3 or, The 2 THORCETY. of the Perrys. By Mrs, Anna E. Porte 64 What Jealousy Did; or, “Phe Heir of Worsley. Gra: By Alice Fleming. 65 The Wife’s Secret; or, "Iwixt Cup and Li By Col, Juan Lewi is. p. 66 A Brothers Sin nent Flora‘s Forgiveness. By Rachel Bernh 67 Forbidden ey or, Alma’s Disguised Prince, By Arabella’ Southworth, 68 Weavers and Weft; or, ‘‘Love That Hath Us In ‘His Net”? » By Miss’M, E. Braddon, 69 Lamibes or, The Fate of a, Coquette. By Alexandre Dumas. 70 The Two Orphans. By D'Enery. vet as ie ee usk 72 The Taro Widows. By Annie Thomas. 73 Rose Michel; or, The Trials of.a Factory Girl. » By Maud "Hilton. 74 Cecil Castlemaine’s Gage; had The Story of a Broidered Shield. By Oui 75 hg Black Lady of Wena By J.S. Le By Mrs: Rowson. 76 Charlotte Tem le. 77 Christian Oakle istake. || By the Gentleman,” ete. author of ** John Halitex Ge 78 My Young Husband; or, A Confusion in the Family.. By Myself. 79 A Queen. Amongst Women. ae pion the author of ‘* The Cost of Her Leve,’’ ‘' ilded Sin,” “Dora Thorne,”’ etc., etc. . 80 Her fe leo and) Master, By Florence 81 ae Pomp hess Sister ef Charlotte. 82 A Loug Ago. By Meta Orred. 83 gf hong for heb te Stakes, By Annie $4 Phe Laurel Bush. By the author of “John Halifax, Gentleman.” 9) os 85 Led Astray. By Octave Feuillet. 86 Janet’s Repentance, By George Eliot: 87, Lhe Romance ofa Poor Young Man. By Octave Feuillet. 88 A ,Ferrible Deed; or, AH for Gold. . By ‘Emma Garrison Jé ones. $9 A Gilded Sin. ante Thorn,” ete. . 90 The aggre Daughter. , Howitt. } f f 92 The Jilt. By Chaves ‘Reade, 92, Kileen Alanna 3 of, the Dawning of the Day. By Dennis O’Sullivan 93 Love’s Victory, By B.L. Farjeon. 94 The Quiet Heart,...By Mrs. Oliphant: 95, Lettice Arnold. By Mrs. Marsh: 96 Haunted Heart a pa Broken, saps trothal. By Racbel Bern 97 Hugh Melton. By Ke ravine Wing. 98 Alice Learmont. Mulock, 99 Maar Bruce's. erie By. Mary 100 Through Fire and Water, By: Fred- By Miss Mulock., 2 @ 103 A Desperate Deed, By Erskine Boyd: © 104 Shadows on the Snow, By B. L, Far- jeon. 105 The G rt " Ne root: an oR y. Diemong, 106 From Piers, “hy ‘Waking. Lynn Linton. 10% Poor Zeph! By ¥F. W. Robinson. 108 The Sad Fortunes of the Rev. Amos Barton. By George Eliot. . 109 aR rca and. Kisses. By Farje ‘110 me Wandering Meir. “By Charles Soha Six Ms By Emilie Flyg are Carlen x “es | 126 When the Shi ife. By My Young Wife's | By the author of. ‘ Dora | _By Mary | A155 phe std Ways; By Miss Mulock: 112 Ay Hexie: 118 Paul and Virginia. From the French of Bernardin De St. Pj jierre, 114 °Ewas In Frafalgar’s Bay. ter Besant & James Rice. 115 The Maid a Killeena. Black. _ 116 Hetty. By eéiity Kingsley. 117 The Wayside Cross}; or, ‘The Raia of Gomez. By Captain E. A. ‘Milman; 118 The Vicar of Wakefield, Goldsmith, By Wal- By William By Oliver 119 Maud Mohan. By Annie Thomas, 120 Thaddeus of Warsaw, -By Miss Jane Porter. 121 The King of No-Land, By B, L. Far- jeon. - : 122 Lovel, the Widower. By W. M. Thack- eray. 123 Am Island Pearl. 124 Cousin Phillis. 125 Leila; or, The ppt of Grenada. By Ed- ward Bulwer (Lord Lytton). Comes Home, By Walter Besant and James Rice. 127 One of the Family. By James Payn. 128 The Birthright. By Mrs. Gore. 129 Motherless 3 or, The Farmer’s Sweetheart, By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. By B, L. Farjeon. 130 Homeless; or, Two dead aN Girls in New York, By Albert W. Aik 131 Sister a a aint neice; or, The Rivalry cf Hearts. Mrs; Mary. Reed Crowell. 132 tout foe Gold; or, Almost Lost.. By Mrs. Victor. 133 eke Roth’s Sins or, Betrothed at the Cradle.’ By Mrs. Georgiana Dickens. 134 di Wie Love Her? By Bartley T. Camp- 135 eritinba Against; or, Almost: in His Power. By Lillian Lovejoy. 1 36 Was She Mis Wife? By bie: Mary Reed Crowell. 137 ace yneae on, the. chim, The, Broken Troth. By. Miss 138 pases Wanda or, By Margaret Blount. 139 Margaret Grkahk By GP. R. James. 140 Without Mercy. By Bartley T. Campbell. 141 Honor Bound; or, Sealed to Secrecy. By Lillian ‘Lovejoy. 142 tine from mater 143 Anatucteas 194 of mn Wicked Woman’s Work. 144 A A. SHBNES carriages, or, Jokn Foster's, . 145 Two, Girls! Lives. By Mrs. Mary Reed 146 A Desperate Ventures , Own Sake. By Arabella Southworth 147 on War “ Hegapan By Corinne Cush- ; “148 Whisk w the onh n ?.0r, Strange apg Haman ton Smnct Misjudged. 149 An Ambitious - “Girl; or, She Would Be elen Davenport. Actress. By Frances 150 awe Lord of All; hs In Her Own at — Last. By Alice May Flem Z. 151A Wild: ead § or, Love's Glamour. ‘By Corinne Cushman, P 152 & inet Sacrifice ; Tyg Harriet I ‘153° ita ne Sin? Game. B rs. Mary Reed mr th OE Rew Loves Me Not! or « ae] False- h By Lillian Lovejoy. Double Trothy By Margaret unt)» 156 What She Cost aan Crooked: Patiis, y Arabella Southwot 157 i Giepa Heart, Wea at aur (159 Lady Helen’s Vow Secret. By the Late Mrs. : A new issue every week, or, ye Girl’ Ss ‘oF, mane Mother's Tae Waveriev Lisrary is for sale by all News: ’ dealers, five cents per copy, or sent by mail on re- ceipt of | ay cents each, BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, ; $8 William street, New York. acim nusntinsnc senses ile taal By ‘Mrs, presses : or, at, Love's f or, At War With ‘A Man’s_ misread or, Kitty: Athetton's Blo