Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 164) (1883 01 02)
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—_- Pe SS ay ee ha Pee Tae ‘Oo .s Brad “~ hp a x “ i ’ fi 1 * - The Cheapest and Best Library! ‘The Cream of American and Foreign Wovels for Five Cents! Entered at the Post Office at Nev New York, N. ¥., at Second ( Class Mail Rates, + No 164 Vo Vu. _ PUBLISHED WEEKLY B i y BEADLE erie ADAMS, { 98 WILLIAM = N. Y. PRICE 5 CENTS A SCATHING ORDEAL: AX-LANGLEY'S - A UA semen’ MAD MARRIAGE. | BY MRS. GEORGIANA DICKENS ) da i : ) Soy we Sins ie - aoe —. of eer a pee : Wey He : = , ’ a i) ap Pas , Sa on: ire HE FLUNG HIMSELY DOWN ON THE FERN BESIDE HER, _— « ”
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. ts > yey eel ~ a 4 a . ~ ; 1 ‘ Sepeettern erecta nip ae mere A Scathing Ordeal; May Langley’s Mad ‘Marriage, site “Twas but yesterday, as I was telling you, that I went up to the house, thinking that I might be of use, for I’d heard there was no nurse come, I was shown into Mrs, Dexter’s own room—just as fine as any lady’s drawing- room, if you please. She never so much as asked me to be seated; but looks down at me as I might be the dirt beneath her feet. “*T shall attend on Mrs. Langley myself,’ says she, as proud and haughty as a queen. ‘If we’d wanted other help we should hava sent to the city, but Mrs, Langley has a great dislike to. strangers.’ } “So that was all I got for my pains! Then she sends an impudent bussy of a servant to the door witk me, as if she thought I might lay my hands on something if I wasn’t watched. I never thought that the time would ever come when I should be hustled out of the house like that, And to think of the times, many and oft, that my dear lady that’s gone bas had me into her own parlor and poured me out a glass of wine with her own hands! Ah, well! those days are gone, and they’ll never come back again—more’s the pity! The world’s all wrong somehow nowadays; or, maybe, I’ve grown two old for it!” ~ Roe Ud She shook her head dolefully, and passed ber hand wearily across her brow, it was not often that Bess suffered ber grandmother to ramble on'so long without an interruption. The old woman, wondering st her unusual silence, looked up presently, and found. that the little kitchen had no ether oc cupant than herself. Bess’s quick ear had caught the sound of whéels on the road outside, and she had hastened out to open the gates. sin; let mine \ “The doctor again!” murmured the girl t6. herself, as she stepped aside and stood hen it had passed, with one hand shading her eyes looking after the carriage, which was ‘being driven rapidly toward the house, ‘[i’s wot two hours since he was here; I wonder if any- thing’s amiss.” cae She remained for several minutes in the same position, her pretty brows puckered into a thoughtful frown, ber red lips pressed tightly together. The Hall possessed a new interest for her after what ber grandmother had said. She was already burning with curiosity respecting / * » : ae | 3 Ot ok et AL et
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, a old—and damp too, they say. the mysterious words which Mr. Langley had used. To her ignorant and superstitious mind, there was something positively fascinating in the very word ‘ curse.”’ J 4 Only two days ago Mrs. Bond had said, “I wonder, Bess, you know 50 little about the family, living as you do under their very noses so to say.” This remark recurred to her now. “Yl have to find it all out one of these days,” she decided. It would be hard if, with such chances as she had, she could not manage to discover something of what went on at the old house. Before her the long white drive wound in and out beneath two somber rows of giant evergreens, and beyond, on a grassy terrace, rose the massive red-brick building, its win- dows gleaming with a lurid light from between the twisted branches as they reflected the rays of the setting sun. In Bess’s vivid imagination, if seemed almost as if the Hall were ablaze, burning and glow- ing with some awful and supernatural fire that gave forth neither sound nor smoke. “Granny,” she said to the old woman, who just then appeared in the doorway, “the house looks strange this evening, doesn’t it?” ‘Tat, tut, girli—what bave you got in your head now? There’s nothing different to what Tve seen almost every evening at sunset. Your brains are wool-gachering, my lass, Come, don’t stand there idling; it’s time the supper was made ready, Why, I declare, here’s Will Bates! What’s he been doing up at.the Hall, I wonder? This is an odd time to be having carpentering done. z ‘Good-evening to you, Will. You’ve been working late, I see, Step in and rest a little, my lad, and have a bite of supper with us.” “Yes, do, Will,” put in Bess, pleasantly. “‘There’s only bread and cheese; but such as it is, you’re welcome.” She led the way into the lodge without wait- ing for his reply, knowing well enough that he could not withstand the smile with which her words were accompanied. _ Poor Will blushed with pleasure at her un- usually gracious manner. Only too glad of: the chance of half an hour’s chat, he unslung his basket of tools from his shoulder and en- _ tered the kitchen. “‘T suppose it’s not inside the house you’ve been working, is it, Will?” the girl began, cautiously, when, a few minutes later, they were all seated before the round table on which: the simple supper had been laid. ‘‘They’d. hardly like your hammering just now, I fancy.” ‘So I should have thought too,” the young man replied, slowly. ‘‘I asked Mr. Dexter if the job hadn’t better wait over a little, for I couldn’t do the work he wanted without some noise, and I knew the lady wasill.” ““Then you was in the house?” queried the old woman, no whit less curious than her granddaughter, “Yes, Mrs. Pearson; I’ve been putting a new lock to a door in one of the rooms of the east wing; the old one had been wrenched clean off. I can’t think how it could be done; it was broken right off, and some of the wood- work along with it.” ; “T cannot understand why they should be in such a hurry to have it mended,” Bess re- marked, thoughtfully. “The east wing was hardly ever used in the old Squire’s time; it’s so I remember two years ago, when the house was full of compauy, and I had gone to help in the kitch- en, they put me to sleep there one night, for I'd stayed late, I’d neyer have stopped, only I didn’t like to go back then and wake up grandmother. You see, I’ve always had a ‘dread of that part of the house—it’s so lonely. Nay, they say it’s haunted, too, only I didn’t know that then. Such a dismal sort of a room they put me in! One at the very end of the tong corridor.” - SA “That must have been the same room where ‘twas working,” Will interposed; “only I pe ee a Tare eee oe a z i" > 2 ; ate oe, ih SCARRING ORDEAL, — a a A couldn’t see inside of it, for the baize inner | the window, and stood there looking ‘out, with door was closed all the while.” “The baize door!” cried the girl, excitedly; ‘there was no baize door when I was there, D’you mean to say there are two doors?’ “To be sure, There is nothing very strange in that, Bess; it’s common enough to have two doors. If people don’t want to hear the noise of the house, or are afraid of draughts, there’s nothing better,” But Bess was not to be satisfied with any such simple explanation. She felt certain that there must be some sinister motive in those two doors, on the outer one of which so strong a lock was required. Her curiosity was raised to such a pitch, that for hours that night she felt too excited to retire to rest, and sat, in- stead, before the small window in her ‘room, unable to withdraw her eyes from the Hall, which looked more weird than ever in the ghostly, uncertain moonlight. CHAPTER II. A BATTLE FOUGHT AND WON, * WILL it live, doctor?” The speaker, but little more than a child her- self, partly raised her head, with its wealth of dark silky curls, from the frilled pillow, and eagerly, almost wildly, gazed into the doctor’s face as he parted the delicate lace curtains of a swan-shaped cot at the further end of the room, and bent with grave solicitude over its tiny oc- cupant. ‘“Live?—yes, I trust so.” There was more severity than hopefulness in his voice; and his face, usually so kind and sympathetic, assumed its very sternest aspect. He let the filmy curtains fall back to their place, and, crossing the room, sat down near the bed. “Mrs. Langley, I will not disguise from you the real facts of the case. I told you this morning how very important it was that you should nurse your baby yourself.” He paused fora moment, apparently to listen to the feeble wailing which came from the child, but in reality to give his patient time to recover herselt; for his practiced eye had been quick to detect the feverish flush which rushed ; to her face, and: the half-frightened, half-plead- ing look which came into the soft brown eyes. “LT thought, as I say, that it was important this morning; this evening I consider it to be absolutely necessary, if you would save your child’s life,” She made no reply, but raising ber two small white hands, covered her face with them. He fancied she was wavering—deliberating; and to add force to his words, he fetched the baby and laid it gently by her side, thinking the sight of it would speak more eloquently than he could, She did not discover what he had done, till a slight cry close to her made her start and look down at it. ‘ There was no doubting the expression in her eyes then. They distended unnaturally with a look of horror and aversion, while the flush that had been on her cheeks a moment before, faded away, leaving them of a wax-like pallor. “Take it away!” she cried, scarcely above a whisper, her voice dry and hoarse, though each word was terribly distinct. ‘Take it away! I—TI cannot look at it!” The good doctor hastened to comply with her request, To tell the truth, he was riot a little startled. Mrs, Langley was nervous and excitable—he knew that; but there was some- thing more in all this than mere nervousness and excitability. In all the course of his ex- perience he had never had so difficult a case to deal with. This was the first time, thank Heaven—and he hoped it might be the last— that he had ever seen such a look on the face of any mother at such a time. Horrible as the idea was, it seemed that Mrs. Langtey was actually seized with a positive aversion to her own child. Replacing the baby in its cradle, he went to , yp ee ae io 7 ee a erie his hands clasped behind his back, not know- — ing exactly what to do next. He dared not argue the point any further, for the excitement of a discussion would un- doubtly prove dangerous to"the mother. On the other hand, if he let things rest as they were, there was hardly a chance that the child, _ weak and feeble as it was, could live. ay Never was a man placed in such an awk- ward dilemma. He had already attempted to ; talk the matter over with Mr. Langley; but F the only answer he could get was—‘‘I trust my wife will be urged to do nothing against her will.’ ten ; There was silence in the room for nearly five t \ minutes; then a voice came from the bed—a $i pleading voice now, plaintive and patient. “Doctor—Doctor Mellor! Please don’t be very angry with me!” if He went to her at once, and smiled down at her reassuringly. eae The fawn-like eyes. were full of tears, the baby mouth quivering with emotion. After - all, she was such a child, it was impossible to be angry with her. He took the small hand Pa so shyly extended to him, and resumed his seat by the bed. Pat arteh. “Tt is such a pity, my dear,”—the word es- > caped him unconsciously—“ such a great pity that’you excite yourself in this way.” “J—I can’t belp it, doctor; I can’t, in- § — deed!” she replied, with an hysterical little soli. “Well, well, never mind that now.” He P patted the trembling fingers softly. “I do wish you had some relation—some lady friend who could come and talk to you instead of m:. Tam a rough old fellow, I knew, and IT don’t say things always as I ought; still, you mush know that when I urge a thing as I urgethis, . it is because 1 believe—because I know it is to be for the best.” : ; “ Yes, I know,” sbe sighed, wearily; bat still she showed no sign of relenting. a a “How do you like your nurse?” he inquired, = abruptly. aids She glanced nervously round the room be- fore replying, and her voice lowered. == ‘Pretty’ well—that is, not very much, I think. She is the housekeeper; you know, but = she understands nursing very well,” bey es, “Ab, yes, I dare say,” Doctor Mellor said, doubtfully; “still, I should have preferred a = *_ regular nurse. It is not too latefor me to = have one down from the city now if you wish = = ie ; she hastened to say. ‘‘Mrs. Dexter would not hes like it.” oa Fimo ety we ~ “As you please, of course,” réjoined™ the 4 doctor; “but I think your recovery | d te it. » . “Oh, no; please do not suggest such @ thing,” more rapid with a more experienced pérson.” e She looked a little blank at this; and”he was quick to seize his advantage. — Hider: ; * “Tt bas just occurred to me that you might = perbaps like my wife tocome and see you a sometimes. She has had alargefamily of her own, so should know something of these mat- ain ters; and she is so bright and cheerful—_ But, | bless my soul! here am I forgetting allimy ee other patients. I must be off at once.” ~ r. Before she had time to raise any objections y —before sbe could say one word even agains, = his proposition—he had left thé réom, with n hurried “Gcod-evening to you,” ad was halt- ie r. way down the stairs, chuckling to himselfcon- tentedly over this clever diplomatic move. = | “If any one can bring her to her sensesand | get her to do what is right, it isMary,”"he = | thought. $F wrk, cee | Doctor Mellor had unbounded faith in his — wife, and that faith seldom proved to be mis- placed. eae ¢ Beth Dap sting RPL y- ‘So he’s gone at last, is he?’ said Mrs. Dex- ter, coming into the room with that noiseless, = cat-like step which some pedple persist in — adopting in a sick-room, and which is so irri- tating to an invalid. ‘‘He thought he would be able to'talk you over if he saw you alone, [ | dare say. A likely thing! Did he think I bad been persuading you not to nurse the chikd, I r ¥ “ale ee i). wane, . . 1 Goa P nope ce ae
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a ~ / y rine * summer breese. wonder? Really, I should like to know what | ‘“‘Who are you?” she asked, wonderingly, is going to happen next!” “You did say the baby would get on very well with the bottle,” Mrs. Langley ventured | lieved in her reality. say.’ ; ** And so it would, too; it’s only Doctor Mel- jJor’s. old-fashioned . notions. children twice as weak and sickly-looking as this grow to be fine and hearty on the bottle; | you will see how it will thrive, and—” ‘‘Hush! Oh, please, hush!’ cried the poor little mother, closing her eyes and turning her face restlessly on the pillow, while great tears began to force their way, one by one, through the long, dusky lashes, ‘If only I could have _ died—I and baby! If only we could have died!” . “And, indeed, it would be a mercy if the child was taken, at any rate,” said Mrs, Dex- ter, in no way moved by the infinite pathos of the wurds, wrung as they were out of her very misery. “You kave no right to say that,” Mrs. Lang- "ley rejoined, excitedly, hardly knowing what ‘it was she said. ‘‘ How dare you say it would be a mercy if my child were to die? Oh, baby, baby, how proud I thought I should have been of you! How happy I was, making your tiny clothes! How T used to think of you and dream of you, and never, never tire of think- ing of you! And now—and now—” Her voice was choked with sobs; she could cay no more, Mrs, Dexter was not utterly heartless; she did what she could to soothe her mistress. She held a coollng draught to her lips, and smooth- el away the damp lock of hair from the tear-stained cheeks. Before long the poor girl, quite worn out and exhausted, fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep, from which she did not awaken for nearly an hour. When at length she awoke she did not im- mediately open her eyes. Mrs. Dexter would be worrying hor to take something perhaps, as soon as she knew she no longer slept. So she lay there with eyes closed yet a little longer. Gradually she became aware that there was a scent ef reses in the air, and that a soft, cooling breeze was being wafted across her face. How refreshing it was! She could al- most fancy she was in her favorite seat by the oriel window of ber own boudoir, with the great creamy Gloire-de-Dijon roses climb- ing routd the carved stone framework near her and nodding their dewy heads in the balmy e The white lids lifted languidly only a littie way. From beneath the partly-lowered lashes she could see the little table which stood be- side the wed. The roses were there in a vase of water, and near them were some green and purple grapes. - Whe had placed them theref Not Mrs. Dexter, surely; she was not given to such lit- tle attentions. Had Marmaduke, her husband, brought them while she slept? The thought brought the color to her cheeks, and a deep sigh escaped her, while at the same - time she leoked up and met the glance of a pair of kindly gray eyes. A lady was seated near her; not with her bonnet and shawl on; Mrs. Mellor knew better thaa that. She wore a\gown of some soft gray material, with a white handkerchief crossed @ver ver chest; her silvery hair was smoethed away beneath a snowy cap. She looked ae much at home as if sbe had been there for a week. A piece of work of some kind was ow her lap; but just now she was not sewing, fer she held a large fan in one hand, with which she gently fanned the invalid. ©Yon kave bada nice sleep, my dear. It bas dome yeu good, I see,” she said, with a smile. Such a soft, sweet smile! A feeling of peacefulness and security sfole over Mrs. Lang- ley as her eges rested on the kind, sympathetic face, She could not remember her motber, She had died so long ago. If she had lived, she fancied she would bave bad just such a face as that, and smiled on her with just such a swile. Lor’, l’ve seen | A SCATHING ORDEAL. } | | | en act ep eileen ie lf ee sre sSNA sasmansoipeeiaesosipleseesanemeel | § Dera Ms eS zs 5 ge ee ; va hy e — reciteranaraaiamel ia EMS ATE RD ne en ts “ Afraid of your own child! That cannot putting out her hand and letting her fingers | be. You are nervous, that is all. Such a touch those of the lady, as if she hardly be- | pretty,little thing as it is too! with eyes just “ How is it Mrs. Dexter | like her father. Ah! you will be very proud | of her when she is a little older.” “Eyes like Marmaduke, did you say cried the mother, in sudden and unacesuntable piehy ““Then it is true! I fancied so n y+ self,” \ let you come to me?” “T don’t think there was any question of | ‘letting,’ my dear. My husband sent me to | sit with you for an hour or so, and doctor's’ orders must be obeyed, you know.” “Ah, yes! And you are Mrs. Mellor. I Mrs. Mellor, though she was at a loss to uv- remember it all now. But where is Mrs, Dex- | derstand the meaning of it, saw that the allu- ter?” sion to the father had not been a happy one, so The nervous Jook returned once more, and | she hastened to change the subject. ‘*T think you know Mrs. Brereton?” she said next. “She lives at the Grange, not far from here.’ “Very slightly,” Mrs. Langley replied, ovly too glad to talk of anything else, ‘She and the colonel called upon me, and I returned the call; that is all I have seen of them. She looked ill and unhappy, I fancied.” “Yet she is not really ill—in body, at Jeast; but she has a secret sorrow which preys upon her mind. I should hke to tell you about it if you will let me. “Six years ago she had a little son. Like you, she was greatly averse to nursing him her- self. She was a beantiful woman then, though you would hardly think it to see ber now, and very fond of society. She was un- willing to deny herself any pleasure even for her child’s sake. My husband said all he could to persuade her, but in vain. She fancied he exaggerated when he told her the boy’s life de- pended upon it, and would listen to neither him nor her busband. ‘My dear, she was terribly punished. The poor baby grew weaker and more feeble every day. When it was too late, she would have given all she had to save him. Day after day she would sit with the child on her lap, her tearless eyes fixed with an expression of hope- less agony, on the little wasted face. Ab, how she must have hated those foolish vanities and pleasures for which she had sacrificed him! To make her misery the greater, she had to endure her husband’s well-merited, though silent re- proach. He never accused her in words, but there was something in his very silence wv hich must haye been doubly hard for her to bear. ‘Well, the end came all too soon. They thought she would have gone mad when. the child died, and in their fright they sent for me. she glanced around anxiously, “‘T asked her to see that some beef tea was got ready for you by the time you awoke, She has but just left the room. Shall I call her?” : ‘‘Oh, no; please do not.” f Mrs. Langley’s fingers closed spasmodically over the hand. She seemed to have a strange dread of being left alone. “ Who was it brought the fruit and flowers?” she asked next. ‘‘ Was it you?” ‘‘Indeed, no,” Mrs. Mellor replied. ‘‘ We have none half so fine. It was your husband. He—” “Did he come in—in this room, I mean?” She strove to speak calmly, but it was with difficulty she could command her voice. ‘No, he would not, though I wanted him to come and see you while you slept. He said he would rather wait until you asked for him, He just put the fruit and flowers into my hands, and then went away; but he gave such a wist- ful look at the room, I am sure he found it hard to refuse. After you have taken your beef tea and I have brushed your hair, you will let him come, will you not?’ “‘ Must I—I—I mean, yes, I suppose so; but not just yet. By and by perhaps.” Mrs. Mellor feigned not to notice her agita- tion, though she wondered a little at her strange manner. Mrs. Dexter came into the room soon after, not in the best of tempers, as could be seen by her tightly-compressed lips. She was pushing rudely past the doctor’s wife, when, to her surprise and mortification, that lady, with a quiet dignity, took the tray from her hands and proceeded to give Mrs. Langley the beef-tea herself. “Tt seems I’m. not wanted here,” she said, impudently, with a toss of her head, not even attempting to disguise her annoyance. ‘‘ Yet. 1 did think I was quite capable of attending on Mrs. Langley without any other help.” Mrs. Mellor was astounded at the woman’s cool effrontery. How could Mr. Langley suf- fer such a person to remain near his wife? All she said, however, was: ‘‘I am here by my husband’s express desire.” “T suppose he thought you would be able to persuade her to nurse the child? You won’t find it such an easy matter.” “Was it really only for that you came?” Mrs. Langley asked, reproachfully. ‘My dear, it is true that was one of my reasons; but I should have come anyway as soon as [ heard that you were alone,” The poor girl gave her a grateful smile. It was so true that she was alone—more terribly alone than her new friend could imagine; yet she feared to accept the friendship so freely offered, and for which she so longed. For some time Mrs. Mellor sat beside her, talking pleasantly of anything she thought might. amuse or interest her; of little bits of harmless gossip in the neighborhood; of her See SS ee ee eS to beable to offer her no consolation. I went up to her, and endeavored to take ber in my arms, but she put out her bands, as if to keep. me from her, crying out wildly, ‘Do not touch me! You would not if you knew! 1 ama murderess; I have killed my own child!’ “Oh, my dear, if you had heard her then; if yon could know what her life has been since, you would not hesitate now to do what is right. ‘The colonel is a just and good man. 1 do not think he has spoken one unkind word to her; indeed, I think he has been more consider- ate to her, if possible, since; but there is a difference. He has never been quite the same. You see, he was so anxious for an heir—so proud when the boy was born; and they have. had no other children,” She drew a deep sigh when she concluded; then, taking up her work, went quietly on with her sewing, _ Mrs, Langley was silently weeping. There was no word spoken by either of them for some minutes. The poor girl was evidently fighting a hard battle with herself. own sons and daughters, most of them married By-and by she raised her face, all woe- e now and living at a distance; then, gradually, | and tear-stained, a pitiful little smile trembling when Mrs. Dexter had left them to go and | on her lips, : have her supper, she approached the all-import- ant subject. Mrs. Mellor rose, and stooping, kissed her. She understood what it meant, and knew that ‘“Te]l] me, my child, what the objection is | she had conquered. which you have to nursing your baby. Per- —— haps I may be able to overcome it.” CHAPTER IIL. THE SECRET OF THE KAST WING. Tre Normanton estate, though not large, was one of the most beautiful and pictaresque “I cannot explain; you would not under- stand. I—I. think I am afraid of it!” she added, with an hysterical little laugh which almost ended in @ sob. ho poe Bete It was dreadful to hear her self-accusations and | properties in the whole country. ‘There was
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y ‘ — - - ait Pe nO more romantic spot for miles around than that portion of the grounds through which the river wound its course. A plantation of | beeches grew cn the sloping banks, and close to the edge weeping willows arched their slender branches, and at every breath of wind swept the shining surface of the water with their pale green boughs, In spring the ground was covered with violets and wood anemones; a little later the wild hy- ucinths spread like a vast blue carpet beneath the trees. But now summer was already far advanced; violets, anemones and blue-bells had all in turn disappeared, and in their place feathery ferns grew thickly everywhere in luxuriant profusion, only interspersed here and there by buttercups and daisies. Among these same ferns, half sitting, half _reclining, was Bess Pearson, the lodge-keeper’s granddaughter. She had taken off her hat, for the afternoon was warm, and the little flecks of sunlight came trembling through the gently stirring branches of the beeches upon her uncovered head, making her chestnut hair glint like red gold. ‘ he was a pretty girl—very pretty, as she lay back there against the green fern fronds, with the broken light and shade resting on her; but a look of discontent clouded her face, and the rosy lips were pouting. Her dress was but of coarse blue-and-white-striped calico, and the edges of it were frayed and soiled; there were two or three rents in the skirt, too, which she had not attempted to mend—Bess hated needlework. The girl’s natural vanity and love of finery were apparent in the bunch of scarlet poppies fastened at her néck, and the string of mock coral beads which encircled the full and shapely throat, A pace or two from her stood Abel Dexter, leaning carelessly against a tree, smoking a cigar, ; He was a tall, powerful-looking man, of some thirty-five years of age, with a dark, sal- ‘low complexion, and hair and eyes black as ink, Ata first glance, one might bave taken him for a gentleman. He had an easy grace of movement, a somewhat haughty carriage of the head, a certain air of refinement which one [ . Seldom sees in one of the lower orders, A closer ~ observer, however, would soon have detected that his appearance alone was in bis favor, for every word and action displayed his indomit- _ able pride and insolence, He acknowledged no superiors, while to those whom he con- sidered his inferiors he was overbearing and ex- _ acting in the extreme, ; Such being his character, it was not a little surprising that he should consent to hold the | ata position which he did at Normanton Doubtless, though, Abel had his own reasons for remaining in Mr. Langley’s household. It is certain that both he and his mother had no very bad time of it there, and the remunera- tion which they received for their very meager services must have b en decidedly handsome, to judge by the way Mrs, Dexter dressed, and ‘by the ample means which her son always seemed to have at bis disposal, Poor, ignorant Bess thought herself a very lucky girl when she succeeded in attracting his attention, and it is doubtful whether half the girls in the village would not have envied her had they known that he had actually consented to tall in love with her, and to tell her so, too, _ But at least half the pleasure of her triumph was spoiled by the fact that they did not know, for he had strictly forbidden her to speak to any one of thsir meetings. ; ? It was this very subject which they had been discussing to-day, and which had brought such a discontented expression to the pretty face. “Vm sure I can’t see why you sbouldy’t let me tell folks that we're to be married one of _ these days,” she said, fretfully. “I don’t suppose you can, my dear; you moust allow me to be the best judge of that.” __. He regarded her critically as he spoke, think- $ ing the hightened color brought to her cheeks + ve 1: 4) Oe Fe ee See +) * “A SCATHING ORDEAL, by that slight ebullition of temper rather be- coming than otherwise. He was speculating on how she would look in a passion; he could, just imagine how those dark eyes of hers would blaze and flash; there was a want of animation about her usually. “Sométimes I wonder, Abel, if you ain’t making a fool of me after all,” she said, with a pettish impatience, watching him askance the while from under her long lashes. ‘If you mean true, what’s to prevent you making me your wife at once? You’re rich enough. It does seem so hard that I should have to go on living at the lodge with Granny, and wearing | these shabby clothes, when you're looking just | like a gentleman. She looked very much in- clined to cry as she concluded. With a half smile, he flung himself down on | the ferns beside her, and put one arm round her | waist, | ‘“ Now, Bess, you are unreasonable. Do you | think if I could do what I liked that I wouldn’t | Marry you to-morrow?” “T don’t know,” she rejoined, averting her | head, and turning partly away from him. ‘I know well enough that I’m not half good enough for you. There’s Jane. Bond would give her eyes for you, and Nellie James, too; and they do say she’ll have a fortune, How do I know but you'll get to like one of them in time, and—and where will I be then? There, I think, for [’d never try to live without you!” She pointed to the. sluggish river, flowing silently before them, But for a broken twig or a fallen leaf or two floating on its surface, one might have thought the water stationary. He took the outstretched hand in his, and drawing ber to him, passionately kissed the full, pouting lips and tear-dimmed eyes. “You little darling! Don’t you know it’s you I love, and-no one else? Listen to me; I will tell you why I don’t want us to get mar- ried for a year or two if it cau possibly be- avoided. You say I am rich enough. Well, maybe fam; but I’m not as rich as I mean to be by along way. I mean that my wife” — the word made Bess smile proudly, and rest ber head lovingly on his arm+‘“‘shall ride in her carriage. There! what do you say to thats— ride in her carriage and wear silks: and satins eyery day of ber Ji e, if she likes!” “Do you mean if really, Abel—vreally and truly?’ the girl asked, a flush of pleasure and excitement rushing over her face, and her eyes sparkling with animation. ‘‘ And will I wear rings and jewels, and lace and feathers, just like alady? Oh, Abel! it seems it’s all too good to be true! How I’ve longed, and longed, and prayed for these things! And now only to think that one day it’!l all come true!” “And it's worth waiting a bit for Bess, isn’t it it?”? ‘Yes, I suppose it is,” she replied, somewhat dubiously, not quite so sure of this. .‘* Abel,” she began again, after a slight pause, ‘‘I’d like to know where all this money is coming from?” He frowned at her words, and the arm which. still encircled her waist was withdrawn. ‘You are always wanting to know some- thing, Bess, Why can’t you be content to trust me withoyt asking questions?” “T thought, when folks were in love, they always told each other everything?” she re- joined. ‘I’m sure I tell you everything I know!” * Well, so do I—that is everything that is right you should know!” ‘No, you don’t, Abel; you never tell me anything—not even what goes on at the Hall!” “What goes on at the Hall!” he exclaimed, in unfeigned surprise. ‘ Why, how couldany- ah that takes place there possibly interest you “Oh, I know more about itthan you think!” she went on, nodding her head, with an as- sumption of sagacity aud wisdom. ‘Folks will talk, you know.” ; “Oh, folks taik, do they? They had be minding their own bisiness, I think!” There was an Ominous scow! upon his hand- better some face, and his nostrils dilated like those of anangry animal. Bess was notlookingathim = =~ or she would hardly have continued her taunt- y! ing, jesting tone. it 17 ‘You see, as you won’t tell me anything. : an just have to find out for myself, Abel. Oh, yes; you think I know nothing about the room _ with the double doors, and the strong lock that had to be put on in such a hurry!” » “ What!” ae He turned on her savagely, bis face close to hers, and grasped her arm with such force that she cried out in sudden pain and alarm. , Her frightened face recalled him to bim- self,, With a nervous laugh, be relaxed his hold. - Bess, white and trembling, had risen tober feet. He saw be would have some difficulty in - ! reassuring her. ‘ a ‘‘Whata cursed fool I am,” he thought, ‘to eo betray myself like that! Of course, it was that idiot of a carpenter who spoke about mending the lock! I might bave guessed it was impossible she could really know any- ial thing.” ‘ ' Meanwhile, he exerted himself to his ut- pet most to make friends again—no difficult matter, a after all. ; ‘*And now I must tell you, I suppose, why I was so angry,” he said, when be had seen the , color return once more to her cheeks, ‘‘ The Py fact is, Mr. Langley would be awfully wild if : he thought I bad told you the secret of that ~ room.” j “Then there is a secret?’ she exclaimed, Vi breatblessly. f ; ‘ “Yes; but it’s mot such a grand secret, after all. You will laugh when you hexr es F what it is. Mr, Langley bas gota couple of setae foreign birds caged up tbere — great wiht ee things they are, standing nearly as high as we og do.” 4 ; . 1 Ree “But why does he keep them there? Won't é ed they die, being shut up like that?’ Bess asked, nl her eyes opening with astonishment. + Satie “No; they are owls, you see — at least, ohakt~ +4 something like owls, so they never went to gu ee out in the daytime. We lef them.cut now and Te he 4 again at night, and they make a fine noise ee then, I can tell you.” / ‘ Se hee “But why sbould Mr. Langley make a se- ae cret of it, Abel?” bj ¥ ; ‘‘Ob, because ”’—he hesitated a moment, at aoe a loss what to say—only a moment, but it was. - a moment of enlightenment to Bess—‘‘ because be if it came to the ears of the people who keep the Zoological Gardens in Philadelphia, that < there were two such valuable birds here ab Normantown, they’d be wanting tohavetbem; = and Mr. Langley-is very proud of them, and would be sorry to lose them, You will have — to take care you say nothing about this to any one. If you do Pll never tell you anything. again—-remember that.” dgricul? ,,tivis “Oh, VIL be sure not to tell a living soul!” the girl said confidently. | \ S70 aoe But when they bad parted, and Bess was making ber way home to the lodge along. the little path which led through the wood, she gave a little exultant'lavgh to herself. ous » “I may bea fool,” she thought, “ but I'm not quite such a fool as he takes me for. A likely’ - thing that I’m going to believe that about the foreign birds! Birds, indeed!—it’s my opinion there’s some one locked up in that room—some one as Mr. Langley keeps a prisoner. I don’t know as it makes much odds where the money comes from, so long as we get it; To think that Pll be a lady one day!” fat ir ward She stood for awhile, her bead thrown back. | her lithe young figure drawn up proudly, a. smile of rapture on her lips, and -her hands clasped together in ecstasy. b stag “‘ And Abel shall never repent having ehcsen. me;.he shall see I’ll look the lady, too. Folks. will be seeing a grand carriage go by, ever so. fast, with big black borses and silver’ rex! sil- — ver—on the harnes:; and there'll be a beati- ful lady inside, all in white, with a pink para- sol, like Mrs, Langley’s; and she’ll lean back against the cushions, all casy and careless-ike, _ Py "i ial ey ban on: cee & it A ws oe 7 Sather a Ne. . » Le “ Py " i
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as if she’d been used toit all her life; and she'll : smile, ever so slightly, and bow like this.” Bess, carried away by her own thoughts, suited the action to the word, ' “ And every one will say; ‘Whois she?) Who can she be”. And all the time it’ll be me— : - Bess!” . *- Once more she laughed outright, and clapped her hands in delight. “You seem to be very merry,” sole one said close behind her. , At the words she started and looked round pk sharply. Had she been speaking’ these words aloud? Shecould not’ remember. The face of the stranger reassured her; she showed no con- .._ seiousness of having overheard. ek! She was a lady, young and handsome, with clear blue eyes and fair golden hair cut short es and curling like q boy’s. In that one swift glance Bess took in everything— the plain blue linen dress, trimmed with embroidery to match, the simple straw hat with its bouquet of field 2s flowers, and the sunshade guiltless of ornament. ube “When I’ma lady,” she thought, contempt- ss nously, “Tl dress better than that.” - * s#Gan-you tell me if this is the way to Nor- | wanton Hall?’ the stranger asked, regarding ber with rather an amused expression in her bright eyes. “Yes, you'll get to it in thisway if you walk straight on.” She would have said ‘ miss” a few. weeks ago, but lately Boss had taken to dropping such little marks, of civility. “The | path will take you out of the wood and into the | drive itself. You will see the house plainly | from there.”’ With a brief ‘‘ Thank you,” the lady passed on f Bess stood looking after her curiously. “Now, I'd like to know who she is,” she thuid to herself. ‘‘I don’t believe that Dve ‘sen her about here before. And why does the come through the wood instead of by the road?) Ak, I have it.’ She’s stopping at The Grange, I suppose, with Mrs, Brereton, and Sle x _ ghe’s crossed the river in the boat. The colonel * . and bis wife used to come that way, I re- member, in the old Squire’s time. If she’s a ab - friend of Mrs. Langley’s, she’s the first ever _ Pve seen since they've been here. I doubt _.. - whether she’ll be made welcome. There’s rot as a soul’s been at the house but Mrs. Mellor, the doctor's wife, since the baby was born, and _, that’s nearly a month ago.” ne left the wood soon, and came out on the _ broad, white carriage drive, where she paused onveimore., 6 _ Ay, there she goes,” she murmured, “through ‘the last gate and across the lawn. Now she’s by the door. I wonder will they let her inf ‘Yes, there’s the door open, and she’s in, TH ask Abel about her to-mor- row; not that I’m likely to get much out of him, though.” - Just then the big clock over the Hall stables struck five. — §§Mfy word! who ever’d have thought ’twas 80 late?” cried Bess, in consternation. ‘‘ Gran- ny’ be angry with me for being off most all os _. the afternoon like this.” _. $be turned her back upon the Hall, and set off running as fast as she could in the direc- ee ‘tion! of the lodge. ; re SFOLTET ; CHAPTER IV. ra) RO, - i. Pe aul at 25s) oi, ae Yo. l Se RarabL step, Mrs) Laweney had not’ been at all strong aot |, eet her baby was born, though she had for some days insisted that she was well enough, and had left her room and come down-stairs aioe as usual, | ; _. Sbe looked terribly pale aud thin. There : is hada wistful, starled look in them that was _ Doctor Mellor was puzzled, and did not know what to make of her. Many a long i did he and his good old wife have about ‘ er. oe : f : 5 if C H 2 ; | : ‘ She- would be so much better if only we | 7 SK. : ex edhe he % oe eRe ; : q ard an ei [AL ¢ 7 a a" eer S WE ee - aa ae i» ed kl pt a a nr to come in. ; en he res xf ees “ve 4. o. . ea) My hoe - Prot”. The: AONE E, peste TRE NRG reas Lids Nim % ee ge eens ; could get her away from this place,” he said. “You succeeded so well before, Mary; don’t you think you could persuade her to go to the sea-side, fur a couple of months? ‘I can’t get her to listen to me,” Of course Mrs. Mellor promised to do her best, and the very next day she went to the Hall and broached the subject; but this time she was not successful. | AISCAPHING ORDEAIA © = 4, : ‘ “ It was the same house, bat she was no longer quite a child. The old pear-tree was leafless: the garden was covered with a smooth white shroud of snow; and a few naked stalks amony the trellis-work of the porch were all that re- mained of the honeysuckle, tor the summer had long since passed, and winter was come. Everything looked very, very dismal to May ° now, for it had been decided that she must go Mrs. Langley listened to all she had to say | to school. Before the door a carriage was with that listless apathy which was becoming | standing, with her'trunks on the top. She was so natural to her, then refused firmly and de- cidedly to leave Normanton even for a week. So Mrs. Mellor took her leave, and started back for the village, feeling sad and dispirited, for she had taken a great fancy to her hus- band’s patient, and it pained and grieved her inexpressibly to see the poor girl fading away, as it were, before their very eyes. Not far from the house she came upon Mr. Langley, walking slowly up and down the drive. His head was bent, his eyes on the ground. ! His wife had. seemed unhappy enough; but there was a set look of misery and despair on his face that made the old lady long to stop and say something to comfort him. But he never saw her—never once raised his head, only walked on mechanically, like a man walking in his sleep. “What is it that is wrong with them?’ she asked herself, almost impatiently, as she passed on, ‘tl daresay it is nothing more or less than some foolish quarrel they have had, and each is too proud to be the first to own to being in the wrong. Oh, if makes me angry to think that two young’ people should spoil their’lives in this way!” ; But there was more sorrow than anger in her thoughts just then, and tears were glisten- ing in her eyes. No sooner did Mrs. Langley find herself alone than she sunk down on the nearest couch, and burying her face in the piliows, burst into a passionate flood of tears. “Oh, why can’t they let me alone!” she sobbed. “ Why will«they tempt fne to leave this hateful place? Cannot they see how I am longing to go—how the thought that I must stay here is killing me?” She endeavored to rise, and clasped her hands together tightly over her heart. ‘The very air of this bouse stifles me. I seem to draw in poison at every breath. What have I done—oh, what bave I done that I should be chosen for such a lot as this?” Half-fainting, she fell back upon the pillow, where she-lay for some time motionless, her face white as death, her eyes closed. Had she really fainted, or was it only sleep that was stealing over her? She neither knew nor cared. Either was equally welcome to her then, for it brought with it a sense of rest and peace, a delicious unconsciousness, gradu- ally numbing ber faculties and lifting her, as it were, out of herself. One by one, scenes from her past life floated before ber as in a dream, She was little May Sandford again, a happy, merry, light-hearted child, seated in the swing beneath the big pear-tree in Uncle Gregory’s old-fashioned garden. What a dear old garden that was, with its high, close-clipped box hedges and many winding patbs, its sweet- swelling cabbage roses and mignonette, and its borders of five o’clocks, As she swung to and fro, the soft breeze, laden with the scent of many flowers, met her, and lightly lifted the curls from her brow. When she went back she was almost hidden by the leaves of the pear-tree; when she flew forward again she could look straight over the box hedges at the houses beyond. Ah, yes, and there was old Patience, in her snow-white cap and apron, standing in the doorway beneath the honey- suckle covered porch! She was waving to her It must be six o'clock. Uncle Gregory would be waiting for her to pour out his tea, Then that scene passed, and another ap- peared, — : ‘ . 2 , Shae 1 = ‘ie eS eee) es = ee eee | ee Se ee ee ee eee EE —————— eee 4 a 4 * sal FH ini. apes Stas ; in the hall, with her arms elssped t.zhtly round | Uncle Gregory’s neck, begging him, with tears streaming down her cheeks, not to send her from him. She could hear his voice now as he answered her. It trembled a little, and there was a suspicious moisture in his own eyes. ““ My dear, you speak as if we were parting forever. What are six months, after all? They will soon fass, and you will be home again.” And that was the last time she saw bim; yet Uncle Gregory was not dead. It was a fate crueller than death which parted them, The six months passed, and she was not going home, for Uncle Gregory was abroad, and had written a letter full of regret and sympathy; but the bitter truth was there, clothed in tender, loving words. She was to spend the holidays in school. She was in the shabby, ill-furnished school- room, standing disconsolately by the window, looking over the wire-blind at her more fortu- nate school-fellows as, one by one, with laugh- ing eyes and happy faces, they took their de- ' parture. : What a real trouble that seemed to her, and how wretched she felt at the thought that she would be the only one left! But the door was flung open, and her dear, true friend, Kate Dunstable, came rushing in, waving a letter triumphantly in her hand. It was all settled at last; the letter had but just come. May) was to go home with her to The Hollies. Half- laughing, half-erying, the two friends hurried up-stairs to pack. Soon they were being driven rapidly toward the station. Those had been happy holidays. What with riding and driving, boating on the Jake, and | pi¢nic parties, the six weeks passed like a pleasant dream. Soon she was back at the school again. She might have fancied she had never left it, were it not for Fred Dunstable’s little ‘emerald ring sbining upon’ her hand. That ring troubled her. She had suffered Fred to place it on her finger; had almost promised —not now, of course, but some day far in the dim future—she weuld be his wife, and she - was not quite sure that she loved him. But then she liked Fred very much; not, of course, quite so well as Uncle Gregory, nor Kate, nor perhaps old Patience, who bad been like a mother to her, but next to these three, and it had been so hard to say no outright. She was in church next, in one of the pews which belonged to the school. The organ pealed forth, and the evening hymn began; but. the words trembled on her lips, and she scarce- ly dared look up from her book, for if ste did so she knew she should meet the admiring gaze: of a pair ef dark, melancholy eyes, fixed upon her with a look of such yearning, pleading tenderness that her romantic heart was touched. A letter was placed in ber hand one day; Jane, the waitress had been bribed ‘to deliver it. Instinctively May knew from whom it came. She stood deliberating, with the letter in her hand. Should she open it, or ought she not rather to take it at once to Miss Malcomef No; that would perhaps get Jane into trouble. She hesitated a moment; then slowly broke the seal. Ah! what beautiful, poetic words it contained! She read them again and again. He loved her, this handsome stranger: loved her without having seen her more than half a dozen times, and without ever having ex- changed one word with her! Well, she had heard somewhere that love at. first sight was the truest love; but be had no | right to’ have written to her like that, and she knew she ought to be very angry. Of course =e ras
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_ * ‘ \ * - she was not going to answer the letter; only— _ pew-opener and the verger. - 10; it was too late! s _edin the early morning sun. only something ought to be done to prevent him sending ber another. So she just wrote him .twe lines, in ber round, school girl hand, telling him he must never attempt to do such a thing again. But that did not stop the letters coming; perhaps she had. almost hoped it would not. She was getting to care for him more than she dared own to herself. Meetings followed in the little summer-house at the bottom of the garden. He had to climb. the orchard-wall, to get there, and she had to steal twenty minutes from her study hour. Of course it was all very wrong —very wrong indeed; and what she most felt was not being able to take Kate inte her confidence. But it was so delightfully romantic, and May believed she knew what it was really to love now. When he asked her to be his wife, how could she refuse? She hardly thought it strange that he should wish the marriage to be a secret one. Was not an elopoment the natural sequence to their romantic courtship? She would like Uncle Gregory and Patience to have been told, and perhaps Kate; but Kate might be indig- nant and angry with her for ber brother's sake. She could not bear for any one to be cross with her. She was to write to Uncle Gregory immediately after the marriage. He would be sure to forgive her. He could not be angry with her for long. What a bright, clear morning it was when she turned her back for the last time on the school, Not a soul was stirring in the house.) She had kissed Kate.as she slept, then silently. descended the stairs, unbarred the shutters, opened the low French windows, and stepped out onto. the Jawn, where the dewdrops glisten- She was a little frightened; her heart was a little sore; but she forgot all when Marmaduke Langley took her in his arms and thanked and blessed her for her bravery and trust in him. It was a dismal wedding—in a moldy old chureh somewhere in the suburbs, No one was present but the clergyman, the Not the sort. of wedding she and Kate had so often talked of, where the bride would, of course, be in satin, and lace, and orange-blossoms, and be followed by a long train of bridemaids. Now she stood by the altar in ber old school frock of black alpaca. What could have tempted her to come away in that dress? It was so dread- fully unlucky to be married in black! A chill dread crept over her—a foreboding of evil; the empty church struck so icy cold, and it smelt, like a vault! She glanced around, terror-stricken. If there bad only been some friend near, she would have fled. But where could she gof—to whom could she fly? Ah, The clergyman was al- ready reading the service; she had mechani- cally spoken the fatal words; and Marmaduke, with a strange, exultant look in his eyes, had imprinted a busband’s kiss upon her lips, Ob, why wasnot Kate here to save her?— Kate, who was so strong, so sensible! The damp, moldy scent of the old church was in her nostrils; Marmaduke’s arms held ber in a vise-like clasp from which she could not escape, The clergyman stood passively aside—he would not help her. i _ A horrible darkness was spreading over the church; the distant aisles were in shadow; vague, indistinct, intangible forms—doubly awfal because of their indistinctness—crept up out of the blackness. The air was full of them! They came nearer—vearer! Soon they would close in round her! Already their ~—_" vapory garments almost touched er i Her brain reeled; she could bear no more. ‘She made one supreme effort to release herself, and shrieked out for help. “Oh, Kate, save me! save me!” With a wild cry, she opened her eyes. __ + Two arms were still encircling her; but they _ were loving arms, holding her fondly. Was 0 bes 3 eae really Kate’s face so near her own!— V rs Ba ; eee Dae sie ' A SCATHING .O ey in” h Ree ce y Kate’s dear eyes looking into hers with such ten- der solicitude? Surely, she must. be dreaming still? ; But no; here she was in her own drawing- room at Normanton, and it was indeed Kate’s voice which spoke to her. “My darling, it is i; tell me what it is that troubles you?’ : She could not reply; she could only fall, ‘weeping, on her friend’s neck. Just then the drawing-room door opened softly, and Mrs. Dexter came in with the tea- tray in her hands. Her step was so noiseless that neither of them heard her enter. She put the tray down on a small table, and then stood looking at them suspiciously, ‘‘ Abel did right to send me in,” she thought. “Mrs, Langley is capable of saying anything when she is in that mood,” ‘** Perhaps you would like me to pour the tea out for you, ma’am, as you don’t seem very well?’ she said, blandiy. Her mistress started at her voice. How cruelly it recalled her to the.present! She dried her eyes quickly, and enaeavored to re- gain her composure, ‘No, no, thank you, Mrs, Dexter. do it myself; I am better now.” “T am glad of that, ma’am; you know the I will keep perfectly quiet, and not excite yourself.’ She smiled as she spoke—not a pleasant smile—and her eyes rested on Mrs. Langley with a glance that was full of meaning. Lately, she had constituted herself a sort of maid to Mrs. Langley. The poor girl wasany- thing but pleased by this arrangement, but she felt. herself utterly powerless to raise any ob- jection; probably it would bave made no dif- ference if she had. The consequence was that she was hardly ever from the woman’s presence, If she walked in the park, Mrs. Dexter would be sure to follow her soon with a shawl or asunshade. Whenever Mrs. Mellor came to see her, Mrs. Dexter would bring in the afternoon tea, generally taking care to leave the door open when. she went out again. At any moment she would come unexpectedly into the room on some pretext or other. There was no denying the fact, Mrs. Langley was spied upon—watched in her own house, and very closely watched too. ““T don’t like that woman, May,” Kate said, decidedly, when they were alone again. ‘ You know I always flattered myself I was rather a udge of character. Who is she?” fore she replied. me since,” Kate had noticed the look, and wondered at it. May seemed strangely in awe of ber servant. , you or Mr, Langley?’ “ T—J don’t know; like "Duke, I think.” Her face looked a sbade paler, and it almost seemed as if she shuddered. ‘But never mind baby now,; tell me about yourself... How did you find me out?” “Oh, that was no very difficult matter, Mrs, Brereton is a sort of aunt of mine—at least, she is a cousin of papa. When she was staying with us in town this season she told me you were living here quite near hér. Of course I was instantly seized with a great wish to come on. a long visit to The Grange, though, as a rule, it is not a very lively house, my dear. Aunt Constance said that you denied yourself to all, visitors, and that most likely you would not see me. But I am not like any ordinary visitor, am I? Say you are glad I am bere, May.” pave dear, I am glad; why should I not But there was a want of heartiness in May’s tone, and that half-frightened look came into her eyes, which were filling. with tears, “May, what is wrong—what is it that has ‘ ‘ jebame, ed 5 \ "tn ate doctor said it was very necessary you should | “Oh, yes, I must see your baby; is she like | | | | ie. 4 : ’ \ : wee * Aa ee: f Ks “PS € > RO ay ite oe ae amr pane ares | toward the door. Oh, my dear, can’t I help you?” ‘No one can help me—no one!” Mrs. Lang- ley whispered, with another quick glance ‘Hush! say no more.” At the same time she placed her trembling hand over her friend’s mouth, for the handle of the door turned slightly. It was her husband who entered this time. He ‘came forward with forced cheerfulness as May introduced him to her friend, and for some i ~ time they talked on general subjects; but the ~ conversation flagged perceptibly, and there was constraint in the manner of all. It seemed that Kate was to have no chance of seeing May alone. She rose to take her leave presently, feeling that the visit had altogether not been a satisfactory one. But she was not to be balked so easily. She was quite determined that she would see her again before long, and alone too. i “What! must you be going already?” May asked, somewhat feebly. : “Yes, dear;, 1 promised. Aunt Constance I would be back by six. But I think you said you had not been out all day. Why not come — with me a little way?’ » “Yes, I shall like it very much,” May re- plied, quickly, She had half-risen' from her chair; but she sink back again, and the words died from her lips, for she had met her husband’s eyes fixed on her with a look of doubt and suspicion in ~ them. SY ae “He is afraid to trust me,” she thought, bitterly; “‘he fears I may be tempted to say more than I ought. He should know me better than that. After all, what does it matter—what does anything matter now? Then aloud she added, ‘It looks yery warm ~ out; I dare say it will be wiser if I stay in the house,” ws Mr. Langley understood why she so suddenly — changed her mind, and his heart smote bim. “ You won’t find it too warm in the wood, May, it is quite cool and shady beneath the . trees,” he said, Jaying his hand upon the bell. “T will ring for your hat.” He watched the two friends as they crossed the lawn, each with an arm around the other’s «= © waist. How often he had seen them walking justin the same way a year ago in the garden behind the school! May’s step was more elastic then; her cheeks had the glow of bealth | in them, and a smile was ever ready on her — 7 lips. It was seldom she smiled now. _ . “He turned away from the window with a May glanced nervously toward the door be- | groan; he could not bear to see her now, re- membering what she was then. The ‘She is the housekeeper; but she nursed me | was too painful, and it had been his doing. when baby was born, and she has waited on | Why had he not left ber in peace?—why had go off like — he come into ber life only to mar it? “JT wonder you should let them that alone.” It was Mrs. Dexter who spoke; she did not even make a pretense of civility when stran- gers were not present, She was standing close behind him, looking over his shoulder. He did not resent her right to question bim.. ‘‘ Why sbould I not?” was allbe said, =—— “ Why? Ishould think you ought to know that best yourself. Here’s this school friend — of hers has turned up to whom she has likely been in the habit of confiding everything. What’s to prevent her telling her all now?” ; “She would not for my sake,” Mr. Langley replied; but there was a want of confidence in histone, - “ Wouldn’t she?” loudly and coarsely. ‘Don’t flatter yourself she cares for you, now that she knows the truth; ’tisn’t in human nature she should. I © told you how it would be when you came back) that day and said you were married; didu’t 1?” “You did,” be replied, calmly—the calm- ness of despair, The same thought had been haunting him for some weeks, ‘ But I loved her so! Ihad had so little happiness in my dreary life! Why should my life be one long sacrifice? Heaven knows I would have kept the truth from her if I could!” is 5) Samy vy * ye ty 6) hy oe en i Mrs, Dexter laughed out me Nsy Mess :. ae “
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: * Seas : | ote Tee ‘‘And so you sacrificed her—” Mrs. Dat ©. began. But he looked so wretched that even ; she thought it wiser to pursue the subject no fe - further. ‘‘ What can’t be cured must be en- dured,” she said, as she left the room. “But Td keep an eye on that friend of hers, if I were you.” , CHAPTER V. A FRIEND IN NEED. “You look tired, dear; let us rest here; it is » delightfully cool by the water.” And Kate Dunstable sat down on the bank of the river, almost in the same place as Bess and Abel Dexter had chosen for their meeting an hour or so before, May sunk down wearily beside her, and rested her head lovingly on her friend’s -. , shoulder. ‘*Oh, Kate, it is iMod to be with you again!” she sighed. “How I wish I could awake and find the last twelve months had been only a dream!” ; “Tben your marriage has not been a happy one, dear?’ Kate said, very gently. She did not want to force May’s confidence; _ but she thought it would be a relief to her to speak. — ‘““I did not say that, Kate. sure I did not say so?” She looked behind her timidly, as if she _ feared some one might be lurking behind the trees . “You did not say so, certainly; but, as a _ rule, if one is happy, one would rather that happiness were a reality than a dream.” aa ‘* Ab, you are soclever. It is no use trying _ to deceive you; and it is true, Kate, I am not happy; I am very, very wretched!” a “ He is not cruel to you, my poor child? Do snot say that Mr. Langley is unkind to you!” She drew the poor trembling girl nearer to her, as if to protect her from all danger. d Unkind!” May éxclaimed. “ ’Duke unkind! Ah, how little you know bim! He has ‘never used one hard word to me _ since the day we were married. Kate, were you very angry, did you think very badly of me when you found I had gone away without one word?” “- “E was very grieved, dear, to think you _ should not have taken me into your confidence; but I think, perhaps, I can guess at the reason. It was because of Fred, was it not?’ “Yes, partly. I thought naturally you would bave been vexed with me on his ac- count, for I did treat him very badly, I know that, ‘How he must hate and despise me now!” Kate preferre d to i ignore the latter part of her remark. “Tt would have been kinder to have told him the truth at the time,” she said. “And it was the truth that you did not love him: I I felt sure of it from the first. You are so totally dissimilar in every way. Fred is so practical—so matter-of-fact. Mr. Langley is -. as romantic as yourself, I should say. Do you know, May, I have often wondered why h> took so much trouble to meet you secretly and then run away with you, instead of getting your uncle’s consent to your marriage, and being married in an orthodox way. He isa gentleman, and had just inherited this property. Mr. Sandford could hardly have objected to him.” _ “ Perhaps uncle Gregory would have thought me too young,” May stammered, ‘‘and "Duke - wished there should be no delay; he was so afraid something might happen that would separate us. But oh, Kate! uncle Gregory has ‘been so cruel to me, so very unkind! I know I had no right to act as I did after all his kind- _ - ness to me; I know it was deceitful and wick of me, but I fancied he loved me too well no to forgive me.” “And has he not?” Kate inquired, in sur- prise. .“‘There must be some mistake—some extraordinar y misunderstanding somewhere, Isaw your uncle not very long ago. Let me No, no; I am “4 oT = Pastel eer A: as Bee Ps * Ww ts : 4 tts 4 a oe vhs af pia? a F. ’ N ’ ‘ \ * ro ¢ ne poe r < 7, i, Se PINE SEM a Oa a SRPMS RR ay A ots ee ee nt Oa ieee 54 A, Se eae eS Aan ee a ee Re ee a es A SCATHING ORDEAL. se ee een erste eo ts i the same hotel. Papa knew him slightly, and when I heard who he was, you may be sure I was anxious to make his acquaintance for your sake.” The languid, apathetic expression passed from May’s face. She laid her hand on her friend’s arm and looked\up eagerly into her face. ‘And did he speak of me, Kate? me all he said.” ““Yes, he did speak of you, but not until we had got to be quite friendly, and that took some ‘little time. I think he took rather a fancy to me after a little bit. “Tam sure that it was no more than his duty to do so, considering that I never in ali my life took so much trouble to please any one. I used to play cribbage with him of an evening sometimes; and now and then we would walk together around town. Oh, how tired I used to get of that monotonous, uninteresting stretch of pavement! And all this time he never once mentioned your name voluntarily. “Well, Icould stand it no longer, and we were going away in a day or two. I was deter- mined to make him. speak of you. You see, I had of course asked after you before, but I saw by his manner that the subject was'a pain- ful one.” ‘* Mh, yes, I understand,” May said, with a sigh. ‘‘He wishes to forget me. But go on, dear.” “We were sitting in one of the little glass- houses looking out over the sea, He had been silent for a long time. I felt sure he was thinking of you, and I made up my mind to speak. Then he told me all; how you had sent a letter to him on the day of your mar- riage begging him to forgive you; and how he had written back in the first burst of anger, saying he never wished to see you nor to speak to you again.” “Yes, it was a cruel letter,” May said, “and if made we very miserable; yet I did not quite believe he really meant what he said. I tan- cied he would relent in time.” . ‘And so he did. He told me he regretted it almost as soon as the letter was posted.” “Then why bas he never taken any notice of any of the letters I have written to him since?” ‘© What! did you then veatiy) write to him again?” Kate cried, excitedly. “‘He never heard from you but that once; be told meso. He fancied that you could not forgive him for the harsh words he used in that first note. And though he has posted many and many a letter to you since, he had no reply to one. He be- lieved you had quite ceased to love him.” “T can’t seca md it all,” said May, in an awe-stricken tone. “ Some one must have in tercepted the letters. It must be—” , She paused abruptly, fearing to say more. “ After all,” she added, thoughtfully, “it is far better Uncle Gregory should not come here. Yes; it could dono good, But I should like to send him just one line to say that I shall never forget him—that I love him as I always have— no, more; for I am more in need of love and sympathy than ever I was before. Kate, I may tell you this much. There is a wretched secret in my husband’s life; a fearful secret, which I may never breathe ‘to living soul. Duke would have kept it from me if he could; for eleven months he succeeded; but just be- fore my baby was born, I found it out quite by accident.” She shuddered as the recollection returned to her, and covered her face with her hands. “And so you thinkit is your husband who has kept back your letters, and who wishes you to be entirely separated from your friends and relations, lest they. too, should discover it?’ “No; it is not ‘Duke’s doing—at least, not entirely. I think it must be Mrs. Dexter or her son—perhaps both. Oh, Kate, how I hate them! I wonder if it is. very wicked to hate people as I hate them? You have not seen Dexter yet. He is ’Duke’s valet, and I think 1 Oh, tell _ see—it was last winter in St. Louis; we were | detest him more than his mother. You cannot » alt: ‘apmaing a few weeks there, and he was at think how insolent be is at times. » x ‘ 4 Then dey does Mr. Langley keep’ him?” inquired Kate, bewildered. ‘‘ Why does he not send him away?” ‘* Because—oh, cannot you understand /— because he dare not!” The words were scarcely uttered, when the ferns behind them were parted, and Dexte» himself came leisurely forward, a fishing. basket slung across his shoulder, and @ fishing rod in his hand. ‘“Excuse me interrupting you, ma’am, bu: Mr. Langley told me, if I happened to con e across you, to say be "hoped you wouldn’t stop out too long, for the dew will soon be rising.’ There was a gleam of malice in his black eyes, which made both girls feel certain he had overheard, at any rate, part of their conver- sation; how much, it was impossible to say. May trembled with apprehension; but Kate rose and regarded him defiantly. For a niw- ment or two they stood looking at each cther, distrust on the face of both. Kate’s eyes were the first to waver and fall, for an expression of bold, undisguised admiration had come into his, Such a look’would have been an insult from from any one; but from a man in his position— a servant!—it made her wish she were a man that she might strike him. A hot flush of in- dignation spread up to the roots of her fair bair. Perbaps he guessed something of ber feelings; but, if such were the case, it did not appear to affect him in the very smallest de- gree. Kate fancied she heard him laugh sotthy to himself as he turned upon bis heel, aad moved off to where a turn in the river hia hin from their sight. “Tam afraid you must go, dear,” she said to May. ‘It is not safe for us to talk bes; and if you remain longer, we shall be -su-- pected. You are right about that man: Iba looks dangerous, and I mistrust him entirely.” ** But we shall meet again—I shall see ) ou, again before long?’ May pleaded. ‘Yes; but I must think it all over and ar- range something. In the mean time, wiiie your letter to your uncle. Stay; you see that fallen willow, a little lower down, close to the water, not very far from where my boat is moored? There is a hollow in the trunk. If you can manage to get away unperceived to- morrow morning, come here early and piace the letter there. I will go and teteh it s me time in the day, and it shall be posted the »ame eventing.” “Dear Kate, you are a true friend! How I wish I could tell youal; but I dare not, for the secret is not my own.” “‘Yes—yes, I quite understand; do not let that trouble you. Poor little May! I would give a great deal to be able to help you—to make you look a little more like what you used to be in the old days. And now goodsby. We shall soon meet again, never fear,” Kate stood looking after ber until she had. reached the little path leading to the drive: then, with a sigh, she turned and waiked quick- ly to where the boat was fastened. Not a dozen yards from it stood Abel Dex tr. fishing. Of course there was nothing against his | «- ing there. He had more right there than sic had. Yet Kate felt angry; she believed he hau. chosen that spot only because it was thefe she must cross the river. Turning her back upon him, she hor: iediy began trying to unloosen the knots in the rope which secured the boat to the trunk of a tree, The old proverb of ‘‘more haste, less. spced,’’ was never truer than then; for the more she pulled and tugged away at the cord the tighter it became. Surely she never tied it so fir aie as this herself! Abel laid down his fishing-rod and came toward her. She heard his Step approaching. What would she not have given then for a knife? Sinking on her knees on the damp ground, she tried to loosen the stubborn knots with her teeth. Nota dignified attitude fora: _ ; young lady; but Kate was desperate.
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3. ™ . « ane mano “Perbaps I can do it for you,” he said: *‘ won’t you let me try?’ What did he mean by speaking to her in that tone—almost as if he considered himself an equal? “No, thank you; I can manage it quite well - wayself,” Kate replied, baughtily—that is, as haughtily as she could under the circumstances, ; Itwas not very easy to look haughty and dignified kneeling there among the river sedges. Abel went leisurely back to his place and resumed his fishing. For ten minutes more she worked away bravely, till her fingers ached and her teeth felt loose. Still the’ knot was as tight as ever, A large drop of rain splashed down upon her hand; then another. The sky had become overcast; there was evidently going to be a heavy storm. é Abel drew in his line and put up his fishing- tackle, He wasgoing away. Soon he would pass her. If he offered to help her now she would not refuse. ; But he did not offer; he did not even glance in her direction. She rose to her feet; there was no help for it, she must speak to him or go back to the Hall for assistance. “Do you happen to have a knife with you?” she asked, with assumed carelessness, as if the idea had but just occurred to her. He pretended not to hear her. She had to Tepeat her question; then he stopped, a slight smile of quiet amusement on his lips, infinitely - more irritating than words could have been. Taking a knife from his pocket, he opened it and handed it to her. Kate took it and cut away the rope almost savagely, fully conscious that he was watching her with that disagreeable smile still on his lips. Soon the boat was free, and she was rowing vigorously across the river. | It wasraining hard now. She was not sorry, when she had landed aud was walking quickly toward the house, to see some one coming toward her with an umbrella and shawl. When she came nearer, to her surprise she saw it was her brother Fred. Her heart gave a sudden bound and then seemed to stand still, for she guessed at once that something must be wrong at home and he had come to fetch her. Her little sister had not been well when she last beard from home; perhaps she was worse —seriously ill! “Oh, Fred!” she cried, running up to him and clasping her hands over his arm, ‘ what is it—is anything the matter?” “My dear girl, if you get so excited be- fore you. hear a word, bow shall I be able to tell_ you?” He stooped and kissed her; then, unfolding the peat ce Lag it round her. ‘ nm ee m - ivaeeen Pp me in suspense, please, Fred! Is “Yes, it is Dora,” he replied, gravely. “She has the searlet fever. We all thought it wiser that you should mot come home; but she was not so weil last night, and she asked for you, and so—” t “And so you have come for me. It was eruel not to have told me the truth from the first. There could be no danger for me, for I have had the fever. Please walk faster; we must start immediately.” “No; certainly not!” he said, decidedly. “You are out of breath already. There is not a train for more than an hour, and we shall not take twenty minutes driving to the station, You will have plenty of time to change your wet clothes and get something to eat. Re- member, we have a long journey before us, and you will need all your strength when you arrive.” Perhaps it was not very surprising, with so much to think of and trouble her, that Kate forgot all about May. It was not until she and Ered were in the train that she remembered her promise about the letter. _ They were just passing Normanton. The Ted chimneys of the old Hall could be seen 4 . ré ‘-. Battal hy viel “ a wit wt ee ¥ e @ ’ as hd 4 J wart ‘tin ca Se at ey » her. What would poor May think of her going away without any explanation? = Of course she could write as soon as she got home, but it was more than doubtful whether person for whom it was intended. In her dilemma she could think of nothing better than asking her brother’s advice. In as few words as possible she told him of her inter- view with Mrs. Langley. She was a little surprised at the way in which he received her news. She had never seen Fred so excited before. She had fancied it was possible he might care for May still, but she did not know how much until now. When the first flush of auger had faded from his face, it left him deathly pale. ‘‘T shall sift this to the bottom, Kate,” he said firmly. ‘‘ Who knows what horrible crime this man may not have committed? Is she to be always kept a prisoner in her own house— watched, insulted, and intimidated by ber own servants? Is her life to be sacrificed for his? Good Heaven! to think that I should have lost her for this!” ‘* But, Fred,” his sister interposed, gently, “‘remember, whatever Mr. Langley may have been guilty of, he is her husband. Do you imagine that May would thank you for drag- ging this wretched secret to light? Though it may cost her much, she is as anxious as he is to hide the truth.” “Kate,” he said, bending forward, the bet- ter to see how she received his words, and speaking in a low, concentrated voice, ‘‘ who can say but he may have been already married when he tempted May to elope with him? Perhaps she is not really bis wife.” There were beads of perspiration on his brow as he concluded, and the hand which in his ea- gerness he bad laid on hers trembled percepti- bly; butshe had no pity for bim. She shook off the haud angrily, and ber eyes flashed upon him indignantly. ‘And you can think this of ber—of the woman you pretended to love! Do you. believe May capable, once she had Jearnt tbe truth, of staying one hour longer beneath his roof?” “Forgive me, Kate!” he said despondently. “T don’t think I quite know what I am say- ing.” *¢ And all thistime you are not helping me, You say nothing of how that letter is to be got from the trunk of the willow.” **T see no other way than going to fetch it.” “You! Do you mean that you will go back to Normanton for it?” ; “Yes; if Dora is better, I will return by the first train. Jf the letter isleft there, it may fall into somebody else’s hands.” But more than the wish to get the letter was the desire to be near May, to be ready to save and protect her in case of need. CHAPTER VI, TWO SCHEMERS. Oup Mrs. Pearson had spoken no more than the truth when she described Mrs. Dexter’s sitting-room as being ‘fit for any fine lady.” The carpet was of the richest and softest; the chair-coverings and window-hangings of deli- cately tinted satin brocade; valuable pictures— the greatest gems of the old Squire’s collection —adorned the walls; while the*cabinets con- tained old china and ornaments so costly that the former mistress of Normanton had suffered no one to touch them but herself, dusting them always with her/own fair hand. Abel had had this room prepared for his motber under his own especial supervision, and it did him credit. Mrs. Dexter was seated before a small table, on which was a quantity of lace, yellow with age. She had been a lady’s-maid at one time, and had had too much to do with lace not to ful- ly understand and appreciate its value. A smile of satisfaction came into her face as she handled it, for of its costliness there could be no doubt. ‘SCATHING ORDEAL. above:the trots) “It-was-that which reminded | the letter would ever be allowed to reach the Abel came in presently, looking tired and cross. He flung himself down heavily en one of the couches, never heeding that his dirty boots left. a mark on the satin cushion. Mrs. Dexter loved her son; perhaps he occu- pied the one soft spot in her heart. Going up to him, she laid her hand caressingly on his forehead. ‘Tt aches, dear, I know,” she said—ber voice always took a softer tone when she addressed him. ‘Shall I fetch you some eau-de- Cologne?” He jerked his head away from her impatient- ly. “For goodness sake, mother, leave me in peace. Can’t you see I am fagged to death and worried, and want to be let alone? You ought to know by this time that I hate being fawned upon. If you want to be of use, get me a glass of brandy and soda.” ‘Oh, Abel!’ she remonstrated. “ You almost promised me yesterday you would try and leave off this evil habit. It is growing en you, dear, or I wouldn’t speak. Remember what came of it last month. If you had been quite yourself, you would never have forgotten to draw the heavy bolt of that door, and Mrs. Langley would have learned nothing to this day.” You are forever dinning it into my ears.” “T wouldn’t speak of it, my boy, but for the sake of getting you to let the brandy alone.” ““ What else can a fellow do but drink during this infernally hot weather?’ he retorte?. ** But there, mother, just get it nie now, there’s a good soul; my throat is parched with thirst. One glass won’t burt me.” With a sigh, she rose and did as he bade her. As a child she had indulged and spoilt bim, refusing bim nothing which it was in her power to give him; now that he had grown to be a man, he tyrannized over her. She bad brought it on herself and received her fate un- complainingly. She was so proud of her hand- some, gentlemanly son; she was willing to be his slave, even, if that would give him pleas- ure. When she bad received the empty glass from his hands she went back to her place and began — sorting and folding the lace. 3 ‘‘ What is it you have got there?” he asked. “Some lace, dear; they’ are beautiful, and worth quite a little fortune. I found them in the old wardrobe; such a quantity, too?” “So you have been at your old games!” he cried, rising and regarding her angrily. “Didn't I tell you I’d have you take nothing more?’ ; “Nonsense, Abel; I only take what was in the house when we came. I don’t believe Mrs, Langley has a notion of half what-ishere. I found the. inventory, and have got it myself, put away safely. It is but anticipating things. a little, anyway,” she added, with a laugh. “I suppose you won’t grudge me these bits of © things when they come to you?” ~ a “T am sick to death of it all,” he said, with a frown, ‘‘Sometimes | think it would’ be wiser to throw the whole business up, and go | off with what we have got.” ~~ “Abel!” Mrs. Dexter looked at him in blank dismay; and the flounce of Brussels point which she was in the act of folding, fell from her hands to the ground! ‘You must be mad! What! go away and give up all chance of being the master of Normanton?” “IT think it is more than doubtful I shall ever be that,” he replied, gloomily. “You seem to forget the will, duly signed and witnessed, made six months ago, on the very day before we came bere.” , “What is to prevent his making another?” “He cannot!” Mrs, Dexter exclaimed, tri- umphantly; “for we could soon prove it was no better than waste paper!” . ‘““We could, certainly; but that wouldn’t help us,” Abel rejoined, sharply; her confi- - dence irritated him. ‘Would you like to’ know what. he said to me not ‘au hour ago?’ /. ‘ f . PAS. F ar 4 oy “Are you going to’bring all that up again? ,
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‘he shunistnod looking up at hoes from under. his | man would be only too glad to have your. _ black brows. ‘I suppose I had angered him, and put him out of patience. ‘Take care, Dexter,’ he said; ‘you may go too far. A ‘ little more, and I will risk everything and : - give myself up.’” . “He never said that?” cried his mother. “He did; and, what is more, I believe he ' meant what he said, too, I have noticed a change im him lately—a change I don’t like, Since his little fool of a wife has been in the seeret, he hasn’t been the same man. He Se knows that she fears him now more than loves fs him; and he can’t help seeing how ill and wretch- ed she is. My opinion is he will disappear onwof ‘these fine days if we don’t eth a pretty sharp: ‘ae look-out after him.” ; “That would spoil everything with a ven- _ geance,” his mother said, thoughtfully. . “It - would be hard to give up all, just as it seems _ within our grasp. But don’t be in a hurry, * Abel; you may be wrong. He is such a cow- _ard, I believe he will put up with anything sooner than let the truth be known. I can’t see Normanton slip through our fingers without _ making one effort to keep it, Afterall, my -.— -boy, it should have been yours by right. It » -will be mo more than justice for you to reign Dy here as master.” o “And, in the mean time, I am nothing but a er “servant!” he remarked bitterly. “And D’ve got te endure the haughty sneers and superior airs of girls who would be glad enough to be place; and I don’t know but we should be the gainers by the change.” “T am sure I didn’t mean that, Mr. Dexter; and I wouldn’t have spoken as I did if Id thought ’twould have angered you. I: meant no offense; but Polly, she begged me to do my best. She’s nervous, you sce, and. the cries them birds gives is enough to frighten a timid thing like her—it’s so awful human.” Marks turned away, very sore at heart. He was an old man, and bis wife was slowly dying. He could not. risk being turned out of his situation at such a time. When he was gone Mrs. Dexter carefully closed the window, and then cast an anxious look of inquiry upon her son. ‘* Did you mean what you said, Abel? Will the bird have to be let loose to-night?” ‘Yes, I think so; it will be safest, anyway. One never knows what may happen. If I am not greatly mistaken, we shall have a bad time of it.” “TI am always so anxious about you, my boy, at these times,” she said, with a deep sigh. ‘‘I would almost as soon trust you in a den of wild beasts as see you enter that hate- ful room!” “And yet you won’t let me have my own way,” he rejoined, sullenly. ‘‘How long is this to goon, I should like to know? . Mother, I am growing desperate. I shall leave the door unbolted to-night; I will put-it off no ow _ my wife if I were master bere instead of valet.” | longer. We have agreed that it shall be done, ‘Never mind,’ dear; all that’ willbe! sooner or later. \.hat is the use of delay- changed when that time comes,” ing?” “Yes, when it comes! It’s only your ner- We might be - yous silliness that keeps it back now. What does that fellow Marks want here? He is com- ing up to the window—like bis impudence! “What do you want, Marks? I told you, _evly the other day, that ‘if you wanted to-see me, you could come to the front door and ask to speak to me.” + “Its only a half-dozen of sparrers, Mr. Dexter, as I've been and trapped for your “No, no; not that, Abel! murdered in our beds!” She clung to him, trembling in every limb, her eyes wide open in terror. He pushed her from bim roughly. She had to take hold of the back of a chair. to prevent herself from falling. A contemptuous sneer curled the corner of his thin lips as he regarded her. “What a coward you are, mother!” he cried, 2 es a ee EEE EE —— eS ae al 4 owls,” the gardener said, handing the birds in scornfully, ‘‘All my life you have lea me. to at the windew. belisve that Normanton shall be mine. We ae “Then why the devil do you bring them | have waited long enough, as you know, to here? Just take them round to the kitchen ts. and give them to the cook, will you? If I - want them I will get them. But it’s not at all _ likely, for I mean to let the birds out to-night _ to forage for themselves.” The. man was turning away, but at Abel’s 2 come here. I thought the old Squire was never going to die; and, even then, six months were wasted, what with repairing the place, and one thing and another. Now, when there is nothing more to be done, and I say that the finishing touch must be put to what we have both been planning and plotting for all these years, you shrink from it.” Mrs. Dexter covered her face with both ‘hands; her whole frame shook with emotion, which she vainly strove to conquer. ‘Have you, so easily forgotten your own wrongs, and how you swore you would one day have your revenge, and see me righted? Mother, I am ashamed of you; I thought you would bave had more spirit,” » Her bands dropped helplessly to her side, She was white to the lips, and her voice was but little above a whisper. ‘*Do as you will, Abel; 1 will say no more. Only don’t Jet it be this time. If it must be, words he stepped and looked at him implor- ingly. oe Oh! sir, I do hope as you don’t mean that! Ido hope as you won’t let ’em out to-night of all on My poor old woman is took worse.” He paused and rubbed his coat-sleeve across et aes on earth has all this to do with. me?” Abel asked, irritably. 4 “Well, you see, sir, I got tiem sparrers hem a 1 thought they’d keep the dratted birds quiet, And now, if you go and let one on ’em _ out, Polly’! not geta wink of sleep the livelong night, Now, if you must let ’em out, couldn’t you let the two loose for once? Maybe they then je = m ‘operas a oe It’s the one as is at up m such a-screaming, a-cryin - for its mate,” . It was a long speech for old Marks to make, Kew of the servants ever ventured to remon- strate with Abel Dexter. _ “Have you quite done?’ Abel asked, in ill- suppressed rage. He had ‘been longing for something on which to vent his bad temper for go to New York when the time comes.” “ Perhaps it would be better. You are so weak. If you were here, very likely you would say or do something that would betray us. Yes, 1 see it would be wiser you should not be here. I can manage best alone.” ‘‘ Don’t speak like that, Abel; you talk as if you were going to do it yourself!” she ex- . some time. Claimed, with a shudder. ‘‘ Remember, it “Yes, sir; I don’t know as Pve anything | won’t be your doing, whatever happens!” else to say.” “No; it won't be my doing,” he rejoined, -Mark’s voice had grown very despondent— ae knew his mission had failed. “Then be off with you and go on with your: digging; and remember, I am not one to stand _ being dictated to. Do you think I shall con- _ sult your wishes as to whether I let the birds | room, when he called her back, ~ out or not? Let me hear no more of this. If | ' ‘‘ Where are you going now?” he asked, bee + you don’t find the situation at the cottage to | authoritatively. . He seemed to enjoy the petty sate liking, you can leave it, There’s many a tyranny emis he exercised over her, with a short laugh; ‘‘but I shall be obliging enough to give the opportunity.” His mother did not join in the laugh; even she felt something like horror at his treating A SCATHING: ORDEAL. No later, ee en -her at once, brings. let it be when Lam away from here. 1 will such a subject lightly. She was leaving the 4 ’ \ = Epes URSIN One HP EME elccellhoe, Pow 11 cae ft ae WEES ‘‘T was going to look for Mrs. Langley,” she replied, meekly! ‘*I haven’t seen her tor over an hour. Goodness knows what she is up to! I was so taken up with this lace, and then with talking with you, that I forgot all about her,” ‘*Well, you can come back and look over your precious laces a little longer, if; you like, Luekily, I don’t trust everything to you. She was off to the wood long ago.” “Good gracious, Abel! Why didn’t you tell me as soon as youcame in? J must go after She will be meeting that Miss Dunstable there, who is stopping at Colonel Brereton’s. The Grange grounds are only di- vided from ours by the river, you know.” ‘Exactly; but you see I have already sent her husband after her, Oh, he saves me a lot of trouble, I can tell you.” While this little scene had been taking, place in Mrs, Dexter’s room, May had made her way through the wood, taking the direction:of the river. The precious letter was in her pocket.. In a few minutes more it would be safe in the trunk of the fallen tree, and by to-morrow uncle Gregory would know that she had never for a moment ceased to love him. Her heart beat fast, and the unusual exercise breught a faint flush, to her cheeks, She be- lieved she had left the house quite unobserved: but. before she had gone far, the sound of rapid footsteps behind her made her turn round in sudden alarm. The next moment she was face to face with Mr, Langley. ~ “T thought perhaps you would ‘Tet me come with you, May, if you are going for a walk,” be said, hesitatingly. ‘‘ We see so little of each other now.” His eyes fell beneath her mournful lock of reproach, and the color spread over his face. He knew intuitively she had divined his reason for following her. ‘You are afraid to trust me nione; ’Duke,”” she said, sadly. ‘Is it always to be like this? Am I always to be watched and followed?” ‘‘Heaven knows I meant to trust you!” be cried, wildly. ‘‘ When some demon thought has tempted me to doubt you I have tried to put it from me. I believed you loved me too much to betray me; but your love has turned to horror and loathing. Ah, yes, you cannot deny it! You shrink from me even as I speak,” ‘“Duke—’Duke, you don’t know what you are saying! Why should I hate you?” “Ts there not reason enough; Have I not ‘| sufficient proof, if proof were. needed?” He came nearer to her, bending till his hot breath was in her face. ‘* Listen,” he said, his voice hearse and un- natural. ‘You thought you were alone just: now when you wrote the letter; but you were not. I was in the room, hidden by the win- dow curtain, I had not gone there to spy upon you. I wished for nothing more than to be near you; to breathe the same air as you did; to see your dear eyes without that look of terror in them which my presence always It was reward enough for me if your dress but touched me in passing. I was so near, I need but bave put out my arms to have clasped yon to my heart; but I stifled the wild longing that was in me, as I have stifled it so often of late, Then I saw you take paper and envelope and write the words which are to bring my ruin. That letter is in your pocket now! Ah, you tremble! It is true; I have found you out. You were to meet your friend here and give it to her, no doubt, Ina few days my cousin would have learnt all, and I should be taken from you, a prisoner!— betrayed by my wife—the only mayer: in this whole world whom I love!” May had cowered from him, a look of fright in her distended eyes; but now she started forward, ber arms outstretched, forget- ting ber fear in pity for his great agony. “No, no; you are wrong. See, you shall read the letter yourself: it is not to your cousin, Oh, "Duke, bow could you thiak me capable of that!”
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i ‘ an es . - room, ‘Tm off to John Marks’s cottage to With trembling fingers, she tore open the envelope and beld the sheet of paper before him. , ‘Look; there is no word here that could be- tray you. I only wanted to let uncle Gre- gory know that I had not forgotten him. I said there were reasons why we might never meet again; but that he must not think I had ceased to love him.” Her voice shook, and large tears rolled down her pale cheeks, ‘ “There! I will tear it up. It shall not go at all. What does it matter? One day all things will be known. Life is so short.” As the pieces of paper fell fluttering to the ground, inveluntarily her eyes were raised to the blue sky above, with a look of yearning, weary longing. Her husband gazeg at her spell-bound. How frail and weak she looked! He had never fully realized how ill and changed she was un- til now. Was she going to die? If so, it would be his doing—he would have killed her! He staggered back against a tree, covering his eyes with his hands, He wanted to think. Tt had come to this; he must choose between his life and hers. ‘ Ah, but if his were the sacrifice, he would have to give up more than life itself. How could he live away ‘from her? If only they could die together—he, she, and the child! Surely that would be the best way of putting an end to all their troubles? It would be so sweet to die like that. No one could part them then! He wondered how it had been possible that the idea had never occurred to him before. Now . that the glorious thought had come, he seized it eagerly, gladly—gloating over it. He could almost laugh out in his joy to think how soon they would all be free. But the look of exultation faded from his face; in its place came the old expression of hopeless melancholy. - It was the sight of Abel Dexter coming to- ward them which caused the change. Mr. Langley's eyes sought the ground as the valet drew near, fearful lest they should betray the thoughts which were passing in his mind, Dexter was very clever; it was seldon he trusted him for long out of his sight. But— who could telll—the time might come. He Must be very wary; he would watch and wait. CHAPTER VII. A VILLAIN’S POLICY, “Tye come to ask if you’d mind looking in on my old woman to-night, Mrs. Pearson,” Marks, the gardener, said, putting his head in at the lodge door. “What! is she worse again, John? Well, well, it’s a hard life for some of us. Conte in, do; and tell us all about it. It’s lucky we're up; we're ia bed most nights afore this; but I had some ironing to finish.” “And I wouldn't have come at such a time, pate iy: gun Post thing—she’s going fast. aia Prin day? Pp has passed her mouth He shook head dejectedly as he sunk _ wearily inte the chair ns ee the old Woh pusbed teward him, — “I feel strange and lonely-like when I think of there being only her and me in the cottage. Id take it kindly if you’d come and watch with me to-night, You’re more used to sick folks than I . and you and she was friend? Py ng y always “And that’s true enough,” she replied, her thoughts going back to the time when she and . little Polly bad played together on the village green; ‘we was fast friends, Polly and I, ever since we was little more than babies. I'll come with you, John, now at once, and welcome; but I'm afraid ’tisn’t much any of us can do for her,” r __ She reached for her bonnet and shawl, which Were hanging on a peg behind the door. “ Begs.” she called. looking toward an inner pS ee Paes =. - . T A oe t a “ L. * i" f ee Se nurse his sick wife. » Maybe I'll not be back till morning.” ; Bess appeared in the doorway, a brush in- ber hand, and her red-brown hair loose and falling in pretty waves and curls all over her shoulder. Bess spent most of her spare time in the little closet she called her bedroom,’ be- fore the square of cracked Jooking-glass, brush- ing and combing her beautiful hair. This eve- ning she had been amusing herself by arrang- ing if as Mrs. Langley did hers, smiling com- placently at her own reflection as she acknowl- edged to herself, with a flush of triumph and gratified vanity, that she was prettier—yes, a hundred times prettier—than the lady up at the Hall! She had but just time to pull it down when her granddaughter called her. “So your wife’s worse, is she, Mr. Marks?” she asked, somewhat carelessly. Bess thought too much of her own little worries to have much feeling for other people’s troubles. “Yes, she is, Bess,” replied the gardener; “and Abel Dexter—out of pure contrariness I do believe—has chosen this night of ‘all nights to let them blessed owls of his out—leastways, it’s one as is out and one in. Between the two of them screeching, she'll be worse still afore the morning.” “Owls,” she cried, eagerly; ‘‘then there really are owls at Normanton Hall?” ‘‘ Not much doubt of that, my girl; I should have thought you’d have heard them from here.” ‘‘Then Abel was telling me the truth, after all?’ she thought. ‘But it’s no secret. He “was -only making a fool of me when he Said that. He thinks I’m just a silly, ignorant girl that will swallow any trash he likes to tell me. 1’!l pay him for that, yet. Maybe there’s more in those owls than folks think of. I don’t see what a couple of birds wants with two doors to their room—and strong locks, too!” “We'd better be going, Mrs. Pearson, if you're ready,” said Marks. ‘‘I promised Polly I wouldn’t be away long.” ; ‘Poor thing! yes, let us be off. Good-night, Bess. I mayn’t be able to get back till after daylight; but you cau leave the door unbolted on the chance.” “All right, Granny; and I’ll have the fire lighted early and a cup of tea ready for ‘you when you do come.” “Ah, she’s a good girl, John,” said the old woman, proudly, as she left the lodge with ber companion—‘‘a good and a pretty as one would wish to see; a bit fond of pleasure and finery, I don’t deny—what girl isn't? But she’s fond of her old Granny, too; and her heart is in the right place.” Marks thought it wiser to make no reply to this. didn’t like about the girl lately, and be knew something of her frequent meetings with Abel Dexter; but he was not going to grieve her grandmother by telling her of this. Let her keep faith in Bess as long as she can; she will kuow soon enough. How he wished later on that he had had the courage to speak! Meanwhile, Bess was standing with her shapely arms folded, leaning in her favorite at- titude over the garden gate. The moon was at the full; the night bright, clear and peace- ful, : She was looking out dreamily over the park where the moon was shining through the trees. making the dewdrops sparkle like diamonds, She had no thought for the rare beauty of the scene; she was only saying to herself if thosé sparkling, glittering drops were real gems, how she would gather them by thousands and be be OE dpa si? even than Abel could ever make er. The cuckoo clock within the cottage behind ber jerked out the hour in shrill, unmusical tones. She counted the strokes—eleven! She had no idea it was so late as that. Yet she was not at all sleepy; if she went to bed she should not close her eyes, she knew. Hark! what was that? The sound, though only faintly borne to her : i ‘ « ‘ « ria hae ba ey aE Yea A Bhs! 8? * LAS Od a ar cas Cane ake a SEO He had heard one or two tales he. ——— on the breeze, made her start baek in alarm, it was so wild and unearthly, | The next moment she laughed at herself. the owls, of course. Were these birds so big and ifierce as, Abel had pretended, she -wondered{ » She would very much like to have a look at'them. What. was to prevent her getting her bat and walk- ing toward the Hall? No one could:see her if she kept in the shade, even if there were any one still up; but, as a rule, the whole houge- bold had retired and the house shut up for the night before this. The idea no sooner suggested itself than she hastened to act upon it. Soon she was step- ping swiftly but cautiously along the narrow footpath that skirted the drive. Weird shadows stretched across her path, It was but the ery of , cast by the gaunt, twisted branches of the tall , trees. Now and thenshe would stop suddenly, her heart beating fast as her eyes fell upon ~ some dead, barkless trunk or falien tree whose sharp outlines took almost human shape in the uncertain light. Then she would summon up all her courage and hurry past it, glancing at it fearfully the while. wy She could not say what it was that made her so anxious to proceed. Something seemed, te compel! her to advance, Soon the stately walls of the old Hall rose before her, its tall cbim-. neys standing out in sharp relief against the deep blue of the cloudless sky. diw.3*y This part of the bouse was in shadow, anid no light glimmered in avy of the window:. Bess did not pause bere, for the ery ot the birds, which had been almost continuous, came from the back. Scmetimes it was low and plaintive; then suddenly it would rise to a sbriek like the éemoniacal laugh of a madman. No wonder poor, nervous old Polly Marks found it impossible to sleep with such hideous sounds rending the air. : Keeping well out of the moonlight, and close to the hedge which bordered the terrace, Bess crept round to the other side of the build- ing.’ A light was burning in one of the rooms. here, and the blind was not drawn. athe She could see Mrs. Langley, clad in along white wrapper, her dark hair streaming far below her waist, walking agitatedly up and — down, ' Bess knew the baby was weak and sickly; she was kept awake by it, perhaps. Ah, yes; now she paused beside the cot, bending over it solici ears, as if to shut out some dreaded sound. She, too, apparently, was upset by the shrieking of the owls, W kept here? It was a question Bess could not answer at all satisfactorily; yet sbe felt convinced there was some reason for it, some hidden mys- —,— _ i: sly, and weeping and wringing ber hands; then she would place her fingerson ker 2 hy, then, were they ae ie rs. oe Ree eaerompen ae * » Pe gn ets tae Aah ft whan Face CO rnd a cee on “ ¢ tery in all this that she was resolved to fathom. |. . : While she was pondering on it, onsict thie is birds swooped down past her—so near, that it — : almost touched her as it beat the air with its hy heavy wings. It had come window of the room with the double doors: # she remembered it well, The sash was wide ~ open, and on the narrow ledge sat the captive owl, chained by the leg, flapping its wings, and uttering the most dismal cries. But stay; surely that was another cry within? fel yess, Bess strained her ears to listen. Yes, there it was again. A cry more wild, more re fearful, more human than the others. What did it mean? Abel and Marks had both spoken of © two owls, and only two, Of these one was still in the park, the other she saw above her. What was it that had given that unearthly fearas she crouched there or yell? Shs trembled with among the bushes, her white face uplifted, her strained eyes fixed on that little upper window. Yet, even then, her curiosity was quickly mas- tering ber fear, She was rapidly revolving in _ ber mind the possibility of getting near enough t ‘ ’ from an upper window, ‘the — 4 ‘:
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poh to look into Atistweont: She would never, per- a haps, have such a chance as this again; she must make the most of the opportunity now. There was a tree growing near the house; its - boughs reached to that very window. She ' ‘remembered, on the night when she had slept there, how frightened she had been by the ‘branches tapping against the pane. If only _ »she could manage to climb it, her object would be gained. , Bess was a good climber; only a few weeks -ago she had gone to the very top of her grand- mother’s biggest apple-tree in search of a bird’s nest. This would be a rather more difficult feat; but she thought she could do it.. She was ready to attempt harder things than that to discover the meanicg of that third mysterious ag cry. Abel bad thought her silly and gullible, had he? Well, he should see; by to morrow, per- _ haps, he might see cause to change bis opinion. She would be able to make him do just what _ She liked, once she had found out this secret of his. - Knotted roots of ivy encircling the trunk of the tree offered uncertsin footholds here and there; but notwithstanding this, Bess found it “no easy matter to ascend the first few feet. | However, after two or three atte upts, she at length accomplisbe1 this, and once she had reached the part from which the branches _ sprung, sbe was not many minutes climbing to the desired bight. Her frock was torn inseveral places, and her bands were scratched and bleeding; but what of that? She neither heeded the one nor felt - the other, for was she not on a level with the very window itself? The owl, frightened at her near neighbor- ‘hood, crept to the further corner of the ledge, . thus enabling her more space to look witbin. At first she could see nothing; the floor was some distance below the window, and only a small portion of the room was lighted by the moon. But, as she looked, something crept out trom the darkness, and stood in that streak of _ moonlight. Her breath came fast, For a moment she 43 “had to elose her eyes in order to give herself time to recover from a sudden giddiness which ‘had seized her. When she looked again the figure had turned toward her, Oh, the horror of that ghastly, st ashen face upraised to hers! No wonder she had to cling with all ber strength to the bbugh to prevent herself from falling. The eyes, pro- 49 truding and bloodshot, seemed to fix her with their fearful stare; both arms were stretched out toward her, the hands open and the fingers --gurved, as if to clutch at her. Ani then that horrible laughter rung out once more, peal a _ after peal, soulless and awful in its utter mirth- ‘Bess never quite knew how she came down ' from the tree, for before she had descended two-thirds of it she grew faint, her head swam, ls -ber bands relaxed their hold, and she fell heavily to the ground. _ Fora time she was unconscious. When she - eame to herself she was lying on the grass, _ bruised and aching in every limb, but, fortun- ately, not seriously hurt. he first thing that she realized was that _ some one was supporting her head, Almost at the same time came the recollection of _what _ she bad seen. With a scream, she endeavored to rise, believing she was in the grasp of the fearful being who had so alarmed her, was a little reassured, though not alto- ge er so, when she looked up and saw Abel Dexter's stern face bending over her, his dark eyes blavker than ever for the suppressed anger that lurked in their depths. is She had known that he would be angry nf _ when he learned that she had foiled him, and { found out what be meant to keep from her; and she had meant, notwithstanding, to tell him of - ay the diseovery she had made; yet now when he knelt beside her, gazing down at ber with such @old severity, she shrunk from bim in fear and Nats {spetaling, all her courage gone, | PS = . ¥ t ey . Ps > 9 ok SCATHING ORDEAL. _ Pi bast eet fe With an effort she rose to her feet; but iia. was still a little faint, and would have fallene had he not put out his hand to save her. ; ‘* Don’t look at me like that, Abel,” she mur- mured, faintly, ‘‘or I’ll think you don’t love me ” Love her! She would have fled from him in terror had she known what was passing in his mind at that moment. Even then he was calmly and dispassionately deliberating whether it would not be wiser and safer for, him to silence her now forever, before she should have time to talk of what she had seen that night. He could spring upon her and strangle her. It would be but the work of a moment; and he had but to carry her body to the river and cast it into the water. Tbere was but one thing that deterred him, and that was the fear of detection. Marks already knew of his meetings with the girl, and he thought it probable that old Mrs, Pear son might be aware of them also, True, Bess had promised not to tell her, but he put no great faith in any girl’s promise. Not because he thought that no woman could keep a secret; his opinion of the sex was not flattering nor exalted; still, he did believe a woman could be silent and loyal—once it was made thoroughly worth her while to be so, The question now was how could he convince Bess that it would be to her advantage to say nothing vf what she had seen. “What demon of curiosity prompted you to come here to-night?” he asked, his fingers clos- ing tightly over her acm, ‘‘I suppose the whole village will be as wise as you before you are a day older?” Bess was cunning; she would not contradict him. Her courage was rapidly returning; with a feeling of exultation, she realized her power over him. | ‘What would happen if ’twas known, Abel? I don’t see what difference it would make to you.” Don’t you?” he rejoined, eagerly. ‘It would make this difference. There would be nO carriages nor fine dresses for you in the fu- ture, I can tell you. Do you know,” be hissed out from between his balf-closed teeth, bend- ing his head close to hers, and speaking ina low, concentrated voice—* do you know that if yous have the sense to hold your tongue it won't be very long now before I shall be master here—master, do you hear?—master!—owner of Normanton!” ‘¢ Abel,” she gaspel, incredulously, his words almost taking away her breath, ‘‘I can’t make it all out! You never mean that you'll be the master, and mé your wife?” Perhaps that, was a little more than he did mean; ab any rate, he did not immediately re- PLY e145 .. Bess, glancing at him sideways from beneath her long lashes, fancied she saw his dark brows contract in a frown. Once he was master, she thought be might be wanting to marry a lady; it would be safer not to wait for that time. ‘Pm thinking l’ll find it easier to keep the secret when I am your wife, Abel,” she said. The color rushed to her cheeks and ber voice tremble!; but she would speak. Was it not for this she had been waiting? ‘‘I don’t see what’s to prevent your marrying me at once instead of putting it off. Ifthe good fortune’s coming so soon, why a few weeks can’t make much difference one way or another to you; and—and, Abel, you know it may make so much difference to me. I’m forever dreading lest Granny shall find out about you and me, And you wouldn’t like for folks to be talking about your wife, Abel, now would you?” His stern features never relaxed, though her voice was pleading and pathetic, and tears were shining in her eyes. She paused for a moment, hoping he might answer with some tender, reassuring words of love; but finding he remained silent, she con- tinued: | “Abel, dear, it can’t be that you don’t care for me just because I've found this out? Only let me be your wife, and you'll see I'll never sp “ fait pen) ee Saal Ae i eae eae eee ye) so ‘much as breathe one word! We could go away and be married on the quiet one day soon; no one need be a bit the wiser. I'd stay on here with Granny just the same. Then, when you’re master here, you can claim me,’ ‘“*And do you think I could allow my wife | to live at the lodge?” he asked, putting his arm round her, and drawing her to him with some show of tenderness. ‘‘No, indeed; if it must be as you say, you must go away—to New York, perhaps, where I can join you in a day or two; then we can be married, and J eould leave you there in some comfortable lodgings more suitable to your future position, Is not that a better plan?” ‘“‘Oh, Abel, yes, of course; you always know best. And I'll be so glad to ses New York; and you'll give me money, won’t you. to get dresses and things, so that when you come J’Il be looking as I ought, and you wouldn’t be ashamed of me?” ; ‘‘ Yes, yes, to be sure; you shall have all © that is necessary.” He wes ready to agree to anything now that he saw so easy a method of getting her out of the way. That was the first thingto}t °n- sidered. Once she was safely awa) ere would be time enough to form plans for the future. Of one thing, at any rate, he was very sure—and that was that Bess Pearson should never be his wife. And so he smiled to bimself, a smile of quiet satisfaction, as he stooped and kissed her; and foolish, trusting Bess, laid her bead upon bis shoulder and almost laughed out in pee happiness, believing that she had triumphed at last, CHAPTER VIII. THE BITTER END. FrED DUNSTABLE had been a week at TLo Grange. He had gone bome with Kate, jus: waited to hear that little Dora was better, seni then returned by the first train, as he had said he would. Mrs. Brereton was not a little surprised to see him back so soon. Had it been any one but Fred she would have been alarmed, for she knew tbat at one time he bad been engaged to May, and she more than suspected that the young man bad got over that attechment. She did feel a little uneasy when, not an hour after his arriva), he was starting with his fish- ing-rod in the direction of the river, and she even ventured to speak to him. But the lock of pain on his frank, honest face made her feel ‘ashamed of her suspicions before she had said half a dozen words, She felt herself growing red under his steady, reproachful gaze, and her little speech was concluded with almost au apology. “T have known you so long, Fred,”, she said, ‘you must not mind my talking to ycu Tike this. It 1s not that I kelieve you eapable of acting dishonorably, but I fear if yiu renew your ecquaintance with Mrs. Langley it will only bring trouble to both of you. Poor girl! I am att aid her life is far from a bappy one as it is. “] know it,” he replied, sadly; ‘‘and believe me, aun Constance, I would sooner die than do anything which might add to her unba} pi- ness. I shall not seek to speak to ber—I may not even see ber; but I have reason to know that she needs a friend, and I would be that friend, Cannot you trust me?” A He held out bis hand as he spoke, and Mrs. Brereton placed bers unhesitatingly in it, Then he had left her and gone his way. A few moments later, when he was rowing across the river, he heard voices in the wood. One he would have recognized anywhere—it was May’s; the other he suspected to be Mr. Langley’s. . Not wishing to be seen, he guided his boat in among some tall reeds, which completely con- cealed him. From there he witnessed May’s interview with her husband. ; He could not bear what they said, but ho ees, ~ 4 a Pod at » (a8 Te Dodrieptay,t Paeee | che 4 . at bide Gn of
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x could see that Mrs, Langley was greatly =F tated, When she took a letter from her pocket and tore if up, be understood that it was the ‘same letter which be had come to fetch, and that she was renouncing all intention of com- municating with her uncle. There was nothing for him to do but go back to The Grange as soon as they left the spot and _the coast was clear, However, each morning he had crossed the river and searched in the hollow trunk of the fallen willow, thinking it was possible she might have changed her mind. Though he hardly allowed the thought to frame itself, he had some hope of seeing her once more, Her face, as he had beheld it last, sad, pale, and tear-stained, had haunted him ever since. He said he would not seek to speak to her; still, if they should meet, perhaps she would confide to him; perhaps she might tell him of her trouble, and suffer him to help her. But May never came near the river, never even entered the wood. It was seldom, if ever, that she went further than the terrace. And so Fred could do nothing but torture himself with the thought that the woman he loved was unbappy—possibly, even ill-treated —and he was powerless to assist her. There was no excuse for his staying here any longer. His father had already written to him, urging his return home. On the morrow he decided that he would do so. I¢ was more than half-past twelve, but still Fred remained out on the balcony, leaning with folded arms over the carved stone balus- trade, bis eyes turned in the direction of Nor- manton. He could not see the house, but the tall trees marked the spot where it stood. To-morrow he would be many miles away, and it was quite within the range of possibility that he might never see May again. Well, it was bet- ter so—better for his peace of mind at any rate, he told himself. And yet he felt a ake reluctance at leaving the neighbor- 0 The night was not quite dark, for there was 2 moon, but every now and then its light was ebscured by heavy masses of cloud drifting across the sky. Angry gusts of wind swept round the house, and howled and whistled among the trees. Soon large drops of rain be- gan to fall, and a sound of muffled thunder rolled im the distance, He moved toward the window, but before stepping inte the room turned for one last look at Normanton. With a muttered exclama tion, he went quickly back to his former posi- tion. There was a strange glow in the sky above the frees. He could not make it out. It had not been therd five minutes before, or he must have seen it, It brightemed and reddened as he gazed. The windows ef the hall, like fiery eyes, were visible now threugh the branches. What could it mean? The raim was beating down upon his uncov- ered head, but still he stood diane, a look of horror consing into his face, and what had at - first been but a vague dread in his mind gradually growing and strengthening until it _ became an indisputable certainty. Normanton Hall was on fire! A minute later Fred was hammering away at Colenel Brereton’s door. * “Hullo!” shouted the colonel, putting out his hand to feel for his revolver, which always lay ready loaded on a table near the bed. “ Who's there? What's wrong?” His thoughts instantly rushed to thieves, for- getting that, as a rule, they do not think it necessary te go through the formality of knocking before entering a room. “Don’t be alarmed, sir,” said Fred, vainly endeavoring to speak ‘calmly. “T am afraid there is something wrong atthe hall. It looks to me very like-a fire.” This was received by a little scream from Mrs. Brereton, who had only caught the last wo A SCATHING ORDEAL. “Fire, Fred!” she cried, excitedly. ‘‘ Where? —which room?” “Not here at all, Aunt Constance,” he re- plied, impatiently. ‘‘ At Normanton.” “Thank heaven!” she ejaculated, fervently. “Oh, dear, what a fearful fright you gave me! I thought the house was on fire.” Mrs. Brereton was not selfish as a rule, but most people would prefer that a fire should break out in their neighbor's house than their own. She was soon full of concern tor May. In an incredibly short space of time she and her husband were dressed, and the whole household roused; and in little more than ten minutes, Fred, the colonel, and a couple of men servants had reached the water’s edge, un- moored the boat and crossed the river. The storm was raging violently. It was so dark that they could not find the path in the wood. They made their way as best they could through the wet fern, which reached knee high, and close-growing underwood; but the rain beat in their faces, and their progress was impeded by prickly bramble bushes. Fred, always first, pushed on bravely through all, never slacking his pace, though his face and hands were scratched and blaeding. Soon he had no cause to complain of the darkness, for as he emerged from the wood, the whole neighborhood was rendered bright as day by the light from the burning building. Flames were issuing from some of the lower windows, and wreaths of smoke curled up- ward toward the lowering clouds, till earth and sky alike were aglow. Hot blasts of air came toward him as he rushed up the drive, and above the howling of the storm he could hear the hissing and crackling of the fire. The old Hall looked grand and majestic in the lurid light, its solid masonry seeming to defy the enemy which raged within its walls. A crowd had already collected before the house, “* Are all safe? Has every one left the house?” Fred asked breathlessly of the first man he came to. TREY 68,2 sity id think so, "T'was all so sudden, there’s no one seems to know nothing for certain. The fire must have broken out in hali-a dozen places at once. You see—” “Where are Mr. and Mrs. Langley?” he in- terrupted impatiently. The man pointed to a summer-house at the further end of the terrace. ‘Tl think they are there with the servants, sir, sheltering from the storm. Ab, it’s a bad night’s work. I hope the scoundrel that did it will get what ne deserves.” Fred was already off toward the rummer- house without waiting to hear more. A group of balf-dressed, frightened maid-servants were collected here. On the bench sat Mrs. Dexter, white and trembling, her teeth chattering with fear. She was wrapped in a large shawl, and was endeavering to support her son, who, with a dazed expression on his dark face, was Jean- ing back against the ivy-covered wall, appar- ently half-stupefied. “*T tell you I don’t care who hears me,” the cook, a tall, mesculine-looking woman was say- ing io a bigh-pi'ched tone, as Fred approached. *Pve known this long while that Abel Dexter was givento drink. I’ve seen him more than once as he is now, and I always said we’d be all] burned in our beds one of these nights.” “Hold your tongue, Mary,” began Mrs Dex- ter, with ill-assumed dignity; ‘‘how dare you speak like that? You forget yourself. My son is not well; the smoke, the fright have—” suddenly into their midst. The nurse who was huddled up in a corner with nothing but a thin cloak over ber night- dress, and who had been weeping bysterically | noble pile! over some slight burns she had received, looked up as he spoke. “Yes, sir, I went te their reom myself, meaning to fetch the child; but the cot was empty and my master and ‘mistress gone. I think they must have left the house soom after the fire brole out,” ; Fred wav hurrying off again when he met sR <i | Colonel Brereton, consternation and dismay de- picted on his countenance, ; ‘My dear Fred, this is very terrible. You hear what is said? No one seems to be able to say with any certainty where Mr, and Mrs. Langley are.” ‘‘T hear that they are at the lodge,” Fred re- plied. ‘‘I am going there now.” “Stay; itis useless,” the colonel rejoined, gravely; ‘‘they are not there, I have been questioning one of the housemaids; it is she She was coming down who saw them last. from her bedroom when she passed her master and mistress going up. There is something very mysterious in this. What could their reason be for. going to the third flocr at a time when they could have escaped from below with. comparative safety? The girl was too nvich concerned at her own danger to stay to address them, but she noticed that Mrs. Lang- ley appeared wild with fright, and. was clasp-, ing the baby to her breast, while her husband's chief anxiety seemed to be to hurry her for- ward,” “And you stay''here. talking, while they are in the burning house!” cried Fred excitedly. “My boy, there is nothing to be done; it would be madness to attempt to enter the building. You must do notbing rash, I have— sent a groom off on horseback for the fire-— engine; but it is five miles to the town, and—” s Good Heavens! would you do nothing un- til then? comes,” He dashed off, and was soon, lost in the crowd. Some men were busy splicing a couple of ladders together. It was the colonel who had ordered it to be done, with the intention of entering the house himself by one of the upper windows. He was willing to risk bis own life, but be did not mean to let Fred risk . his if he could help it, Fred, however, took matters pretty much ‘ _ into bis own hands, No sooner was the ladder | made secure and placed against the wall than he was mounting it. It reached toa passage window on the second floor. Luckily the hasp was unfastened; but as he threw up the sash he was almost choked and blinded by the dense , volume of smoke which rushed through the opening. Scarcely pausing to recover his breath, he leapt down into the passage, ‘and creeping along the floor on bis bands and nee at length reached the staircase. . Below was a roaring gulf of flame, mosphere was stifling, His skin was scorched, and each breath was torture, but still he ad- vanced, all thought of self soRe GRE in the one © hope of savirg May. When he reached the landing of the third floor he hesitated, uncertain which way to turn. It was then that a strange sound smote his ears. He could scarcely credit his senses - some one was laughing! the same time the door of a room to bis right was suddenly thrown open, and Mr. Langley appeared, half dragging, half carrying his ter - rified wife, who still clasped the baby convul- hh sively to ber. S “Oh, it is glorious—glorious!” cried her bus- band, ecstatically. “Why don’t you rejoice, | May, as I do, to think that our martyrdom is ‘Ts Mrs. Langley: here?’ said Fred, coming | i | | almost ended? Are we not about to die a martyr’s death? roof and take up our station as we should, at the top of the pile! Oh, it is a fine pile—a See what a worthy fire I have lighted for us by which to die! ‘Death would have stolen you from me first, and left me here “I think sbe and the master must have gone | with the child; but I have cheated him, for we there, too.” to the lodge, sir; there’s several of the servants shell pe together! How could I part from sean I had risked so much to win yout “ Are you sure. they are out of the build- Lino to what I sacrificed yon when I made — ing?’ Aes € you my wife; bot I loved you it No matter, The Hall may be a ruin before it The aes 4 A shout of wild, ex- _ 4 ultant laughter echoed through the house! At. Come, let us get out on the ” ur 2 1 6 : ’ a5 Pa aa, 4 4 Te
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eR ea PRM GET Ie Rhona pe AMS “ oe ae ae a ST Lae =) our troubles will soon be over now—so soon, ‘t ~ go very soon? ’ Again he laughed discordantly. With a = supreme effort, May succeeded in wrenching herself free from his grasp. Then a shrill ery “of joy escaped her, ter at the same moment ber eyes fell on Fred. _ ‘Save me—save my child!” she shrieked. - “Oh, Fred, he does not know what he doves! we A He would destroy us alll Do you not see?— en do you not understand? He is mad !” 5 _ No need tosay that vow. Fred bad under- stood it all guly too well. There was no mis- ; taking the vacant stare of those wildly rolling eyes. A look of baffled rage came into Mr. Langley’s face when he saw Fred. * “So you have come to take me at last?” he | See shouted, “but it is too late. Death was here i before you, he willsave me even from you. ¥ You would have deprived me of my liberty, imprisoned me, tortured me! ‘You would have _ published to the world that I was mad. Well, and itis true. I am mad, mad, mad! I care . not who hears me now; but all my life no one ' fas Known it—no oue but Dexter and his mother. well! Bué still my wife found it out. Who told you?” he asked, abruptly. Then, pausing, : be glanced in doubt from one to the other. pe When he next spoke, the words came in a‘ his- sing whisper from between his white, drawn- back lips. ‘‘Did May send for you? Was it my wife who betrayed me?” — 2? ait There was murder in his eyes as they rested ee ‘on the shrinking, trembling girl. Fred knew bi _ ‘that the danger which threatened her now was --—s nore terrible than that from which he had -- gome to save her. Bi He might perhaps have saved her from the ‘ fire, but what was his strength, compared with that ofamadman? And they had no time to c lose; already the fire was creeping along the _ passage, and the boards were growing hot be- \ neath their feet. May clung to him frantically, not realizing that she was hampering his movements, and ‘ preventing him from defending himself. He el ~ put one arm around her, and raised the other ready to ward off his antagonist. But he knew he was powerless to protect her. It had come to this—they must. die; but at Jeast they could die together. a Mr. Langley took a step forward; he was about to spring upon them. May ‘did not cry ut she closed her eyes and laid her face p Fred’s shoulder. Suddenly the madman paused and looked ‘round. There was a sound behind him—the sdund of approaching footsteps! Then a shout came from the further end of the passage, and the next moment Colonel Brereton came hurry- ing toward them, followed by a couple of men, “Thank Heaven, we have found you!” he cried. “This way, Mr. Langley; bring your wife. , Come, Fred, there is yet time; we can i "escape from the root of the billiard-room, 4 ' But as he reached them, Mr. Langley pushed _ Fred aside, and rashed past toward the top of the stairs, Seizing one of the blazing rails of the balusters, he stood waving it’ wildiy above his head, Then, with a piercing shriek of mad x ’ Jangbter that none of them would ever forget he __- sossed the burning brand from him, and throw- ing up his arms, leaped down the awful gulf of i ame that curled and cracked and roared in the abyss below. | : . Wee sa i ae ee CHAPTER IX, ALL’S WELL THAT END’S WELL. _ ‘THREE months have gone by since the tragic oceurrences of the last chapter. The village ‘gossips had long since wearied of discussing _ the fire at’ Normanton, and the old. house itself ss aily ih was being repaired and rebuilt. Little was ss Weft of it save the outer walls; but namerous _—-workmen were already busy there, and it was 7 said the Hall would be once more habitable by thé eo of the new'year. * 1" They kept the secret well—oh, very | / book. Mrs. ‘Deltaléy haa been ‘very ill for several weeks after that terrible night on which her husband had lost his: life. She had been car- ried to the Grange, and there for some time had lain between life and death., As soon as she was able to think of anything, she had | asked for her baby. | It bad died many days before; but they | hesitated to tell her the truth. The child had always been sickly and ailing, and the expo- sure on the night of the fire brought on an in- eros from which it never recovered. It | lingered for a few days, seldom crying as other babies would have done, but just lying pas- sively in its cot, with a pitiful expression of suffering and endurance on its strangely old- looking little face. Then it had passed away, almost without a moan. May received the news better than they could have hoped. She heard’all they had to say, and then, turning to the wall, shed a few silent tears, When the child was born she had almost prayed it might die; but since then it had grown very dear to her. She had learned to love the little solemn face, so unlike the faces of other children. And yet there had been times when she had turned from it in fear; for the large eyes would be raised to hers with a look in them so painfully like its father, that it made her tremble with a dread foreboding. How could she mourn its loss when she knew the terrible fate which awaited it?, There is little doubt, had it lived, that it would later on have developed the same fatal symptoms of madness as those to which Mr, Langley bad “been subject. When she was well enough to be moved, her uncle came to fetch her, and she went back with him to her old home, Mr. Sandford had aged greatly since she had seen him last, and there were lines about the kind old face which were not caused by time alone. May never divined how much he had missed her, until she saw the change which her absence had caused in him. Should she ever be able to make up to him for what she had made him suffer? She must never leave him again—never! She and uncle Gregory and old Patience would go on living the quiet, peaceful life they bad lived long ago., But even as she told herself this, she knew it could never be quite the same again. She had been a child then, bappy and thoughtless, without a care in the world; now, she was a woman saddened and aged by sorrow. When she regarded berself in the little mirror, which had in the old days so often reflected her smil- ing, girlish face, she believed even her beauty was a thing of the past. Yet, had she known it, there was an added charm in the mournful depths of her eyes that had been wanting be- fore, and a new beauty in the pathetic droop of the sensitive mouth, It was evening now. Without, the shadows of the night were spreading over the dreary landscape; a damp mist hung over everything; the brown and yellow leaves were fast falling from the trees and lying thickly on the garden paths. The old gardener, who bad been endeavoring to collect them, shook his head hopelessly as he saw fresh showers of them come fluttering down at every gust of wind as fast as he bad raked them away, He got together his tools presently and moved toward the house, glad to exchange the damp atmosphere of the garden for the com- fortable.warmth of the kitchen. Within, in the library, the light from the leaping flames of a wood fire cast a ruddy glow around, making the gilt frames of the pictures on the walls, and the many brass nails in the bookcases, shine and glitter. It smiled upinto Uncle Gregory’s kindly face, and rested ten- derly on May’s bowed head, brightening the coils of dark hair. She had been reading aloud until it grew too dusk; now she sat on a stool at the old man’s feet, one hand lying listlessly across the open , A SCATHING ORDEAL. Both were busy with their own Usergteta: 30 preoccupied that they did not hear a stealthy tread on the path outside, por see a pale face pressed close to the window-pane, gazing yearn- ingly, longingly, hopelessly into the eomfort- able room. By and by May raised her head and looked up with a sigh. “Uncle Gregory,” she said, ‘there are one or two things I want you to tell me. I Java never asked you anything about—about Nor- manton since I have been here.” ‘No, my dear, and I bave not liked to be the first to mention it for fear of paining you; but it is better that you should know all, The property does not belong to you new; it has passed into other bands.” “T am glad,” she replied, musingly; pe | could never have lived there. Had it been mine I should have sold it. But 1 did not ex- pect to have Normanton, for I knew Duke had made a will leaving it to Abel Dexter; he con- fessed this to me only the day before the fire. I understood afterward what he meant, when he added that Dexter should not have the Hall if he had the property.” She paused, shuddering. “But he bas neither the one nor the other,” interrupted Mr, Sandford. “Mr, Langley’s cousin is the heir. The will was valueless—do you not understand?” He hesitated, not knowing how to explain. ‘You mean that no will made by any one in my busband’s state of health could be legal.” She spoke unfalteringly though with an effort. “ And so Dexter and his mother will have noth- ing, though they planned and schemedand made so sure of all, Oh, uncle Gregory, they have been justly punished! Hark! What is that?” A low, wailing cry came from the garden. She rose bastily and went toward the window. It. was almost dark how; but a ray of light from within stretched across the path “and showed her something lying there—the form of a@ woman, She went out, calling to the servants to fol- low her. In a few minutes they brought the stranger into the ball, and the lamp-light fell upon her, Then May, who had been tenderly supporting her, started back with a cry. It was Mrs, Dexter! Yes, it was the same woman, though rs cheeks were gaunt and hollow from buvger and privation; and the dark eyes, so bold and defiant of old, were now gazing up into hers imploringly. ‘“For Heayen’s. sake give me food! !” the woman cried faintly. ‘1 am starving!” May did not hesitate even for a moment. As those beseeching, hopeless tones fell upon her ears, she forgot the many indignities she had endured at her hands—forgot all that this woman had made her. suffer; forgot ever “& thing, save that a human being was ill and in want, and thatit' was in her power to help | her. ! Half an hour later, Mrs. Dexter was in bed, enjoying that perfect rest which is so grateful after long fatigue. She had walked the ten long miles from the city to find May. In her dire distress there had been no one to whom she could look for help, noone to whom she dared apply with any hope of success, but the girl she had so cruelly wronged. May saw that she had allthat was necessary, and then left ber, thinking she might sleep. But when, some hours later, she returned, Mrs. Dexter was still awake. There were traces of tears on, her face and her cheeks were flushed. ‘‘T am glad you have come,” she began, ex- citedly. ‘‘I could not have slept until I had spoken to you. . I want you to say you forgive me. Ihave been thinking of things as I lay here alone. I have so often thought of them of late—so often! I never doubted that you would give me food, and perbaps a lodging for the night; but I did not expect you would seem sorry for me, You said awhile ago, when [ | was by the window, that I had. been eens \ ] —
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ye ¥ é 7. ES SE EES Fae ee aes. A ee Ss punished, but you never dapsied how bitter my punishment really is, It was for Abel that T sinned—for him that I was ready to sin even more. And he has left me!—left me to starve —me, his mother!” ' ‘(Do not speak of these things now,” urged May. “You will make yourself ill. Try and go to sleep; to-morrow, if you wish it, you shall tell me more.” “No, no! I must speak—it relieves me; I have kept silent so long. I could have’ for- given him if he had written or given me some- thing to keep me from the workhouse; but he has gone ont West without one word, taking with him all that had taken us so many years % to scrape together. He has not Normanton, but he will be rich-—yes, rich -while I am a E beggar! I taught hit to think only of him- self, and he learned the lesson well, Ob, my boy! my boy! I was so proud of him—so proud of his handsome face aad gentlemanly ways. I should have been content to stand aside when 6 be was master of Normanton if he would bave a had it so. It would have been enough for me to have seen him in his right place—for it was his right placo—and now it has come to this?’ She half-raised ‘herself upon one arm, and pushed back the hair from her hot brow. May was silent, thinking ber mind wandered, but it was not so. “Look at me,” she went on, excitedly. “You would not think now that y had ever been beautiful? No, I know you would not; but it.is true. I was so beautiful that Mr. Langley fell in love with me and promised to marry me, though I was but his sister’s maid.” “You do not know what you are saying,”® interrupted May, indignantly. ‘‘I will not believe it.” “Qh, I don’t mean your husband; I am speaking of his father. He was going "abroad for some months; but he promised that when he returned he would make me his wife and acknowledge my boy. I was a fool, believed him, trusted him, and waite1. When he did return he brought his wife with him. A dark, bandsome Italian woman she was. How I hated her! Yet I made no sign; and when he came to me with money and gifts, to purchase my silence, [ took them and promised to hold my tongue; but to myself I swore that I would be --—- weyenged. One day he came to me and begged that I would go and nurse his wife. She was not liked in the neighborhood, and had few friends. He paid mo handsomely, and I went. It did not take me long to discover what it was that had made Mr. Langley look so haggard . and unhappy of late, and why he had allowed his wife to go so little into society. She was mad! Rational enough at times, but at others : Peli a lunatic. In one of her most violent fits her son was born—my boy’s half-brother!” May covered her face with her hands, and shuddered convulsively. _ Tt was this terrible malady which ‘Dulke had inherited. “Go on,” she murmured faintly. ‘There is not much more to say,” Mrs. Dex- ter said, with a weary sigh, ‘Mrs. Langley died a few years after. She was drowned. ' People thought it an accident at the time, but I knew better; I knew it was suicide. Her husband sent for me, and made me promise ‘ never to leave his son. You may guess why; | ~ T alone knew his secret. _ “ With so much power in my hands, no won- der I abused the trust. I taught the boy to i fear me. I encouraged him to believe that if his cousin, the next heir, knew of his insanity he would have him confined in an asylum, He baa lived in perpetual dread of this, till at last it Be became a mania. Abel and I lost no. oppor- tunity of talking of the horrors which took place in madhouses, and of the tortures he would have to endure if he were sent there. “This went on until old Mr. Langley died, o: ‘and Marmaduke became his heir. It was for eC this we had waited. We forced him to make & will leaving everything to Abel. It was while my son was away at Normanton, having ee ee ne _A/SCATHING ORDEAL. ys _kept a marked silence, which did not please ies at 4 a! es, a a *~ wy et ob é. : Ari . aT ae y P To Australial” echoed May, with a sinkirg at the heart. ‘‘Ob, Kate, you must not lt. him go!” x “T fear nothing Icansay would makemuch => difference, she rejoined. “He is reckless and ! unsettled. There is only one weman in the : whole world who can speak the word that Boyt would keep bim.” . “ And who is that?’ May asked, faintly, without looking up. ‘ She had only seen Fred two or three times. ca since that dreadful night, when they had been ay, the Hall ‘made pda spose - * Mr. Langley made your acquaintance, and married ou,” “T know the rest,” said May, sadly. ‘*No, no; you do not. You do not know that we were so afraid of his betraying him- self at last and telling the truth for your sake, that we had determined to give him an oppor- tunity of destroying himself, We knew in his paroxysms of madness the desire of self-de- struction was always strong, and we decided to leave open the door of the room in which, at | those times, he was confined, never doubting | ready to face death together, and on each cc- ‘ # haps drown himself, as his mother had done. “‘Yourself, dear. But, May, do not look so Ne ; Then Abel would have had at last what a ey grieved. It is not your fault that you can not ae have been his all along. love him, We will not speak of it again.” fi “But now he is gone, and I feel I shall never Not speak of it again! May bent her head ra, low down over ber flowers, ber heart beating. wildly. What could she do? She could not tell him that she loved him before be asked ber, and yet, if she made no sign, he would go away and perhaps she might never see him again. Kate had taken up her pen again, and ; was finishing her letter. Soon it would be» 4 folded and sealed. If she would speak, it must a be now. * She rose tremblingly, and croseing the room, ‘ went behind Kate’s chair, and putting her arms — : round her friend’s neck, laid her bur ning cheek eh against hers. es “Kate,” she whispered, softly, ‘telly him— ae tell him not to go.” ¥ A see my boy again. And from whom do you think I heard that he had left the East? It was Bess Pearson that told me.” “Then it is true what was said—it was was through your son that Bess left) her home?” “Yes; I met her in New York some weeks ago. He had. deserted her, too. But what could she expect? Did she think a gentleman like my Abel would ever stoop to marry such |, as she? She was poor—very poor, for the little money he had left with ber was spent long ago. She was earning a few cents a day selling flowers. I had disliked the. girl before, and she had hated me for my pride; but we clung together in our common misery, and she shared her hardly-earved crust with me. “For shame’s sake she would not go home to her grandmother; she dared not face her old friends. But poverty and hunger soon brought down her pride; she started for Nor- manton yesterday morning to walk all the way, and beg her food on the road, for she had no:money. Then, when I was alone, I could think of noone who would give me even a piece of bread but you, and so I came here. “There! I have told you all. Perhaps I have been a fool for my pains; for now, no doubt, you will turn me away, and there will be nothing left for me but the workhouse. Good Heavens, the workhouse! And I thought to be mistress of Normanton!” But May did not turn ber away; she let her stay until she bad gained strength, and then she put her in the way of some honest employ- ment that was suited to her. But Mrs, Dexter had lived so long for her son that she did not even care to try to live without him; she would not want anything very much longer. © For some months Mrs, Langley’s uneventful life went on, without one single incident to break the monotony. Sho was growing just a little weary of the days so much like each other, and was beginning to ask. herself in some dismay if it would be always like this. Kate Dunstable came to stop with her in the spring. No one could be dull with Kate, so the girls were happy enough together; but Kate would be going away soon, and then the dreary routine would begin again. They tacitly agreed not to mention the past, so the dark page of May’s brief married life was not turned. There was another subject on which Kate THE END, Half-Dime Singer's Morey” 1 Waoa, Emma! and 59 other Songs. a 2 Caprain Curr and 57 other Songs. ; 1 Le « 8 Toe Garxsporo’ Hart and 62 other Songs. coer 4 Jonnny Morcan and 60 other Songs. 5 [un Strrmke You Wrrs A Fearuer and 62 others. ; 4 6 GEORGE THE and 56 other Songs. | eae 7 Tae BeLie or Rockaway and 52 other Son; Cie a Youne Feiias, You're Too FRESH and ey o 7 9 Suy Youne Grau and 65 other Son ie 10 I’m THe GoverNor’s ONLY Son and other Songs. 11 My Faw and 65 other Songs , 12 Comm’ THRo’ Tun Rye aad | 5S other Songs. 13 Tae RoiicKkine TIntsnMan and 59 other Songs, 14 Otp Doge Tray and 62 other Songs. oe Waoa, CHARLIE and 59 other Songs. : By nk Wieser BY AND Bw snr] 60 othe Sollee, Ru Y Nancy Leg and 58 pe Pong. Bek 18 I’m THe Boy THAT's Bounp TO Biaze and 57 others. ; 19 THe Two OrpHans and 59 hg sch ngs. er Waves SAYING, Sierent it egg oe nil Ne 2% Op Simon, THE Hot-Corn Man and 60 others. 25 I’m in Love and 56 other Songs. a PARADF oF THE GusRDS and 56 other Songs. 27 Yo, Hrave, Ho! and 60 other Songs. 28 "TWILL NEVER Do To Gis rr up So and 60 others 4 29 Buve Bonnets Over THE Borper and 64 others 30 Tar Mrrry Laveanine Man and 56 Mp he Songs. 82 Lerrie Basy Mine and 53 other Songs. 33 De Banso AM DE INSTRUMENT FoR Mx and 83 others. 34 Tarry and 50 other Songs. 85 Just TO PLease THE Boys and 52 other Songs. 36 SKATING ON ONE IN THE GUTTER and 52 37 Kotorep Kranxs and 59 other Songs. $8 Nit Desprxanpum and 53 other Songs. Tar Grew I Lerr Beurp Mr ait is 49 "Tis BOT 4 Lrrriz Fapep Fuowrr and 50 others. 41 Prerry W 42 Dancine IN THE BakN and 63 other cone. 43 H. M.S. Prnarore. comPLets, and 17 other Songs. Sold pracy ypere by Newsdealers, at five ecnts Lo hey er sent post-paid, to any "address, on re- — of Sis: cents per number. 81 Swrerr Forarr-me-Nor and 55 other others, — HILHELMINA and 60 other Songs. May so well, This was ‘the sayings and doings of her brother Fred. Only once did she vol- untarily speak of him—it was two days before she left. May was sitting half in and half out of the BEE Ae on cctae aaa. opén window, her lap full of purple and white | aiiLt Mei were violets and ferns, which she was arranging into a bouquet. Every now and then she glanced furtively across at her friend, who was writing at a little table at the further end of the room. Sunnyside Library. ‘‘Kate,” she ‘said, presently, ‘‘I can see you , La aus: RDOEE. By ‘Thomas Moores i..s... 4.4: ie 7° ON JUAN By Lord Byron...........--..... 2c are troubling about something. What «is it? Pe Bes By John Milton... i ne Kate laid down her pen with a sigh, and rested her head on her hand. , “‘T am troubled,” she replied, sadly. “Tt is about Fred. He is talking of leaving us all, and going to Australia. We have an uncle = and he thinks of joining him ag a year or two. hn Milto’ : — 12 ay Oe LAKE. by Sir Walter Soot. 1 UCILE. wen : 6 Unpine; or, THE Warer-Sptrir. From t the German ot Friederich De La Motte Fougne. 10¢ oe sale by all newsdeal or sen’ paid seabed nt hs nt. postage pa ouble pis, cet loa that he would take advantage of it, and per- } casion he had seemed to ber cold and distant. - on receipt of twelve cents for sin numbers twenty-four cents. AD. 98 William street, a York, nA / , ke ae ‘Te vs : ’ : 4 Pas rab gow S Be Sa Ae ake Nate AA Ry Sie BOS aaa 3s ‘i ; f by AE Sal Ss a ae | ee e+ ey CS Ga i ee te he + oy eee ee raat Sane
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4 y 7 . 5 Bessie Raynor, the Work Girl 53 Pyar Hope, V ester He i ‘A TRENCH Copyright Novels and the Cream of Foreign Novelists, Unabridged, Fort .s / ae FIVE CENTS! The poe mend Hver ae ee ncn EE Anes Catattrerages tmeret Sandan — 1 The “Easked B ids; or, Will She Marry i Him? By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 2 Was It Love? or, Collegians and Sweet- | hearts. By Wm. Mason Turner, M. D. 3 Whe Girl Wite; or, The True and the False. By Bartley T. Campbell, i 4 A Brave Heart; or, Startlingly Strange. By Arabella Southworth’ The Quicksands of Life. By William Turner, M. D. 6 The Secret Marriage; or, A Duchess’ in Spite of Herself. By Sara Claxton. 7 A Daughter of Eve} or, Blinded by Love. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 8S Heart to Heart; a Fair Phyllis’ Love. By Arabella Soufhwort' 9 Alone in the Worlds or, The Young Man's | Ward. By the author of.“ Clifton,” ‘Pride * and Passion,’’ etc. 10 A Pair of Gray Eyes; or, The Emerald ie geen ioas: ae eee Kew ly. mtangled; or, angerous Game, Henrietta, THackeray. “4 12 His Lawtul Wife; or, Myra, the Child of Adoption. By Mrs. Ann 8. Stephens, 13 Madcap, the Little Quakeress}3 or, The Laks ladet's thre 3 y Corinne ushman. } 4 Why I Married Him; or, The Woman in | “Gray. By Sara Claxton. H 16 A Fair Face; or, Out in the World. By | Bartley T. Campbell. 16 Trust Her Not; or, A True Knight. By | Margaret Lelorater. | i7 A Loyal Lover}; or, The Last of the Grims- | ths. By Arabella Southworth. 18 His ae r, The arden Marriage, By Mrs. M me toad d Crowell. | 19 The Broken Betrothal; ate. By Mary Grace Hal pine. | 20 gg jap ‘Nell, the Orange Girl; or, The | eir. By Agile Penne. | 21 wee ede Forever ; or, Why Did She Mar- | Him? By Henrietta Thackeray. | 22 the Bride of an Actor ; or, Driven from | Home. By the author of “Alone in the World,” | “ Clifton,’’ etc. 23 Leap Bones or, Why She Proposed. By Sara 24 Mer ‘Face Was Her Fortume. By Elea- nor ne. 25 Only a Schoolmistress 3 or, Her Wntold j ret. By Arabella Southwort 26 Without a Heart; or, Walking on the ; Brink, By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. 27 Was She a Coguette? or, A Strange Toaon. or, Love versus | Courtship. By Henrietta Thackeray. 28 Ayh bil Chases or, The Gambler’s VWwite. By rs, Ann §. Stephens. 29 Kor Hor Dear Sake; or, Saved From Him- self. By Sara Claxton. 30 the Bou uet Girl; or, A Million of Money. y Agile Penne. a, ae Marriige; or, The Iron Will.. By | nison SLA 32 marlatia,, the Prima Donna or, Roses | d Lilies. By Arabella Southworth. $3 The Three Sisters; or, The Mystery of | Lord Chalfont, By Alice Fleming. $4 A Marriage of Convenience ; or, Was | Hea Count? By Sara Claxton. 35 an Against Her; or, The Winthrop Pride. By Clara Augusta. 86 bac Reet remote Bride; or, ae Queen of His By Arabella Southwort fae The me Cannity LUenee or, hi is not Gold ap 38 that Glitters. s ere # e or, Trust "te Not. By { ae se Kennedy | rabe wor. (99 89 ‘Flirtation 3 or, A Young Girl’s Good Name. Jacob Abarbanell, (Ralph Royal.) H j } | | } | : By 40 Bledged | to Mi 41 Bi ie D i n evotions; or, Love inst. the | World. By Alice Tiewing. ay 42 patie a oa. the Beautiful ea His Second | By Arabella Sonthwor 43 The Watouctis Secret; or, "the Rival Half- Sisters. _By Sara Claxton? Daughter 3 or, Brother against . By Alice Flemin, ag. 45 Her Hidden Rar te or, Love At All Odds, By Arabella Southwor 46 The Little Heiress; or, Under a Cloud. By Mrs. Mary A. Denison, 47 Because She’ Loved Him; or, How Will | Tt End? By Alice Fleming, 48 In Spite of Herself; or, Jeannette’s Repa- ' ration. By 9. R. She tod. 49 His Heart's Mistress; or, Love at First. By Arabella Southworth. 50 The Cuban Heiress; med The Prisoner of La Vintresse. By Mrs. Mary Denison, . 61 Two Young LalaieadS or, ee Bride of an Sorry § or, In Love's Bonds, By Alice Fl 52 The Bi be ed fens r, ae AD Heart By Mrs. Mary Reed ¢ Crow the Actress: or, a manee of a Ruby Ring. By William eae | | Turner, M. D. > | 58 The Ebon | 7. gi Aree Souag | 72 Whe ce Widows. | 73 Rose Michel; 54 One Woman’s Heart; or, Saved from the Street. By George S. ime. 55 She Did Not Love Him; or, Stooping to Conquer. By Arabella Southworth. 56 Rone: arg or, Betrothed, Married, Divorced and ——. Wm. Mason Turner, 57 A raves irl; or, Sunshine at Last. By Alive Fleming. Mask; or, The Mysterious Guardian. By Mrs, Mary Reed Crowell. 59 A Widow's Wiles; or, A Bitter Vengeance. By Rachel Bernhardt. 60 Cecils Deceit; or, The nies Legacy. By Mrs. Jennie Davis Burto 61 A Wicked Heart; or, The False and the True. By Sara Claxton. 62 The Gadine Bride; or, Tue Dead Secret of Hollow Ash Hall. By Margaret Blount. 63 The Creole Sisters; or, The Bysveny 9 the Perrys. By Mrs. Anna E. Porte 64 What Séelouey Did; or, “he Heir of Worsley Grange. By Alice Fleming. 65 The Wife’s Secret; or, "Twixt Cup and Lip. By Col. Juan Jewis, 66 A Brother's Sin; .., Flora’s Forgiveness. By Rachel Bernhardt. 67 Forbidden Bans; or, Alma’s Disguised | Prince, By Arabella’ Southworth. 68 Weavers and Weft; or, “Love That Hath | Us In His Net." By Miss M. KE. Braddon, 69 Camille; or, The Fate of a Coquette. By | Alexandre Dumas. 70 The Two Orphans. By D’Enery. ife. By My Young Wife's By Annie Thomas. or, The Trials of a Factory Girl. By Maud Hilton. 74 Cecil Castlemaine’s Gag ze § es The Story of a Broidered Shield. B 75 ha Black Lady of " By J.8. Le Mrs. Rowson. anu. 76 Charlotte Temple. 77 Christian Oakle ig istake. By the author of ‘‘ John Halifax, Gentleman,” etc. 78 My Young Husband; or, A Confusion in the Family. By Myself. 79 A Queen Amongst Women. By the ‘author of * The Cost of Her Love,” “A Gilded Sin,” ‘“‘Dora Thorne,” éte.; ete. 80 Mor 1 re and. Master, 81 Lacy Poaivts, Sister of Charlotte. 82 A Long Time Ago. By Meta Orred. 83 Playing for High Stakes. By Annie Thomas. 84 The Laurel Bush. “John Halifax, Gentleman. 85 Led ADtERy. By Octave Feuillet. lane By Florence By the author of | 86 Jane ts Repentance. By George Eliot. | 87 ig te omance ofa Poor Young Man. 'y Octave Feuillet. 88 A “werrible gore or, All for Gold. By Emma, Garrison Jon 89 A Gilded Sin. By the author of ‘Dora Tho 90 eo oni "authors Daughter. 91 The wait, By Charles Reade. 92 Kileen Alanna; or, the Dawning of the Day. By Dennis O'Sullivan. 93 Love’s Victory. By B..L. Farjeon. 94 The Quiet Heart. B Mrs, 0} phant. 5 Lettice Arnold. By Mrs. Marsh. 6 Haunted Hearts oe “The Broken Be- trothal. By Rachel Bernhardt. 97 Hugh Melton. By Katharine King. 8 Alice Learmont. By Miss Mulock. 99 ro Bruce’s Lovers. By Mary By Fred- By Mary co = rick, | 100 Throweh Fire and Water. erick Tal 191 Gohnak, By Mss Mullock. | 102 Peg Woffington. By Charles Reade. | 4103 A Desperate Deed. By Erakine Borc d.. Ag 104 ala on the Snow, Far- 105 whe Great Hoggarty Diamond. By W. M. Thackeray. 106 From Dreams to Waking. By ‘E: Lynn Linton, 107 Poor oso By F. W. Robinson. 108 Whe Sad Fortunes of the Rev. Amos | Barton. By George Eliot, 109 read-atid-Cheese and Misses, By j B. L, Farjeon. ' 110 The andering Heir. By Charles e. rother’s Bet; or, Within Six AS} Week Aig Emilie ag se : Carlen. 112 a “Hero. By Miss k. ul 113 Paul and Vir AuhAe From the French of Bernardin De St. 114 °Twas In ‘Trafalgar’s Bay. By Wal- ter Besant and James Rice, 115 beet Maid. of Killeena, By William 116 Hetty. By Henry Kingsley. 117 stone Wayside Cross; or, The Raid of Gomez. By Captain E. A. Milman, “* a ee Se ee EN ee ee ae By Olives 118 The Vicar of ag aang: Goldsmith. 119 Maud Mohan. 120 Thaddeus of Warsaw, Porter. 121 The King of No-Land. jeon. 122 Lovel, the Widower. By W. M. Thack- eray. 123 An Island Pearl. 124 Cousin Phillis, 125 Leila; or, The iene of Grenada. By Ed- ward Bulwer (Lord Lytton). 126 When the Ship Comes Home. Walter Besant and James Rice. 127 One of the Family. By James Payn. 128 The Birthright. By Mrs. Gore. 129 Motherless; or, The Farmer’s Sweetheart, By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. 130 Homeless; or, Two Orphan Girls in New York, By Albert W. Aiken. 131 Sister against Sister; or, The Rivalry c* Hearts. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. By Mrs. | 132 Sold for Gold; or, Almost Lost. M. V. Victor. 133 Lord Roth’s Sin; or, Betrothed at the Cradle. By Mrs. Georgiana Dickens. | 134 aa He Love Her? By Bartley T. Camp- bell. By Annie Thomas, By: Miss Jane By B, L. Far By B. L. Farjeon. By 135 Sinned Against; or, Almost in His Power. By Lillian Lovejoy. 136 Was She His Wife? By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 137 The Village on the Cliff. By Miss Thackeray. 138 Poor Valeria! or,.The Broken Troth. By Margaret Blount. 139 Margaret-Graham. | By G. P. R. James. 140 Without Mercy. By Bartley T.Campbell. 141 Honor Bound; or, Sealed to Secrecy. By Lillian Lovejoy. 142 Fleeing from Love, Irving. 143 Abducted ; or, A Wicked Woman's Work. By Rett Winwood. 144 A Strange Marriages or, John Foster's Heire: By Lillian Lovejoy. 145 “tant oils Lives. By Mrs. Mary Reed By Mrs. Harriet or, For Love's worth, By Corinne Cush- 146 A Desperate Venture; Own Sake, By Arabella Sou 147 ane War of Hearts, 148 aphivénl AWas the Woman ? or, Strangely Misjudged. By Sara Claxton. 149 An Ambitious ay or, She Would Be An Actress. By Frances elen Davenport. 150 Love Lord of Anning ply In Her Own at Last. By Alice May 151 A Wild Girl; or, Love's Glamour. By Corinne Cushman. Man’s Sacrifice; 152 4 Himself. By Harriet Irving, 153 Did She Sin? or, A Man's Desperate Game. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. a 154 He Loves Me Not! or, A Cruel False- hood. By Lillian Lovejoy. 155 Winning Ways; or, Kitty Atherton’s Double Troth, By Margaret Blount, 156 What She Cost Him; or, Crooked Paths. By Arabella Southworth. ' 157 A Girls Heart, By Rett Winwood. 158 A Bitter Mistake Fas or, A Young Girl's Folly. By Agnes Mary Shelton. 159 Lady Helen’s Vow}; ag Ape Mother‘*s Secret. By. the Late Mrs. BF 160 Buying a Heart; or, A in y ere By Lillian Lovejoy. 161 Pearl of Pearls; or, Clouds and Sunbeams. By A. P. Morris, Jr. 162 A Fateful Game} or, Wedded and Parted. By Sara Claxton. 163 The Creole Cousins; or, False as Fair. By Philip S$, Warne. or, At War With 164 A Scathing Ordeal; or, Ma; ey’s Mad Marriage. By Mrs. Gearriand ens. 165 A Strange Girl. A New land Love - Story. By Albert W. Aiken. one A new issue every week. THe Waveriry Liprary is for sale by all News- dealers, five cents per copy, or sent by niall on re- ceipt of six eat ears” AND ADAMS, Publishers, William street, New York.