Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 182) (1883 05 08)
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ms - ‘ The Hi Cheapest and Best Library! fa No An American Queen; OR. THE HEART OF GOLD. BY GRACE MORTIMER. CHAPTER I, TOO LATE. “NFORMATION WANTED—of Ada Derwent, maid- en name Rivers, native place Addiscombe, State of New York, who married Otto Montacute Derwent, in the year 1850, June 19th—or of her child, issue of said marriage. : cate with Messrs. Korner & Price, Room 9, No.— Warren street, New York City, they will hear of a long-unclaimed right now completely at their dispo- sal, and greatly to their advantage. Monica Derwent, only child of the above-mention- ed Ada Rivers Derwent, sat by her mother’s corpse, reading this announcement in the “personals” of the New York Herald. She was nineteen years old; her mother had been i i} Ayn Ayu witli \ "I i Hh il\ Many WW! HH) a i | i) l WK Hh TMM MO haa AUIAITTNN ETI a \ Q | i " we 7 > —— a>. AT THE MOMENT THAT 482. VoL. VII. PUBLISHED- WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND If she, or said child, will communi- } —. = & widow all that time; they had lived a toilsome and penurious life, and Mrs. Derwent had died yesterday of the “hard times,’’ and now Monica had discov- ered this promise of prosperity in an old paper, which she had untwisted from the stems of a great Sheaf of white flowers sent her by the clergyman’s | daughter, to lay about her dead. } ‘ It was an humbly furnished little parlor in a tiny | aeling He ie 23 a clean and dainty, and garnished C : any a 2ef ay i oa | ing Dut natural cae y graceful fancy, costing noth he body, which lay across the two white-draped bit mscret he was that of a woman of Spivaranten: in bs mere row es could be traced the remains of great He - y an te finement;; but the slender hands which : y — her bosom were almost transparent, her ace pied rightfully emaciated, and broad streaks of gray g leamed among her thick, wavy black hair; it was painfuly evident that not only sorrow of heart, | | Nt | ae privation, had brought her to this prema- Monica Derwent was utter ik Gee ; lain folios wit yes erly unlike her mother— visage, of soft dependence and habitual 4 | was replaced on the daughter’s by ene of eeu power and haughty pride; pale, famine-pinched and Ay i WN a= Ske ES RAMA Gi ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST,, N. Y. graceful harmony of hers; | | also the expression indelibly engraved upon the dead | way: MONICA FIXED HERS UPON THESE STRANGE EYES, SHE CAUGHT Cream of American and Foreign Novels for Five Cents! ese by BEADLE AND ADAMS, PRICE, 5 CENTS poorly clad though she was, she would have attract- ed a second glance ariywhere, through the mere ower of her princely air, and the dark dignity of her presence. One rare beauty she possessed. Large ‘shaped lustrous eyes, black and expressive; per eee ayers eet Been artistically dressed, would In. toute what or its ebony hue and silken gloss. only wanted fillin with her tall, slim figure, which pla ide 9 ng out—poor hungered body that it and her proud, innocent, significant face, all ae Core pep trig dress, and a Jortunale expres- f ’ Pass as ¢ eo 7 causa I as & more than usually fine nen a ¢ we For more than an hour she had'‘éat poring over the advertisement addressed to her he att 3 phar ‘mother, motionless blind, ard deaf; she was looking back over those nineteen years which her mother ana@ she had t eri den hand in hand, illumined as they now pon tl the light of this most unexpected announcement, of The paper was two months old, eeu Two months ago her mother’s streneth though ebbing, at full enough tide for Dr, Senay the village*physician, to say to her in his éff-han “You're all right, madam—sound at the core. Nothing to be afraid of. if you take a rest and feed up. Your trouble comes from nothing but debility. - <a ~ A LOOK, INDESCRIBABLY WILD,
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eybos rmed that she could not take time to rest, nor afford such expensive luxuries as seasides, cream and chickens, he had shrugged his muscular shoulders in its fine broadcloth coat, pouted out his full red mouth portentously, and dashed off an iron and Pe is mixture, ‘‘ to be taken three times a day, for six weeks;” and then, accepting her two dollars with all the graceful unconsciousness with which he “would have accepted the five-dollar fee from the owealthy Mrs, Million, relict of the late cracker-mer- ie an: chant of that name, had bowed her gee, out of 2 te richly-furnished consulting-room, and bowed in : “the next in line from his elegant waiting-room. x And this foolish woman had crushed up the pre- _ ‘seription in her thin, hot nervous hana, as she slowly wended her feeble way home through the driving sleet, for she had no weekly seventy-five cents to spare, the sum which the ee mixture would call for, so why should she distress poor Moni- _ ca with the sight of the prescription? And she sat down to her work again, trying to see the exquisite _ stitches through the red motes that were ae 4 before her eyes, and to hide the creeping chills whic ran through her shadowy frame, in spite of the sparkling, well-swept fire, which Monica had just lit in time for her return, having furtively let it zo out, to save the fuel, in her absence. So she told the sat- ‘isfactory news that Dr. Seymour said she had no or- ganic disease, and was only weary. * So, darling,” she said, cheerfully, ‘I won’t stick so constantly at the lace-making, but relax tho strain by doing the housework turn about with you, instead of letting you do it all; but, dear, you will have to learn to sew lace more quickly, or else get a new in- ‘spiration. and invent a design more popular than any you haye invented yet, make your fortune, and retire with your poor, broken-down mammy. Eh, dearie?” And while the doomed mother was talking thus, trying to smother under these playful speeches the dark ¢gonviction that death had marked her, and while faithful Monica was listening and looking wist- fully at the fading victim of poverty, this advertise- ment, which seemed to promise prosperity, or, at + least, relief, was already in print, calling—calling them to come and be helped, and they bad never seen it! Too late—oh lished thought—too late! vl’? murmured Monica, raising Ssoum Beis T pa hh, “Moreiless Creat her black eyes bitterly to the wintry heavens; “your Psy Ly ante comes only to fill higher my cup of despair. # My mother has starved to death!” b tt seems terrible to own that such a thing is possi- ble in a Christian community like that in which they lived—Loangerie, not a hundred miles distant from that micleus of splendidly organized charities, Philadelphia; but it was true. Mrs. Derwent and her daughter could afford nothing more costly than the coarsest and simplest food, and the invalid had died for want of better. Her wasted system had de- . manded ee such rich and dainty fare as the com- - fortable Dr, Seymour had prescribed; she had not _ the means to procure such, and so, surrounded by ie en and kind-hearted people, all of whom respe: her highly and looked up to her as a superior char- . aeter—receiving just as much lace-work from a wealthy merchant in the village as she could do, and a handsome price for it, besides the modest but _ really helpful salary which Monica received inher dag of district school-mistress—in spite of all these facts, Mrs. Derwent had died of wan . ‘How had it been? How could it have been? ( Was that what Monica was asking herself, as she sat there besido her dead mother, holding the paper that spoke of better days for her? . ~ Was that what brought the lines of painful thought ‘inet "> _ wpon her smooth young brow, and lit the moody tire ‘x ober eyes? s § “imap -Yos; Monica was once again ing blindly in the - sinister darkness of a secret ‘hic her mother had -. held inviolate during her whole life, and which she _ had carried to the i d of spirits with her. i: . Derwent. always earned a comfortable “Anoome from her lace-hoop, more especially since - Monica had developed a talent for designing new tte which in their graceful origi- r purohased by Gaey daadarn: ed as we have said, enough to d exquisite needed help j yet ago, she had burst out r some, for any explan- terrible to the heart, had folded her gentle arms about tho trembling girl, pillowed her head upon her own —~=BY elting ep 1, and spoken as follows: : ld, I hoped that you noticed nothin could disturb or eh you; I see now t little diplomacy is too transparent to blind ou. This matter that you have distressed yourself uch about, is the one secret 1 must keep from e world—even from you, dear girl. Itisa very e igre it has crushed my spirit to the eart: all eyears of my widowhood. ‘If it would onlv hai ¥ 4 ‘ ‘ * a oa « ae A t 5 a a EAC ie CPN tine whe “ie Mut ( Woagih ee ies, a Met He ee are oa Web tle fi 3 ee 4 ¥ peace, cort- nied and happy with you, my darling d child. If I were to tait , ‘e would be overshadowed ‘ bitter every hour. And yetit is not for this reason alone. that I keep you in ignorance of it, nor is it for my own sake, for Iam utterly guiltless in the mat- | ter; but there is a person alive for whose sake I keep it, ay, and must kee carry it to my grave wit. gir ou must dismiss the matter from your houghts, You trust in your mother’s integrity, do you not? Yes, you do, my, sweet; you never really doubted me, Iam sure; those ideas which distressed you were only the natural efforts of filial affection to fathoma mystery which obviously clouded your mother’s life. All I can say in explanation, dear, is. that as long asI live I am bound to put aside, an secretly to forward to—some one—somewhere—half of whatever income I may get; even if tt were but one dollar a year Imust part with Jifty cents of tt.” And then she had glided away, witha very pained and roused look on her usually meek face, and a sudden haughtiness of mien that struck cold to Monica’s heart, suggesting, as it did, certain hidden depths in her mother’s character, and events in her erode goa came like iron hands pushing them a little apart. And, although the high-minded daughter had ne- ver again whispered another inquiry, or looked curiosity; but had put entire faith in her mother's integrity, according to her gentle request, and driven the secret from her mind, as faras that lay in her power, still, we say, there had not passed one day since, that she had not been visited by the con- sciousness of a something sinister and disastrous brooding over her home. Half of all she could earn—handed over to a name- less being, as long as she lived! That was the gist of her mother’s secret. But Monica thanked God every day, with passion- ate gratitude, that she could believe her mother uiltless, and clung to the belief with a desperate old, heaping only the more love upon her, devoting to her the more assiduously fond and unwearied services; fronting fate for her with the loftier cour- age; for Monica Derwent held reserves of pride and it as long as I live, and me. Now, my darling heroism in her warm, deep heart, that even she her- - self could not fathom as yet, and often marveled much at her own haughty impulses, so unlike the soft, passive resignation of her sweet mother. The night before Mrs. Derwent died, she had beck- oned her child to her pillow, and with a pale and thankful smile had murmured in her ear: “ear nothing from that old sorrow of mine, my, darling; with my death the price is fully patd—there is nothing more to give. It dies with me; henceforth you walk free.” As Monica muses with the newspaper in her lan, and her gaze fastens bitterly.upon the dead face of her idolized mdther, strange thoughts are busy in her brain. She is trying to trace the connection be- tween her mother’s secret and this expression in the advertisement, “A long-unclaimed right.” From her knowledge of her mother’s self-sacri- ficing, dependent andt soned that if any sacrifice had been made, any for- tunate right allowed to lie unclaimed, it must have beenshe who had made it—she who had refrained from claiming that right; therefore, (and Monica's heart swelled with hot and acrid regret) circum- stances had at last so transpired that the. fortune, if fortune it was, had sought her through the col- umns of the everywhere-read New York Herald, since she would not seek it. F And it had come too late—too late. That was always the epee car refrain of all Monica’s thoughts; here was help for her mother, and it was too late. By what perversity of destiny had it chanced that not one of the half-a-dozen subscribers to the New York Herald in Loangerie had noticed this announce- ment, and told her mother of it? As Monica asked herself this she recalled, with a throe of fierce rebellion and disdain, the evil repute in which this very column of anonymous communi- cations was_held by all Christian people, and as the ee of Loangerie were par excellence a most evout and ri set of Christians, who would as soon own to that disreputable column, it was easy enough to ”) Sh Fa = Pay oe See ath pea ess that those six deacons who took the paper in angerie never mons the advertising sheet or permitted it to fall into the hands of their families; and that so the paragraph which would have say her mother's life had never been read here. Was it running still? Or had some spurious claim- ant, more wide-awake than the doomed widow, snatched at the chance to reap what benefit there was, and was this all that Monica would ever see or hear of the matter? The gitl’s pageara face suddenly fired crimson, her eyes sparkled. She rose and went to her mother’s bier, and standing over it, she gazed long at the sweet, cold marble face there, as if she would photograph it, in all its pathetic attenuation and purity, upon her memory. Yon, she had faithfully believed in her mother, in her goodness, worth, her sweet, proud, pure life, and in her hard ill-usage by an adamant Providence. There had been something that could not be told. Yes—but it was not shame to her mother. No, no! She had certainly been the dupe of an invisible and sinister power, a vampire which had sucked the life- blood out of her veins until here she lay dead, And now Geliverance had come, and it was too te! “Let me avenge her—that is all] shall live for!” panted Monica Derwent. and stooping. she sealed * ‘ 5 aa “ rs i: f ee 3 “<r AMERICAN QUEEN. imorous nature, Monica rea- - the can:can as to poring over | | state of mind. said, bitterly, her low stern tones sounding in strange. — 4 BP or at lner vow by a long, anguished kiss on her mother’s dead lips. : ; The funeral was over. f ns, Tis expenses, humble as they were, had drained onica’s slender purse to alow ebb. She had seen e latest Herald, and the advertisement was run- ‘ning in it still. She was resolved to answer it—to hear what these strangers had to tell heriabout the “unclaimed right,’ which she believed to be con- nected with her mother’s secret. j But she was so penniless, that, while the kind- hearted neighbors were Soe | her by the re- | minder that she would at least be littlo the worse pepe! by her invalid mother’s decease, since er salary as the village teacher was quite adequate to the supply of her own wants, she was casting about in her mind how she should procure mone enough not only to journey to New Vor but poset ‘es to remain there for some time to come. She gathered together all her resources; set her cottage in order for an absence, long or short, she knew not which; and without explaining anything to anybody, except to tell the Rector that she was going to New York on business, she left Loangerie the day after the funeral. And so calm and self-possessed was she when she went from among them, that all Loangerie looked to seo her back at her desk in the little frame school- house in a few-days, as before; and gladly accorded her the few days’ holiday and change, since her be- reavement had'been sore, and the poor young thing,- though she had made little outward moan, seeme to be stricken for death herself. é But busy was the tongue of rumor when the Monday came—Tuesday, Wednesday—a week, two weeks—a month—a year—years—and she never came back to Loangerie! CHAPTER II. “wy FATHER]. I WILL NEVER OWN HIM FOR MY Fa- Monica found in room No. 9, Warren. street, Messrs. Korner & Price, two driving and thrivin lawyers, not so long in practice as to pass by indif- ferently any chance of emolument, crooked or straight, and thirsting to manago this matter with benefit to themselves. They received the young lady from the country, who introduced herself as the only child of Mrs. Ada Derwent, nee Rivers. of Addiscombe, with due caution and reserve, until satisfied with the proofs of her identity; and, although they were at first _bit- terly mo gS big to learn of the decease of Mrs. Derwent herself, they soon accommodated them- selves to the inevitable, and set about manipulating the survivor to the best of their ability. Having gleaned from her a distinct account of her mother’s and her own history during the past nine- teen years, they coolly desired her to come to them that day week, when they hoped to have something © definite to tell her about ‘‘ the connection with which the at immense expense,” as they carefully her, for over four months, As he were resolute, Monica had perforce to obey, and retired to her boarding-house to wait, feel- ing a growing interest and excitement, as she noted the portentous manner of the poe ots. and vainly tried to guess at the news they had to tell. Of course she could guess pretty correctly the use they made of that week; that they were eas her story and proving its truth; but so judiciously did they conduct. their inquiries, sending an agent to Loangerie to investigate, sub rosa, that not a soul in the straight-laced little townlet dreamed of what was being done. Having returned on the specified day, Miss Der- went found herself greeted with fervor, placed in the seat of honor, and both the lawyers bustled about her, vying with each other in showing her how ner honored her. \ a ope wad angered and disgusted the proud- spirited girl. ‘ 4 Of course, she knew this was -a money-matter; guessed at some fine legacy or inheritance, an measured the courtesy of the astute men of affairs by the probable bulk of the fortune. ' “Be good’ enough to come to the point without pp te A ” she sald, cae eek “as you see I am too hum ly born and bred to appreciate or expect meaningless compliments. d since this matter did not chance until my mother was gone, it can seem of very little moment to me, in my present What care I now what befails?’’ she igh matter i had been advertisin reminde: contrast to the fluttered jubilation and gratulation of theirs irit!” chuckled Mr, Kor- “Ahem! The family ner, surreptitiously nudging his partner, Mr. Price, im, and reddening un- as if her lofty tone pleased ecmfortably whem he saw that her bright eyes had detected him. ‘The fact is, my dear young lady, that by the merest accident we have discovered something of importance—of great importance to the wife or children of Mr. Otto Derwent. é He paused with an impressive smile, waiting for the tremendous announcement to overawe his lis- tener; but she answered, with a ly regardless of the piquant news he had hinted at: ** Ags there is oul one thing which men in your profession think of enough importance to expend time and and talent er I can easily guess what you are about to tell me. ‘Some relative of my long-dead father has thought of mother, and wishes to assist her pec ily. And it is too late.” “ Wrong— her wrong!” said Mr. Price, with airy enjoyment, and a gallant bow; ‘‘ Miss Derwent is foo unworldly to come neq the truth.” “What is the truth. then?” asked she, noting with loomy look, utter-, fe
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| have not communicaved with each other. @ little wonder the repressed excitement of each wary visage. “it would, perhaps, be well to state that this mat- ter is entirely im our hands,” said Mr. Korner, very earnestl his eyes on her, and hitching his chair a little nearer hers. ‘“‘ Not a soul but we two can assist you to gain your rights. The facts came to our know] some months since, and we have already gone considerable expense and labor collecting information and advertising. You under- stand?” “Perfectly,” replied she, promptly, with some disdain. “You wish to impress upon me that your services are valuable, and that you will not con- tinue them unless.I can pay for them, and am will- ing to place myself in your hands. Tcan only say that Iam penniless, and will not pledge myself to any course In the dark.” ; “Very good; we sha’n’t ask you to do anything but what is perfectly just and right,” Mr. Korner hastened to assure her; ‘and as to your present poverty, the whole business is to relieve you of it, and to put it in your power to recompense our ser- viees in the future. Which, of course, a lady of your strict sense of justice would wish to do when- ever she had a chance,” added he, insinuativgly. She bowed, with a slight smile; somehow the longer they talked of this mysterious business the more she doubted the wisdom of confiding too much ty pair. ine Soe er distinctly what it is,” put in Mr. Price in an anxious aside; “she can’t possibly real- ize the position until she sees it.” So Mr. Korner settled himself in his chair, and with a bland face and congratulatory tone of voice, spoke as follows: Z “In the course of a lawyer’s practice many se- erets leak out, which those concerned thereby never supposed would come to mo ears, This is an instance; a secret which has been a. for nineteen years has come to our ears, and affects strongly your future, my dear young lady. I may begin the disclosure _b; saying that this secret is connected with that habit of the late Mrs. Derwent, of hand- ing over to an unknown party the half of her earn- ” top !” exclaimed Monica, suddenly; her cheek had flushed scarlet, and her eyes were sparkling warningly. ‘‘ My mother deliberately kept this mat- ter from me; even on her death-bed, she said it was best for me not to know what her secret was; so I will not hear it from you. If you cannot explain this business Balsa, penreying my ae 's secret, orant, 3 Spat BO ena wreak of the blood, eh?” mut- tered Mr. Korner to his colleague; “no use insisting here; might as well try to move the Palisades, eh? and with a complacent chuckle he resumed. “Very good, Miss Derwent, we can easily avoid trenching on the forbidden sg a For nineteen years you have supposed your father was dead; for nineteen ears your mother knew he was alive, and residing at g English estate, Dornoch-Weald— “Wat!” gasped Monica, springing to her feet, “‘my father alive!—oh, impossible! ’ She gazed from one to the. other wildly; their faces inexorably re- peated the assertion; she suddenly wheeled and walked to one of the windows, where, with her face hidden, and her hands tremblingly clasped over her . preast, she remained still as a stone. But a storm was raging through her soul; the very depths of her nature were stirred. The idea of a father had ever been but an abstract one to her, the. theme had never been dwelt upon by her mother— she had always seemed to shrink from it with ..« , er blunted pain, and Monica had settled it in her mind that he Ned "peen so passionately beloved, and so cally lost in the first year of marriage that her mother would carry the wound raw and bleeding to ne rae had been alive all the while, and, what was . it they had said about an estate? He was then a rich hoe eS in wealth and ease, and her mother —had died—of want. “As the girl’s thoughts reached this climax ene stifled a sharp as 3 one stung, and went back to whis: wyers. ’ tT io ont what else?” she demanded peremptorily, Mr. Korner took up the narration where he had t. ; aroppee father is alive to this day: and had your mother lived to answer our advertisement in person we would have reinstated her in her rights without the slightest delay. She being unfortunately de- ‘ceased, we transfer our good offices to May and whenever you choose to put yourself in our hands we shall present you to Mr, Otto Derwent, sand claim for you your legal rights as his daughter. A “But—but—why were they separated?” faltered Monica, still too stunned to admit a thought of her own position. nothwithstanding that he really seems to have loved wife (who seven pay! o pe 2 his fine estates, an marriage, and to go home pd do him justice I will mention that he money she could desire, and began by. 4, she had her pride too, poor soul, and, besides, was also misled as to something she supposed him to be ruilty of, and she fled from the home he had left her Le fr, and hid herself in the little out-of-the-way hole | wan came from; so that for nineteen Sey payee 4 ror: AP ree os iy sf * Y 2a does not know whether shé is dead or alive. ‘view to your own future reward. ‘AN AMERICAN QUEEN. — ahs A YY a is stone enough never to trouble lis head about the matter; but lives the life of a country gentleman, on one of the finest estates in -——shire, while she, poor soul, was starving herself to satisfy the rapacity of a swindling villain who took advantage of her—” “Take care—that’s the forbidden subject,” inter- sed Ho a oe Ha ae the expressive ace oO e daughter reathless interest, al- most fascinated by its 6 vivid changes, by “Will you now be g enough to inform me what your intentions, with regard ‘ my mother were, when you advertised for her?” demanded shie, be- tween her teeth. ‘*Oh, you can easily guess them,” said Mr, Korner cheerfully. ‘ Wesawa chance to render justice to two people who had been parted by a mistake, to set the wife in her own place and to clear her re- a in the eyes of her husband. We proposed ut each party in possession of some facts which had come to our knowledge, to effect a recon- ciliation, and to have had this pagans (and profit) of making two lives happy. é now propose, the wife being gone, to introduce you, the daughter, with all the proofs of your identity in your hands, to your father, whoas yet is ignorant of your existence— when you will, without the slightest doubt, receive due recognition as the only dof a very wealthy man. Monica sat still as death for a few minutes, eying her counselers with slowly gathering scorn. hen her heart was full to bursting, her small teeth set in her lip, and her glance flashing with pent-up feeling, she burst out ag eerie “And this my r mother’s history, is it? Scorned—betrayed—abandoned—perishing in want —because he believed a slander! Oh, God! what a demon!” , She wrung her hands in a gust of grief; it was easy tosee how intensely the proud fine soul of the daughter had loved and believed in her hapless mother. ** And do you wish meto go to the man who did this, and to fawn at his feet for my rights?’’ she cried, flashing from grief to the most scathing fury and contempt. ‘You expect me to go straight from the grave of my mother, with the memory of her skeleton form and unhappy eyes, and my only reminiscences of her, toil-worn and sad—to that no- ble estate where my father lives luxuriously and thinks scorningly of his poor young wife! Why, entlemen, are you human, that you think I could do t? _Ishould curse him, and call on God to avenge my mother’s blood on his head, instead of kneeling in humble duty for his paternal greeting! Ha! ha! ha! My father, forsooth.’’ ; She was rapidly walking from end to end of the oilice now, panting with excitement and emotion, and flinging glances of the utmost derision and dis- dain at her would-be counselors, Mr. Price, whose softer manners made him are, successful with the lady-clients, approached her wit deep solicitude, delicately tempered with deference, and begged her, for her own sake, to calm herself, and look practically upon the matter. “ Just think of it, dear Miss Derwent,” he plain- tively urged. ‘‘ How few in this world of hard work and crowding competition can, like you, step from dire poverty and friendlessness into a wealthy and refined home? Be a rich man’s only danghter— with every chance in life of being his sole heiress— heiress to a fortune worth twenty thousand pounds a year. ‘You have said enough,” she cried, sternly. ‘I pacing ign perfectly. Because he is a wealthy man, you kindly trouble yourselves to effect an acknowledgment of his chil as you would have ef- fected a reconciliation with is wie Sey, witha Had he been a poor man, the knowledge which you had accident- ally obtained, and which you could use to remove the obstacles between two mistaken people--would have remained forever locked. in your own breasts. Oh, yes, I clearly Nag pce the position as far as you are concerned, t Iam a free agent, you can- not oblige me to present myself to Mr. Otto Derwent in the character of long-lost daughter and heir-ex- tant, Let his money where it will—I shall ouch none of it. I should choke upon his bread— thinking how my mother died for want of it; I should writhe under his caressing band, remem- Daring how it flung aside my mother with a broken eart.”” “But, oh, come now,” remonstrated Mr. Korner, with growing anxiety, for neither of them had ever dreamed of any opposition from their client—who in their senses wo reject a fortune? ‘* Consider the case, my dear lady; consider it Cobra, and don’t rush to conclusions in this irrational way; there is so much to be told yet, and after all, he is your father.” “Don’t call him my father,’ cried Monica, pas- sionately; “I cannot and will not consider him my father. He who cast off my mother with insulting suspicions, expressed so cruelly that she scorned to eure to him again. Never, were I starving—shall own—’ “Wait! not so rash, for Heaven's sake,” inter- posed Mr, Korner, aghast. ‘Pray, pray, be seated again, and let us explain this thing; you are rushing on at amad pace. Your father—” “Do you persist in the term?” cried she, im- petuously. Then I shall not stay to be insulted by She hurried, with burning cheeks, to the door; the air sprung with one accord to arrest her, and she tel , between them, clasped hér hands, and look- ing Heavenward, said solemnly: _ So help me God, Irepudiate Mr. Otto Derwent = my father, even as he repudiated Ada Rivers as 8 wife.’ ——-= all—if you would but promise to née ourself in our hands, we couid disclose enough of the truth in three words to secure your consent to our scheme.” “Keep your secret, | have learned enough to show me what I ought to do,” said she. ‘ However, lest I might make the'terrible mistake you so dread, I shall ask you a few questions; so, gentlemen, I beg you will please to answer plainly what I ask,” sai she, reseating herself with a gloomy derision in her manner, ; ) : Did Mr, Derwent authorize you to search for his, wife?” After a hurried consultation by glances, the senior lawyer answered, “No.” “Does he know anything whatever about your movements?” ‘* And this action is undertaken solely upon your own authority, and merely in hopes of fui busi- ness? “Oh, come, come—not ane so bad as that,”’ re- monstrated the man of a airs, wincing; ‘surely no one, with the chanc® accidentally placed in_ his power to see Page dove the innocent and > hee fail to do otherwise than we propose to do by ou,”* “You say that Mr. Derwent separated from my mother because some one slandered her. Did he give her any chance to vindicate herself, or did he abandon her without explanation?” “ N-n-no—that is to say, yes. I fear he must plead guilty to this charge; still, when you hear—” Msn this is the last question,” said she, with a aint, bitter smile. ‘‘Has Mr. Derwent ever, to your knowledge, expressed either contrition at his ly condtict, ear or indicated i to reinstate her in her riehte?™ niger ipa “ Well—not exactly.” “Tell me the truth!” | dare to deceive me!” ond ahi epg etl oi And, for once in his life, singularly awed by the dark menace of a woman’s eye, the er blurted out the awkward truth poi ened , and spoiled all his pretty ‘* No, never.” She rose, folding her r litt aa about her ahodhivon, poor little crape mantle as an em i folded the royal purple. a Bh ages ig “Then, gentlemen,” said she. and disdainful look from one disconcerted face to the other, “I beg leave to retire from this field at & once, and permanently. For nineteen years I have lived without the aid of a father; I can the pos § as well. For nineteen years my mother has suffered from the selfishness of my father, and I haye toiled. for my bread, and eaten it sweetly, because it was clean, and did not come from his sullied hands. I shall uot forget her sufferings, or abase myself for the rest of my years. Your scheme is eated; I will have nothing to do with it. Good-day.” And before the astounded practitioners could open their frozen mouths to protest she had gone, CHAPTER II. OUT ON THE QUEST. Monroa. went back to her story bedroom, and eee the i This day a cruel revelation had been made to her: the first shock was not yet over; she felt benumbed, like one who has had a terrible fall; knew not as yet what of her bones were broken and what remained to her sound. . ; ) She had been taught to believe her father dead, dead in the first year of her mother’s married life, and so seldom talked of, and then so vaguely, he had ever been but a faint, poetical, and. ely, thal idea, floating in tender shades in which her drea ter life upon her mother, For while she was ness, heart-break and hopelessness, in wealth and ease, thinking wicked evil of her, and in no want of her. Monica laughed to herself, with mock ur g ; “the recollection of the la nt oe ne i to har patrician, Mb "5 at —that she should present herself er patri sire in the character of a fond and favori ter, she of whose very existence he A she, the issue of that brief and luckless inheritrix of her mother’s wrongs—the self-impo' avenger. Oh, what a comedy! She senere sitting there by herself, so loudly sae eae at footsteps came hurriedly to her door ug in ee marveling whether the new boarder was going mad. ’ ; ‘ So she muffled her hysteria, laid her head down’ _ on the meager little marble-top: table, beside the frowsy map of New York, bend in ill-smelling leather, her head that was so hot, while her feet were like ice, and she tried to soften hef heart, and to pray to God, with whom her dear martyred. mother was; but she could not do that; no, no, no! not with the live coal of vengeance glowing in her thoughts. thinking of revenge—revenge on For Monica was ia gener. ad oe she never ca im “father,” in he thoughts, never permitted herself to icture hen with arms about her mother, when that mother. was a beautiful young village darling, with her dia- mond bright hs, resting sweetly on his, and her velvet scarlet lips drinking so gr breath, in Loye’s Young Dream! No, rather she thought of those eyes dimmed and caverned by the ti tears, and the wasting of much Tkager and pain; of ow of . many \ _ “But you are, terribly mistaken—when we reveal | those scarlet lips, pale and compressed by the re- pS } f “ x g Flaw Finn 6 eee Oe Ly u ae: ‘ : r « yee nd q ue ko % “Fe, ; Bes re eS ew Oe ee) Ce ae | Re ee ea 3 ’ iF aad passing a resolute ~ rivate boarding-house, — locked herself into her cheerless, thread-bare fount’ x thoughts; she ought to have been cursing : him a: every tnech pang Selohed te ahaa and = 4 i ld, h 2 - an ees a Leg ae ) om posed e long strange passage, and ears listened _ : < - ' ws < fancy reveled, And instead of these eeyerent Eek : pote ip ’ roa ~ ASG » “2
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| xt. 6 wy ee 2 crag 7 ’ d " P * ef c . 4 te ; 2 , ‘ . : oo ; gen % Pat) ‘ ' : ' Sa . & , iy ® 4 af . — : aa e She had so far resolved, that she would follow the ert ile wishes in that she would go to England and confront Mr. Derwent, but not in the character of his heiress expectant. Not that. As her mother’s avenger. By-and-by as the whirl of her excitement abated, she could recall practical details, _ And among the first she remembered, with a great ang of disappointment, that she had not even al- owed them to give her Mr. Derwent’s address, and hhow was she to find him? Not for worlds would she again present herself to the pair who had oe to reinstate her in her rights at the expense of her self- sige re ortunately they had no clew to her present whereabouts, and could not, were they ever so anx- jous, trace her; and one of her instant resolutions had been to elude them altogether, and make her way, uususpected by living soul, to Mr. Derwent’s mansion, enter it in disguise, and after reconnoiter- ing, she would be better able to cope with the cruel nature which had sacrificed her mother. Suddenly she recalled the name they had men- tioned—Dornoch Weald, in ——shire. She sat up with sparkling eyes; she had found the clew; it would be easy to trace the country seat of a wealthy county family, once she was in that county. _, Before she rose from that fateful reverie, Monica Derwent had determined upon her course—a course which was to lead her, all unwitting of its tremen- dous possibilities, through as strange and terrible an experience as ever madman dreamed, or the King of lever ee before unwary foot. She sai | “Twill go and see this Otto Montacute Derwent, 'who has spoiled my mother’s life, and what heart- less FS psa he has dealt her, will I render to him ain,” . , But the sinister shade of another influence stood behind her, gibbering of the awful future, and she Baw it not. Well, she must go at once to Britain, if she would are elude the probable search of the New York lawyers, who had set their hopes upon her as a valuable _ client. She knew that it was not likely that they ad _ gone to the expense and trouble of advertisin for mother unless nee saw a good chance o} ' reimbursing themselves; also, that they would leave no stone unturned to trace her again, in the expectation of overruling her ne pe be and @ is such a fool! dead six months, and he used to do everything—he and the blacks; Inever had to even purchase a ribbon for ores. he did it all, or to pick up my own hand- kerchief, they were alwayson d, a score of them, But now, oh, dear!’’ and she dissolved in weak-self- | pitying tears, ‘But you will cross with me. That enough for the present,’’ she resumed in a minute, *“T am overcome with fatigue of examining appli- cants, and will put off the evil day, now I havo got you, until we are settled in London, Come with me at once, for we start to-morrow at noon. By the way, what is your name?” onica was Vag Spe for this question. “My name is Monica Rivers,” she answered ad- ding her mother’s surname to her own. She had decided not to enter Mr. Derwent’s house bearing her patronymic; she wished not to excite his atten- tion until she had studied him well. And as she ex- d to gain access to his patrician mansion only n some menial character, she had no object now in assuming any name that she did not intend to use throughout whole season of her retributive visit in England. And that was how she crossed the Atlantic and overcame the first obstacle presented to her. ** A good omen,’’ she told herself as she hurried to her boardinz-house for her slender pesmenee reflecting on the special Providence which sen her in the way of a ES ape hatic and heedless char- acter like Mrs. Frothing ; any one else would have been sure to demand references, ask definite questions, pry into her concerns, and generally make it im le for her toretain her own secrets with- out suspicion and eventual rupture. But Mrs. Froth- ingham was possessed of as little worldly wisdom as a girl of ten; given to fancies, too thankful to lean on anything that offered calm enduring strength. and pleased with Monica’s refined face, respectful manners, and simple honesty, The little party went amicably off together; and Monica, standing on the crowded deck of the mam- moth steamer, under the drearily falling winter rain the next day at noon, and watching the wedge- shaped city lessening in the distance, till the pale gray of Castle Garden was all that was visible, felt one anguished heart-wrench, as if she had done something irrevocable; and then, looking down at ci And Monica ‘regi a vow in her hot youn “ T thought it was too good to be true that Ishould | the side of the brown, en’ ed, hai y heart, that Mr. Otto Montaeute Derwent, the selfish | get such a capable, wise, su Ao ag age to go with | coach-driver, whose gnarled hands the * rib- , bons" of his four enormous spankers scientificalé= and whose conversation consists in sulphurous 0@' delivered to his steeds, and now, at she is roliug through the roughly-macadamized principal street of Dornoch, her glittering eyes straining away over the heads of the ntly-dressed villagers at a lordly turrets and shining windows of her acca’ 0 ome, It lies, perhaps a mile beyond the last thatch-ripf,, ed cot of Dornoch; it is set proudly upon a gentl« eminence, not so steep or embowered in trees as to conceal from these questioning eyes the velvet ex- rom of its eae ks and broad garden-acres: he grand house 0 rnoch-Weald, with its encir- cling pleasure-grounds, occupies a cireular tract of some two hundred acres in the heart of a forest, in which rig ee seen some of the finest and oldest timber in England. This forest, with its preserves, its charcoal fields, and its stretching wealth of wood, as well as the whole village of noch, are described in the title- deeds of the estate of Dornoch-Weald; Feltrie, the other estate, and the older, from which he derives his distinctive title of ‘* Master,” lies in another county, not only far removed from Derwent's ‘resi- dence here, but left to decay, ever since one of the gay Donen of the last century filled the sacred with rout and lasciviousness, and was finally murdered in the banqueting hail by one of his vile companions, 8 The stage-coach sweeps up to the broad front of an over the wide-set door of which a yast shield- sha sign is swinging, displaying on its gilded sur- face the escutcheon of Derwent, some mythological monster ping saw hieroglyphic signs, with the legend erneath, ‘*Dary Nor Derwent.” Mine host eeneteee, Nie in mouth, and cap askew; helpers run from the stables; lights twinkle in the windows of the inn; uncouth men and bo hi nm rom the iver helps down his only peaoneer e trav- YS, purpose unobtrusively; but by the appearance of th ivili rice she has passed and the rs, begins realize that. olding her to their own purposes. So she dared | the wee sparkling face of her tiny charge, “For the Weald, miss?” inquired i not return to Loangerie, even though she possessed | away her orebodfngs, and thanked Heaven for her | elbow; the landlord was e fhe ‘with a the ' mot ten dollars in the world, until she went back to | traveling companions. curiosity of one whose glimpses of the outer ; her school to earn it. é world are few. ee. ant Monica was brave in this, the outset of her CHAPTER IV. ee ees , ee Posnis st a ag age of lodg- . : rege career, ' THE MASTER OF DORNOCH-WEALD, 8 e@ village, rep. her quiet, yet af he felt ready to face anything, her b iri- Tur hamlet of Dornoch, among the hills and fast- | ¢ P and suffi i, independent tone, her Recent Y EAE, 2! gnation the li and her holy love for the nesses of ——shire. presented a picturesque eno hj §s ciently un-English to mark her alien extraction ; es i rare. uph ing her untri courage. aspect to the weary eyes of” the oung woman who by can you direct me to a suitable house be 2 me was not yet come when she could r eiterad tine gusty evening in the end of March, on 6 man stepped & pace in order to havea “se IT ae C) ealize, - through terrible ex a Fee the true horror of fear; look at her, from the crown of her plain little black ; : the top of the country stage-coach, which carries she knew not its haunting as yet, for how can Pe) Ae railw silk hat to the tip of her slender shoe; then one imagine that which has not yet e idiece ta ine Dina eae pesca vom the railway station, | Dasced his vacant globular orbs slowly around the | pret. eae She been traveling all day, in steamer, rail- | Circle of onlookers, as if for inspiration, | _ _-_ By dint of calm and vigilant search, she found a | car, and ; she was not yet completely re- “A furriner!” muttered one voice inthe quickly _ i to cross the ocean three days after her arrival | covered from the enervating effects of cae rouch | gathering crowd. in! ew York. She read in her old friend the Herald, | and sea-sick passage across the Atlantic, and the “* Looks like one 0’ they nun-women,”’ suggested a ana vertisement for a child’s bonne, to travel with a tiresome swimming of the head consequent on the second, . _ Jady and. her infant to land. She answered in | gea voyage, had not yet left her. “Where can she come from, for to look to Dor- Sey ean Wig tat tao niiobed te Ler 1S. | sch ni ea oe eee ee en te | Me Oe aieb teal peice Anan aie ee v Ww er in- Se me i ‘ su cas Apparently taken at once by the quiet, pone of. jos eden pe by here,” said the object 6 re anxious to eskape Baw a left the quiet nest of her sheltered girl- | from these candid expressions of the people’s opin- ve and refined demeanor of the applican 7 Frothinghatn beckoned her to approach close peels’ the fons; and thus set in a path mine host i det upon which she reclined in her crimson shawl, ik Marere mca cancine Loan fees Hegmy 3 | lumbered onin it; with a dumb-struck Sgt oe ged , : ping pinion, eag € led her and fi - her Ie nto eyes upon her face, | on its prey. r into the inn parlor, and set her by the hearth upon ‘poured out her tri r helplessness, her require- | — Arrived in Liverpool, it had not taken her Jong to | Which a d fire of was roaring and crack- ‘ments, and her ‘anticipated ee eg in low, yor discover where to find the information she required, | ling, sending its mering reflections all u _ Ying accents flavored strongly of the Southern plan- | that is, fhe address of Otto Derwent. The peerage and down the w walls and the burnished PRD ac, e psapnd was handed her by the shopman; leafing it rapidly an ornaments on the rude shelves, . eae thankful to see anybody as presentable as | over she soon had her small tapered finger-tip upon } e sunk upon the broad wooden settle with a ; you, my dear, at last, Wachee hee er ng beret this passage, under the illustrious heading: Hp tye she was so w that every thing she saw i elf ‘sa ‘oy aes en ene : 9 igus Be beat “6 wer FAMILY NAME DERWENT. eee ange sks world looked dream-like and un- » ny thave died! Bin MW oe are atte y ate wrath “Otto Montacute Derwent, Master of Feltrie, peal, with n "aha was beginning to seem another amy dear; and, yen, you vate really lady-like. You Hoassbine, forall seat, Dornoch-Weald, ——shire, went save a wont eho ny cet at ban eee ph a % aay. ? . oy il be eharmicd with my Dottie, I know; such a eed 3 Ya of Paittie’ Hourshie kop remembered her mother. balay the Government of 1854; do nothing. ‘Celeste, my maid, will nurse me, and you will have Dottie altogether under your charge. ere, es all, isn’t it? You accompany me to d if you suit, and by that time I shall Ou will remain with me. I am ordered to be under the care of Sir Fretwell Malade, d his use. She tried to s to the window for another | pie turrets of Dornoch-Weald, but her limbs ietaied bear her, and she curled down again in the cor- ner of the cushioned dais, and soon succumbed to the resistless influence of slumber’s ing handmaid- _ Pucolina. 1am so wretchedly ill on the ocean I can Moniva flushed so vividly over the words, “never } ant ladies’ physician; { may be there a . ' ens, Weakness, Weariness, and Warmt’ year; perhaps not so Jong; it depends upon my. —— fet # Bees her eeneen sn Sie head over | Dim and distant came tie tramp and bustle of the # i suit you will stay, you know, a ae ip Pons fom cciio te at Phat Cees Boley, inhabitants of the “Dornoch Arms; mine Ou Sa ; ; © | host lum i i " ‘ gently arrested her in the even flow of | young woman was reading that excited her so; but | stalwart fornia tik eg kde who apo a i prattl by putting up her slender, | &he closed the book, quietly thanked him for his | shake her guest roughly awake, but was amc. ad nand, at which the lady stared sharply, re- | civility in letting her see it, and glided out, And | by tiie mute refinement of the small pale Pry; hh cheap black glove the | two hours wee she was aboard a coast steamer, | the long silken lashes, and who then busied ‘he scl sual del North, death-sick, ard weary beswng coast waves, | clatteringly about the supper-table; two chit her: r p fo) ea Pode bend 6yond words, but in- ds ai in under cover of asking for ord vy. —— sa ra 2 om ohn So her way until she | from their perious mistress, but with the re ge with the 00: ra Sette and ance ontacute Derwent, | tention of slating their curiosity about the “ al in- id gy ont a en Weald. wench” who taiked “‘ half furren,” and ordered round nig i ner Ine eee 2nd grind and tremor | her like a duchess; the bay of dogs came the liehe’ through the sw sea; at gray dawn whirling | ev breeze, and sent mine host, rife nae ~ a in a co vere ee rail-car through n | maids scattering in all directions in mad the: aes way. meads po wet black earth-furrows, where theridzed clang of horses’ iron-plated hoofs sounded sclicp. seed te bere 20.1 | Sv alnyeonidl, Was ant ni titans | ene eee tae, at rand oh Ala te m her delica (| at "sta and faint on the platfo: . sha ed with noise upo: ; ders, | ton the platform | and clamor: voices shouting, loud laughter, the oc 2 - eS . » oo ae a Dy e's + 4 eh, SS ee Ds > ia) ne AO Be ino
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| j : ‘ ; , a ey an cml \ b * 1% ?”’ said he. $ a ori ? oe! 4. ee Cavs * °F fs ae as Na hey - r we ‘ 7 I ‘ r ‘ i es ee cies easionel whinny of a favorite steed or the whimper ©. 2 wounded hound; then heavy tfooisteps came, with the jangle of spurs aad slash of hunting ratan, across the stone hall, and two men stood before the sleeping eon settle, in the bright blaze ' firelight. 6 ed my life—see here, Rufus!” exclaimed a deep rouzh voice, “ what d’ye 2 ag this means?” “Means the advent of something spicy to our hunting dinner, by Jove—a ar show ut bush—” replied another voice in a cautious under- ne, Another step (Monica thought she was dreaming al. this) another step came slowly and majestically across the oak floor as it isin dreams; it seemed to be a long, long time in coming; so long indeed that she waited for it with gradually intensifying curiosi- ty; at last it seemed to halt between the twos <- ers, and in a deep silence (she went on dreaming) a pair of burning eyes were fastened upon her face. a she awoke to lift up her own eyes and tc find this true. _It was with a singular shock that Monica first met those orbs. They were large, the Sg dilated and intensely black, with a surrounding iris like a ring of fire; well cut, widely-open eyes, and sheltered by eyebrows of jetty black, drawn straight across a brow as white and cold as monumenta! marble, and deeply depressed half-way between the eyebrows and the hat. At the moment that Monica fixed hers eyes, she caught a look, inde- scribably wild, accompanied by a sudden - ness of all the features; fascinated, horrifi AL did not move; she felt a ghastly constriction of the he irt, and ‘her breath coming in painful gasps, as if from under & mountain. A smothered laugh broke the weird spell; the eyes released hers; be owner bowed with majestic ignity and turned away. One of the young mont in tarnished scarlet bunt- ing-coats had touched his oD atid elbow, and was endeavoring to stifle his merriment. They were both glancing from her, as she sat up with flaming cheek and but half-aroused faculties, to the owner of the eyes. She, too, in gazed earnestly after this the window and leaned his jet-black hair waved ale forehead and upon these st ani The two bb hae men, Having deeorously banished their chuc : young lady’s sp at atonies recovered her composure oni Ire, self in her corner, and turned a quiet look upon the fire. , ly the stranger wheeled, saw her sitting cathe there, and eros with a firm, quick tread to the opposite side of the wide hearth-stone; bral with his elbow resting on the tall mnantle-shelf, an his also turned quietly on the fire, he stood mioonieae as a statue, an ner ee one ee ge Paladin, with frame worthy ging ot ean achievements of those rude days of glory. ‘ ; ain at him, Monica mutely ie eee tig that this was one of the lords or inndholders of the neighborhood, and wondered whether Mr. Otto Derwent had been at the hunt, and whether he also would come into the inn parlor. ‘*T shall know him when he comes, she mused with @ swelling heart. ‘‘He must be about forty- three now, a stout, ci ha ar ce , With mixed hard or sinister expr are ond aH went her thoughts; her fine face con- tracted, her soft red mouth compressed. Fire ee from her frowning eyes; she was looking pions. er vengeful future, lit up by the torch of her mother’s wro She forgot Fhe stranger standing © posite her: she forgot the quaint old glish inn; 2 av nothing, felt nothing, but the baleful flicker of her chosen mission. scratching and sc ing of dog-feet adeen ae aie ry fiock roused her; she started violently and half rose—for the stranger's face was and*his Ey for ba aa riveted upon her in breathless, wondering scruuny. “Stop.. Excuse me, young lady, but—who are in the low iron voice, as in which overawed and mastered within three feet of he There was some’ the wide, vivid eye, her. ‘in a dream she sunk back again, never feel- int ens cold, sharp nose of the hound as it traveled over her hands in suspicious examination, nor realizing the eccentricity of the question; and said: ae 3 ers.” aie aa eee expectancy of his gaze quench like a light blown out, a moment of blank Mean 1 then a ghrinking of the dilated pupil, and, a su oh giare of f and contempt, succeeded by a scowlo surios ich remaine ace ee May I trouble you to explain what ak like an American. ow that so a acti ig oe dittewtier whatever. How ‘shot into her Rivers? You How did he ~ was pure enough, | , any provincialism or_dialectism had he guessed? A dark thought min ” she replied, meeting his res See seith a sudden flash of repul- family is entirely unknown, I am & hivem—tbat 14 all I know.” how. a more iron and domineering tone. ‘ \ a Cee cea ee Meee ee Tete ge i Mier ade wine died! Lard \ ee tare N our es ea father? From what part of the nited States have you come? Answer me, child. Ihave, perhaps you may find, some right to demand information on these Pe ts from you.” Monica started to her we oy lag and agitated. For a moment she thought, wildly: ‘‘ Yes, this is he, and he has, in his unearthly clairvoyance, discoy- ered me. : But a second thought resolved her to force the on from him, rather than herself avow it; so she answered, proudly: “My parents are gone; my father ”’—this she said with a pests ce, waiting to see him wince— “my father was only a village schoolmaster, my mother a lace-maker, and I was brought up in pov- erty and sorrow, to be a village schoolmistress, as pee of my ambition; New York was my birth- She was describing, as closely as she dared, the very circumstances of her mother, as Otto Derwent come upon her twenty years ago; and she had the satisfaction of seeing him wince and pale, and gnaw his lip with a fierce self-repression. “The name of the village, girl?” he demanded. And she named her mother’s village, reckless, in the sinister glee of her first triumph over him, ** Addiscombe.” The hunter drew up, gazed at her for a few mo- nents with a stricken, astonished air; then, with a mechanical bend of the head, he strode from the room. As he went out, the hostess came in, giving him wide room to pass, and an old-fashioned courtesy down to the floor. ‘* Who is that man?” cried the young girl, with a voice as high and clear as silver bells. “That,” answered the woman, reverently—“ oh, thst is our squire, the Master of Dornoch-Weald. Tl warrant you never saw a kinglier gentleman where- soever you come from.” And Monica, heedless of the implied invitation to confide her nationality to the mistress of the ‘‘ Dor- noch Arms,” turned away with a very peculiar smile, ‘that kind of made me creep like,” as Dame Hicks said afterward, when these apparently trivial events were talked of over the length and breadth eS of the British Isles, CHAPTER V. ’ WAITING AND SEEING. Anp that was Otto Derwent, her father / With blazing cheeks the girl sat and thought of him, scanning again, with mental gaze, the tall, stalwart figure, the proud, picturesque countenance, the dominant manner, the dashing, courageous, bon- camerade style of the man who had let his wife per- ish alone in Loangerie. f How eu his sorrow sat upon him! Why, her mother had looked at least ten years older when she As Monica played with the fried ham and eggs and tea served to her by Dame Hicks, she plied that personage with questions that set her voluble tongue wagging continuously, and rendered the stra lady so much more ate Nei a po than gin ges of hun, ong e who reve gh we b —_ at she passed over these magnates to her hnsban , and devoted herself to the one lone little ag Monica, with her white hand yy sing cheek, and her dark glimmering eyes ened full upon the dame’s raw-boned face, lured her on and on, till she had told all she knew about Dornoch- ‘Weald and its noble master. According to Mrs. Hicks, “the master,” as she delighted to call him, was so obstinate in his celi- bacy, and withal so brilliant, fascinating and pupulsy among the ladies, that the highest in the Jand had as ood as offered herself to him, while all the county ies, belles and heiresses, as well as resses in their own right, were breaking their necks after him, without the smallest reward, “Wor a ray man, an’ a joviat liver,” said the old woman, “ ho’s that quecr bout marryin’, the Lord only knows what he means for to do for an heir; hini that hates his nephew, Geoffrey Kilmyre, fit to shoot him—him as used for to fairly worship the lad! And in my opinion, as well as the whole country- side’s, a properer man, and a gallanter, never step- ped across Dornoch-Weald threshold; a bit harum- scarum mybe, but, Lord! that’s better than foxin’ and wigglin’ like snakes around the master’s heels, like the next after him again—I mean them two rogues as were here a minute ago with him, Rufus an’ Gavaine Marshall. Geoffrey, ye see,’s a right down Derwent, as why shouldn’t he, bein’ the mas- ter’s own sister’s child; whereas them scum aren’t nothin’ but distant relatives ever so far removed, sons of—would ye believe if, nothin’ but a tailor! and with neither bm pater nor the bodies of ovr Der- ts, God bless the race!’ t we And he—Mr. Derwent, I mean—is he kind to peo- sle—a good man?” demanded the listener, disdain- 4 iumph! I dunno what may your ideas of good be! Ho suits us—lets us a-be, and that's what a single man should,” retorted the innkeeper’s wife. o ita the young woman as has been hanging on these ten year at the Weald would only keep her nose out of our consarns, like the master does,.she’d suit us better too, I'll wager.” “Who is she?” ; “Oh, another far-off relation; at least she says so, an’has been a-tryin’ for to ketch the master ever since she got out of short clothes—for a scheming viper! But he don’t see it, he! he! he!—an’ so they say up at the hall that of late she’s set her cap for young Master Geoffrey, an’ that she’s in a fair way 2f hoolin’ him, too. "But it’ be a sad day for Dor- noch when Godiva Montacute gets to be mistress of the Weald,” ve “Young, you say? her » er «Oe ee Os Pe 2 ae Met oa Vleet. att, ; Fe san ret : Sige Taran ph hae Taha gee ‘ Py * “oY . H . ‘QUEEN., Se ree * Jest of age, miss, twenty-one, and as sly @# serpent as ever crawled. It's my Ops alam, an’ I don’e care who hears me say so, that oh eae 8 the master for never lookin’ her way, that she’d amin her big) ae in pale eo any nab Fox had & ance; an’ if ever anything amiss happen to him, I'll know who done it.” hit And the pg ise nodded her great head gloomily, gazing with a disgusted frown into vacancy. Monica felt a singular stir at the heart, anda quick breathless craving to see this woman face to face. Yet, although she was spoken of as the enemy of the Master of Dornoch-Weald, it was not kindred feeling that animated the American girl, who had come here in the character of an avenger. ; “Go on! tell me more,” said she, settling herself with yet deeper attention, to the dame’s great grati- fication, for she loved to declaim on the affairs of rg Pkg ly “Where is Geoffrey Kilmyre, and what?’ ’ “Oh, he’s @ rovin’ blade. He don’t trouble the Weald much, especially since the master turned him out of Dornoch for wanting to marry a poor gal ag was governess in the parson’s family.’ “Ah! cried Monica, derisively, “the Master of Dornoch-Weald does not like poor girls, does he?” “Well, this °un weren't much, anyhow, an’ who but a mad devil like Master Geoffrey would think o* settin’ the like, with nayther blood nor beauty, at the head of the table where princesses wanst sat?” Well, did the young man assert his independ- ence, and marry her in spite of his uncle, or did he prove a craven and abandon her for the sake of his uncle’s wealth?” : “Land! how your eyes do shine, miss! Did ha ~ marry Nell ¥fyvern, say you? No for, as ‘ood luck ud have it, she shown: herself up ‘in fine: for the bold, brazen hussy she was, an’ run off with parson’s eldest son, a captain in the g ever she found out that her rich lover ‘ud lose every- thing if he married her; an’she not even expectin’ to marry Tom Grindon. Ugh! Master Geoffrey may orgot ages ago, and gone tothe d Well, Master Geoffrey wor well rid of her; but for all that he never forgave his uncle for standing atween them on account of the gal’s low birth; so. he’s very seldom at the Weald now, but keeps hisself to his own big, lonesome house in Co! an’ meanwhile them reptiles, the Marshalls, keep close by the master’s ear, an’ Satan only kno what lies they tell about our yo master; and that other fox, Godiva Montacuite, eeps a&-writin’ constant to Master Geoffrey, drawin’ him, fine as a wire, into her net, though how she means to get the oa for him ag’in’ two such imps as them farshalls, is past me. Well, weil, thank God, the master’s as hale an’ hearty as any one of ‘em yet, an’ can ride to hounds with the foremost; it may be & many years afore cepa ‘ul get into his shoes, | ne an’ the good Lord grant it will. And with this devout aspiration the landlady de- eS in response toacall from the dining-room, rom whence came the jolly racket and ulence — of a hunt dinner. And Monica once more sunk deep into reverie, with wondering heart questioning the near future. , a : She was soon afterward conducted to her bed- __ fi ; room, situated in adistant part of the wide- ramb but for ? between , and slumber- y. Unless she applied, under som: retext, the parsonage to) ‘ tg nad part the in D a stuffs “Like people, pe gens girl, eb aly: she was are from her own trim, ving little village, where every soul could at least read, and where the poorest cotter could mingle with his fellows, a rational being. ng What cursé was hanging over this e, th Be were so inbred?” . she nee Nothing but an age gu and reckless lord, whose bitter conservatism an 5 : taught him to look oe nis tenants as naught but miserable serfs to till his lands and to crouch at hig © foot as their natural Jord and master! Bes For the Master of Dornoch-Weald was'said through all the country to be the proudest man within the Riding; prouder by far of his ancient lineage than many a high peer, more newly ennobled; vate character was a strange bonhumie toward his as ncngg and icy impenetrab: ity toward all, high or low, who ventu to tread a close to his ees ouica was obliged to hire a room at the inn: shrunk from the task of dissimulation with all t C repulsion of a high-toned nature, and felt it impos- sible to intrude under false pretenses upon the stricken man at the parsonage; it was only her father whom she could contemplate deceiving with- out one pang of compunction. She took a room at the “Dornoch Arms” fora few weeks, and bestirred herself to obtain entrance under some plausible excuse, into the Weald. She , ates e master,” thought the inceliee that, not \. heating of the noisy party in the dining tooms and ae ne ‘ alling pride of race had ~ habitants were wretchedl r. Leas heh x =A day veniat a 3 ‘ F is pri- - . mixture of princely: 1
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) Y Stale si ale LN Pca te Sa % os - Pied a | aie | oa, ye ae gt as > WN” Seat : hw - “ oF Ay) 1 ay r ‘ Mi ae ow J. “) are ee Ay _ guise through the budding garden-b ‘was not one calculated - much, it is true, for, in default of any books what- _ the head of it , gathered quick] ing Kl ‘ pt 6 ave out to the Inn people that sne nada come to heir village among the woods for change of air, her and emaciated appearance suggesting in- stantly recent illness among the ruddy and robust ‘Northern peasants; and she took care to make it known that if the air agreed with her, she would be thankful to get some post at the Mansion House, be- ing too poor to live idle upon her money. t the days passed, and noshing came of her , except that she made herself thoroughly fa- miliar with the grounds of Dornoch-Weald, as well as for miles around among the forests. And then fate gave her her will; a door opened where she least looked for it, and the way was clear. She had not caught another glimpse of Mr. Der- went; neither had she seen the woman who now. di- vided her thoughts with him—Godiva Montacute, the wily connection. The brothers Marshall she often saw and eluded; they made a habit of riding past the inn every day, and of stopping to call for a stirrup-cup of mine host’s nut-brown ale, in the hope of snatching another glimpse of the pale and lustrous-eyed stranger lady, whom they had discoy- erene asleep on the wooden settle. all the cavaliers at the Mansion; she was cautious . as to when and where she took her walks, and con- fined herself to her room as long as they loitered owt the inn. reserve piqued their curiosity; they vowed to “have her out of her hole,” as they put it, and haunted her. ; ' At this time the great house was thronged with a merry company. Not only sportsmen filled its spa- cious walls and vaulted chambers, but ladies from beau monde, bright, beautiful, young and_illus- trious ladies, might be seen sauntering in dainty Ss, and the “m paths of the home-woods. _ Sometimes they flashed by on horseback, attended ‘by the youngest and gayest of the cavaliers; some- mes they drove, a merry cavalcade, in the master's open carriages, through the quaint little village, to some point of inte in the neighborhood, ¢ _ euriously about them as they passed the wretch hutches with their squalid, beast-like inhabitants; but Godiva Montacute was never among these; she seemed to confine herself within the walls of Dor- noch-Weald, as one with some watch to keep. ‘Monica came to think of this unseen woman who hated the Master of Dornoch-Weald, eating his bread the while, with superstitious dread; she was always straining to catch a glimpse of her. ae morning she reached, in the course of her ble in the forest facing the Weald, a sharing at dingle, where the gray rocks peeped thro velvet m and the fresh young curls of the bracken interlaced, with the shooting grasses, the led roots of the giant oaks; silver-stemmed irches, dusky thorn, and tasseled poplars, stretched away like solemn cathedral columus into the dim re- ces of the wood; and a fair bud-fringed gap re- vealed the Mansion straight fronting the girl, as she leaned among the young s ring verdure against a an te bowlder, half-lost amid the shadows and the ‘icate tracery of naked beans: usual, Monica had brought a book with her; it to enchain her interest ever in her present abode, she had obtained per- mission from the sexton of the little Chapel to use pr Atha of theological works which moldered in the vestry, and these volumes chanced to be of : est and most dogmatic type; sO vided herself with a piece lace-work, which ne made almost as =a tely as her mother, and with more originality of design, and on which she now built some hopes of making a subsistence. She was weary with a long walk, and sat in a half , her abstract.d gaze fixed upon those distant turrets; when the quiet rustle of some light trailing = over last year’s fallen leaves attracted her at- tention. 3 ae turned in every direction, seeking the cau but nothing was visible coming through that mist o crossing twigs, with its slight vailing of just peeping j m; then the rustling stopped, and she heard a firm step, and a clear merry whistle, comi ling up from the yalley below. It was answe from igs where the rustling had ceased, by the warbling of a bird, so very ee and deftly executed that Monica had not the slightest sus- fae that it could be anything else, until the rust- “vapo’ rt of pal Chall searealy chaniea vapory sort 0: e gray gown, that scarcely show through the cory grayness of the trees, only that it moved, and that something copper-red Z ing began again, and standing up, she saw, comin, 2 a oP tly towstd her "ook om : 4 shone on : and something roseate white where _ the face might be. - ' As she looked, not doubting but that the lady had seen her and was coming to speak to her, the firm step all the while comin springing up and up from the valley, the lady stood still, behind the enormous 9 a centenarian oak, and a gentleman sprung e her. ; As the two met, Monica, who saw them in profile, though the great tree hid them completely from the ; dows of the Mansion percesred the tall, slim lady put out two long white ands with an impulsive grace, which the gentleman, when he was up to her, in one of his, shook them gayly. and dropped, throwing himself back then agains 1é trun while he gazed at her in silence for per- bee minute, his riding-cap in his hand, and his shining brow lit by the clear morning beams. And ee who could see his face distinctly, be- i ossessed of unusually long sight, breathed a -mechanical sigh of pleasure; for it was so beautiful, not only in proud, pure contour, rich and manl loring, and grace of outline, but in the heartf fe a " Ys 7 successfully avoided not only them, but. AN AMERI a nn ' sncen | « Ps era en 4 ty and forth trom th ® Rare and fair as ever, Godiva! Anxiety o makes you lovelier, I protest, my brave champion,” were the first words spoken. , “Oh, Geoffrey / Guorrrey! GEOFFREY!” were her words in answer. Monica felt her heart stand still; these were the two who ought to be of the utmost importance in the world, to her, after Otto Derwent, for they were the candidates for rag hng of his wealth—her rivals, Godiva Montacute and Geoffrey Kilmyre stood at last before her—before ner, the unknown daughter of their patron and uncle. CHAPTER VI. THE SIREN OF THE WOOD. Miss Monracurs had uttered her greeting in a low impassioned tone, and with a movement as if she would have drawn the young man most impetuously to her bosom, a movement which he did not respond to, as he leaned in an attitude of perfect indolent ace against the old black tree-trunk; then she fell ack a step, crossing her pale hands on her breast with her bare head drooping, and the poring. gol of her waving hair glittering under the sun, for her broad-brimmed country hat was slung over one arm by long floating ribbons of palest azure. She looked very, very lovely and stately as she drooped so; her hight-was majestic, her figure lithe and willowy, with an easy a grace, like the curving undulations of a bending blade of grass, or a twining serpent; her face was purely oval, and creamy white, where it was not roseate of the purest carmine tint; in her tiny ivory ear beamed a star- shaped azure periwinkle-blossom, in porcelain, or some pretty ware, a spray of the same fastenin the transparent illusion scarf that softly mufile her throat, as white as it; oh! she was delicacy, deinureness, modesty and tenderness personified she who might, by right of her proud stature an noble beauty, have lifted herself toweringly above any man’s insulting indifference, a very Cleopatra! “You are glad to see me, then?” said Geoffrey Kilmyre, curiously regarding her. ‘In the name of Heaven, why, I should like to know?” She stole a strange look at him; it was as if her eyes, concealed till then under the longest, richest red lashes Monica had ever seen, had emitted a white flash, like lightning in daylight; then they were hid again. “Pardon me, Mr. Kilmyre, I have no right to pre- sume to be either _ or sorry about you,’’ she replied in a humble, ocent yoice. ‘But if I was —I really couldn't help it—at least—oh, what a shame to put me-on the witness stand this way!” she broke out in lovely confusion, and half turned away, pouting yet smiling, like a very sweet unso- phisticated child. Monica had listened and looked thus far, too utterly carried out of herself by the suddenness of the double arrival to recollect the ner oa of so doing; she would now, having come 4 little to her- self, inevitably have either called their attention to her proximity by some sound, or walked away, had not something in this last maneuver of the beautiful Godiva struck cold conviction of treachery to her soul. Conscious of this intuition, and of iat else, she suddenly sat down again in her shadow nook, and, completely sheltered by intervening she had also | rocks and branches from the most searching looks, repared to overhear all that this woman come here to say to Geoffrey Kilmyre. And now she could see neither of them; but the better could she “Do you know, blushes are vastly becoming to you, ly-Maid,” she heard the gay, yet rather mocking voice of the rone man say next. It was clear that whatever he might be to this lovely dependent on his uncle’s bounty, she was no- thing to Aim, nothing at least beyond the pleasant moment of her luring presence, “Do you think so? Thank you!’’ murmured she aon, and {Monica could see mentally the mock- maiden side glance and the evil shrewdness of the hidden heart of her as she said it. “Well, you are a good little bye Ne beg your pardon—little is scarcely the term deseribe a woman of your majesty; but somehow you always seem to me babyish poocen for the endearment, in spite of Myo six feet of statuesque perfection.” * Anyt you say by way of endearment, Geof- frey, is precious—is, I should rather say, uecome to me; as you know, I bave had little love in my life.” “* Poor child! ’s the way with most of us, I dare swear. However, [need not keep you out in this wilderness talking sentiment. _Lets to busi- ness. You wrote for me, and here Iam. Whiat is 1 de “Oh, me! How sternly you can look atme! Did Ido wrong to write you, Geofirey? Indeed, it was out of the pxrest—” ““There—there—don’t ery, dear soul. What under heaven have I said now, to stir up the pathetics in your foolish little heart? For a large woman, and a rather sensible one, you are ihe veriest baby! There, that’s right; you look more practical now. You were right enough in summoning me to Dor- noch-Weald, if my uncle was in any trouble which I could avert. Little cause as he has shown me to _ waste filial duty upon him, I can’t bear of bis worries without at least wanting to offer my help. What is the matter?” ‘ : “Tet me collect my reasoning faculties a moment, Mr. Kikmyre, , I must not waste your tim> or for- bearance getting out the matter in my own poor womanish way; wait one minute.”’. It was clear that the “ Liiy-Msid ” required some Ca. any woulan \, oud burned in those quick passed to and fro, _Geoffrey Kilmyre evidently did not read these | Signs aright. ter uttering a slight laugh at her closing words, the snap of a match and the curls of blue smoke rising over the spot where he stood be- tokened the serenity with which he had lit his cicar, | and the careless nonchalance with which he mean to await the revelation his kinswoman had summon- ed him to hear. Soon her promenade ended, and her voice sound- ed, low and delicate, through the ancient forest. ‘Did you know that Rufus and Gavaine Marshall were here ona six weeks’ visit?” “By Jove! no! The Marshalls? What can the poor old fellow mean? How does his majesty get along with the sneaking curs? J’m bad enough—the son of a Cornlea cotton prince. But they, ye gods! scions of a tailor / Hal ha! ha!” Geoffrey’s laugh, the langh of an honest man, rung out merrily; its sarcasm could not make it even malicious. “*Hush, dear boy, hush!” came the suppressed voice of Godiva, and there was malignity-germ. enough in her tones for both. ‘‘If any one should discover me under these circumstances—oh, I shud- der at the consequences!’ A pause. No one asked what consequences. eo , as delicate voice went on, with a metallic clink nit: “Well, let me suffer if I must; I had rather suffer for you than curry favor with them for my own sake. I don’t know how they contrived to be invited this time along with our other dis- .tinguished guests; certainly they were invited b Mr. Derwent, in dus form, and are treated wit. as much consideration and respect as my Lord Drogheda himself; not a hint of their extraction, only that wall ey distant connections; and as they have been well, even showily educated, and appear to have mixed in good society, they make a good appearance, and no one would take them for any- thing else than gentlemen. They have been here three weeks now, and in that. time they have con- trived to become so ne to Mr. Derwent, that he is never seen without one or the other of them at his heels. Of course in one way there is noeiae wonderful in that, for ever since he resurrecte them from obscurity on the oceasion of your ex- pulsion two years ago, he has kept up a correspond- ence with them, as well as visiting them now and ain at their own homes. But now they are really s principal guests. Does he moot an excursion, there they are, ready with hand and _ head to take everythi but the enjoyment off him; does he of or masque, who so ingenious and so adroit to b it about, not only with success, but with a unique fancy and originality that flatters and charms him; does he wish for sentiment, call for Rufus and Gavaine; the muses, Rufus and Gavaine; the arts, Rufus and Gavaine; or, best of all, does he crave seclusion, no reason in the world why he should not indulge so intellectual a wish; are not Rufus and Gavaine here to conduct everything so cleverly and yet so mcyaevien Mb ra not the most captious o: the guests can miss their host? Ah, Heaven! when I watch these terrible men b under his pleased and musing lance, and think of you thrust bere thought of with freezing coldness, never mention at all, and your very portrait turned to the wall, my heart turns in my bosom. I have dared to kee vour memory alive, notwithstanding his frowns an angry, goading taunts—I dare no more—if you only what he tortures me by saying—I, who es8 now so little about money that I never can distin- guish between pounds and sh who would serve you the same if you were y penniless as he seems to wish you were.”’ The narrator broke off with thick crowding sobs; they were so very naturally done, s0 convulsive, so eloquent of long and bravely-repressed sorrow and distress, that, by the low murmuring that next came through the wood, Monica guessed that the deluded. Geoffrey was caressing her in some kind way, and [te oe thanks and praises in her ear. With the scornful curiosity of a proudly genu- ine nature, that observes the full iniquity of a false and wicked one, she rose and looked. . ‘For all her hard work, Godiva had only won the small triumph of Geoffrey’s hand on her drooping See he was patting and stroking half ab- sently. \ ‘And so, fearing that they were on the high-road« to supplant me in my uncle’s will, you wrote for me to appear on the scene,” said he, presently raising his comforting tones end returning to his place, the moment she had so far repressed her emotion as tO return her handkerchief to her ket, ‘And whey did you expect me todo in self-defense, my dear? he added, obviously more from euriosity to hear her idea than to obtain information on the impor- | tant point. “Do! echoed she, almost sharply; “ why, Geof- frey, is it you, who have so much at stake, who meé, the humblest person in the house, and the least interested, what you should do?” “My dear girl, do youknow that you made rather ertinent insinuation that last remark?’ ‘Eh? what can you mean?” muttered she, in some confusion. : , “ Oh, you didn’t mean it at all, of course, you little | goose; but it is Just confounded] true that you are_ the least interested party connected with this peast- a ly business, because whoever of u:, the tailor PCO | ble or I, eventually turn out master of yonder men don’t forget Cx Sa re 4 ; Sion, you won't suffer; I ' Shell’s old penchant. tow: you; you see, j safe.” : aa , » 4
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Gectirey! how little do you know poor, friendless Godiva Montacute!” sighed she, with Sk ea g Miata nie Gatto ie Taty much wi er sig “T shall never turn from your cause, dear, never desert your standard for theirs, were you to be disinherited to-morrow,” “Thanks, little girl; therein you show ur warmth of heart and utter folly in ‘charming unison. Indeed I don’t think I ought to encourage you to revolt from the ruling powers, especially since it is really a matter that does not touch you in the least. Imean my well or ill fare. Drop me, little one; I A sha’n’t feel aggrieved. You've no right to turn your N back upon a young, devoted and thriving suitor, for the sake of a poor unlucky devil who isn’t even in love with you!’ { How did she take that? {nvotontstty. Monica rose } up to see; her foot slipped among the twigs and ; leaves with a faint and rustling noise, and the face of the young lady, which had been bowed on her Losom j in her favorite attitude of infantile submission and sadness, flashed up with the remains of a fierce white scowl upon it, to listen, with dilated eyes and 4 a sinister keenness in every strained feature. She , did not see Monica, she looked obliquely past her, into the depths of the forest; and after a moment’s 4 ’ “Oh, Geoffrey. . remain looking. turned eagerly to her companion. ~ | ane Some onen can come; I dare not be seen by hu- man eye communing with you, not only because of the proprieties, but for sake of your welfare. Should they hear—your uncle, I mean, or they too—that I ; was on such terms with you, they would conceal . everything from me as from a SPY; and I could not assist you at all. This is what I think you should . do. Come boldly on a visit to your uncle; make some excuse} here is the list of guests at the man- sion; if there’s a soul among them you know, say you were encouraged to venture to your old home ; —put it so—to see him or her; once regain a footing, and gentleness and submission to his will in’ ae thing will soon bring you back all his good-will. He F can’t forget that you are of the blood, a true Der- . went, while they—but, I must go, Geoffrey, in- ” cexnd shall I stoop to these accursed dissimula- tions, do you think, girl?” demanded the young man, with biting contempt. “Not I! Let Derwent do as he likes with his wealth; I sha’n’t defile my fingers groping in the mire after it! If the old fel- low was in trouble, or ill, I might swallow my pride and come to him, but not for this reason. My good girl Thave gira ce A at your moral percep- i were rather blunt, but this— Oh, don't rebuke me—don’t!” sobbed the lady, in the most afflicted manner. “I have not had half time to present the casé as it really is; I have thought only of your interests, and rebel ei) his al- together. You must come, and instantly, Geoffrey.” Don’t ask me again to sneak into my uncle's graces, Godiva, or I shall never look on your ‘ace more,”’ he burst forth haughtily. “Wait—hear what I do ask,” she retorted, in a tone that suggested clinched teeth and a zreing heart. ‘ Your uncle és in trouble, és ill, or I shoul never have dared to send for you, knowing that you would not come for self-interest alone; nor could I ; have asked you to come for self-interest alone. . He és in trouble—for I-don’t trust these men—do you hear? J don't trust them near him, nght and day, as long as self-interest actuates them.” “ity God! is there—” : $F “Hush! hush!’ panted she, in startling agitation: | I would have given much not to have been obliged / to tell you this; I know nothing, only that so very much depends upon Mr. Derwent’s will, and after his will is made— on his death—that I tremble at the wonderful influence which these brothers have al- ready gained over him, and the patient lanes with ich they haunt him. Come, come and wate . with me, Geoffrey, if you ever loved your poor kind * uncle! \ Tears Feit sobs, quivering accents, pauses, hurry— no wonder if the young man d at his companion in utter shocked and unquestioning credence. " 7 ‘You said, ‘in trouble, and ill’—is he i/, Godiva? Zz asked he, urgently. ‘ “He does his best to cheat us all,’’ was the wily answer; ‘he goes as usual about all his usual pur- 7 suits; but J can see—who am watching with anguish —how changed he really is; how death-pale at times, what fluctuating spirits, no appetite, unnatural pe- . riods of frozen reverie, all watched with the horrid intensity of fate, by the brothers! And when his weary eyes light on the back of your portrait—such f a wistful, yearning, grieved look—” ‘ “Let me go; why did you not say all this at first?” cried Geoffrey, impetuously, ‘'Good God, girl, you should have sent for me i the very beginning. “My oor lonely old fellow! Heavens! what a brute I’ve een, to abandon him to any vile pack of fortune- hunters!” ‘i “Go—go at once the ane I hear some one!” hissed “Godiva, abruptly Jaying her hands on his shoulders, and fairly pushing him a few steps down the incline. He submitted to the motive power, and one off under its impetus down the hill to the eald. Monica, still standing, with lynx eyes glued to the schemer, was debating with. herself whether she should reveal her presence, curious to see the effect of such an unexpected occurrence Spon Miss Monta- cute; when she perceived, by the lady’s attitude of - intent listening, as well as by her anxious consulta- tion of the watch at her girdle, that some other per- son was expected. j ee wily craft on that fresh blush-rose face and the care with which she took a long survey of her surroundings, Monica received an emphatic im- pression of the importance of witnessing the forth- ., coming interview as she had witnessed the last. and LC 4 * in : >, breathless suspense, as the sound was not repeated, _ re a tata tae , eI > further concealed herself by creeping off to the | dusky hollow of an enormous decayed tree, half a sok lena om her Medsiipiat) aig on) comfortably prop’ n @ sitting posture, with a mossy barricade of upheaved roots in front, she could both see and hear without the smallest danger of discovery. She had scarce] Vapeg eee ag herself, when the gray shadowy figure of the lovely Godiva passed into her line of vision, not half a dozen feet from her, and stopped dead still. y the excitement on her smiling face, and the — outstretched arms, Monica saw that this terview was of a more interesting nature even than the last, and waited in breathless suspense for the arrival of the other party to it. She had not half a minute to wait; still standing in an attitude of perfect grace and elegance, exqui- sitely hightened in effect by the A opted smiles of welcome that wreathed the lovely scarlet lips, Go- diva was joined by See gentleman, who, however, did not content 1 a cool hand- shake, but took the lissom form boldly in his arms, and poured a shower of kisses on her ripe and an- swering lips. Then he held her off at arm’s length to look at her with fond admiration, and Monica beheld the features of the man whose jJaugh had awakened her as she slept on the wooden settle in the inn parlor— Rufus Marshall! i ee ‘ CHAPTER VIL. SATAN’S IMPS, “My Sweet!” were the first delighted words that broke the enraptured spell, uttered by the young man as he drew Godiva Montacute again ts his breast, and pillowing her burnished head there, patted and smoothed it with trembling hand. “You are, after all, fond’of me; don’t deny it after this.” “I’m afraid I am, Rufus,” breathed the siren, faintly, nestling up still closer with a fascinating lit- tle movement of shy love. “But, oh, dear! what gocd is it going to do either of us? You know 1 dare neyer marry you, dear, under existing circum- stances!” Rufus Marshall was a colorless, undersized young man of some twenty-nine years; his eyes were pale and small, the iris curiously fiecked with orange flakes, which in moments of excitement, blendit) with the faint green of the ground-color, produced in them a green phosphorescencé, His mustache was long, waxed at the tips and ivory white; his lips under it, thin, and sharp-drawn, wearing an ex- pression of anxiety and avarice; his hair was almost as tintless as his mustache, and fell over a bony, contracted forehead in limp fine drifts like mist; he pessessed high shoulders, was angular, ungainly, and, though fashionably dressed and carrying him- self with trained propriety, reminded one constantly of his low extraction. Beside him the aristocratic woman towered as some princess in disguise, before whom he might decently have bowed the knee in ee subjection, and doubtless would have done so, had he not ob- tained over her--the more shame to her superior or- Laraeerg tie aseendency through the basest im- ulses. s ‘“*T_had some trouble finding our trysting-tree,” said Rufus, presently, when he was tired of the re- freshment of kissing those luring lips, and he waved his short square hand toward Monica’s tree. “I’m not so used to wildwoods as you, Loveliést; though, please God, I shall one day be lord of all we two look upon this moment, with you by my side as queen.” And the wretch caught her to him again in a burst of undignified chuckling, for it could searce be called, as he expressed it, triumph, Monica could see the shiver of repulsion that = ed through Godiva, who, however, took excellent care not to display it to him, replying with sweet softness: “May it be so, dear Rufus, for what is to become of your poor Godiva if that dissolute half-demon, Kilmyre, rules as master? I shall be thrust out, adrift, penniless, friendless,” She turned aside her head to weep. “The deuce! We'll see about that!” snarled her lover, an elf-like malignity clouding his ignoble fea- tures. “*So, Pretty, don’t cry to spoil those darling eyes; there’s two of us between youand such a fate. appily, if I am all head, Gavaine is all hands; whatever I set him’ to do, backed by our pretty coaxings, whatever it is, d’ye see? he'll do it, and no trouble after.” Monica felt the hair on her head slowly prickle and rise, the blood recede to her heart in an awful throe. What was this that was being spoken? Had he not put a strange emphasis on the word “* whatever ?” The sweep of her arm as she carried her hand to her face, to dash the mist from her vision and the oozing sweat from her brow, startled the pair; they turned with one accord their faces toward her, and she read in these two blenched and contracted vis- S—DEATH, kay. did not see her; who knows what would have befall n Monica Derwent if they had? “Nothing but an owl rustling in the hollow truuk,” muttered Godiva mechanically; ““go on, You were saying that Gavaine would do whatever we planned; yes, dear, I think he would, but fortunately we won't require his sort of service just yet; we shall try a little more of yours first.”’ “* My girl, I’m at the end of my rope, I assure you,” sail Rufus, with an impatient shrug; ‘TI thought you knew that, and that we were meeting here to concoct Gavaine’s work.” “Oh, not yet_not uite yet ’—shuddered Godiva looking frightfully pale and craven; “give the old man one more chance.” Rufus Marshall stared in uisitively at his accom- Plice; evidently her mood puzzled him. ‘ y ie eds ee, Baa ie te tr Carats Be eae ee) Rice Quen ee Se 63 Ww “"Pon my life, Godiva, you sometimes m stify ore me completely,” mumbled otp= tfully. “What's ay come over you now? The last word was to ‘get out of this suspense at any cost!’ And now when I come to discuss how to obey you, you show the i, white feather and cry quarter! What's in the wind, } girl? Come, out with it!” The insignificant little atomy snatched at the no- ye At ble-looking woman by the arm, and twisted her round in a coarsely bullying manner that would _ justly have set her blood boiling, but so abasing is Ke eonscious guilt that she did not even dare to shake | his rude clutch off, although every instinct in her delicately-bred nature shuddered in disgusted re-. volt, and she gnawed her rose-red lips almost. black, “There's nothing. new ‘in the wind,’ as you call it, Rufus,” she muttered, “‘and you need not be so ‘ harsh and cruel to mc! I suppose. can’t help it, but ee, T would rather try anything, everything else first, & before I let you proceed to—extremities, I have As eaten his bread so long—” - "ye “That you have,” interrupted he, rudely, “and I only wonder what in thunder could have come be- tween ae: that you could ever turn against the old fool. rtainly very few men in his Sapa would » have bothered about a poor relation like you, as he — has done, ,What did he ever do, that turned you against him?”’ ? Godiva crimsoned violently, over her very neck and ears, and the scowl of an evil epictt darkened im over her face. Monica remembered the insinuation _ of the innkeeper's wife, that she had tried her arts on her benefactor to climh into the supreme placeat > the Weald as his wife, and had been openly rejected: the furi@as mortification and galling bitterness of ' Godiva’s present expression showed her that here rumor had not lied. But Godiva’s answer was far different in import. ‘I suppose I must tell you,? she meekly said; “but you have no real right to ask me any home questions, yet.”’ “Go on; no humbugging!” observed Rufus, anin- — voluntary smirk of gratification softening his inso-' lent stare, ; . “Well, if I must I must. He—he was so cruel about wanting to marry me offto aman I have always abhorred,” she raised her faceheretothe ~ erystal morning light with a strange quivetingan- —_— guish upon it, a blending of pain, d y vengeance, and grief, ‘to his nephew, you know—’ “What! pointe” <ilmyre?”? roared Rufus, :et- — ting blood-red with fury and jealousy; “did that dog ever dare to look at you?” \ - “Hush! What does it matter? I would never Mes have married him, even to save my life; Lhadseen you first,”’ said the traitress. “But, say, did he ever make love to you?" mut- tered Rufus, doggedly. Godiva cast a keen glance a lowering murderous face and boldly an- a sw : ‘ ; , - “To tell the truth, no. I believe he wasjustas peo to get rid of measIwasofhim. You've eard and said enough about that affair with to x vey J% Ms favorite from rui he was bringing avo ‘om h he was br “Or wife,” grinned Rufus with a sl disclosed the maddening fact that he Lon opie had eg <3 of oe hae : er hate against her patron; an mere e ading her to action by the reference; ‘ why ‘dnt re marry you himself and done with it?” 4 x For one moment the young lady faced him with that white flash of fury like a blaze a “by hie Mylights then she crushed back her feelings tk: eal baleful strength and resolution which boded ; a f —. unhappy soul who might have earned her i ee tre : | ‘Why indeed!” she murm ‘earelessly; “I. |” suppose if he had cared todoithecouldhavewon my affection, as he had the of me ever ance.” I was ten years old. But it did not occur to him, and certainly not to me. However, that’s nothing to our purpose, is it?. No, Rufus, I don’t want you to age to extremities quite yet; for one i ow can rise Py be done while the ho is, Seer “Tush! at’s our best chance,” returned pele dropping his odious leer for a gloomier ression; — ‘we are asked here for six weeks—three ’em ieee, snd ng hene gen ie ae et half i We mast ry sten through wi er cover of these thirteen strangers, all of whom will share in the suspic: foul play with us two, if there is any, which I'll go bail there won’t be, if my head does not fail me, Trust me for cleau-cut scheming!” “Se ae “What do you gaengeah muttered Godiva, her — eyes on the groun : “ Nothi . Pian. You've been sharpasarazor,and quick asa rat thus far, and I’m sure you can help now if you wantto, The will is made, Rufus ard Gavaine | ah shall are named co-heirs, with a pies bequest tohis beloved relative, Godiva Montacute, Tus nephew Geoffrey was never in such vile repute as he is now, _ thanks to my constant prayers on his behalf, at hal ha! which give me such an excellent opportuni- — | ty to enumerate his incredible iniquitiesand insolent _ revilings of his uncle; Derwent will never again be | worked up to sucha pitch of indignation against Kilmyre, who may turn compunctious and come | back any day, to the utter ruin of allour schemes; | for all we can do is but a passing influence, which | one sight of him will dispel; don’t you see, tay girl, that we must strike while the iron is hot?” 7 “But your acquaintanceship with him is such @ eal ies | new thing: a cee pe ge yet; I want you to help me to devisea :
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‘ ~ : 8 m 4 i" 5 ro »*. - we could gain an ascendancy over such aman as ae: De ie ‘How can I?” muttered she, turning paler. ay **You hav’n’t lived for ten years in his daily pres- hae ence without knowing all about his habits, his con- ‘hae stitution, his little mental traits, and so on. Through these you can suggest some safe idea.” “TT seareely_see how; put any questions; I shall ar answer what I can.”’ =. “Well, about his habits. Has he any out-of-the- | aoe way habit that might be twisted to our advantage, ape should we wish him to—to be suddenly found—”’ _ “*Yes—I know—. He does not walk in his sleep; . he does not drink to excess. He has no extraordi- va: ; are ae whatever that I know of.” | Pian = ‘Hem. Let me see. Never wanders about re- ar mote parts of the domains at queer hours, eh? Nor | ‘sits up nights in that library of his with the windows yaar gaping on the lawn? No? Well, let’s examine his Ay =e galled has been as we see him, hale and rm strong : a en His life is so intelligently arranged, - just enough physical exercise, just enough mental— that he has not an ailment that Ihave ever heard of. He is a calm man, no consuming passions, temper- ' ate in everything, tranquil; content, I should say, if ever man was so. No, there is no suggestion to be got out of his health.” _ Monica, the unknown daughter of the man so de- scribed, in spite of the crawling pity and horror with which she heard him discussed by these two embryo murderers, felt here a sudden uprising of _ the heart against him; remembering the hard and piteous life of his abandoned wife, was it not nat- aoe she should wince from the serene picture of his? . Meantime Rufus was smothering execrations on the wise Master of Dornoch-Weald. ; “Tf it mattered to nobody he’d be drinking him- _ self dead,” be snarled, “or walking on the roof every stormy night. eli, let’s hear about his men- _. tal peculiarities.” _._ ** He has none.”* - “Con—found it! He must have some, girl.” ; “ Perhaps—I know of none. Suggest.” ' -—_—-_« * #Has he no superstition—no belief in some old family wraith?” “Hal hal ha! How little you know that lucid, powerful mind! Né, certainly not.” No antipathy—to fruit—flower—state of weather —peculiar character? Think, Godiva, think hard! Out of any one of these I might weave my purpose.” “No, no, no. Yet—stay— he not nation —a most vivid and original imagination? Yes! And, added to it, a peculiar susceptibility of organization. -. Yes, he has that.” YT searcely understand. Instance.” “Well, he is one of those ultra sensitive people. _ thatif one got him to believe himself ill of a fat _ disease—or poisoned—or infected with a plague—t . think he would actually die, not of fear, but of the vividness of his realization.” - y Don’t say any more—let me think,” muttered | Ri in breathless excitement; and he plonged his Le pee deep into his pockets, dropped narrow _ head upon his sunken chest, and went round and - round under the trees in a circle, kicking the dry eaves up with his ill-shaped feet, anything but a _ dignified figure to be watched by the lowe eyes 0 So pyr a Mor ye Be her hiding-place, was biting her lips and clinching her hands to keep from screaming or | fainting in her horror; and yet how strangely peace- _ ful seemed the silvery shimmer of this mornin Bh mac the lace-work of boughs, with the turrets o Weald peering through the vista! . How fatally fair woman—how impishly crafty man! Sakae eh iid any mortal stop their intended crime more than he might mar the inexorable beauty of the orn? | bag 7 writhed in sickening agony. She had | come here, she too, with vengeance in her heart | ; tt Derwent. Heavens! was she in the | né boat with these demons ? ky __ He who had been clasped in her mother’s arms— her father—foully murdered, | phe God—let ‘me save him /” went up from the | . “oak hter’s soul in a mute cry, and then a great calm fails yn her, and she cleared the mist from her Ei ng eyes, and looked again, The guilty ones were facing each other once more; _ she white, uty fin the very picture of terrifie _ evil—he corpse-like and conto with a fearful _ wizard-like exultation on his ugly, colorless visage. Both glaring at each other like wolves. * Well?” groaned Godiva, hollowly. “IT know what I’m going io do,” eae CHAPTER VIII. « WOMAN AGAINST WOMAN, _ A vertico seized Monica! ‘When that awful sensation was £58 tors were in the act of part unding exactly upon the spot beside the great bowlder, where Monica had been sitting during the ' terview between Godiva and Geoffrey. At their . feet they suddenly beheld a white, y thing, Ty it in the light breeze; it was the piece of lace c which she had been at work. prt ag pose they should see it, pick it up, look around the the 2on- 4 They were > \y Yh I) " A ‘ayes svoldod bach Giher; tcc hands el es avoided each other; Ber eine aterth ey ves without touching. the crime the two | Dlanned was pps bpemees- them, so that each | oe ec geet ae he sae ee - ee ent in such a short time? Come, help me.” | = Perhaps | my firger the betrothal-rin : though Monica understood th ‘a 44 ye a \ { * All the better for us. Who wouid believe that could look on the other only through its loathsome’ de. ; And with this st adieu they parted. He walked away into the dusky shadows, leaving her standing as if rooted, her eyes on the sans at a point only a few inches from that fatal bit of lace. Godiva Montague stood so a long time. What passed in her mind then? Can any human being, born with moral perception, receive from helpless pea up to proud youth’s prime the unwearied benefactions of a generous patron, and then meditate his destruction for no more potent reason than the sake of self, without . But the soul must be long enslaved to the most imbruting of vices, the heart withered to naught, the stake immense, to produce such vileness. Godiva was not so imbruted. Had she not been as carefully hid from vice as any cloistered nun? Ran. there not in her veins ancient blood, which had in- spired chivalry and fed the hearts of heroes? Where had she seen yvice and consorted with cruelty, that she could now face them, all unmasked, without sickening and shrinking! ‘SOu; ef God!” moaned she, in hoarse tones, “what is thisI am letting them push me into? Is this 1, Godiva?’ Another long, long pause, her stricken face grow- ing white yet, her lips twitching, pale, and dry. Then she moved her hands as if to wring them, and the action set the stone of a little ring on one of them shimmering, and the shimmer caught her lack- luster eye. She lifted that hand and gazed upon the little ring—a slim, chased band of gold, with one tiny © ag of diamond fastening it, in the device of a buckle, The gradual vee on her face was hor- rible to see; the change her voice, when she spoke, horrible to hear. She might have been the awful Geraldine, as she changed from lady bright to loathsome witch, with serpent’'s eye, in the baron’s be before the terror-stricken Christmaiden, Christ- abel! *“ Ay, let me remember that/ Let me keep ‘hat before my mind, and I shall not go back,”’ she mut- tered. ‘‘On my knees!—at Ais—uis feet, Otto Der- went’s. My pride in the dust—forced tears ees —heart writhing with fury and self-disgust—and a my reward his sarcastic laugh and icy command to ‘Rise and resume your maidenhood for the sake of the old blood in your base, unworthy heart.’ ‘You cannot have thought to blind me, Godiva,’ he said, heaping upon me humiliation upon humiliation. ‘‘ Do yoy think I have not seen all your strivings to win he title of mistress of Dornoch Weald? That Ihave not laughed in derision, and writhed in shame, that a woman of my house could so unsex metans ¢ I tell ou, on my Oath, Godiva, that, of all your foul-souled sex (and I have tried them well), you are the most piti- fully despicable and the last I should have married, if I ever married any of you. Now, go and study up hypocrisy; it is your only safeguard in the world of men, who are not ail blind, and need that screen be- tween them and your real self, if you would ever capture a husband.’ He said this—he, who had lavished so much wealth and kindness upon me, his poor, trembling, friendless kinswoman, that I was really, really willing to be his wife! No, they are Not pushing me to aurtbing that I would-not rush to do of my own accord. Wo, No.” She ended her eneriing soley with an outburst of passion that shook her from head to foot, and ‘sent a pang as of the doomed to the heart of the listener, whose generous soul had been urging her in the beginning of the soliloquy to reveal herself, on her Fy Nom the tempted woman's feet, as a sup- pliant for ber father’s life. By these fierce memories, doubly galling, now thus overheard by her, her interference would but haster on the tragedy, beginning with herself. Godiva had snatchéd the little ring off her finger long ago, and she now held it up, a fatal smile ot re- venge carved upon her mouth. “And so,’’ she resumed laughing, “he put upon that was slipped on the atrician’s finger a hundred years ago of my ances- ress, Godiva Derwent, by the hand who had curried her horses—gave it with the taunt, ‘ ‘lhe base gift to the base soul. As long as the ‘buckle-ring ’ shines upon your hand, symbol of the first donor’s trade among straps and. stables, you will recall the ugly fate of the first Godiva, who crawled back to the de- graded home when her stabler abandoned her, and was mercifully slain by her haughty brother, Otho who thus wiped out the stain with which she had blotted the escutcheon of Derwent. Weretit pos- sible, J, too, showd thus wipe out the stain of your un- woman tiness—you, must of ail women, undesiied; cut as Teunnct, live you hencejorth and forever unu ed, yor- ever despised, at Dir: och- Weald.’ A fair reminiscence, truly! And I sbkall never escape from its buuntin memory, nor elude his withering hate, until one o us two lies under this old earth,” She stamped her foot upon the mossy ground; her flashing eyes caught sight of the stowy bit of web, flutter: close to her heart. The gir: stooped anc rese, with Monica’s pattern of lace, the needle still stuck in one of the meshes; she slipped the ring back on ber finger, and with a whispered exclama- tion turned the exquisite trifle over and over, her practiced eye taking in all the delicacy and costli- ness of such workmanship. ‘““Who has been here? Good Heavens! Who in- trudes in these woods but myself?” She drew herself oy panting and startled, and carefully scrutinized listening er SUrretengs, with bated breath between each long, keen stare, But she missed the hollow oak, strangely enough; € marvel better when she afterward saw how narrow the aperture must have looked from Godiva's position, and who, being a goqd head taller, and Lroportionately stouter, net ke fa ree [ . ey % i i FT Fak) eee he ows a eh ok anes Ae me hee wae N AMLRICAN QUEEN. than herselt, would naturelly imegine that nothing buman could have squeezed in there. So, not seeing an shrugged her shoulder, replaced her hat upon her bbe 3 hair, and with a look of Satanic determina- on not to see upon such lovely young fea- tures, she softly took her way down the hill te the | Weald, rustling as she went. Monica went home to the inn, shut herself into her chamber, and gave her soul up to the contem- plation of this most terrible revelation, The position—we know what the ion was, as mouch as she herself did, thanks to the a. of Dame Hicks and the two assignations of » Mon- tacute. One or two points may be laced more’ Geary, as ..onica elucidated them for herselr by the course of reasoning. Why had Godiva summoned her cousin Geoffre to the Weald, and put him in possession of so muc of the brothers Marshalls’ doings? The reason was not far to seek. She loved him~in her own fierce self-centered way; a love that was ready to embrace or betray according as it was re- | warded. He had plainly shown her, that even though he loved no one else, he did not, and would not, love her, She had thus given him his chance, and he had thus forfeited it. She was now bound to the enemy, and Geoffrey might hope for no more of her championship. ad she not betrayed rather too much of the in- tentions of her accomplice, for the safety of their schemes? In her urgent endeavors to eee eres tude from Geoffrey. to arouse his watchfulness so as to insure his presence at the Weald, and to retain his respect, had she not disclosed, with perilous dis- tinctness, the conspirators’ chosen path? It seemed like it, and yet, perhaps, she was confi- dent of her ability to oust the nephew, who was in disgrace, from his uncle’s roof, the instant he began to meddle with existing arrangements; perhaps she had the secret power to have him turned from the Weald before he had the chance—however impetu- ous—of warning his uncle of his ae From Monica's brief study of diva’s wily mind, she could not hope that she had ruined her own cause thus; doubtless Geoffrey would either be sent from Dornoch the moment he was discovered there, or his mouth would be closed for the time by some crafty sophistry of the Jezebel’s. The future lay unrolled before her without one obstacle to its success—except what she, Monica, could place in the path. And now to the task of arranging her plans, We know why this hot-hearte high-spirited, American village girl has come gland—to avenge in some always undefined way the injury her father put upon her mother, in deserting her nineteen Teas 3a0. Before she laid one stone upon another, in the building of her retribution, she had discovered other, and more devilish enemies, already far advanced in the work of destruction, she forced to stand by—the only witness of her father’s mortal i She had come for vengeance, her thirst for this devil’s draught is insatiable, she has only to fold her hands, and the cup will be held anon to her lips, brimming over with a vengeance bitterer far than any her woman-heart has dreamed of, d she finds to-day that her thirst has fled—that one drop of such a cup of vengeance would choke her; her woman-heart turned traitor to the fell purpose which has driven her across the seas; it only sighs ‘save! save!” forgetting its first bitter a “* retribution!"* Vith the first whisper of wrong to the man, Otto Derwent, who has broken her mother’s heart and doomed her to toil and obscurity, a passion of filial care has sprung up—not tenderness—not one of that—only the burning wish to fly to his aid, to save him from the mercenary brood of vipers he is cherishing in his bosom, She sat down by the little thick-paned, mullioned window in the English inn, tremb. ing, bewildered, moaning and praying for strength and wisdom; she rose calm, resolved, with a plain duty before her. She unlocked the little trunk which held her modest outfit, kindly furnished by good, silly Mrs. Frothing- ham; along with the precious papers which proved her identity. She took these, placed them her sachel, her mo'her’s photograph with them, by the Loangerie photographer, in rather a primitive style. get furnishing a pathetically accurate pew ° that wan, worn face, a few months before death, with the dear familiar re, from which all fue ore of its cares and the emaciation of a hard life ad not been able to rob the natural grace. She dressed herself carefully in her one black suit, a little soft ruffle of black gore lisse at the delicate milk-white throat and arched wrists; and her rich jet hair smoothed in satin folds back from ‘temples, ot the polished marble surface of which a tracery of veins as blue and slender as sapphire thread, ex- quisitely indicated the feminine tenderness and weakness of the young creature’s organization, Then she donned her dainty black cashmere. dol- man, embroidered richly by her own clever hands with a running vine in black silk, an ornamentation that served to render her.simple costume cee and in point of fact, as costly, as that of a Fift avenue belle; then her hat, a black felt one, with a broal, plush-lined brim, turned up at one side, and. heavily phimed (by Mrs. Frothingham’s own hands * and kind gift) with rich black ostrich feathers; jew- elry anttABis to her morning attire, she owned none, so she stuck one fringed white winter chrysanthe- mum with its dark serrated leaf at her throat (a or two of blossoming eee stood her wi :e-silled window); and then Monica Derwent was ready to enter her father’s house. | ave For she meant (o go boldly thither, demand an in- : “s. i ' 2 =e at 2) Siw * one, and hearing nothing, she - ' « q hee x — eS ae % 4 Dee
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s : oe ae be ve eee ery eee ‘ terview with Mr. Derwent, and reveal all she had overheard. i She passed out into the public parlor in search of the dame; she wished to tell her where she had gone —in case, by some unforeseen chance, Derwent’s enemies mi ht discover the approach of his rescuer, and do her harm. : The grating, guttural voice of the innkeeper’s wife proclaimed her presence in the parior, before Monica entered the door, and she found herself un- expectedly confronting Geoffrey Kilmyre. She could not repress an involuntary start and hesitation as she recognized him, and he, looking up at the grace- ful figure at the door, gave an unmistakable move- ment of surprise also, and with raised eyebrows and checked speech, gazed full at her. She, of course, was the first to recover herself; she might have known that he would be sure to come to the “ Dor- noch Arms’ for rest and refreshment, before he ventured to the Weald; she therefore entered with a quiet apology for intruding, and asked the dame to step aside ‘for one moment.” Geoffrey, who could not account for such an 3 arition at the obscure and vulgar little inn as readi- . as she could for his, sauntered to a distant win. ow, but sent more than one furtive glance her way as she spoke in low, well-bred tones to the dame. “J am going to Dornoch-Weald, Mrs. Hicks,” said she; ‘I hope to get back here in the course of an hour; but it Idon’t—something may have happened! May—the fact is, I don’t feel quite myself, Mrs. Hicks, and if I should happen to get ill on the road I shouldn’t like to be left lying helpless there, so—”’ ““Lordy! What's a-goin’ for to happen ye, wench?” cried the dame, with the instant fluster and fuss of her caste. ‘If ye feels sickish, why doan’t Fs stop i’ the house *stid o’ trapezing "way off to the Weald?” “T wish to go, that’s enou, h,” said Monica, with unruffied decision; whereat ffrey, who was hear- ing distinctly every syllable uttered by the pair, hers through its penetra purity of tone, and the dame’s through its hard loudness, greatly marveled, saying to himself: esis ‘No Englishwoman are you! Not a girl in the realm, bred as our girls are, could carry herself with such dignified self-reliance, and you're scarcely more than a child yet!’ ‘But, Lawk! t a plague can ye want at Master’s, that ye canna walt until yo’re well, to go? Yo’re phiz looks that queerish too, jest as white as my smock—” , “Madam, I must gol” interposed Monica, haugh- . tily, then, glancing at the tall clock which stood like a moon-faced specter ina shadowy corner: ‘It is now two o’clock; if I am not back at three, send one of your men for me.” Vrs. Hicks stood dumb-struck at the awful state- liness of the “‘furrin wench’s ” address (‘‘ Madam to her, save the mark! Forall as if she were My Lady! and ventured not another remonstrance; but Geof- frey could restrain his astonishment and curiosity no longer, and arrested the young lady’s retreat b wheeling upon her with a courtly bend of the head, and motion of the hand. ‘Madam, I too am foing to the Weald,” he said, hastily joining her; “‘if you feel at all in need of as- sistance, much or little,” he added, with a frank smile, “I am entirely at your service. d our friend, Mrs. Hicks here, can_ attest to my respect- ability. Come, wake, Mrs. Hicks, and introduce me to your boarder.” His air, so n-h so bright and sprightly, without a e of any percilious in it, went straight to Monica's heart, al- ready inclined toward him during the revelations of his nature in the forest; and as the good woman ronounced their names in her own rough dialect, fur fine € es rested upon his with a singularly bean’ ing, gentle expression, fascinat: enough to him, who field no key to that significant look. “YT thank you for your 9 she said, blushing fashion faintly as he ed her hand in Eng : oad ace [Shee ne “and I accept it,” CHAPTER IX. ENTERING THE PORTALS. As the two walked side by side through the village street, gaped at by every rustic eye that could rush in time to window or door—the rich man’s unknown daughter and the rich man’s disinherited nephew— she was musi “ Ly shoul: myre?’ And he was musing: * And this is an American lady! This is the typi- cal Independent Female! A fairer, sweeter result never flowed from republicanism, than this pure, brave vestal—this princess in her own right!" “ And yet, I may be fa wrong in doing so,” Monica’s thoug? ; went on—“‘how do I know what mental qualities .uis man may possess? Shall I not be too impulsive, impetuous, in throwi wide this fatal matter to him? And if I speak at how much shall I reveal? Anything about myself?’ “What can her station be?’ Geoffrey’s thoughts roceeded, ‘TI believe that in their land all women ess in a costly way, indeed that the cook can copy her mistress’s fashions if she chooses; no, I need not try to ue e by her dress; but her face—in what so- cial niche is such a page as this to be placed? What shining innocence—radiant good ness—refinement— poetry—a face for Zimmermann to expend his choicest praises upon!”’ “Let me not ruin all by recklessness,”’ continued she; “let me study him calmly and closely first—has he not led a sad wild life -and how am I to know wees dine the distorting influence of such a life on his character? Caution, caution! No, I shall keep my own counsel, Besides, I must beware of I not confide all to Geoffrey Kil- am very rash to speak with at all in p : \ ~ entering that house in such unpopular company, if I wot not be treated as an ally of, his. Ind I é ’ ; - ee a a ee ne. Ss either forward or su- . | subordinates than aa he nf as . : i ; ‘ ‘AN AMERICAN QUEEN. suppose any of the conspirators should see us in con- ference? Suppose Mr. Derwent should meet us?” _‘‘ What quiet force is in her beautiful eye!" con- tinued Geoffrey, going on with his reverie quite as absorbedly as she with hers; “what proud com- mand in her straightly-leveled gaze, her beautiful closely-fittin be a and the poise of the head. with the face slightly lifted toward the heavens! Why this is a very noble woman, surely! And for all her stateliness and power she cannot be more than seventeen!” ; i Monica was not quite nineteen, and the extreme fragility of her appearance, together with the American characteristics of piccola figure, fairy hands and feet, and unaffected manners, always gas her a more youthful look than of right belonged to her. As her companion came to the last conclusion she turned her calm eyes upon him. “Sir,” said she, “pardon my apparent fickleness of purpose in changi my mind about accepting your escort to Dornoch-Weald. I have a better rea- son, I find upon consideration, for declining your courtesy than for accepting it.” ‘How wise—how perfectly _lady-like, and how rettily expressed!’ thought Geoffrey, with a little frrational sting of disappointment! ‘The loss is mine,” he said gallantly, ‘I was in hopes that I should have the pleasure of a talk about the United States, which I have never visited.” “‘T have not livea in Mrs. Peter Hicks’s society for three weeks without learning who Mr. Geoffrey Kilmyre is” she observed quietly, ‘‘and probably. not only a great deal of truth about you, but a great deal of rustic fiction too. Iam ina humble station sir, and cannot with propriety appear at the Weald in iad company.” e made an impatient gesture. Something in the admission filled him for the moment with a sudden rage, as irrational as the former disappointment. ““Pshaw! Please don’t punish the ‘hated aris tocracy’ in my person, Mademoiselle American; : do assure you t am untainted by that insular virus You are a lady in manner and education; I feel hon ored to be permitted to walk with you.” “T tha you, and believe you,” said Monica, sweetly grave, at which he could have kissed her, “pnt all the same, for my own sake, I must bid you leave me.” He looked imploringly at her. ‘May I be presumptuous and ask what position you are anxious to secure at the Weald?’’ he ventured, with some modest hesitation, which sat very grace- fully upon the handsome fellow. . She started, for the moment looking strangely at him, under the impression that there was a mine of significance under his question; then she recollected herself, he meant to ask whether she was applying for service at the great house. She could not re- strain from a faint smile, so curiously compounded of a mischievous national inclination to put herself down at the lowest round of the ladder, and a som: ber pride at the realization of who she was, and what right she had to mount the highest; then she replied very civilly, ‘‘I had no thought of asking for any ition there, sir; but if I could secure one it would be indeed a great boon to me; a mighty boon, oh, yes, if I only could!” she exclaimed, ie sud- de agitated as she perceived a faint hance of as- sistance from this un ally. Surely he had not lived all the years of his boyhood amon influ. old family servants without eno ence over them to help her a little now! es I am avery poor girl,” she said, her clear, deli- f admissi: cate tones ear’! out the on, in { contrast to its humility; ‘I am a stuenaet his country, absolutely friendless, and I am obliged to live in Dornoch for a tim Se ered ee a ales ‘Stay; nk I can ou hi Miss Rivers,” interrupted wien § eagerly, oT" am in black enough ee with the of the house, as you have doubtless heard, ad nauseam; but I may say that Geoffrey Ley Spa wields more power over the ) : eir master does. Ican count on gore: you a situation, I know, from good old Mrs. berfield, the housekeeper, the apple of whose grim, gray eye I have ever been. She's Scotch; the widow of a wonderful naturalist, whose name ap- pears among the savans of the realm with honor, though he was only a gardener in the Duke of Car- negie’s employ. For twenty years has Elspeth Aber- feld reigned as queen of the domestic force in Dorn- och Weald. If she elects to receive you, your future is provided for; for she is firmly rooted as the Bass Rock, and penne tam the sun.” “Thank you, nk you,’’ murmured Mo gratefully. It was all she could say, but her hi was She could have knelt down on the road t! Bs ane | this despaired-of sina No wonder her uelle face shone so with intelli. ome and sr gp ae the young patrician gazed dazzled, witha erce rebellion risin aut ainst England’s cruel conservatism, whith | teaux, and through brown stretches of plowed land, to the Weald : “Since you are so kind as to offer your help,” said Monica, halting suddenly under a clump of glossy live oaks, ‘‘I shall ask you to precede me, talk to the housekeeper on my behalf, and then come here and notify me of her answer.” After a few more pleasant words, they parted with this understanding; and seating herself out of sight of the road, Monica patiently awaited his re- turn. He did not follow the public track, but as soon as he had entered the limits of the Derwent grounds chose lonely and unfrequented paths, by which pre- caution he succeeded in reaching the house without encountering any of his uncle’s guests, Monica, well concealed among the furze, saw a brilliant cavalcade of mounted ladies and gentlemen cantering past her, conspicuous among them _ the master himself, with his pair of satellites, the Mar- shall brothers; and well she read the sinister pallor of Rufus, who rode, Judas-like in his fawning affec- tion and docility, at Derwent’s right hand, while Ga- vaine, the bully, a heavily-built man of twenty-sis, with high cheek-bones, coarse, ruddy complexion, bristling, sandy mustache, and small bullet head, rode, resplendent in a foppish equestrian costume, as close at Derwent’s left hand. And for once the traitress herself was there, Godiva Montacute, riding a milk-white nonpareil horse-flesh—a baronet on one side and a viscount on the other, both gazing admiringly upon her proud lily sie the red rust of her lustrous plaits, and her undulating svete figure in its habit of Lincoln green In half gm hour Geoffrey Kilmyre was back at Monica's side. “It’s all arranged, Miss Rivers; I told Aberfeld all Iknew about you. She had already heard no end of gossip about the ‘ beautiful forei gner’ at the inn, and you are to walk straight into the pleasant situa- tion of assistant housekeeper,” With her eyes on the ground she heard his joyous announcement; her thoughts had left a peculiar significance and ambiguity of expression hoveri: villian | upon her. It seemed to Geoffrey that a b burst of sunshine dazzled him as she lifted those solemn orbs to his, and that an electrical current pee for her hand to his as she clasped it, say- roudly: a Fon have befriended an unknown woman, as a knight of Arthur’s table would have done. The time may be when your reward will come—in pro- portion to the goodness of this act.”’ : And then he saw her walking down the road to the Weald, ber black, shining robes waving around her delicate figure, and her beautiful head up like a TInCcess, Py In disguise—surely in disguise,’’ muttered Geof- frey, staring spell-bound. Monica Derwent pepcachs the home of her father—the home which should have been her mother’s, She passed through the ‘‘ Home Park *—a spacious {nclosure of softest sward, level as a lake some- wheres, and rolling in delicious curves otherwheres; clumps of magnificent old oaks studded the emerald expanse, and herds of lovely little red deer skurried across the open and vanished in the distant copses; &@ high stone wall, richly clothed in honey- suckle and ivy, ran completely around this outer en- ‘viron; then came the a Ley reye cottage of weather-stained stone, beside a pair of huge iron gates of fantastic open scroll-work, set in a massive socket of white stone, with tall, fluted pillars and a mighty arch, the latter surmounted by a shield and / supporters, and the Derwent bearings, with their legend in tarnished gold letters: . “DarE Nor Derwent.” Peres 3, which nd 4 be- e mile-long avenue, w wou tween somber files of trees, through the “4 : trunks of which came paonees of garden plats, an sweeps of budding shrubberies; now and again came the glister of crystal domes, and the plumy silver sprays of playing fountains; sometimes a section of carved terrace balustrades, or the velvet moss bank of some tangle-nook, where nature had been left to work in all her unrestrained fantasy; and at last came the widening out of the avenue where the old tree-trunks receded in a wide semicircle, like cath dral pillars, and the full width of the block. ed the way and closed the vista no > a { | through the side gate, Monica walked up It a fine ancient ho bone ‘of white Caen! se 7 th its kee ss : pido and heres wi a p Fat M lo We more the appearance a fortalice, or fortified castle, than that of a private dwelling. «lt covered an immense area spreading out in a hollow square, with a court inside, open to the sky, and reached through an impo: archway in the re: r. The front was exceedingly distinguished, with its rich and florid carving, its cluste pillars, palatial. portal; its charming rose-window b like a sun | over the door; its rows of tall Gothic windows, some would Pe pet ine aver that he stooped to admire | a girl in this one’s position. ‘If she were a beggar,’ mused the well-born and handsome iman, for whom many a titled lady fair had sighed, “she would honor me by giving me that dainty hand. ot a peeress of them all can equal ~- in bbs Be wise int sce or one singularity o offrey’s attraction tow: Monica was that she had no sien beauty rc dazzle him—no voluptuousness of physique or soul to appeal to the senses... Hers was an enchantment that flowed from the noblest in woman, and awoke what was noblest in man; her spell was nee, Hy thinthae thoy tnd Got our of die oil ‘time they had got out of the village, and were walking ong the winding road, which led through deep, groves, Over grass-sown pla- 1 , | the two round towers. The whole pile | of them restored in single sheets of glass, some left in all the glory of their massive iron styles, tiny ~_ mullioned es, and stained glass bordering; its bobusnreded enieaie, and the crumbling urrets of ras rich] mantled in robes of century-old Wy and, sup ore’ by deep embowering trees which leaned thete top- _ most branches over the back of the roof, touching the chimneys and rustling among the circling ae of Lae hia bind earth narrow girth o e ran round the base of the house, and in this earth flowers of radiant hues and spicy perfume grew; here and there a mighty stone flower-stand, or porphyry rare iere lifted ‘its ful shape; the broad shallow front ste Ss ap marble, were supported either side by couching figures tone of the tyke ele
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i 2 a ° Y 2 ¥ oir! Sy ti. = . ay 7 ‘ — \ i: ge, ay ev “5 alone and friendless to " yard for poe! ~ ee eS ee cal monsters of the Derwent arms, and the richly- carved frieze above the grand portal bore the armorial crest in red gold, which gleamed copper- colored in the sun. This was the home of Otto Derwent; here had he been living in years allunremorseful, while his wife pas dying in the cold, starved, wooden cottage in “ +. just God! Art Thou avenging her?’ mut- tered the unknown daughter of cee strangely -Sundered parents, as her flashing eyes swept over oe ie splendor, and her hot heart grew big and itter. However, this was, of all times, the least reason- ‘able, in which to nurse feelings of revenge against Mr. Derwent; she had come there to watch over, and guard him from his foes; should she gracious mission a heart bitterer than She resolutely closed all her senses against the \mpressions which surrounded her. She saw, set ‘leep-socketed in the stone curtain between one of ‘the towers and the’ main building, a little iron- sicnee wicket; it stood open, and she passed rough. Ene hoarse baying of dogs assailed her; two large kennels occupied the little triangular grassy yard she had entered; two mastiffs sprung the length of black chains at her, then stood, sniffing with their arry into the heirs? k flexible noses at her, and lay down again, as satisfied. 72 A wide glass door syung open at her elbow, and a tall, portly, exceedingly dignified old lady stood in aperture. Her face was very fair, clearly rosy il over, and criss-crossed by innumerable fine lines; her eyes were of the palest hue of stocking-gray, set high in her face, and almost blank in their utter ex- pressionlessness; she wore a cap of snowy lisse, which almost concealed the thin locks of sandy hair, streaked with gray, that lay sparsely on each sunk- en temple, broad vapory streamers floating majesti- cally down her back; her dress was of the stiffest dead-black silk, and on her white, plump, wrinkled hand shone a superb amethyst ring, the stone of the size of a broad bean. “ Good-mornin’ ta ye, nae doot ye’re the lassie Maister Geoffrey was ta send me,’’ said she in delib- erate broad Scotch, and with the pompous air of some high pigniery. “You are Mrs. Aberfeld? Yes, madam, you have guessed correctly, I am Monica Rivers; what can you give me to do for a living?” said Monica. _“*Hech! That’s aboot as wise-like a beginnin’ as T’ve ever heard o’,’’ exclaimed the housekeeper in acious approbation, as she beckoned the stranger \ tbs the house. “For a bit girlie like you, ye haea maist wunnerfu’ comman’ o’ yersel’ an’ yer tongue; au’ that, I take it, is aboot the best sign I keno’, that ye’re the recht sort to succeed in this warl’. pomp owe’, lassie; I bid ye welcome wi’ a’ my eart. d glowing under this auspicious greeting, and sath enced to her fluttering heart: os omen—a good c”en!’’ Monica Derwent entered the portals. . CHAPTER X. ee FOR FATHER’S SAKE. ; Tas was how the daughter gained entrance to her father’s home. Assistant housekeeper! ' Mrs. Aberfeld was no Mrs. Frothingham, to ac- cent the pretty stranger on the strength of her face. She sated for her past history. “MW nts were school-teachers,”’ said Monica, ‘ ully, but she was talking of her grandparents. “Tlost my father nineteen years ago, and my mo- euer died a few months since. I was teaching the strict school until she died.” rs. Aberfeld asked for references. “T have a letter from the rector of the church of which I was a member,” said Monica, most kind and fatherly one given her cheerfully of her departure from Loangerie, fe a perteld asked her intentions in coming thus a strange count “Thad nothing left to live for, fhere, aha thought f Fae myself up anew for the rest of my hard bo fc ES ee ae “ And now, what can you do?” she demanded. Monica exhibited her skill in account-keeping. ‘The old lady’s eyes glistened; accounts were her foarte t. ie ce Aes te a her ing-room at <a _ linen- g, plate-cl g, drawing-room attend- ance; the h kee: thought of the lo lo fics the ouekeoper piaire and fared? thanks Providence. Monica brought out a piece of lace, ~ “Gracious! Why, lassie, ane a t a fortune at your finger-ends! the leddies "ll gie ye a guinesaa that, as sure’s deeth, woman!” cried the otchwoman, in ee. Monica was accepted and installed in her office, in- ‘stanter, She mentioned her little box at the inn; a man was sent in the servants’ spring cart for it, and with him went Monica’s last pound to pay her board to Dame Hicks. She was taken to view her bedroom, - _ Tt was on the inner side of the house, its one nar- row mullioned window overlooking the inclosed court, two stories from the ground, Had the sun well-like place, not been streaming into the deep and lighting into.a sheaf of silver the mighty foun- _tain that flung high its plumy jets in the center of the green patch, and flashing like a of crystal om the -lights of the picture; , which ied round the court tho on : a ‘oul ve found some ting weird and lone her outloo ‘, especially a Pe eg 1 eontictet KS about @ quar a - cep. a Oe ge leiae Sohn? a ricgion ani ababited _ “part of the mansion, togetthera, = resenting. & | | “The maister’s sic’ a fldget aboot new faces,” ex- lained Mrs. Aberfield, “we dinna lat him see oor | fresh han’s, ‘till they’ve been here awhile; then he | Jats them be, after we can say they’re weel. tried. Keep oot 0’ his way, bonnie lassie; he’ll notice your ' face as sure’s he sees it; an’ there’s a hantle wild eneuch young chaps here that wadna think twice 0° leavin’ a’ thir grand dames for a sicht 0’ you. ButI can see that ye’re a douce an’ modest bairn, an’ want nae man’s light loves.” The room was, with the exception of being kept sparklingly fresh and clean, a sed it had hundred years ago; not a stick of the antique furni- her with sparkling eyes. Here was food for her ro- | mantic fancy, should she see or hear no human soul | for months, “T am fortunate,” she said, heartily; **I ought to be of some use here, since I am so kind y treated.” Mrs. Aberfield listened to this becoming senti- ment with keen appreciation. **Ye’re a good bairn, an a weel favored ane, tae. T'll see that ye hae a’ your rights amang thae fieer- in’ stranger hussies,”’ she said, with Celtic defiance. She was evidently reca some skirmish she ma have got the worst of, with the many strange mai who had come with their mistresses to the Weald. ** And now, please’show me all over the house,” said Moniea, addressing herself with her usual prompt decision to her work; ‘“‘and whenever you are weary, send somebody else to finish. I need not fatigue you unnecessarily.” Aud this consideration was so very grateful to the stiff old bones of the stately housekeeper, whose principal foible it was to affect an inexhaustible young frame, that she redoubled her good opinion of her new assistant, and handed her over to Dodge, the head ** m of the chambers,” with a special recommendation to take care of her, and show her everywhere. So then behold the unsuspected daughter gliding after the tall fine-figured functionary in Lincoln- green livery, with the Dornoch crest on his git but- tons, his thumbs stuck Papers into his arm-holes, and his little bedazzled eyes blinking furtively at her. Through majestic — wide as an ordinary dining-room; into’ grand lis, wonderful pictures of medieval days; peeps into significant looking lit- tle ante-chambers, with sudden. secret doors behind arras of rapes stairs built in the ten-feet of unsuspected thickness of the walls; in and out of crooked, shadowy corridors; up, up winding flights of s black as jet, and x pelt ice; inata velvet-colored pair of folding doors, to traverse the ever curving picture-gallery, which ran clear round the inrer court, with skylights all the way, and out at another similar door, just across the court, thus reaching the exact opposite side of the mansion. ‘“‘And this here door, miss,’’ explained the foot- man with his best air, ‘‘ that we always keeps locked (because of the family ghost, miss, he! he!), this here door leads into the old half, which I’d be show- ing you too miss, only that it ain’t never used, and consequently ain’t worth troublin’ you with.” So instead of turning into the ruined portion, they left the low-browed oak door behind them, and con- tinued on up-stairs. , But Monica had seen something in the lery which had paled her cheek, and fille with thoughts. “Escape detection here—never!’’ she was herself with sinking heart, as she left behind her the portrait of a certain beauty of Derwent blood, who was ngly like herself, and might have sat for her easily; ‘“‘ah, well, I take it asa sign that herria this very night—if I can, J must warn m ! She went back to the housekeeper’s room, and Pe the afternoon with her lace in her hands, and Aberfeld’s pompous voice sounding in uninter- rupted volubility, as she gave a stately autobiogra- phy of her past life. Such a listener was perf ascinating to the lady, not one question, nor yawn, nor fidget of om. “T couldna hae dune better than tak’ the lassie, an’ weel young maister seems to hae kenned it!” she ehuckled. The cavalcade was heard returning, and the firm, almost martial tread of the Master of Dornoch, pass- ing on his way to his dressing-room. An’ thae s at his heels as usual,” sneer- ed Mrs. Aberfeld. “It’s my belief they tak’ turns to watch be him, ilka nicht.’ Monica had marked the oe juxtaposition of these brothers to her father; their dressing- rooms, atin Prog: handsomest in the ho’ next door to his; their suit of parlors opened into his; and not only this, but this group seemed to be in a measure separated from the rest of the guests by a short corridor, which led from the main house ugh an arch. . | Dinner passed, with sounds of hilarity floating | from the dining-room after the ladies had sailed in | a leng and s train into the drawing-room}; appease the strains of an orchestra came from he be: c-room, and an extemporized ball closed the evening. Long before ten o’clock Mrs. Aberfeld was saying, cture gal- her mind were in her motherly way: : “Yell be weari ; my bairn; awa wi’ ye till yere | bed; ‘early tae bed,’ ye ken?” | And Monica had dutifully retired to her little | room, where, with the lamp ed low and her face pressed to the Bi lag amen she had watched the reflections from the -room, as through open casements onto the opposite wall; and listening to the long-drawn clangor of the brass ‘and the vibrating twanging of the * ments, ; | And at midnight the lights went out, the shadows they were flun -instru- ‘ aS ¢ en & | ‘AN AMERICAN QUEEN, view - arning’ sai I ectly lan } ture had been removed, nor even the arras torn | vault-like breath, and startled in down. Monica was deeply read; she’ looked about | yanished, the music was mute; not & sound stirred in ail the mighty mansion. __Now was her time to see the master alone; risking all on the one throw, Monica went forth. She expected to find the Marshall brothers in her. way; to received at first with insulting amaze- / ment and cen but she hoped that with the truth written in her face, and by dint of her fiery sincerity arid urgency, she would overcome them, they not yet suspecting her advent upon their stage. Straight through the wide lonely halls she went, chilled, this raw spring night to the bone, by the ite of herself by the mysterious noises that echoed through the un- familiar regions, which were dimly lit at intervals by old-fashioned lamps with moon-like sconces. At last she ne ech the suit occupied by her father, As she had expected, voices warned her that he was not alone; she came in sight of his parlor door; it was flung open to admit the warmth from a mod- ern register-grating in the hall just outside, and as she paused in the sheltering shadow of a bronze Roman Youth that stood on a green porphyry pedes- tal at the angle between the two meeting passages, she saw the interior of the room. Her father was reclining in an elegant attitude of ease and comfort in a huge chair of ancient needle- work, a dressing-robe of steel-colored silk, lined with delicate lavender and flung open at his firm white throat, imbued him with something of the air of roy- alty on the throne. He held a cigar of choice brand in his graceful fingers; and with his proud head thrown back, and into vacancy, he was listening to the words of wis- dom which flowed from the mouth of Gavaine Mar- shall, Both brothers were pon Gavaine_strolling round the beautiful stately chamber, big and hulking, like some yoleat horse-jockey; and Rufus, very peaked and id, with an uneasy down look in his arene eyes, seated in another chair of the same sha as his host’s, and doing his poor best to emulate the grace and ease of his attitude. “Tell ye what, if it was me,.’ Mr. Gavaine was ob- serving, loudly— if it was me I'd set the dawgs on. 3 h him whenever he come nigh hand the p him.” “T dare say you would, my brave Gavaine,” re- turned the Master of Dornoch-Weald, slowly and gently, but with a small thread of biting derision running through the quiet tones—(to Monica’s utter surprise, for Dame Hicks had told her that’ Mr. Der- went was infatuated by these men)—“ but your ways are not all my ways. Had you been placed in cir- cumstances similar to mine, it would not have been the next-of-kin to the Master of Dornoch, with the old Derwent blood in him, that your ‘dawg’ (a mon- 1, of course) would bite, but a person plebeian ike yourself. Viblesse oblige/ Gentlemen use gen- tlemen’s weaponr, sirs!’’ Then Geoffrey’s arrival was known. Had he at- tempted to speak to his uncle yet? “Whatever he has come here for,” said Rufus, putting in his oar with an impatient lare at his vul- xar. brother, “it can bring nothing but distress to you, honored sir, It is a difficult t ng for me to say —only my confidence in your knowledge of my na- ture, sir, could induce me to venture so far—but I Ha implore you not to grant Geoffrey Kilmyre an nterview. Hal With these wretches at both his ears, what chance was there for friends to whisper one word of Ww ? “Tt is well for you that I do know what you are,” d Mr. Derwent, turning his b nt eyes a mo- ment on the craven visage of his distant relative. “Tf I were suspicious of you, how extremely ugly it would look for you to warn me against let m ae: disinherited for your sake, see me, when might be just possible that he had come to confess his errors and seek reconciliation.” “Tf he only had,” sighed Rufus, withstanding the obvious irony of Derwent’s ch, with miraculous density; ‘‘but alas! no such good news. He has come for more money.” “Ah! And how came that item to your know- ledge?” asked Mr. Derwent, slightly sti his easy tion; and Monica thought she saw one delicate but the next it was idly toying with his lavender tassel, : “Pd rather you wouldn’t ask me,” said R with affected. reluctance; ‘I hate to carry tales 0: that man, Still, I will speak.: Am I to be cow enough to see my dear benefactor cheated of his and. clutch at his side for a momen loye, cozened of his money, and derided afterward by a heartless profligate? Not for all the wealth in need, LIhappen to be in_a position to know all that Mr. Geoffrey does, and have been so for the six months. By. pure accident I dis- covered that my valet, Joe, had a brother Jack who is valet to Kilmyre. Jack sees his master living at the fashionable pace, tells Joe, and Joe tells his mas- ter. .So it is that murder will out.”’ Mr. Derwent had troubled himself to sit upright during this explanation, and to fix upon the speaker those fire-ringed eyes, whose strange and vivid gaze had dragged Monica out of her sleep the first time they had rested upon her, Uunder that gaze Rufus Marshall writhed and paled, but stubbornly kept his a ee} glance averted and maintained point. “Do you know what _7should do with such a valet s your Joe?” said the Master of the Weald, in a low ne, “No. What? Thore’s one thing I have done al- ready; I’ve doubled his wages in reward for his vigi- ce * Tshould kick him out of my employ,” said Mr. Derwent, as gently as ever, *‘ and horsewhip the vile life out of him,” Rufus and his brother stole a cowed look toward each other. Tbey were so very far from being gen- f s dark, sparkling eyes smiling’ & nayvy to © oa
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= es a + io tiemen that the habits of thought and feelfiy of those who. were continually came upon them unex- pectedly as a moon at Spee ~“ Oh, would you?” was all the craven could stam- mer, fumbling bis hands in his pockets in an agony of discomfiture; ‘still, don’t you know, we’d never have known what Kilmyre was up to if it was not for poor Joe?” ‘““Spare me the foul theme,” interrupted Mr. Der- went, with a gesture of disgust. : “How he throws his Cornlea income,” persisted Rufus, doggedly, “‘among all the ballet-girls and va- riety actresses he can get to go to Thames water »arties with him, with champagne of the costliest brands to be had for money, and peaches at a guinea apiece.’ : ‘Very good, my young friends,” again interposed the master, contemptuously; “I do not exact the filthy service of tale-bearer from you. I prefer to uess at my precious nephew’s amusements to hay- ng them detailed, however eloquently.” “Twas only wishing to explain,” proceeded Rufus, gbstinately bent on forcing the uncle to hear some damning folly of his nephew, “ that that’s where his own. handsome income has gone, so now that he has run himself into a corner by the purchase of the late Duke of Malthraver’s toy villa for that unnatural beast, the prize-fighter’s aster, * Bess Bounce,’ he, of course, has no option but to come back here—” Will you be good enough to hold your peace?” cried Derwent, in sudden fury, starting up from his chair and towering over the cowering dastard as if he would have hurled him under his feet and ground his carcass into dust. ‘*Do I need your craity dis- closures to keep in my eee degradation of my house and name through the mad profligacy of this foolish lad? Dare not to take his name upon your lips again, or, [swear it, I shall drive you from me, never to benefit by the wealth you crouch so low for, by so much as one shilling. Now, sirs, you both at last know my mind.” And he walked to a distant window, and dashing aside tho silken curtain, sent his blazing eyes in a wide, unseeing sweep over the noble scene, where the timber of three centuries still studded the meads that his fathers had won by deeds of high renown, i In her dark niche, his daughter smiled; the noble wrath of the patrician went with ever, proud pulse- beat of her body, and then she thrill note how her father’s spirit had been born again in her: then sizhed in bitter anger that, for all his spirit was lofty in some things, it was so base and cowardly in the long-forgotten matter of his village wife. a Se CHAPTER XI. A PROUD MAN’S SCORN, AND A FATAL CONSPIRACY. Iv was the suppressed voice of Derwent that broke the silence. pat Wa “Good night, my kinsmen,”’ he said, without turn- ing toward the pair, who were hulking together awkwardly enough. ‘I shall not detain you longer; it is late. Good-night,” They glanced uneasily at each other, Gavaine arch- ing red eyebrows for orders, and Rufus shrug- ing his lean shoulder with an evil grimace; then they muttered their adieux and retired through a door in the parlor, : Derwent waited until the sound of their steps had ceased, then went to the door which they had left unfastened, shut it smartly, and was starting to shut the door upon the corridor, when Monica stood be- fore him on the threshold. ’ So pale she seemed, with her small black head and gleaming black eyes, muffled up to the chin in sable garments, too, and her little slim hands clasped im- ploringly, that he did not in the least recognize her at. first, but stood apparently dumb smitten, an ex- of utter astonishment upon his haughty ~ She took advantage of his surprise to step into the room, shut the door, and run up to “Forgive me for coming here—but—but—let me | eak to you,”’ she gasped. Ee knew her now; his amazement passed, and a sarcastic disdain curled his delicate lip. “By what grot freak has nature given the features of a Derwent to an American villager?” said he, with a low laugh of scorn, “ Twice have ou startled me a resemblance which is utterly ynadeountable. Bit I think I perceive the use you wish to make of it. Ha! ha! ha! trust a River's to make the most of accident!” His» manner was intolerable to the ee A in whose veins ran his own haughty blood. at he meant was incomprehensible, but she understood ‘that ne was Reap Sverint and insult My ad her, aol for the moment her purpose in seeking was pbscured by the vehement resentment he stirred up in her. : “What do you know about the Rivers’?” she de- manded, in her high, clear, rin voice, like silver bells, and her magnificent eyes glittering, ‘Quite enough,” retorted the Master of Dornoch, * to avoid fortune-hunters.”’ ‘ ‘What do you mean?” she cried, wildly; “ who wants your fortune?” | His manner changed; the scathing jeer on his lips faded; a spasm—a sort of white scorn and anguish convulsed his paling face; he Jaid his strong, firm hand upon her shoulder, and with one twist turned her to the full blaze of the large astral lamp which stood on_ a curiously carved Pompeian table, with its three leopard legs in gleaming black marble, and dead-gold scroll-work round the rim, She met his fierce, inquisitorial gaze eye to eye, all the pride and wrath in her nature uppermost. Asif satisfied, he pushed her from him, turning with a smothered oath from the small, white, venge- { Nii! Lg AN ‘monstrance or laughter, steps hi oe mae oe ORS - cm | x t my AMERICAN QU 7 4? ful face, that could look sweet and tender as a beau- tity angel’s had he but possessed the key to her eart. “ Girl,” said the Master, of Dornoch, frigidly, ‘go back to Addiscombe as fast as steam and ranch ine: can ig you, and say to the idiots who sent you here, Otto Derwent is not to be swindled out of one — He is ready armed against all your aris, and a asa any time during these nineteen years. Now, i a (8 Apt oth door. onica’s cheeks flam, ereyes gushed ‘ had torn her very heart. 34 ere ‘“'You were never so mistaken in—”’ “Go!” reiterated he, in a terrible voice. She started; such a tone had never fallen on her ears before. She looked up at him in her incred- ulous, feminine way, and the unearthly glare of his eyes struck horror to her soul. She put up her clasped hands, wailing: “Oh, sir, lei me speak—let me warn—indeed, I am not here on my own behalf—” “ Will you beard me thus, miserable adventuress?” cried he, furiously advancing upon hei. She elided lis grasp by falling on her trembling knees to him. “Hear me—hear me—I have come to save you!’’ she cried, in passionate entreaty; but his cruel hands were on her; he dragged her to the door, and flung her violently from him into the dark passage. He never heeded her quick, urgent wo: she pouring out as much of her meaning as she could render co- herent, ogi little soul, with the sobs and tremors of outraged feeling, ay, and of physical fear, too, al- most suffocating her. ‘*T know not who has dared to give you entrance here,” spoke the bitter voice of the master, as he closed the door; “but I warn you that if I find you under my roof to-morrow, I shall thrust youout pub- | licly, dismiss your foolish dupe as well. It is late; I permit you to stay here until daylight; but then you must be gone.” He closed and locked his parlor door, and the young girl crept to the mat outside, and knelt down quivering and gasping, and prayed God to give her patience, and wisdom, and strength to rescue her eruel father, And long after the last sound had died in the echo- ing corridors, the devoted daughter still cowered there, listening for the muffled tread of assassins in - *Oh, ehit up yer mouth!” growled the bully roughly, still clumsily clicking at the latch, ‘if t choose for to look in here, who's * to stop me?” With one bound Monica was outof her bed and cowering behind the armoire Moning Dee in time to avoid the Minkiegyanieecns eyes of Gave as he peered curio ito the room, dg ‘Be darned if somebody ain't been in that bed,” muttered he, glaring at it; then he looked back over his shoulder toward his brother, with several nods on winks of rat Ye ee ae a Hi. oe an ago rror ca of Rufus, von! qui ck as thought took the o: when Gavaine gave for him enter het ronny f : in the arras, the armoire, and to slip 2, $4 Pi relief as herself what she ’ her, and she only prev violence backw by catching with the fingers at the ysterious | \. There she hung, athless, motionless, while the sinister dd clamped into her late though she could not see them, she knew they were standing over her hed, and listened with suffo- rye terror for the impen discovery that it was still warm, 7 All But before this fata] fact was revealed, another sound broke the stillness—the distant of a door and the swish of long garments across bare floors. Then Godiva’s voice. impatiently: ‘“* Rufus—where are you, Rufus?’ ; : “Here, Come in here,” he answered, not moving from the bed, and she came jn, and with a little ery of amazement joined the worthies.: —. . re els pa coe ke i oy ; o ‘Nobody,’ she answer wonderingly, “How did you tebe in here?” , “Oh, Gavaine was fussing at the lock, and it gave. But look at the bedclothes; some one has certainly wate here lately.” momentary silence. Then Godiva spoke : “The sheets are cold enough now to have SO since Montacute Derwent was carried a co out of them fifty years ago,” she said, con’ ously". aad tnedica $0 tho slight-celapus Gece a ek Ss es é n the pro as to the accident of Monic is ae h é ioee feenscate ete a ca’s having laindown _
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ie Wee eee ee a Sd Me nt a] in” m : rr A * eae eS ee r F Fe ~ ‘= Sy STN, Se ee - 'Z ' own hand, and if calm him in _ with tolerable firmness that he knew nothin : Pe yeep df at the inn—and had begged co ee Se ae ee ee without undressin , the warmth had Ted time to | She was now naught but a brain to conceive crime, cool. ‘‘ However, last night.’ You shall hear of her anon. Meantime attend to me,” she said, decisively; then dismisse the subject, and walked away to a window, followed by her accomplices. “If you ever win this battle,” she said, impressive- | , * you'll have me to thank for it. Forall your wit wufus, and your valor, Gavaine, neither of you could prevent Geoffrey a gaining a private inter- view with his uncle, during which he could have made mince-meat of your plots in three minutes. But I was ready forhim. I don’t pay old Yorick at the inn to spy for me without sometimes getting the worth of my mioney. He brought me word this morning that Kilmyre had offered to speak to Aber- feld on behalf of the stranger girl who has been there for some weeks. It appears she is willing to take a subordinate position anywhere she can get it. Well, she came here yesterday, and, through his in- | fluence with Aberfeld, was in as assistant housekeeper, and slept in the house last night. Here, as seems. Of course, she has nothing in this world to do with our matters, only that she ar- rived on the scene at the appropriate moment when we are at our wits’ end for some: new iniquity to father on Kilmyre, who, else, would be reinstated, to our ruin and misery. Well, baving discovered that . Derwent had seen the girl in the house, and had been angry with Aberfeld for admitting a stranger, also sent her off this morning (no one knows where, but, anyway, she’s out of the district), I ven- tured to write a little bil/et-doux in her own name (Monica Rivers—a very pretty name, too), address- ed to ‘My own love—my_ Geoffrey,’ heaving him to do her justice,’ or she ‘ would disclose all to his uncle’ *— the arch plotter paused here to laugh maliciously, and the wretches who listened joined in the laugh with admiring unction—* and just about one minute after Master spot ge got into the library with his uncle all to himself, I sent in Sykes, the purblind footman, Fie know, with this redoubtable missive in hand, and the significant little me e that ‘the young woman herself had left it for Master Geoffrey's did not attend to it she'd come pereely to his uncle. Thad taken the precaution to in the old oak credence (behind the library door, you remember), and, with the slide a hairbreadth ek I could both see and hear comfortably, with trivial drawbacks of cramped limbs and an in- definite time to wait for release. However, as the is for life or death, [risk all towin all. You may imagine the blank amazement with which Geof- frey opened and began to read the letter; and Mr.: Derwent’s abrupt demand to see it did not tend to e handed it over, however, saying what- ever about this matter. He had seen the lady once Mrs. Aber- to eed her a situation in the house, as she seemed want one, and was an American and endless, etc., etc.—all el truth, of course. ae Derwent read eve Samed of the letter care- das it on the floor, and 4 paar his foot on it ‘ound it into ey’s assertions simplified ance, _ eaven “‘ The ——!”” mu us with several of his usual execrations, ‘‘ He'd be ij oe, ‘© hawk; it won't be good for him if I catch him bs as aid Ld Sin our oe eddies’ eager) uqaawel tm tine ts e of "s e s , and he was reduced to fect ‘ course looked like guilt. © end of it was that Mr. Derwent talked so wildly and 60 wicked wrong he was doing her in believing it one . ainstant. When he was gone, Mr. Derwent went -yound and round the library, moaning and lene me his hands like one going . Inever saw anything ' Tike it; have been tampering with him, eh?” “Not yet; but it's a good e to begin, and I will,” Rufus, wadiicign ‘But go on—how did you get away?” “On, he circled round and round until I suppose Be-gos giddy and then he fell down in a swoon (I had no idea he was the man to Jet mental agitation overwhelm him so, did you?) and then I ran up here.” “ Lea him so?” asked Rufus, unable to con- ‘ceal a little natural compre / Pia gregl & Wouldn’t it be the best thing for all of us if he should ReDpes to die in such a way?” an- er e woman, coldly. swered th dl **God! when you’re my wife I’ll have to look after i pretty sharp!” exclaimed Rufus, with an audi- le shudder. ~ The wicked woman only hed low and jeering- ly. She had long done with woman’s heart and ‘woman's tenderness; she had been unsexed, from the moment when she bartered worm __kneeling in unwomanly suppliance at the feet o: Otto ent to sue for wealth and position as his wife, to the treacherous moment whan she had sought to worm from rey re his love. ae * ' - believe I see it. Yes, it must | and a female shape to tempt men to achieve it for have been Aberfeld’s new employee, who slept here | = 5 | her. | In her dark, genes concealment, Monica Derwent | felt the burning blush of shame tingle over her whole | body | sex that washers. And, barsh and unjust as Otto Derwent had been | to her mother and to her, she wept bitterly to think | of him lying unhelped and forlorn, on the floor of | his beautiful library, and that all his wealth had not | been enough to buy him one loving heart. He had t' t Geoffrey from him, poor Geoffrey, so belied—who was now to warn and save him. But hark! What is this they are saying now? CHAPTER XI. ‘ir Is TO BEGIN TO-NIGHT.” ‘‘ Mysrerious being ’’—it is Godiva who speaks, in @ sprightly tone of raillery, ghastly to hear under the cireumstances—‘ when are we common mortals to know your scheme?” “Don’t talk of it quite yet,” mumbles Rufus, hur- riedly; ‘it makes me sick.” “ Lord!” (this is Gavaine’s contribution) “ what a chicken I’ve got fora brother! While he’s puling over the notion, I’d have the old chap stuck an’ buried.” “ Ay, ay, what you would do,” snarls Rufus, sav- agely, ‘but you’re all body,and’mallhead. You don’t feel, because you’ve no brains to make yon hey £ I’ve got the brains to plot, but unfortunately make me feel, too. Godiva,” he seems to be appealin; almost mournfully to her, ‘oh, sweet, lovely girl, is there no way for us todo this thing except through —blood ?” **No way,” she answers, coldly. * Dear, you don’t realize—how should you?” he moaus. * What can your little heart know of the horrible fear and remorse of murder ?” “Don’t say that word!’ she suddenly shrieks, and by the sound, she has made some fierce movement at has startled thetwo men. ‘He has iusulted— goaded—trampled upon me till J long for his veath asaright. I will have it—it’s no murder—it’s my right—oh—o—h!”’ and with a prolo ery, more ike that of a wounded beast than of a human being, she walks pantingly to and fro, while in dead silence the brothers look after her. And Monica, in her hiding-place, feels herself slow- ly f into stone, but still struggles wildly against her faintness, lest she lose one syllable, ““Well, have it so,” groans Rufus, after a pause. ** After all, it’s the only way to be safe. Once more we have contrived to ay and his nephew with- out a reconciliation, but the nephew is d te this time, because that strange woman is implica’ and he won’t rest until he has cleared her. An with her, of course, himself,’’ “‘ That’s the talk,” grins the brutal Gavyaine. “I thought for all the eg oar was a-goin’ to show the white feather. The is made in our favor; we've seen it with our own eyes; that’s all we want of the old fellow, and now, off with him!” ‘*Hush, you brute,”’ shudders Rufus; “don’t shout 803 yor're halt drunk, I believe.”’ “And now, the means,’ softly and calmly inter- ~ sy peace-maker, Godiva; ‘“‘you have found em?’ “Yes, allis ready; we can begin this very night,” mutters Rufus. ‘Monica's gasp almost betrays her; there is a sudden movement among the conspirators, and a long deathly pause. **Pooh! rats in the wall or the wind among the ivy ——— the lady. ‘‘We must not be nervous; aH ag ens mae earebigg ere nwer Gam who have played a des game no Ww ay, and a it, too, Yhat pale faces! Hr.! ral even Gavaine has’ mounted the ‘pale e * of fear. Must a woman show you fortitude‘ ie She ends with the same prolonged cry like a yell which shocked her hearers before; there is some- thing indescribably devilish in its gnashing rage and impatience. Bafus but h speaks, , as if awaking from a fever dream. ‘‘ You will have it, then. Well, if I must—listen. There is already a man in the house —— will do this for us, leaving no trace behind. It trade his k ** Already here? Come, that is better! Who, what is he?” asks Godiva, without any emotion, save con- gratulation. “*He’s an Italian—one of those ‘ confidential doc- tors,’ you understand. He does é scientifi , is never detected, defies all the doctors in the kingdoms to trace anything. Never failed once.” What is his naane?”’ Godiva, with gentle in- ““Vulpino—Andrea Vulpino. I’d heard of him | long ago; soI thought of him when we decided on it pores: I tele hed to him, and he came without one question by the night train. I met him at the station at Linnhe, and drove him here in the dead of night, while this ass, Gavaine, was snoring at his ease. He never even heard me open the win- dow going out or returning. And Vuipino walked right a Sor our rooms, and into the ruined half of the little blue room door. I put’ bim in the Muni- ment Room; I’ve been with him off and on all day. He’s given me enough instructions to get along without-him after—after to-night, if i¢ is to begin to- ight.’” me it is to to begin to-night,” remarked Godiva. “He must stay several days here, though,.to watch the toms,’’ resumes Rufus, in a quaver- ing voice, which vainly tries to steady itself, ‘‘ Con- . tutions differ so much, you know; and we are Ay iz to do just enough ve Derwent the idea at he has typhoid; imagination will do the rest so _naturally—so espe f that we shall be quite safe. So, he is to begin the doses to-night?” | Monica hears no more: her senses haye been that this demon should be counted in with the - | tact with the moist, icy stone, and then she faints. When she recovered sense enough to raise her head the shock of the blind darkness and the reeking wet and mustiness of her prison almost frightened her into another swoon; but then she remembered where she was, and sternly composed herself. There was no sound to be heard; she listened long ad anxiously, her ear pressed to the crack of the/ | secret door; nothing moved or breathed; so at last; she ventured to open the secret panel and steal outh into her bedroom. She would have only stepped into continued darkness had it not been for the broad white sheet of moonlight which streamed in at the window, silvering the antique furniture and casting strange, startling shadows beside the tall shapes which stood about the w: for it was night now. Step by step she crept to the door of communi- cation between her room and the room in which the brothers had begun their conference. It was empty, and the corridor gleamed beyond, through the halt. open door, silent as the ve. : Tt might be midnight for all Monica could guess; no sound came from the inhabited portion of the house, nor one solitary bark from the dogs without. She was sinking from hunger and protracted agita- tion; her limbs trembled as she dragged herself along the eerie passages, now smitten on the face by some trailing pennon of spider’s web, or fluttering rag of the moth-eaten banners which drooped from the steel gauntlets of the tall suits of armor which stood at intervals along the corridor; sometimes a ig Spans would glide across the black and white of the moonlit floor, and with squeak and skurry vanish into a rat-hole; sometimes an apparition, palely greenish, would beckon and wave its ghostly garments from a distant hall casement, and only re- solve itself into a wind-blown ivy spray, when her heart was in her throat and her blood had turned to ice; yet she dragged herself resolutely on and on, determined to obtain admission to her father’s room at any risk—determined never to leave him until he had heard all that she had to tell him. Gone were all her pride and anger; she did not care, now, whether he insulted or caressed her, so as he would only listen; she was ready to rivet his at- tention at any cost, ay, even if she had to tell him that she was his dau ‘hter, and witness the shame and disgust with which he perceived this relic of his buried misalliance drifted up at his feet by the re- poy ee of Time - - tbe ae for any cruel- , any disdain, any unjust and goa cions— it oy, she could warn him in time aga at hig mur- erers And as she went she wept to think that her mother had loved this mnhapey man for naught, and that Ripe never a : ank & W, Sgored oe pee or sav m from death; an e ed in her bursting heart, to God: ; \ cg ‘Oh, that he would love me by and by?”’ On and on crept Monica through the ghostly cas- tle, on, on, on; w fainter and weaker, and marveling dully why she was never reaching the little low-browed, iron-studded door that separated the uninhabited half of the mansion from the mod- ernized portion; she rested, kneeling on the cold fiags, for she feared to open any of the creaking doors along her route, to seek a seat within; then she set out again and as before crept onward. She came to a door that ay © Eee ae moonlight streamed through it; she kked and lis- tened long, then crept in. And then she uttered a shocked cry; for she had come back to her own bedroom; all her wanderin, had been for naught, she had merely wearied hi vainly among the labyrinthine passages. dL ehct tan er was gone, she staggered e and just reached it efor her senses left her for the second time. How the night passed she never exactly knew, but at last gray dawn shone in upon her eyelids, which were quivering in an ago of cet Monainaseatle with it came the sudden musical winding of a distant hunting horn. The hunt was to meet at the Weald that mornin She now recollected that Mis. Aberfeld had told her; a dozen or more of the neyo entry would ride to the Meet, accompanied by the bolder of their ladies; ae, the distant signal Was an- swered from the W. d, as Derwent’s huntsman arrived from his home in the forest to the kennels behind the mansion; where were kept three or four ~ pe of the finest hounds, stag and fox hunters, in he country. Monica sprung to the window; the aurora beams of the brillant spring morning were bye over the sky in fan-sha: effulgence, but the court-yard beneath seemed dark as a well yet, filled as it was with shadow; she soon, however, distinguished the Barty bg figures of the domestics passing and re- ee g in all the bustle of ad arations for the untsmen’s breakfast; presently the immense two- leaved doors of the rear archway were swung wide and the red light which morning diffused on the still atmospheré, gushed in, in a broad ruby lane, in the glory of which came a gay host of scarlet-coated and dark-habited hunters of both sexes, mounted on noble animals, the latter capering and pawing in their lusty freshness. Up rung the silver peals of gay ladies’ laughter, and the deep musical tones of 1eé men; grooms in various liveries obsequiously sprung to assist the delicate long-robed figures to ht, cavaliers doffed their caps to invisible ladies at the upper Bak a del Bec the remote baying of eager dogs mingled with the clash and bruit; a mer- ry scene, at which the unknown daughter of the house gazed with sick eyes, strained to see her father, But she knew that last night the murderers had begun their hellish work, she scarcely expected Ree him. 4 i ee ry
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She was wrong; asudden accession of the merry Vu. es indicated the appearance of some more dis- tinguished personage, and into the broad lane of red light strode the Master of Dornoch-Weald, clad for the field, and looking exactiy as usual, And, as ever, .at either elbow slunk the curs, Rufus and Gavaine Marshall. He was going out for the day in their compe: who could say what might happen to him during the day? And nobody to avert perl ! Nobody to whisper warning! He was left to his fate! ‘ . “Oh, Geoffrey Kilmyre, where are you?’ wept Monic bie. her hands in despair. For she knew that Geoffrey Kilmyre was made of the stuff that scorns to forsake the helpless, what- ever the provocation. And he had been warned by Godiva; he knew that these low-born curs were not to be trusted; where, where was he? Then a thrill, half anguish half a sudden, sweet, passionate gratitude, swept through the pure hea: of Monica, for she suddenly knew where Geoffrey was. He was searching for her, that he might prove her innocence of the vile forgery which had blasted her fair fame in the eyes of his uncle. So that his uncle was left unprotected, unsuspi- cious, already the work of death begun upon him— not a soul to save him! ¥or a few minutes the young girl lost all courage, all faculty to plan, and raved madly to the heavens to perform a miracle on Otto Derwent’s behalf, not to abandon him to his murderers; confessing how wicked Ler ag agen wim been - Te the Fg i or me mercy nd oh, 70¢ to podiee her in this horrible, irrevocable way! At that moment a thought came to-her like a flash of inspiration. It went prickling through her hair over all her tingling body, darting througn her heart —it was electrical. ; “ Some of the ladies are vailed thickly—why not I? € wit Go WITH MY FATHER.” This was her thought. . ’ And she had never in her life been on a horse’s hack, and it was a stag-hunt upon which the caval- wade was bound; did she know at, all what that was tike? Yes, well she knew it, for Monica was an om- niverous reader, and had devoured many a spirited nccount of the mad swing over moor and fen and +hrough the thick black tree-trunks cfter the flying monarch of the woods. . “Tt is the only way—it must, Must be done,” she waid. abide 5 CHAPTER XIt. ‘wry LIFE BUFORE HIs!”’ From the ant when the brave girl resolved upon this desperate scheme, all things scemed to smooth before her, every obstacle to melt away, and, in- stead of inanimate objects getting in her way after their perverse wont, Ore eaaiat to Icrd themselves —everything she came in contact wi:h—to her pur- Se, ONever had a mad undertaking been so easy of achievement as this of the devoted daughter to save 4rer father’s life. Things happened penne thus: While the bedazzlement of her purpose was still pon her, she looked down and saw the dainty, slim form of Gotliva, clad bewitchingly in an opal-tinted mo -robe, with her roseate arms gleaming bare to tho flowing kace at the elbow. She was mo in and out among the stiffer and more masculine fig- ures of the huntresseg, m lovely contrast; eviden ahe was not going with the hunt, and yet was co- quette enough to present her floral ‘beaut; , enhanced foy the stiff toilets of the other ladies, to some fa- ‘yored eye, even at Sho risk of dragging her indolent, ease-loving limbs forth from her couch at three ®’clock of the morning. Monica had been through all the house, we know; who knew the inhabited portion of if much better than the otber, and, once she had escaped from these mysterious labyrinths, could find her way to room. cg Whenayor she saw Godiva, she told herself: “Now is your chance to got a riding-habit;” and once more Grasting herself the corridors, which had been the scene of her half-delirious wander- 4ngs, she sped str: tight to the low-browed door, and from thence, swift and unerringly, to Godiva's apartments. Fearful that the lady's maid might be there, she was cautious in her entrance, But Florice was dee in flirtation below with Lord Glenfillan’s valet, an the long, dim, sumptuous suit was left to itself, with ‘y) better guard against intrusion than the key ‘arned in the antechamber lock. Monica flitted in, her black silk skirts gathered sicht about her in case of eae and her black ‘yes gleaming with a resolution that would have daunted the fair mistress of the dainty splendor she tooked upon had she met her then, face to face, Godiva, the distant relative of proud Derwent, lodged well under the roof of him she had plotted to murder; her taste was obviously and determinately rnodern, and not one stick of the magnificent old furniture that so ravished connoisseurs had been permitted to remain within her regions. Irescoing, satin-and-silver hangings, velvet car- pets, mirrors of ecrystal-and-silver in true Venetian style, silver chairs and divans, gorgeously framed pictures, the subjects of which were forgotien in tho overpowering frames which’ surrounded them; showy bric-a-brac, shimmering cages, with brilliant- ly-plumaged but mute birds; heaps pou heaps of gayly-bound books, the leaves uncut; of lustrous garments, lovingly displayed where their ownet’s ‘ eyes would fall upon them the first thing on awak- ‘ng in the morning; the blue-and-lace bed, with sil- ‘yer-tissue hangin, and _ sachet-counterpane—all 1 , that eye could see loudly proclaimed the secret na- ture of Godiva Martaousecher love. nay. her cray- a ore which sees @ love wayside flower far beyond the flauntin scentless exotic, and in all beauty that goodness sym bolized.: In gare through the three intervening chambers which opened into one another, @ la Indian cabinet, before she reached the final one, the dressing-room, Monica Derwent unconscious! y perceived this— unconsciously, I say, for at the 6 her whole heart and mind were bent on her present purpose, and she was not aware that she had had time to receive an ee until afterward. : i till favored by capricious accident, she went un- erringly on until she found herself before an ex- quisitely inlaid Japanese wardrobe, the majestic hight of which seemed to indicate that it was used for hanging dresses whose long trains required more than usual e. As it was ajar, Monica was in- stantly running her clever, deft hands over the vari- ous folds of silk and rich material which filled the dark interior. She came anon to the heavy, smooth folds of a cloth garment, took it off its hook, and saw what she sought—an elegantly-made riding- habit of invisible green. A cap of the same color was attached to the costume, and a pair of delicate white riding-gauntlets in the pockets of it; she look- ed for the accompanying whip in the bottom of the wardrobe, and found it also. With these things in her arms she glide from the dangerous locality, rege bomen herself into the first room she came to in the uninhabited half of the house, had the satis- faction of soon seeing herself reflected in a dim, cobweb-draped mirror—an equestrian figure of as much elegance and fashion as any lady of them all. She finished her toilet by winding thickly and se- curely a long black tissue vail round and round her small cap, after which she might have defied the eyes of her own mother to recognize her. Then she hid her own costume in one of the curi- ous old cabinets that were there, locked up the in- geniously puzzling recess in which she had placed it, and put the key in her ae And now to obtain a horse, and ride into the forest be the party were safely out of the way at break- ast. Here, too, fate befriended her. She walked quietly through the most private pas- | sages which she knew would eventually lead her to the court-yard, meeting ove or two servants on the way, who, however, only stared at heft, not ventur- ing to address what they supposed to be one of the stranger ladies low: through the corridors for curiosity; and $00n she was standing, with an air of fae indifference, on the ladies’ mounting-block, looking about her. A footman in the Derwent livery edged near her pd in hand, ready for orders. She abruptly turned. to him, saying, in a petulant voice: ‘ “Have you happened to see any one waiting here? I mean Lord—but no matter; sha’n’t wait for him. Geer a horse brought round for me—instantly, you ear She tossed him a sovereign which she had just found in the tiny silver-net poche at Godiva’s girdle, and he, very properly impressed by her imperious air, bowed obsequiously, and ran to give the order to the head groom, Tn three minutes a helper came beh 9 2 along into the court, holding loosely by the bridle a superb hunting mare, whose -gray coat, satin of sheen small lean head, ta ears, quivering muscles, an Be, soft, brilliant eyes, spoke unequivocally of Ls Ne! at all tgs ae rom sent 4 shiver of m excitemen rou, 8 ve eart-fibers of the untried rider. * re Many people have watched the approach of a wild beast with less sickening apprehension than did poor Monica. that of her father’s queen of the stud. But she was committed to this course, however desperate—she, like the beautiful animal now pranc- ing before the mounting-block in the exuberance of her spirits, felt the proud blood of an ancient race tingling through her delicate body; she set her teeth to keep them from chattering, gathered her flowing ean one pent = gt ye rT daintily on the ob: ious om’s offered shoulder, an into the sail dley ; ie As she settled in her lofty seat, and saw the proud neck of the impatient animal arching itself before her, her pttinge. came back, her heart swelled high and in a sort of reckless delight in her danger s é patted that glossy neck with her little firm hand, then tightening the reins as she had seen other riders do, off sprung the mare with a snort of plea- sure, through the A he and away. After the first giddy feeling, and convulsive effort to accommodate herself te the poise and motion, Monica settled in her saddle with the fearless grace of a born equestrienne. How could she be awkward here, with her straight, well-poised form, her brare soul, her inborn presence of mind, and her exube- rance of young spirit, which laughed at bodily peril and enjoyed the rush and the sie seo 2 of daring? Hearing the sound of hoofs behind her, she facie back, to see the same groom in Derwent livery in attendance. This reassured her more than ever, for she saw that she had got off under the very best of auspices, and would inevitably be mistaken by all for one of ths mansion’s guests, gone off by herself | in pique, which mood would also account for her thick vail and jealously concealed features. She allowed her mount to ca her down the avenue out of sight of the mansion, then, having | somewhat familiarized herself to her position, she pee: in the docile beauty and waited for the groom to ride up. ee Conduct me to a point which the hunt is sure to pass.’ she commanded the man. “and let us ride , \ lory of the eaven and ses lau; The man’s eyes opened wide in amazement and concern; he looked as closely as he dared into the pre face, dying to see which of the ladies was so ng. “And don’t you go and tell it, either,” she con- tinued, petulantly; “I’m not going to be laughed at for a madcap, and lectured and hectored by all the old fogies and prudes~and I mean to enjoy one deer-hunt if I never go home alive,” and she wi Reed ged her shoulders and laughed m ngly, doing the character of a spoiled beauty so successfully that Giles: made up his mind on the spot that he had the luck to be the sole protector and riding-master pro tem. of the lovely romp, Lady Madge Devlin, whose pranks kept the Weald alive; and he grinned to him- self as he anticipated the holy horror of her straight-laced chaperone, Dowager Lythwicke, and the terror of her adorer, Lord Francis Traine, when they discovered this maddest of all her freaks. But she was as celebrated for her boundless lib- erality in the matter of sovereigns as for her mirth- ful follies, and Giles was well content to earn her gratitude; so, as he touched his hat he vowed that ‘ne'er a soul should hear from /im a word 9’ the matter,” and that ‘he'd take right good eare of her, only she must folly his instructions, my lady, for that ‘Silky Sylph,’ thar, wor a rare ‘un togo, onc’t she took inter her pretty head that them as rode her didn’t know their business.” Having thus shown the grave necessity of his ser- vices, the pair went ambling side by side over the long green stretches of the home park, while Monica took her first lesson, hanging on the words of the old fellow with all her mind and brain, and really je ng moe in that half-hour than any one not 0 “ibat Wueen at when the long-echoing bugle-call pie the wood, and the distant sider showed that the hunters were sweeping forth from the gatesin grand cavalcade, she, sitting at rest on @ oo eminence, screened from observation & azel copse, felt so secure that she sent her -. ant on a wild-goose chase to fetch h branch of silky catkins from a poplar half dows the hill; and then, lifting her vail, she coolly tool the field: | glass from its case on her saddle, and watched the approach of the{Master of Dornoch and his, : ey pref merrily aaa with thelr array of bealsrsy 0} untsmen, and other supernumeraries requisite to 6 huntor suc distinct. ae wou: eo Mage cu among the tender green leaves, the riding-habits floating gracefully, bridles glancing, noble ho: 8 a = el pom — be sone t the ogs in leash by twos, by sixes, ozens, running swiftly. mute and attentive to their keopary’ whips; a gallant sight it is. . ut as Monica sees the ominous figure of Marshall glued to her father’s side, Gavaine t him in the rear, the involuntary pleasure dies out o her flushed face, and the gloom of death Overepiteadia it. “Now for it!” she mutters, as she returns the en bl place and drops her vail; ‘My life be- ore his!’ ‘ CHAPTER XIV, TWEEN TWO FOES, - ; SHE let the train swee pe her, then s from her covert and gined the rear -guard, so dee that not an eye noted the fresh arrival, : . Now, I am not going to describe a hunt, which has so often and so ghee that my amateurish efforts would only sound like: travesty; sufficeit tosay that as long as the bea‘ a naught, the hounds kept mute, and the © ers held together, the vailed huntress rode the rest, t g neither to the right hand nor to the: left, and so grandly ignoring the cavaliers who came ‘in turnto woo her from her incognita, men were wild to find her out, and allthe women were staring with Ha gyn noses at the graceful puz- zle who thus attract all the eyes their Own loveliness was wont to hold enchained. And yet, no one guessed that she was a stranger, not only to the Weald, but to the app Pine had come to join in the hunt from the neighborhood. As for Derwent and his two sleuth-hounds the Marshalls, they were well on in front, and did not see her at all. But when the view-holla at last came, and the hounds broke into full cry, and the cavaleade spread in a wide fan after the streaming hounds, and every face was alight with excitement, ‘hen the vailed lady shot to the front and edging resolutely between the Master of Dornoch and Rufus Marshall, rode by her father bridle by brille, mute, er ES leaming at him through her Mea hat shot the strangest feeling thro “And who is this bin Diana?” laughed Mr. Der- went in greceful pla ness. ; “One who has a boon to crave of the Master of Dornoch-Weald,”’ she replied in the same vein, andin carefully-disguised accents. j i “Ah? And what is that?” asked he, curiously try- ing to recognize her, for the voice was as unfamiliar as he fgure. / “Let me be your sole companion for one hourt No, it is no jest—I mean it,’’ she cried, laughing. ss More hangs upon this interview than you can im- agine.’ He could do nothing else than bow gracicus con- sent. She was, he supposed, if not one of his own visitors, one of the neighbors. Some mad-ca: oung girl, tent on some mischievous freak wh ch ‘she wanted his assistance or consent to bring abo: Without a single suspicion he nodded his setthe by a matter of life and death could have’ been described before —
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hounds to drop back, and rode on with no one by his & ce save the mysteriously vailed lady. She let himlead her in a swift canter across lots which brought them well up with the chase, and then they came to a pause on the crown of ahil- | 1 | combining, as he believed, the disgrace and shame.o lock, and breathed their chargers, while the hunt swept on in merry train; and when scarlet, Lincoln- green, glancing metal and streaming hounds were all out of sight, and the dark, questioning eyes of Mr. Derwent were turned upon his silent companion, the said erevely still hiding her identity: a s no hoax, sir, nor any attempt at comedy we rest on that mossy log, I For a moment he gazed suspiciously at her. assing thought of his nephew suggesting a possib tercessor; but she continued mute, and with a slight shrug of the shoulder he obeyed her. ey sat side by side on the mossy log, the sounds of horses and riders fading far away, and nothing | heard but the ruffling of the young leaves and the plash of the runlet at their feet from its rocky source, She began to speak, softly, solemnly, her hands ‘“‘T have a terrible thing to tell you, Mr. Derwent; I don’t expeet you to be able to believe it at first, for it is almost incredible, but for your own sake you ust promise to sift my statements at once, aud al- ow Bh hie 3 to believe stich proofs as you will then ' inevitably find. Will you promise this?” The proud Derwent pene in astonishment at his companion, doubting her sincerity. ‘t is a most extraordinary address!’ he ex- claimed. ‘‘ Are you not jesting?” ** As God lives, I am not,” she answered, firmly, Then she rapidly proceeded, her fear of interrwp- tion urging her on with breathless haste and insist- ence, and he listening and looking at her in growing amazement, _ The day before yesterday I chanced to be walk- in the forest over there—you see the knoil? ¢, by the hollow oak tree’’—she pointed with her whip, and Mr. Derwent glanced at the familiar ‘spot designated, and back again at her with a feel- of reality unknown before. ‘I sat down to rest ist there,” she contin: anxiously trying to “a _inas few words as she might, and. always with that upon her of Peaks ere “end Miss Godiva tacute came up the hill; it was between eleven twelve in the oan Can you recollect where you were = the time? ‘lhe day before yesterday, aw Yes! yes! Irecoilect; proceed,” muttered he in be erment. . Geoffrey Kilmyre joined her, and she talked a long. zips with him, g him to come and be reconciled to you; she also told him that your life was in danger from the schemes of your two kins- meo, Rufus and Gavaine Marshall, who were here merely to plot for a place in poe will, taking advan- , [believe I know you,” he said, abrupt- ly, ae from her side. “I will not hear another wo : eet aad Mistinabtarumonte ted beoasy ike too,. 8 way orses; “itis y ites sake that I and you do not me—you coud never dream who Iam!” This he sto in wonder; her tone had carried viction it; whoever she was(and he had be- to suspect that Monica Rivers once more ad- ¢ him), she spoke the truth, and he felt a spell to stand and hear. Bi for favor, or to seek you merely as a matter of interest, as Miss Montacute at first urged him; but whenever she hinted at personal danger for » an rg tp vowed to go at once and warn you, and ‘ . : « x er: ' joined n that errand. Miss Montacute was then ar Rufus Marshall, with whom she plotted vailed lady’s voice had sunk and sunk as the rof her tale deepened, until now she was al- whispering the dreadful words in the ear of / b, broke off in her narrative and her hands hysterically moaning out: ‘And oh God! how I “have tried to save you since, and you would not lis- ~ ten—and last night again when I lay hidden in the ruined Wik -Oh your house, the three conspirators came there to confer--Rufus, Gavaine and va— and they spoke of your deith! The brothers said . that ‘now the will was made in their favor it was time to get rid” of you—and they have an accom- lice hidden in the Muniment Room—a poisoning octor—and—”’ here the excitement of the girl pass- ed beyond her control, and she clutched the arm of her father with one convulsive hand while with the other she tore off her vail, exposing the death-pale . face and quivering, implorin s and iat of the r American, whom Mr, Derwent believed to ye the accomplice of Geoffrey Kilmyre. geeeaTe an involuntary start, and tried to wrest himself from her grasp, then waited to collect him- self, regardiug her fixedly the while, as if he would : her very soul, : What . memories over him as they thus gtood, face to face, shuddering under the shadow of Foul = fd what distrusts, long thrust aside—intui- ‘tions stifled—natural repulsions sternly quelled in the angered and revenge of his quarrel with his AN AMERICAN QUEEN. & le mn ; “Geoffrey Kilmyre proudly refused to fawn upon m the staring and shocked Derwent; she here sudden- | says a window seemed suddenly open in his brain, and he looked forth om a hideous ‘reality that shocked and sickened him, And yet, such were his secret sensations in connection with. this name of Rivers, borne_by this girl of Ameri his life, that in spite of all his horrified convictions that she spoke but the awful truth, he could not re- ceive it from her, but actually kept on associating her in his mind with that composite image of mer- cenary-adventuress and frail female which had been peascntert to him first. Yet, as heexamined the del- Be good enongh to alight with me, and while | qt shall speak,” | truthful urgency, he found it impossible to treat her rudely, impossible to shake her off unceremoniously, | as he had done when she came to him at the dead of. | eate countenance of her, so eloquent now with night with—he now saw—the same warning; and it was with eaurenee mingling of deference and in- credulity that he last spoke. “Young lady, by what strange fate have you thus come from the ends of the earth, with a name that I abhor, and from a family that sent a traitress into my life to blight it forever, to mix yourself with my affairs? What do you expect to gain ?” “Spare me these insults—think only of what I have revealed to you!” she exclaimed, with flashing scornand urgency. ‘“Iswear it to you that I hope to gain nothing from yon, however true you find my story, however much you may be indebted to me for escaping a pair of intended murderers, hounded on by a Jezebel, who has sworn to be revenged upon the man who refused her proffered love (you see I know all)—” ‘“You do indeed, and far too much to have come to you by fair means!” he cried, enraged. ‘* How ln have you been spying on mo and. my house- old? ) : “Why will you think of me? Oh, God! Think of ourself!’ she implored. ‘I tell you they said that hey would begin under the poisoner’s orders—to do 1m—(meaning your murder) last night! What did they give you to eat last night?—or to drink? Have they tampered with you yet? Are you well to-day? Are you quite, quite as usual?” f As she poured forth these -horror-inspiring ques- tions in burning earnest he could not but shudder under a sharp conviction of her truth; and indeed, how could mortal be such a finished actress as to banish every particle of blood from the cheek, to dilate the eyes black and glaring, toimbue the slight soft hands of a slim girl like this with the convulsed strength of those two that clung to his arm, and shook it in the intensity of her prayers? “Come, sit again, and tell me this matter all over, e 3 lease. And remember, every syllable will be afterward,’’ said he, She could scarce believe that heaven had become so kind; she was to be allowed to save him after all. He caught the swift flash of her thankful eyes rising heayenward, and the trem smile of joy that stirred the beauty of her delicate mouth; and again his heart said loudly, “ The girl speaks true; Usten to her.” } Side by side once more, and Monica detailed word for wend all that she had heard inthe forest, then in the ruined chamber. He fo reetirge ty and cross-ques- tioned her keenly; she made not one misstatement, not one blunder. > star “This is all very dramatic and sensational,’’ he re- marked, with cool cynicism, which, however, his deadly pallor belied; ‘and eminently calculated to make you an object of interest, and perhaps of atitude, if I find your revelations to be the truth. f think I see your game, my shrewd lady-Yankee; but, oh, heaven! how intolerable that one so youn, and lovely should so unsex herself.” Lae seemed to escape him in spite of himself; his clear, searching eyes were striving to probe her very soul, wrath and scorn fighting for supremacy, ’ Monica was dragged back to herself in spite of her resolutions by. the tacit insult, It was impossible for her to let it pass. “How dare you judgemo! What can you know of gny nature?”’ gha demanded, in low, pee Goalee inagr involuntarily stepping close to him, and meeting his NCO) eye with a b of noble rebellion. He looked at her. She was so close that he could see the panting rise and fall of her bosom, the play of the delicate muscles about the mouth, the ex- anata satin of her skin, and the raven silk of her ir, ‘* How came you by the face and form of my an- cestress, Mistress Ethelgiva Derwent?”’ he cried, per- plexedly. ‘* You are a Derwent, hair for hair,” Monica forgot all but that this was her father. She suddenly put out her two trembling hands, and clasped him. sd Tro I so like one of your race?” she whispered, a _flame of excitement appearing in each cheek. | | “Well, then, since you think so, you will the more | readily receive the truth; for the truth I will now telkyou, in spite of the injury you have inflicted upon your innocent, true-hearted wife, Ada Rivers.” The fatal words were checked on her lips. horseman had ridden up, and, with a low ejaculation of amazement, drew - and leaped to the ground with hands outstretche The stranger was Mr. a eg. Price, the junior partner of Korner & Price, the New York lawyers who had ferreted out the rights of Otto Derwent’s quarrel with his wife. “Aha! Thought you such a fortune,’’ chuckled the young man, convinced | that all was explained between father and daughier, | | and that it would be his safe and simple dluty to re- | veal the truth of the mistake which had parted man and wife. to have sprang | were as yet 7ot united; nay, that there was sue | up between, the daughter and the sh | yer. A too sensible to throw away | icion, scorn, and bitter misconstruction between ' em, ‘ He drew in his horns instanter, and became limp and passive, waiting for more light, Meantime, Monica had recalled her wits, and was debating in her mind the question whether she should now reveal herself, accepting unavoidably the assistance of Mr, Price, now that he was here, and since he only could disclose the real facts of the mis- take which had separated husband and wife. No; it would look too like a mercenary plot gotten young law- No, Monica could not now reveal herself, She disengaged her hand from the lawyer’s con- gratilating clasp, and said coldly: “You are mistaken, sir. Lam as much a stranger here as yourself,” and she enforced her meaning by a significant ene. “All right, if you must have it so,” muttered the young man, in visible chagrin. ‘Isuppose you know your own business best.” ; Mr. Derwent, glancing from one to the other with a sneer, here made a slight obeisance to Monica, and strode away, leading his horse. CHAPTER XV. ,AT. LAST. Mr. Pricz, brimming over with importance, turned eagerly to Manica. She was looking after her father with an expression of utter despair, “You could not have chosen a more fatal moment to interrupt my interview with Mr, Derwent,” said she distractedly. , “Hh? What? Ihope, madam,I haven’t been so infernally unlucky as to spoil the game?’ returned br lawyer, his mind full of the monetary aspect of e case, She made an impatient gesture, and turned away. What had she in common with this man? But he had not expended his hundred dollars to cross the ocean, to be ignored in this manner. “By the signs, I perceive that as yet you have not been able to prove to your father your relationship,” | he blandly began, She flashed upon him with sud- den wild er. ‘““Wretch!’’ she cried, ‘‘is there nothing’ in the world for you but money? Go away, you é me with your paltry plots and counter-plots; while —oh, good | he is doomed!” She hroke off here, What was the use of telling this base grub the ter ror that was upon her? Mr. Price stared hard at her; of course he was all abroad: with regard to the actual state of matters; he thought that this high-stomached young lady was writhing under the atironts put upon her by her own father, who would not receive her as his child; “and no wonder,’’ thought Mr. Price, ‘‘ the infatuat- ed girl has not the facts to show, which would bring the proud Derwent on his knees tothe child of his red Ada.”’ He gently placed himself in her path, when she would have escaped him, and took up the case where it had been drop by ‘her in the office in New York, scarcely a month ago, “We only as a are aware, hold a secret which will inevita ly ear away all obstacles between Mr. Derwent and yourself,” said he pany ge and she in her heart-broken Aart could not do any- thing but stand and listen, ‘‘ We only canso positively vindicate the character of the late Mrs. Derwent that her long-estranged husband will receive (with every wish to repair past injuries,) her daughter. Command me, Miss Derwent; say the word, and you are received by the Eroprictay of all this grand es- tate as daughter and heiress.”’ ; Cold as a stone she heard him out; his a s to her self-interest she only dimly comprehended and resented with a fierce passing scorn, but his remind- er that he knew that secret which would clear her mother’s character in the eyes of her father, flashed with a sudden and dazzling allurement before her. O>, to show forth the purity of her poor dead mo- ther—to be received as her daughter with honor— and then have the right to cling to her father, and to save his life—because then he would listen to her, Fired by this burning hope, she said: “sir, I came here with no intention to profit by my father’s wealth, but merely to. see for be what manner of man he was. I have not revealed myself to him, and have no wish to do-so, unless my mother’s memory is vindicated, and he is wishful for her sake to acknowledge me. Yousay you have learned a secret that will do all this;—I am now as anxious to hear it as I was before resolute not to hear it. It is needless to defend my motives from your suspicions, 1 know they are not mercenary, Hea is enough for me. . Now, sir, tell me this mys- ry. 1 Mr. Price could with difficulty repress his delight. He had crossed the Atlantic with the expectation of having to go through no end of finessing in order to sell the secret advantageously to Mr. Derwent; and here was the contumacious heiress herself for it—who in the world would be so willing to pay dear- ly for the-knowledge as she, who would receive such rich benefit: thereby ? “Good—I thought you would see the sense of our advice,” said he as coolly as he could;—“‘ the pecu- niary side of the question out of sight altogether. how pleasant to prove the undeviating virtue o: your deceased mother, so cruelly and unjustly be- ied for nineteen years! I confess I had expected to have to apply to Mr. Derwent himself, but since you have seen the matter in its true light, you are the best one to negotiate the matter with. And now, to business. Already we, that is; my partner and my- self, have given our valuable time and talent to this ee es matter, besides disbursing a considerable sum in our investigations, It only remains now for me to peme nephew Geoffrey; what vivid perceptions of the dis- pension thee with the slight hand of the stunned usting between these new favorites he had | Monica in his, and the frigid apparition of her father in his will, and his old well-beloved nephew’ behind her, Mr. Price suddenly, and with that native | the sum at which we value our services, past and ~oir—-how all these passed and repassed before | saracity which has since made him such a success- | future; we cre entirely prepared to trust to your awakened consciousness, it is unnecessary to , ful lawyer, saw in a glance that father and daughter , honor to repay us whenever you are instated in . ‘ =~ Ld a i bis » 1 am-- 2 y = wo ‘ ” » ~~ > > ca ee } “ue i) * ‘a
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ae our proper position as the daughter of Mr. Otto proper p ay ugh erwent. You un She did, and once more eee ies soul rose up in revolt at the whole transaction the mercenary as- pect of which revolted her. “What? and am I to’count beforehand upon my father’s generosity, to promise you so much of the spoil before you do my dead mother justice?’’ she exclaimed with passionate contempt; ‘‘7o, let me never be known as his rt ba a my sweet mother lie in her grave undisturbed—I will make no league with a man of your character. These base calcula- tions revolt me. I can have nothing to do with such. Let me alone; God will clear my mother’s name in his own good time. She need never be beholden to ou, who will only sell the secret of her goodness for money which it degrades me to count upon.” “You are mad,” retorted Mr. Price in high wrath atherscorn, ‘ You can do nothing without us, and. you flout our way of doing business! I tell you, you are laughably obstinate. You _may prove your re- lationship to the deceased Mrs. Derwent, but we onl can prove your relationship to Mr. Otto Derwent. That secret is ours, and we mean to sell it to the highest bidder. If you will not treat with us for it Mr. Otto Derwent will Do you fully comprehen that?’ With a glance of utter disdain, Monica turned from him and walked away further into the wood. “There goes a fool!” laughed the young sharper, bitterly. “ Did lunatic ever deserve a strait-jacket more? Very good; since she won’t let me espouse her pk espouse my own, And now to dis- cover who will pay most for this secret of ours, the father himself, or his expectant heirs, the two Mar- shalls. Humph! I fancy I can manipulate them to some solid advantage. Meantime, let her look out! No use for her to claim relationship now/ Iam ready to prove her an impostor, Ha! ha! ha! I think I can be even with you yet, Miss Monica Der- went!’ Monica hurried to rejoin her father; hér fears for him ever rising above all thoughts of self, and driv- ing her perforce to watch by him; she Was stunned by the fresh complications of her lot, and as yet knew not how to arrange her future course; all she could do at present was to hasten back to guard him by her Bence, if he would not take her warnings self, As she passed through the glancing lights and darkening shadows of the budding glades she heard a distant whining and pattering; one of the dogs, she tho ht, had lost the scent and was whimpering by as he strove to rejoin his fellows. She found Mr. Derwent very near the spot where he had left her, no one by him but Gavaine Marshall. As the two men saw her approach, a expres- sion crossed h face, Gayaine looking unaccounta- bly startled by her appearance on the scene, and anger, lexity, contempt, all blending in the ane 3 ance Mr. Derwent flung toward her; which he pointed ruthlessly by assuming an osten- tatious air of confidence toward the young man. Yet Monica advanced fearlessly; very pale and ear- nest she looked, and so dignified in her mien that for all his distrust he could not ignore her as he would have ignored any other intruder, “You have still added wonders to disclose?’ cried She sae § front of him, and her truthful eyes ed etraght into his ~ ~ look 'pressin For God's sake, believe what I have told you,” e . “JT will, when you have explained who and what ypu aes and your motive in coming here,’ he re- tor She was silent; an iron hand seemed to be crush- ing her heart. : ft aie had dared to Abe to him her relationship to him, would he not listen to her then? And she dared not do it, until she could explain away the miserable secret which had estranged him from her mother. , : Had she done well in refusing to buy this secret of the lawyer at any price? This secret which would have given her the power to save her father? And again—could she ever have expected a proud nature like his to receive with honor or respect one wine presumed to count upon his wealth before- n As she stood there, racked by these conflicting thoughts, her eyes fixed in sorrowful anguish upon her doomed father’s, and her hands unconsciously g her aching heart, the pattering and whim- pering she had heard before came close; a great tawny deerhound ran into‘the middle of the group, his eyes red and gleaming, his tongue hanging smoking from his slavering jaws, and white foam- flecks spattered over his sinewy chest. There was something so unusual about the appear- ance of the animal to the practiced eye of Mr. Der- went that he uttered a low shocked oy and invol- untarily seizing Monica by the arm, wh ried her be- hind him. At the same moment a wild yell came from the copse, and with the agility of an ape Ga- vaine Marshall swung himself into the branches of the tree under which they had been bgeece 1 and was scarcely settled six feet from the ground when he ee his hunting-knife, aimed, and hurled 10 at the dog, eg one of his ears and stuck there, the dar bl dying his delicate fawn-color in an instant and a howl and frantic bound in the air attesting to se ap and terror, The event of the next few seconds passed like a flash; Monica at the time did not even comprehend it; it took her anxious piecing together of the vari- ous features of the scene after all was past to give her the whole matter coherently. bie is what happened in the space of, say, six. seconds: a - i) 4 —for he had not seen Marshall’s flight into the Teeoriitatas appeared at the edge of eons and with every appearance of consternation worked his features and gesticulated like a madman, no sound issuing from lips; the hound reached the ground and leaped up at Mr. Derwent’s throat, seemi with the one convulsed effort. He swerved, ©. as ee — es ye landed with ~ | two fore er, eyes and snappi ws close to the face of Contes, who was bebin ‘ tween him and the trunk of the tree; Gavaine stretched down his hand from the branch exactly above their heads, where he was lying at full length, and Monica distinctly saw him seize the knife in the dog’s ear, tear it out and make a blind sort of desperate stab straight down into My. Derwent’s breast / Simultaneously Rufus fired his gun into the middle of the group, the bullet whizzing past Mr. Derwent’s ear, grazing Monica’s hair as it through her vail, and lodged in the tree an inch be- hind her; and, too, she saw at that same instant the long peaking tangs of the dog fasten with a click in the side of Mr. Derwent’s neck. Then a strange strength entered into her, and a sense of superhuman paneer ee of the one thing to do, and power to doit; and she saw—for she could not feel—her own two hands grasping the grisly windpipe of the dog, clutching tight as a vise the elastic baggy skin and muscular bones and sinews beneath it—dragging the convulsed and ac ugering bulk down—down, while her father’s two hands tore at the kicking and contorting body and struck at it in a frenzy, and while he reeled and staggered about under the furious scratching of the paws, and the sickening tearing and gashing of his flesh between those iron jaws; then came another report, another whizzing bullet, more blind flashing stabs of the knife wielded from above, downward always, not into the dog’s body, but always into her father's ; and then at last (and oh, it seemed as if a Jong hour must have ed!) Monica felt the brawny throat grow flaccid in her gripe, the strugglin and the dog dropped heavily to the ground, his re eyes bulging from their sockets, and his tongue lolling out between bloody jowls. She lifted her eyes and looked into her father’s: And she read in their dim and swimming dseps that he believed her now —that he knew what these trai- tors had done to him.. And, ab, the piteous appeal in those proud, domi- nant eyes; the wild dismay, horror, sorrow, and prayer. As he reeled back against the tree she caught him in her arms, and sunk beneath his swooning weight to her knees—his head upon her panting breast, the big tears from her swelling heart dropping on his hastly face; then Rufus ran up, his smoking gun n hand, and Gavaine dropped from his ab, Sos gory knife in his clasp. And they stooc ether over the father and daughter, the ear heap of dead dog-fiesh beside them; they panted and wiped the sweat from their reeki brows, and glanced va- cantly at each other, and for a while seemed as if they dared not look anywhere else. Then Rufus kicked the carcass of the hound over, and pointing with the toe of his foot, said: ‘One of my shots did for him; look here.” He muttered so quaveringly that Monica could not have understood him had he not been so close; and Gavaine stammered in answer as falteringly: “What the deuce does it all mean?” Then they both looked with one accord down at Mr. Derwent, and meeting his half-open eyes resting ae upon om, wi aes oe of ne ts rnp el ness fas wing over them, us spoke up with sudden distinctness: ° - “Mean? Wh , don’t you see, man, the devilish brute was mad ; And Monica felt a fee convulsion pass over the frame she clasped, and his hand goin, the gaping wound in his neck, and then he uttered a terrible cry, and was senseless. : And she in turn fastened upon the craven faces of the murderers a look so strange, so flashing with comprehension and dark with vengeance, that they rew white, and edged away together, to a little dis- ce, where they stood muttering to each other, and so seemingly struck stupid that they never thought of hastening for assistance till she cried in a voice that startled them like the clang of a bell: “Go for help, or I will say you tried to shoot, and you to stab him!” And as they slunk away before her pointed er, she herself uttered a series of Ss inz cries that ruvg through the glades and thickets far and wide; then, suddenly desisting, she bent over her father, azing wildly at that frightful wound in his neck, at the livid-gashes in the white skin, and the few drops of dark, goketoeeae gore which trickled reluctant- ly from them; and then, though the beads of sweat oozed out on her dead-white face, and her eyes glared in her head with horror and di she stooped her velvet sweet. mouth to the hideous wound, and began to suck it. ceased aerey - AN AMERICAN QUEEN. And thus she was employed when Geoffrey Kil- | myre came crashing through the underwood, calling loudly: Ke Who isin trouble? Where are you?” And seeing the strange tableau, he came to a dead © stand over it, gazing in nnutterable amazement, as if he could never gaze his fill. CHAPTER XVI. THE PRISON IN THE FEN. ddenly looked up and knew him. the worst’ has happened him,” she said, in a hoarse, changed voice. “Oh, sir, why did you leave lim for a moment?” “So not reproach me, you of all the world,” an- As the wounded brute leaped in the air in his sur- | gwered he, impetuously, as he threw bhimseif on his / 15 knees on the other side of the body and ran his hands deftly under the bloody shirt-bosom of his uncle, to find the hidden wounds which made all these stains, ‘ Foul lies were told him about the innocent and I went to find the victim and to prove her inno- cence.’ “T know all that,’’ said Monica, whose lips had gone back to their dread task while he spoke, and. who looked up at him to reply with eyes shining maniacally; ‘* but what matte my good name be- side his &je? Oh, Geoffrey! Geoffrey!” she burst out wis sitting Ly 3 and wringing her hands, ‘it’s all. over for him, I fear—I fear—oh, Geoffrey!” and | her horror and anguish overcame her quite for the | moment. ‘ “Hush! Hush! Poor little girl! Sweet, kind lit- tle soul!”’ The young man comforted her mechanically, for he torn apart the snowy linen and was examin- ing with shocked distress a formidable knife-gash in the fleshy part of his uncle’s fore-shoulder, and trying in vain to gripe the gaping edges of the wound together that the blood might not flow so drenchingly. ‘ This is dreadful for you to see, is it not, poor child? Yet, quick, help me here; you are as brave as you are good; not another woman among them would dare look on at this sight. Your handkerchief—tear it in strips. Stay—hold this for me—so—the lips of the wound close, while I get some water to stanch the blood, from the runlet yon- der.” And he ran, Monica obediently griping the red raw gash with her shaking fingers, and bendin again her foam-flecked mouth to the dog-bite, whic now looked pale and bluish, and bled no pouper while the heart-sickening flavor of the virus she ad sucked frogn it sent throes of revulsion through her, Presently, rey was back, pouring the water out of his felt hat upon the cut, in hopes that the icy ay WORM SRY, the Le of blood; é girl’s stra employment. “What is this?” =! den paaics phew he saw the d ery burst from him—‘ Explain ; i ae has happened?”’ ie faltered sees sey genes hey set a mad-dog upon him, Gavaine goading it a it Bi Rra-—hewa nye e words were cut 0: the midst ; hand clutched her, twisted her off her = ‘A eae thrust her violently aside; and Rufus M. all’s demo: eyes glared close into hers, while hé hissed through clinched teeth and white, quiveriug lips: “Ye witch, ye Jezebel, who in the fiend’s name are you, that knows so much? Take care what you babble, or I swear ’U—I’}l—take you care—”’ He sputtered with unutterable fury and menace, and then he thrust her yet further aside, and she found herself in_ the gripe of two long, wrinkled, qolos claws, and a terrible, gaunt, wicked, f ace leering close into hers; and somehow her heart sunk on the instant could neither resist nor scream out her terror, but was hurried away deeper into the woods, half. : and half-carried by the lithe, bony, griping arms of the unknown man. She had a vague consciousness of many people cl ing about her father, and of loud cries and confused voices and actions; also of ‘the deep, stern voice of Geoffrey rising above the din, and a sudden dead silence following, broken by the high, t furious tones of Rufus hall and the coarse bullying ones of Gavaine; then she turned her dazed and swimming Bs up to see who he was who hurried her away with such brutal : and seeing a pair of poering back at her, a ale, lipless mouth, urned down, at the corners, skin ok and yellow as ancient parchment, and withered into multitudi: nous, grim wrinkles about the bo: eyelids; a nose long, crooked, an ing toward the sharp and,pointed ch long, glossy, goat-like lock of dyed hair worn ala imperial, and the whole ugly mask surmounted. a grotesque faded black-velvet skull-ca; lection of the poisoner, Vulpino, burst m her b eyea senses, and so completely overcame her that she sunk at his ugly splay feet, unconscious. _ Alas, poor soul, she only awoke from that trance of horror to find herself caged; helpless to her father or rescue herself from the unknown dangerg which beset her, She was lying, still RrOATANg. ing-habit, upon a bed in a lo room; by the sand on the floor, and the un berg pe ney sone Ge the white deal- chairs, as well as the 6, ro’ mespun cov on the chintz curtained ede the, madnatrous stucco cat and dog on the wooden shelf over the open fire-place, she perceived that she had been con- cried he, stop short with sud- hound, and a great brow and facet ig veyed to some humble cottage, and left to recover. basses : she ee St oF ‘ For a time she could only look about her faint, half-dazed sense 4 4 4 to have given her a nervous shock which both ~ ned her faculties and drained the stré oh yo see her vigorous young frame; the humble te sky, Ww. ig a crack at the side miliar in its deep amethystine _ for it was bril- a strange o en he noticed — like lead, her blood froze, andshe — iol u gleaming, hollow black eyes — « its one Miss Montacute’s rid- w-ceiled, whitewashed | t of fear and weakness; the + | terrible scene through which she had Larmesies seemed — ‘4 A, fg a 4 1 #
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Page eae 2b Ro ie or A: * _ -, “machi east aah ES x ‘ Betty affair of tough oak, was locked, and the _ ble for concealment or esca’ _ more above the face - as she lay senses ‘ab j -@aid or did?" she moaned, AN AMERICAN log bat day need agate ing her giddy hea at the head of her bed, chamber. A shabby little spindle-legged table stood beside her, and upon it she perceived some empty dishes = coarse © CO’ the worm-eaten board and—strange accompaniment to these—a sho stumpy clay pipe, filled with coal-black ashes. Ks She sat up still further, peering with loudly-beat- ing heart narrowly around for some human presence and listening with bated breath for some sound, but she was entirely alone, and the only sound she heard was the loud, slow ticking of a clock outside her door; not another breath whispered to assure her oo lite ~~ Lett . ‘eelin, rangely apathetic, and as if re the t ~ : paving could never n, she soon dragged herself out of bed, and crawled, on reusbitee Pinko and with feeble hands holding on to chairs and table b the way, to the near window; she rolled up the aed ton shade, which was unfurnished with roller or cord, Gt out. Pont " € scene was entirely new to her; in all her ram- bles about Dornoch, (and she had pretty well inves- tigated eye sated eo ten miles * eee on every side, never seen a Jan rae character. dati’ ptt waste oO arren seemed to spread its dark turf as far as the eye could reach on Grery side, unbroken save by waving wildernesses of ferns grow- ing rank, and tall, and black, lifeless pools between, a sheeted silvery mist rising like ghostly smoke from the unwholesome fen-lands, and stealing about the cottage with a dank, death odor, that penetrated through the chinks of the ill-fitting sash and min- gled with the thick, medicinal, ether-like atmosphere oftheroom. A highstone bg ae tolerable repair, ard carefully garnished with broken glass on the wed a top, ran round the house as far asshe cculd see, its top reaching almost to a level with the ' window-sill at which she stood, and in the ten-foot ee of rough straggling grass between its base and the house wall, she could see, in spite of the dark stadows which filled the inclosure, a someth black and serpentine prarar 2 its sinuous way ou’ and in on the und, and disappearing round the near corner. She knew it for a ponderous chain; it was neither rusty nor the paint wore off, and the grass was scarcely trodden upon which it straggled; it gave her a cold thrill of vague fear, aithengtt she essed it must be only a watch-dog’s chain, and, that the kennel must be round the corner. . Having made all these discoveries, Monica next exemined her prison. She tried to raise either of the two small fly-blown window-sashes, Lut found them rudely yet securely nailed down; no patent lock or catch was there that clever fingers might at but strong uncompromising spikes, driven ome to the very heads by some brital fist, and not to be drawn except by force as great, aided by the ‘appropriate tools; the door, a rudely fashiored ey left sticking in it outside, and obstructing her view of pb ages beyond; her scrutiny of the walls revealed nothing but solid lath and plaster un- breken by panel or secret door; the ceil ng sloped like that of ve ¥ cottage attic, the eaves cutting aslant the head room of an otherwise spacious enough apartment. found no closet, no press-room, nothing availa- out of these four in- exorable walls; the bed she discovered to be clam dcwn to the floor by a curicus arrangement of iron _. braces and stout screws, and when she had swept away the thick white sand which almcst obliterated _ ajl the cracks between the boards, she found to her amazement, and unutterable dismay, that the square upon which the bed stood was an independent gihoks g, raised a quarter of an inch bigher than the of the floor; and whether the main floor ran _ under this sinister Got nes eo we or not, ske could € not see; but with a drea iver running through all her bones she whispered to herself, ‘* What sOries I have read of beds being lowered into horrible pits, and sleepers being cast out of them to eppear no of the earth! And the me- chanism of the pep was always like this!” Stripping back the faded and musty cl intz bang- ings bee ae examined the tall posts as close- ly as she could in the waning light, but all looked in- nocent enough to outward eyes, end whether any nery was concealed in these sturdy colun ns she could not discover. But she did discover, with unutterable loathing and fear, a tiny crystal stcpper, as of the very smallest of vials which: smelled < of chloroform micketiingy and which had evidently been dropped into the hollow made by her shoulcers on the outside of the coverlet, and, rolling under the pillow, had been lost by those who had _ been using the horrid drug upon her, Next, she examined the vials on tle table; but she could not recognize these drugs; the em ty basin bad contained warm milk, she saw by the boiled scum, and the porringer, beef-tea and port wine. She sat on the — of the bed trembling and flush- ed, her wonder and terror too big for the delicate frame and keen imagination to bear without an- guish both of mind and body. How long had she been cooped up here? they been keeping her unconscious with ether and,chloroform, and feeding her with liquids for a Aa a week ’ peor jailer? as ; _ And—mo 5 ought of all— was napping fo be a cnousn to hen ,uhy wast n ve en to keep m about me, and to cling to bine whatever ' ther wringing her hands, and mip oh hights of personal terror, she | ear |. dead stillness that m her elbow, and rest- discovering in the action how unfamiliar they “were , to her own touch, in their slenderness and thinness. looked anxiously around her | | sleeve of Miss Montacute ue-willow pattern, such as are used in | uated and softened flesh, of the very poor; a vial or two holding | the dark remains of some strong-smelling medicine, | up the cloth ch had fitted close as a French glove on herarm the she drew it on, and which now bung loose upon her atten- ‘the Italian poisoner has been trying his arts upon me. I have been kept un- conscious with opiates long enough for my body to lose flesh and my Sivenaths to coze away, oan in that time what may not have befallen my r father? It cannot be Chance that has aro’ me at last; they have ceased to drug me, and let me wake to consciousness again, why? Because all is over, and they need fear me no longer? Oh, God! spare him—spare him!’’ she cried, falling on her knees in anguished supplication. The last gleam of day faded out of the sky, and Monica knelt in the eerie darkness, sometimes wee ing, sometimes praying, but oftenest unconsciously straining her ears to catch the first faintest sound of human life, her heart beating thick and fast when- ever the wind moaned over the drear waste, rattli the shrunken sashes, and unutterable coldness ant desolation stealing over her when nothing broke the proved her safe from the intru- sion she both feared and longed for. She had ample time to harden herself to these miserable alternations of feeling; hour by hour was ticked out loudly and slowly by the invisible clock at the landing outside her door, which, by some refine- ment of cruelty, had been tampered with so that it did not strike the time, probably lest it should awake her prematurely. When cold and hunger proved to her that the night was waning without bringing her any visitor whatever, she crept away from the sin- ister-looking square upon which the was screw- ed, and arra the bed-clothes upon three chairs, lay down again and tried to lose consciousness in slumber; but she had slept too long already, and now her brain whirled in agonizing sentience, refus- ing to cease for a single moment its keen and daz- reasonin obliged at len “Good God!” she gasped ome ’s habit, whi and realizations; so that she was h to rane to her feet, and pacing to and fro in the stifling darkness, to wait the dawn in the full anguished consciousness of her situation. Once or twice d the course of the night she heard beneath her windows the heavy soft fall of feet trotting over deep grass, and a muffled snort and inarticulate yawning sounds. It was her invisible guardian, the watch-dog, stretching his legs; and as she heard no clink of the chain, she guessed that he was loose. Alas! nothing could have more cruelly indicated the security of her prison and the inhuman brutality of her jailers. They must be fiends indeed who could ruthlessly leave a young girl alone in the depth of this waste, with a ferocious blood-hound (most probably) to tear her in pieces should she succeed in escaping from the cottage. The night passed at last—at last! So weary wasshe of the hideous vigil, that when the first beams of dawn reddened the white walls of her prison, she ran to the window, and stretched out her arms to the flushing portals of day in weeping adoration; and wailed for God to be kind—to be merciful, and let her rejoin her fathef ere night fell n, And then, as hour by hour crept on, all through as fair a spring day as England could ever hope to see; as dawn merged into the broad daylight, daylight warmed into noon—noon lengthened into the crys- talline afternoon—evening—dusk—and then came 7 again, cold, dark and desolate—ah, what ter- ic alternations of doubt and despair rent her soul! How she trusted in God, waited patiently, chid her- self for her unbelief, and called on the Omnipotent to grant her more faith—chilled into wild conviction of treachery and death—raved m against the unnatural monsters into whose hands she and her poor father had fallen—shrieked (in accents shrill and piercing enough to set the bloodhound raci and Fowting in frantic excitement round and roun the house) man’s demo: dented. ainst God’s ruthless cruelty—against inhumanity—against the unprece- malignancy which had penned her here! Then how she lay in semi-lethargy, staring with blood-filled eyes for long hours at nothing; pictur- ing the ghastly paroxysms of her father as he died of hydrophobia, and of herself lying in this dusty hovel dying of star.ation, all her bones stickin through her bleached and glistening skin! An sometimes—strange thought at such a time surel —of Geoffrey Kilmyre’s musical voice, shaken wit grief and tenderness as he named her, “bd: ave as she “ue 004,” atid “poor litt’e girl! sweet, kind liti/e soul | When midnight came—a cold, rainy midnight, without a star in the sky, or one gleam of the shrouded moovn—crouching by the window, from which she had, in her frenzy, dashed out several anes, that she might at least breathe the air of eaven, she heard the stealthy fall of a horse's hoofs on the springy turf; presently the scroop of rusty hinges as some gateway creaked open; the bellow- ing barks of recognition and welcome of the hound, and the sound of his clumsy jumpings and gambol- ings; some one was in the narrow court beneath her windows, sitting quite still on a tall white horse, and the faint outline of his upturned face faintly visible in the gloom. ) Her jailer had come at last, either to dispatch or succor her. For-a moment a wild thanksgiving rose in her soul, Anything rather than be left to perish alone! But, this over, she could not but quail and freeze with a nameless dread, as she gradu yon ——_ ba gloom the sinister form and face of Vulpino the soner. Pevhat mercy was it likely Ae would show her, the professional murderer, the monster in human shape, who had sent many a QUEEN. helpless soul into eternity for gold, and who had madé it his boast that hé was always successful,” and.‘ never detected?” So, instead of calling him wildly to come and let her out, or at least to tell her about her father, or mercifully to throw her the smallest, stalest crust, to ease the excruciating cravings of her famished stomach, she cowered back from the sash, and wait- ed in breathless apprehension for him to enter and come to her room. She heard him dismount from his horse so softly as scarce to jingle the stirrups; then a sound of a and capering among the grass, the watch- dog welcoming him joyfully; then he seemed to be patting the dog’s brawny body, and to be mutterin some guttural foreign endearments; then a noise 0: snapping jaws and snarling. e was f the dog; and at that portion of the ceremonies the f. ed captive crept back to the broken window, and peered wistfully down, al- most to implore her oH 9p for one mouthful, yet shrunk back out of sight again when the ill- omened i, Bony turned warily Soren and the ugly Italian listened for her movements; then she heard the mingled sounds of his and his horse’s steps passing round the cottage—to the door, she hoped and feared; and then, while she was gather- ing all the WM epeere and courage of her still dauntless soul to confront the villain worthily of her breed and his deserts, once more came the sceroop of rusty hinges, the clang of a gate, the stealthy fall of ss feet over springy heath—Vulpino was gone As this terrible fact broke upon the starving crea- ture, a wild, thrilling of a ured from her gasping heart, the rider set off at a mad gallop to escape that fearful cry. CHAPTER XVI. A FIEND AT THE COUCH, Tue twenty-four hours which we have described indicate the history of forty-eight more; during which the hapless Monica was abandoned in the un- known wilderness, Her sufferings, mental and physical, are beyond narration; they would only row the reader’s heart for naught; suffice it to say that three days after her recovery from unconsciousness, she lay at dusk on the bare floor in that corner of the room which was furthest from the bed. She had never laid upon it since that night she had discovered the diabolical mystery connected with it. She had pass- ed through all the various stages of slow starvation, the giddiness, the raving hunger, the sick torment, the unendurable gnawings of her vitals, the gradual consuming of all strength, and one by one of all her faculties; and now she lay in a stupor, her sharpen- ed face turned up and her blackened, ed, and excoriated lips open, and an for breath, while her hollow eyes glared through e glazing of com- ing, eas Jution, signees and senseless. e watch-d ad been visited twice in that time, and fed, and Monica had called and entreated the Italian, receiving no reply, not even the turning of his eyes in her tion. She had long known that it was intended that she should never emerge alive from her lonely prison, and argued from this (as lo: as she had sense to reason, poor soul, or to think o' anything outside of her own cruel pangs,) that her - father’s life was by this time taken, and that his murderers dared not now set her free, since she sus- pected their guilt. Be suré she had not tamely succumbed to her pre- mature fate; rich in personal courage, as well as possessing great natural ingenuity and resource with boundless patience and industry, she had tried every device which the cleverest captive could im- agine to escape from her captivity, but her enemies had foreseen everything, and had prepared for everything that was in her power to do, so that in whichever direction she bent her effo she found them frustrated. The framework of the windows being slight, and _worm-eaten, she had been able to drive out ene of the sashes, and she could have easily lowered herself to the grass beneath by the aid of the bedclothes, had not the horrible apparition of the blood-hound, crouching beneath, been ever be- fore her, its blood-shot eyes wane ee its red jae dripping in expectation, and its continual oarse bay chilling her blood; in vain had she endeavored to propitiate the brute by kind words and coa gestures; famine had made him sava and some diabolical art of the Ttalian had imprin on his canine brain the indelible conviction that the captive was bis worst enemy. hen she had tried to stun him with the only heavy articles in the room, namely the great roaty ee that stood in the empty fireplace; these the animal had dodged one after the other, success , in spite of the monaney girl’s hours of anxious watching for an opportunity, and breathless dexterity in se it when it came; and, seemingly quite aware of wha’ she had tried to do, a spirit of yet gnenee tenfold more malignant than the first had en on of the dog, and he was content to croueh by the hour motionless under the shelter of the wall, his red orbs, which glittered with a metallic glare, fasten- ed in horrible fixity upon her. , Rotten asthe door was, the lock was new and sound, and no force that she could use, minus iron tools, availed to break it open; the chimney was too narrow to permit of her exit through it, even could she have climbed it as a man would have done; and lastly, the walls defied her soft hands to beat them down, and the floor resisted Ler Pyare: effort to tear up a plank or loosen anail, Had she had any means of lighting a fire, she would have burned her way out, but her jailers had been far tco cunning to leave her so much as one match, ki ife, sj.con, or article possible to be converted intoa tcol which would serve her purpose. And now all was over: her life was ebbing fast
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i, “Ty ie : ~ — i gg nna es —————_———— eee ee eT! +Oll'm''—"™"_—”m“—'” ”' = ee - , 2 ORE a AN AMERICAN QUEEN away, the chill of death was on her; she suffefed no more pain or fear, for she was mercitully wrapped in the stupor which comes before death from inani- tion. But on this, the evening of the third day came an event. She never heard the stealthy fall of horse’s hoofs approaching over the heath, nor the savage yell of delight uttered eof the famished hound as he heard and recognized the coming of his feeder; not a thrill of joy or fear d through her death-struck frame, though dhe dog payee been thrown his meal of raw fiesh, a8 his howl of rapture and then wild-beast growlings and snarlings attested,) the cottage door was unlocked at last, and stealthy feet meade the creaking narrow § , stopping often for a minute at a time; came nearer—nearer— paused outside her door, and in the dim little pas- sage an ear was placed to the keyhole; but still poor Monica took no heed, for she was dying. Tt was Vulpino, who, having sa elf that his victim either could not or would not give any sign, boldly unlocked and entered her prison. He saw her at once, and glanced from the still figure on the floor to the unoccupied bed in surprise, asking himself why she had chosen between them thus; then perceiving that she had brushed away the sand from the Pay we! raised edges of the square upon which the bedstead stood, he shrugged his shoulders in comprehension, smiling darkly, and his wicked eyes twinkling, as if in anticipation of some interesting episode; and then he stalked over to her, knelt, and saw that she breathed yet. At first he merely made a goblin-like grimace of disapprobation, muttering in own language: “Bah! you might have spared me this disagreea- ble duty, Piccolina, My word! but you must have as many lives as a cat, not to have succumbed yet. Ebbene! to work, Giacomo Vulpino; and now for a retty bit of surgery. : The low muiter iz tone in which he spoke seemed enough to rouse the slightest slumberer; it sounded in iG ere tate Neral fin unnatural loudness, or perhaps her e ‘e made one more desperate effort to save itself, aes by the human voice; at all events, Monica’s dim eyes opened suddenly, and she lifted them slowly and painfully up to and gazed. The Italian had taken from his pocket a case of medical instruments, and was in the act of selecting a tiny crystal tube, fine as a darning-needle, but see- ing her eyes he stayed his hands and returned her look, an expression of intense wonder gradually overspreading his harsh and sinister features. Monica had one incomparable beauty, her eyes. Lit by health, happiness and love, they had haunt- the dreams of many a beauty-lover; and even eek ook encir- s e searce but per: ed now, though they were sunken cled'with inky circles, they shot their spell straight to the heart of the , who was all his na- tion a born devotee at Beauty’s shrine, so that for the moment tau everything else in the rare pleasure in the loveliness thus unex- pectedly revealed. This retarded Monica’s fate for full five minutes. The paid assassin did not say a word or attempt to .make her speak, he simply looked his fill; narrowly, critically, and with a series of strange smirks of per- fect approval, as if he was gazing at a notable pic- ture in a gallery; but at last he drew a long breath and muttered in own tongue, which Monica had studied enough to gather the meaning of: _. “By Santa aria. ‘tis a pity to exti such fires, and carry their charming memory forever, as- sociated only with an ugly death. But I see—I see! I get a peep of your game, Fratelli Marshall: the - signorina is a Derwent, whether she knows it or not! By the exquisite eyes here reproduced to perfection bg Dame Ethelgiva Derwent, whose venerable por- trait hangs in the picture-gallery of the Weald, this unknown Monica Rivers from across the Atlantic is a true Derwent, whose life stands between these hungry money-hunters and their prize, and therefore it is that she must die. Ah, well! ’tis no concern of mine; they pay me well, and I love to be paid well; “go you must go, pretty lady, and lie till theday of doom in the mysterious vault to which yonder couch will softly bear you.” ' : Once more turning to his instruments he lifted her arm delicately, between one bony finger and thumb, and traced upon its cold and shrunken sur- face one big blue vein, with the blunt end of the mip- ute glass syringe, and when he had selected the spot he was looking for, he took from the case a little vial ntaining a white fluid, and unsci eriaa the top of the syringe, adroitly charged it with a drop or two and screwed it on again. But Monica had been gradually regaining her con- sciousness as he knelt there, and not only had heard and translated all he said, but wes now slowly and feebly fitting meaning to his words; slowly com- prehending the accompanying actions. As he lifted her arm once more, havin oy mounted on his high sharp nose a pair of heavy gol rimmed spectacles, she made a supreme efiort to move her blue lips to speak. ‘ } He perceived the attempt, and, curiosity over- coming the professional unconcern with which he had been aboutto win his money, he relinquished her arm, laid down the deadly little weapon care- fully, on the bare floor at his side, and deliberately roducing a flask of spirits, wet her mouth witha ew drops, and chafed her temples with his great el palms, until she felt a thrill of life pass through her veins, : a Again she moved her poor pale lips, which had almost forgotten how to do anything but gasp and aay in Sa _ at ess ag! oe weak Neg ie . sound as yet, and could only look up piteously a the 7 whorn she fully recognized as her appointed murderer, With what unnatural apathy she told herself this! \ \ a But she had already suffered pangs worse than any, death—nothing could affright one so miserable, The Italian patiently went on restoring her; he had long keen soinured to the extremity of crime; and with impunity—that his conscience was stone dead—(he never had had much)—his heart—(aiways a small one)—obtruded no more on his chosenfcourse; it was not remorse, and it was not pity which now stayed his hand from taking away sweet young life for a paltry thousand pounds; it was simply that he would like to hear her version of the Ler- went-Marshall affair, which, for all he knew, held far ose! awards in its secrets than he had been promised. At last she could speak, though she was so sadly reduced that the effort to articulate a few syllables seemed like the squeezing out of the last io Ss of her heart’s blood, and sent the last arid tear of ex- haustion rolling scantily down her skeleton cheek, “T—know—you—”’ § pM wei) so faintly and huskily that Vulpino had to bend his disgusting at ear close to her mouth before he could dis- inguish the words; “‘I—heard—them—Vulpino— Mr. adie BE eames Tell—is he dead?” The last three words she cried out together in a sudden throe of agonized suspense, while her shaking hands strove to clasp themselves and rise toward himin supplication; but the Italian never heeded the ap- peal, he was too intent on his plans. “Ma pretta mees,” said he, in his broken English, calling up a would-be benevolent smile to his hideous visage, “w’at you want of the reesh man Der- went-a?”’ “Ts--he—dedd?” reiterated Monica, piteously. “Dat I tell ven you tell me de oder-a, pretty mees! ” said he, nodding his head alps ab and picking up the tiny tube for a plaything, to twist in his long, dirty-nailed claws. ‘at you?—eh? queek, tell-a me.” Monica saw that it was only wicked curiosity that had restored ce ee turned her poor face away in bitter disappointment. “Know acai dat I hold de leetle life in my hands?” rinned he, lightly tracing the selected vein on her pare arm with the sharp point of the aes “Now ou answer-a me, pronto—pronto—or I—ahi! and de eetle Riviera lie dead, essa stessa; o—he! an’den I weep-a!”” and he made a playful little prod at her arm with the point of the syringe, and pretended to wipe his eyes. Monica *had resigned herself to die some twelve hours sitice, and had not hoped for deliverance since, but she now felt a sudden enraged reluctance to meet death at these vile hands. She found strength enough yet to drag herself to her knees, and to plead for her young life in a burst of agonizing prayer. “Oh, save me!" she moaned, ‘‘ What have I done to you—to any one, that I should be murdered?” “You see thees delicata leetle machina?’ he re- torted, putting it close to her eyes and sinking his voice to hoarse menace, while his fiendish age rested upon her derisively; “‘ see thees nice-a sirInga, veesh is full-a of a virus deadly as the poison of de serpent vat you call-a ‘ Dame Blanche,’ small— deadly beyond all oders? Thees sharp end, look— copetta—I pierce de nice-a pretty flesh of youn mees veeth it, in de vein, here, gardare? Jus preeck—no more-a! Bote ven I press on dees-a ex- tremita—aha! I shoot into de vein dat wheesh lays Piccolina Riviera at my feet una corpa morta—a corpse—in one—t’ree minute; eh?”’ ‘onica perfectly followed this horrid explanation, and sunk down again with a low shuddering moan her hands still piteously supplicating for merey, an the great tears, which she had supposed shed long ago, coursing once more down her convulsed face. He wanted her to gratify his wicked curiosity regarding her connection with her father, and she knew there was no use in her complying, even had she possessed the strength to utter the explanations, for she knew that she must die, and that he had been appointed to assassinate her. “Only say that my—that Mr. Derwent still lives,” she implored, with a last expi: effort, crawling to him and clasping his knees; ‘‘and then dispatch me quickly,” she cried out, in thrilling tones, “Hal miseral scelerata/ leetle scamp-a!”’ he hiss- ed, angrily, reading her determination not to betray anything she knew, and then he stood silent, gloom- ing darkly down at her, as he cast about in his crafty mind whéther he could possibly wring the withheld information out of her, or whee her he had after all | missed anything of importance; but presently he | made up his mind that she was too far gone now for | him to maneuver, and that he might as well proceed with the business in hand while he felt angry with her, as he could then shift the blame of the deed upon her own head. “Verra vell, foolish sciocca —idiota;' I vood-a spared-a you, per il Grand Iddi>; bote—mind-a—you vood not spik, so—” He suddenly bent down and snatched her arm, she uttering an involuntary ery of despair, a cry that was little more than a whisper, | so faint and feeble was it who long had overlooked the interview. yet it was heard by one | Just as the Italian poisoner brought the sharp point of the death-charged tube to the artery in the satin inside of Monica’s arm, she faintly struggling, and averting her poor blinded eyes that she might not see her murder, a stalwart form darted through the open doorway, a hand of iron seized Vulpino’s collar, and while he was sent reeling’ in one direc- tion, Monica found herself caught up to a broad breast, and a voice which she had dreamed she heard many times eine most sweetly through her de- lirium, said now in the same full-hearted tones: “ Dear little girl! Poor little girl! Have I found you at last?” And she, raising her half-senseless eyes, with a : / * SS smile of ineffable oy and peace, beheld the pale, ‘Guler face of fe ide Kilmyre close to hers, CHAPTER XVMHiI. FOLDED IN TENDER ARMS, xz seemed to be almost beside himself as he held the terribly altered girl in hisarms; he forgot every- thing but her, and the sufferings she had gone through, and the anxiety he had endured in his long, feverish search for her, and the thoughts he had had about her; and she was not so far gone as to be uncunscious that he was straining her against his loudly-beating heart, and showering kisses upon her poor, sharpened face, and whispering sweetest, warmest words of pity and love to her; and, some- how, she did not think of shrinking from him, nor of feeling astonishment, or embarrassment, or any- thing but rest and safety—oh, such dear, delicious rest, and such eful, satisfied safety. Yor indeed they had thought so much about each other, these two impulsive, generous, honest hearts, that it was the most natural thing in the world that bes should meet just so, without one shadow be- ween. But, presently, things faded from poor Monica’s » eyes, and she felt his dear hands and _ kisses. no longer; she sunk into the stupor from which the as- sassin had waked her. : Mas een, stood hey a) limp and lifeless body in S arms, gazing at i A He thought Monica was dead He could not breathe, he grew blind, he reeled giddily. ; He denaved that he had come too late, after all, and that this, the sweetest woman in the wholo world, roms never lift her brave, proud eyes in gen- tle kindness to his again. How esos Bae he stand there holding her thus? Ha took no note of time; he was in a trance. But Vulpino, the wretch who had done this foul deed, moved in his corner where he lay in a dis- torted heap, just as he had fallen, He was recover- ing his senses. Geoffrey started, and looked round at him with bloodshot eyes. A fearful smile crossed his bitten and’ bleeding lips. He carried his burden to the bed, and softly laid it down; he kissed each sweet eyelid Soon over the dark, dim eyes; he straightened the beautiful limbs with reverent hand, and placed the twe little hands upon the still bosom; then he bent to lay his death-pale cheek against hers, his caressing stroking (oh, so tenderly—so tenderly!) her long, un- bound black hair; and a groan tore its way from his yh an darling!” he muttered, chokingly— my r dar! * he mu “my little, rave, see darling, I came too late to save you, but, dear, not too late to avenge you—not . too late for that! And Heaven, I know, will not hold me guilty, though you, sweet, if you were alive, would plead for your murderer, so gentle and so kind you were!” : He heard another movement in the corner, and he strode across the room me to seize the throat of the Italian, who was in the act of stealthily gliding toward the door. ; ; “ Would , like be pines 7 a ) Pe next few utes, murderer?” s: e, through. itting teeth, while he forced the trembling wretch o meet his flaming eyes. " Vulpino burst into a torrent of Italian, as well as he could articulate it with those iron fingers his gullet; but Geoffrey was too excited to co hend him, although, in his calmer moments, be ae not a bad speaker of tho language; and he Pde a be . summary stop to the tide of protestations - e yee by giving him a shake that almost dislo- cated his neck. ae “Come down-stairs out of the sacred presence of our victim,” he ground out, suiting his actions to his words, and forcing the Italian before him, “Come outside and bear your punishment, and after it your execution—which two duties I take upon myself with joy—with oy, hound, do you hear?” giving him another fierce shake that turned the strangling wretch black in the face, ‘‘and I only wish we were back in the middle ages, when you would have been thrown into a caldron of boiling oil, or strung up by the hair for the rooks to k at. Oh, m | to think that all your miserable carcass could suffer if ain that lovely” sweat the ni ig fury that was las surrounded the cottage, Geoffrey’s 1 covered him, ard he mop pet perforce, bis teeth chattering and his knees doubling up under him, reat bony hands, and ee enough English to pakke his toa hare. No, I deed note ze injection of ze PEERS no, eli-a you; | all for notseeng, ntente / bah! Geoffrey had only let him run on so long because he was striding—still keeping his Heol leveled at the wretch's heart—to pick up his ridin -whip oe on the ground 94 a horse he en. ving now ay . he strode back to the culprit,and with Sree A out an other word brought griping _ ed ‘ te
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down the good new thong across his parchment face with an accuracy of aim and a nervous vigor that left a mark like a narrow red ribbon straight fen the right mae. temple down to we ne side e long poking chin, and wrung a yell of pain an e from the astonished sufferer. ore he could jump to his feet, nimble as his motions now were, another cut had crossed its pre- decessor, slanting exactly the opposite way, so that the hideous visage was now marked with a blood- red X, from the clean lines of which little round drops of the same color were starting, to trickle in { tiny rivulets down among the wrinkles; and then Vulpino was ordered to mg his knees, if he would ave a bullet through brain without further not . parley, and reminded t mind in saying his prayers while progressing, as its duration was all the time he aa would have on this earth, which henceforth would rk furnish nothing but a grave for a wretch such as he. Pi And then the blows rained down on his quivering ’ body, each lash stinging like a flame, and the doom- f ed man dared scarcely writhe in his tortures, but us in his executioner’s left hand, while the right was 4 employed with his flagellation. However, despera- tion soon came to Vulpino’s aid, and in spite of his > 1 fone sufferings, he contrived at last to make a ‘ coherent appeal, with such an air of sincerity that - Geoffrey deigned to listen, although he did not pause % . in his labor a moment for that. ‘*Hef you veel-a let me to esplain,” whinedsthe Italian as well as he could with his agonies making his teeth jerk into his tongue, ‘‘I veel-a say_moche dat you veel be best-a to know about ze Fratelli Mars ; 1 veel-a show you how to save ze old signor; as for ze mees, see is only faint wis ze famine, I no toche her as yet. See, here ees ze sivinga, wis ze veleno, vat ees poison, tutta in it—vredere, behold!” And he held up the tiny tube, through the crystal of which Geoffrey could see the fluid Rete , quite full. ‘“Oond eef you take avay ze life-a, who veel ' show to save ze signore? None can do dat bote ze : avvelenator—ze professed poisoner, gardaze !” OF When Geoffrey was out of breath, he af oe his ees pin two, and tossed it at his well-flogged enemy ; a, and he did not at once blow his brains out as he had es cpg to do; perhaps he had worked off some of "aa is fury, and his better nature was coming to the me su again—perhaps the villain’s remonstrances reminded him of the possibility of ameliorating case, and of the fatal indiscretion of gratifyin Vv nee without due investigation of facts; a _ all events he folded his arms, and stood looking con- templatively down at the writ form and craven face of of Italian, listening to the torrent of en- treaties, confessions, promises and bewailings which he poured out so volubly, until a faint sound from ies above sent his startled oi up to the window over- ‘head, and he saw the blessed vision of M)nica’s _ white face and large, dark eyes, and her little weak hays arog es : en he uttered as a shout and was running _ like the wind for the house, but stopped at the door a grunt of resolution; wheeled and went .s, back to his trembling victim, whose swarthy face had lit up with a relief and joy almost equal to his °o a Get up,” said Geoffrey. , Vulpino obeyed with abject docility. Fax !” said Geoffrey, waving his hand toward the other side of the cottage. d a strodé with atasity round the ' er, and came in sight of the dog’s kennel, and of oat _caréase lying across its threshold with its F a t. P “Take the chain off your sleuth-hound, demon,” Gedffrey commanded; ‘it is well for you that your ous scrag neck has not made the like acquain- ce with Sy poe ee as your dog’s. A fine to set over a tender he'pless woman, isn’t it? ,Ob, you scoundrel! if you don’t smart for this 3 ashi Mee eo le 2 LEE te, = SERS. — ° agik :* Pe. po pee = be re ss y To the tune of these remarks Vulpino unlocked 4 the ve chain with which he had secured his Ser bl und while he went up-stairs—in his absence ‘be always had left him loose, to scour around the 2 gene so that be poecter dared not issue from any > window, even had she succeeded in escaping from _* the roorn in which she was locked. in 9 Fes Seah Aig the end of the chain from him, and ordered to hold up his hands; which, when he _ obeyed, were securely bound together, after which tl ecreey roceeded to bind his gables after the same a hundred pounds of rusty iron. Thus eepisene he was fain to sink upon the grass beside the carcass of his slaughtered accomplice, As / at he had better occupy his | his penance was | | } | glared atthe death-dealing weapon which glittered | the evening, after dark. ee eS ee eee ee ee Ss ee ee ae Sea ee eee ee AN AMERICAN QUEEN. tiniest sips of sparkling water just flavored with wine, between, so wise and prudent that although it cut him to the heart to refuse her anything, he would not let her have a crumb too many a moment too £00n, lest she might die yet, poor suffering dar- ling, for even the bulk of an egg of the delicate wine- biscuits, which he had prorcentally chanced to have in his pocket, would have been a surfeit for her shrunken and debilitated stomach, which had eaten on itself only for three excruciating days. And when she drooped against him, her grateful eyes closing in spite of her, with the weakness of , one out of a long fever, how gently he laid her on the bed—how patiently he sat by her; then when she awoke anon, hungrier than ever, how joyously he | went through the whole critical process again! So that, in about four hours, she was strong enough to let him carry her down-stairs in his arms, and to lie on his bosom, tied to him by his own soft fleecy muffler, on his gallant horse’s back; and so, walking as gently as possible, they made the jour- ney from that border county into the next back to Dornoch-Weald; arriving there at eight o’clock of “And now—Mr. Derwent!” feverishly, when her speech had come back to her. “Dear, two days ago he was yet alive,”’ said Geof- frey, turning paler; “but I was got cut of the Weald by a despicable stratagem and Lave ever since been searching for you. Their chance whis- pers warned me of your danger.” “Oh, not me—tell about him /”? moaned the girl. Geoffrey could not but pore perplexedly at her, for how was he to account for her devotion toward one who had treated her so crueily. “T have every hope of his safety, yet,’ said he, stoutly; ‘‘the eyes of the county are upon the Weald; and even hydrophobia must run its course. Cheer up, sweet Monica; I think we shall be able to save him yet. Tee and I.” Then he told her where she was. The conspirators had recognized in the stranger American at first only an accidental meddler in their affairs; but since then their eyes had been opened to the electrifying truth that she was Mr. Derwent's law- ful and only child; a mere whisper in Mr. Derwent’s ear was the onlything wanted to set him prompt- ly revoking that unnatural will, the unjust terms of which the two brothers knew too well; and namin the interloper as his heiress, to the exclusion o every other candidate. Her doom, up to that re- velation, having hung in the balance, for cireum- stantial evidence had eventually pointed her out as the owner of the scrap of lace found by Godiva in the forest, that day of the double conferences, it needed but this culminating stroke of fate, reveal- ing her relationship to Derwent, to seal it. That was why they had at first given her food and kept her in blessed unconsciousness of her sufferings, after- ward abandoning her to starvation. The delicate young creature whom Geoffrey had been wont to call his “lily-maid ’—Godiva Monta- cute, had been the most inexorable of the trio, in passing the death-sentence upon Monica, The inno- cent prattle of good Mrs. ALerfeld revealing Master Geoffrey’s kindness to the “ bonny stranger lassie,”’ added to the long, fierce scrutiny the yellow-haired adventuress gave her dark-haired spivituelle rival that first day of Vulpino’s custody ot her in one of the uninhabited rooms of the Weald, had hardened Godiva’s heart against her, until it seemed as if she eould not rest quietly until Vulpino could. say. ** The heiress is dead.” Geoffrey, who had presumed to overlook her almost proffered love, had been en- thusiastic in his praises of her; the cruelly cold Der- went, whom she had one day wooed with half-mad candor, would hold this stranger in his arms, thank- ing God she was purer and better than she! ‘Take her to Feltrie.” spake the cold, lowering beauty; “it is sufficiently removed from us here to render it impossible-for her to escape hither and spoil our schemes. She has only to pour her fatal revelations into her father’s ear, and we are ruined. Feltrie is even more secluded than Dornoch, as there is no hamlet there, nor a railway within thirt miles; it stands in the very fastnesses of Scottis. mountains; and the dialect of the people will be a foreign language to an American. Also, there chances to stand on the estate, three or four miles distant from the castle, a curious little hunting- lodge, built a hundred years ago by one of our an- cestors to accommodate his sporting friends, and afterward diverted to the grim duty of pupusoning a certain suspected Lady Derwent, said to be sellin the honor of her house to foreign invaders, and too popular among the common people to be openly unished, Once, as a child, Mr. Derwent took me hrough the old shooting-box; it was a prosaic enough looking cot , until I saw the high stohe wall that surrounded it; there were bars across the miserable little windows; and in one up-stairs room an infernal machine for secret murder, and the verv trap, arranged under the great_ghostly bed to slide away in the dead of night and drop the sleeper into a well forty feet ges 9 . ‘ And that was where Vulpino had spirited his drugged and unconscious captive the night after that fateful hunt, and where Geoffrey had at last traced him as he went to feed his grim canine senti- nel, which, like himself, was more a beast of prey than a domesticated animal, CHAPTER XIX. . muttered Monica, eo Pl sw ee. WV A 1} b lett the | nis flowers, herself the sweetest blossom there, it; was the very place of places to which he thought he could safely and most welcomely bear the rescued | Monica, to be tenderly nursed by his warm-hearted | Cicely, while he poured out the whole affair to Toby. Toby Hurlbutt was a tall, dark, taciturn peasant ' curiously accomplished in all that pertained to woo and game craft, but contentedly, nay haughtily ig- norant ef everything else. . | The great folks might eat each other up about | their sacks of gold and fine houses for all h He did not understand the rights or wrongs of such cases, He ‘‘s’posed they knew what they was about | but for him, he’d enough ado, to *tend to the dashed oachers and the game under his charge, wi’ little ‘icely, his woman, to do for him inside.” The master had never troubled himself to get under the crust of the silent old eepek pepers reserve, so that there was no personal sympathy or compre- hension between them, and the master’s guests were ‘*naught but a crowd o’ bedizined, chattering zanies, who didn’t know a pine from a fir, and would ride straight into the quagmires, if their horses hadn’t more sense than them, and wouldn’t go,” But Geoffrey was different. From his very infancy Geoffrey had been up to prenranins in Toby’s line; never so happy as when he rode his rough, thick-legged pony through the woods, with Toby by its bridle; eager to shoot with Toby’s own sacred old gun, which, when he had sur- reptitiously succeeded in doing, kicked the tiny fel- low off his pony’s back, from which unexpected re- verse he bounced up again without.one whimper, al- though he was black and blue all over. Ah, yes! young “‘ Maister Geoffrey” was a rare good hunter, and a venerating disciple of Toby’s from his baby- hood even until now, when he brought home to his trusted old Toby the strangest game he had ever based and asked his advice what to do now. So, st while Monica lay white and panting in the high four- post bed, the rose-chintz curtains drawn so to shade her eyes from the candle-light, and Cicely close beside her, i tae | in her plump brown hand the cold, snow-white and utterly fleshless one of the ag sufferer; Geoffrey and his old chum,'enveloped n the same cloud of tobacco-smoke, sat one on each side of the freshly-whitened hearth-stone, concoct- ing a plan to rescue the Master of Dornoch from his fiendish relatives—to catch them red-handed so as to insure their punishment, and to reinstate the old peace and security at the Weald, with the old love and faith between uncle and nephew. Next morning Monica craved so earnestly to hear how matters stood at the Weald, and to know what next was to be done, that her little hostess arrayed her in her own pink and white cambric dress, smoothed the rich black hair back from her snowy temples in a t classic knot low on her neck, and having helped the ‘trembling form to the deep chintz bedroom chair with the th hassock under fi thrown open the window to let the sweet scents o: the flowers steal in on the sunny mo: breeze, and made up the'’stately bed like a great white snow- drift, she then let the young master in. ’ _ The eager step, the outstretched hands, the bright- ness in his eyes, and the spontaneous smile like a ray of light, all told how —, her rescuer came to her side, and how little needed were the earnest thanks she hastened to offer him for his great ser- vice; her face, too, pale and haggard though it was, lit = with an expression that seemed to bring back all its lost beauty, and thrilled the young man anew, tightening his clasp of her little frankly given hands, and him bend over her with a Mbt hunger in his heart, till his caressing breat the tiny, tendril-like rings on her forehead. And Cicely, looking on with wide blue eyes, smiled and blushed with sympathy, knowing all about this sort of thing, and crept to the kitchen, softly closing the door kg the pair; and then, running over to her own tall, grim, dark-faced lover-husband, threw her pretty Self on his broad breast with a cooing little cry of pleasure, and whispered: “Young Maister’s fond 0’ t” poor, pretty lady, an’ she iv him, an’ oh, Toby, it’s just beautiful see ‘em! And Toby, considering what a hard old fellow he was, and how difficult it was for him to express his private none words, acquitted himself on this ‘ccasion to admiration, by simply giving his little lass a hearty hug, and leaving a good, well-relished kiss on her cherry mouth. And then he lit his pipe, and smoked all sorts of kind and pleasant thoughts up the chimney, while his little wife bye about her mornin, work, feel- ing as proud an 9 as if she and Toby were eutirely responsible for the love-idyl that was hap- pening so beautifully in there. Meanwhile, Geoffrey ee at last relinquished Monica’s hands, but only to kneel on one knee on her footstool, with one arm half-encircling her, chair and all, she was asking questions and he was answering them animatedly; and the tragedy at the Weald was somehow losing half its horror, discussed by lips so manly, and the future was shaping itself more desirably every moment longer that they look- ed upon each other. Geoffrey told her that Mr. Derwent had had his wounds dressed by Sir Maxwell Froberton, a baronet- hysician, who had chanced te be with the hunt That day, but who had returned to London the next; he had cauterized the dog’s bite and sewed up the knife-wounds. The latter he assured Mr. Derwent were only trifling flesh cuts, dangerous from the - tity of blood they had shed, and real Bava er lay the possible effects of the bite. Geoffrey had gone home with his uncle from the scene of the ager wo and had resolutely re- mained beside him until his enemies got rid of him an impudent stratagem. All the guests of « eald as soon as possible, not liking to in- trude upon such terrible misfortune: then ' vi sa {= ee
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Montacute had daringly dismissed every soul of the old domestic force—in spite of their amazement and rebellious remonstrances—for some of them had been born in the house, and their parents before them; indeed, there were those there whose ances- tors had always served the house of Derwent, and who knew that the master would as soon think of tearing down the cherished antiquities of his castle as of sending them out into the world. : But Godiva was resolute, and won her point, back- ed by the two Marshalls, who were of course well known to be Mr, Derwent’s favorites, and who had usury] the place of Geoffrey Kilmyre, they sup- , in the master’s heart as well as in his will; baked by them, with their lying assurances that it was Mr, Derwent’s own order, and that he meant to send for them againif ever he recovered from the fearful malady which threatened his life. So the whole army were scattered to the four winds of heaven, ay, even to the good old lady, Mrs. Aberfeld, whose six feet of green sod was al- ready picked out in the family burying-eround of the Derwents in Dornoch; and the Weald was left in possession of these three unloved, and bitterly suspected aliens. To be sure, they had concocted a tolerably plav- sible exeuse tor th ir high-handed act; they gave out that if Mr. Derwent’s symptoms eventually hinted at hydrophobia, they meant to take him to an emi- nen Reticien th Paris, by ¢asy stages. There was something in that, and although Otto Derwent’s servants could never bow the neck gracefully to the detested successors he had set over them, they at least folt that they had no power to stand up against them, and so perforce they went, each his separate way. Tor the first few days after the accident, Geoffre stuck like a leech to his uncle’s bedside, resolv that no hand should minister to him in his helpless- ness gave his own. But so rigidly were his move- ments watched that he could not catch a glimpse of one of these faithful old servitors, so that, much as he wanted the assistance of some loyal messenger to communicate with outside friends, he found no chance of oognin enieestion pein them. et although Geoffrey sat by his uncle’s pillow, permitting no one but himeelf if aitetid him, after this notable depar- ture the accomplices became more unguarded, dis- ctly gi hin to understand that they would ntlok at nothing to oust him from that place, so that he dared not leave the sick-room for a moment, but sat there in a state of siege, wondering why none of theservants dared join him by stratagem, oper Hag hg Sasa their disnvissal until he found it ow vy the deathlike silence in the house. - vi achieved this riddance of inconvenient nae y their next, move was to get rid of Geoffrey. Vuipino did this for them. He slid into the room one midnight, when Geof- frey, overcome by his sleepless vigil, had succumbed to ustion, and leaned in deep sleep with his head on the same pillow with his uncle's, and his hand holding his, in the keen dread of treachery. Geoffrey was soon disposed of, Caused to inhale the fumes of ether, he only opened his eyes for a moment when on the verge of falling over into uncon- sciousness, and saw the hideous Italian bending over him with wicked exultation, while he held the satu- ated sponge to his nostrils. Geoffrey knew per- guy well what had been done, and made a frantic effort to shake off the numbness, and to see what was being done to his uncle; but, all in vain; his half-blind glance at Mr. Derwent showed him fast asleep, probably under the influence of the ether also, and then he fell down senseless. F And when he came to himself he was lying alone in the woods, about half a mile from Dornoch- Weald He went at once to the village—it was dawn by this time—and roused the pastor, as his advice. This seemed the most natural and indeed inevita- ble Shing to do; Mr. Grindon was the only person of public influence or eer within a score of es, Mr. Derwent being himself the justice of the district; and Geoffrey did not know how fiendishly he had been ma to the reverend gentleman. Well, the Rev. Mr. Grindon listened to the wild tale of the brothers Marshall’s conspiracy with coli in- credulity, one Reo, refused to stir a step in the mat- ter, unless Geoflrey could bring some “more trust- worthy ” witness to corroborate his statements. In vain Geoffrey pleaded; the old man was reso- ute. He had so long known Geoffrey Kilmyre only as a pertir d reckless scapegrace, that he now did him the injustice of believing that he was only trying to injure uncle’s new favorites, in the hope of being reinstated himself again. Do not blame the poor old man; his house had peen left unto him desolate two years ago, indirectly dchrough this young pleasure-seeker’s conduct; how was he to guess at the deeper villainy of these two hypocrites, who pulled such reverential and devout faces whenever they met him, who attended his chapel with, such exemplary regularity, and who sometimes dropped into the parsonage (at least Ru- fus did; in all cases of verbal hypocrisy he kept the el Gavaine in the background) to talk charity, to fiddle over plans and specifications for new cot- tages, schools, and other such improvements, to be made in that millennial season when he should be the master of Dornoch? Two years ago, Geoffrey, a wild enough young fel- low then, although he had never put one stain upon his manliness and honor, and got credit for do: many a wild thing which he was incapable of—we he had been home on one of his flying visits to his uncle. At that time there was in the clergyman’s family _a young and extremely ony, girl named Netlie A bay? governess to his two youngest chil- dren. His eldest was a young man of twenty-one or two. a dashing and rather dissipated captain in the Pa) ——_— Guards, who would have far outstripped Geofirey in mad pranks any day, though it “a little that his father and mother suspected it. _ Geoffrey, saw, and fell madly in love, as he then called it, with the little governess; and she, OSSESS- ed of nothing except an exceedingly lovely little face and figure, with vanity corresponding, was well pevan to be made love to, especially by the young eir of the proud Dornoch estates. Probably this affair would have drifted along to the usual end, leaving him disenchanted and palled, and shaking her o: ; and her wrecked ere she was well launched on the ocean of life, had not her lover been that rare thing, a gentleman of honor, to whom the meanest maiden in the land was sacred. He walked and talked with pretty Nellie, all under | the rose, of course, for her sake as well as his own, he not resolving upon or indeed realizing anything except the hour’s fascination. Some busybody told Mr. Derwent, however; and —_ and nephew came to controversy on the sub- ecu. Taxed with wronging a poor, unsophisticated lit- tle girl, Geoffrey hotly denied any such intention. His uncle coldly said that now the gossips had got hold of it, facts mattered little; the girl’s name was xone. In bitter dismay, and generously penitent, at he mischief he had unwittingly wrought his darling little love, the fine fellow swore he would mary Neilie then, but he would never have her ruin laid at his door. Mr. Derwent’s secret wound was here touched on the raw. He remembered his own mis- match; he burst into ungovernable,fury, and dared his heir to marry a little nobody like Nellie Wyvern. Geoffrey, astounded and bitterly hurt at this un- wonted violence, vowed he would please himself. Then his uncle passicnately threatened him with disinheritance, and that clinched the matter. Geof- frey strode straight off and asked Nellie to mar him. Enchanted, she consented. Then, in his roud truthfulness, he told her what he had lost for ove of her. Nellie was stunned; she bad no idea of mairying ope! who could not make her a lady. Still she ha pigs Oe not to tell her generous lover that to his face. She pretended to cling to him, and they acted engaged long enough for Mr. Derwent to publicly close his doers against his ne- phew, and to write to the Marshall brothers (the one a silk-mercer, Rufus, and the other a stoeck-raiser) asking them to Dornoch. Geoffrey took rooms at the village inn, and hastened his marriage with Nel- lie, proudly resolving to make a thriving artist of jhimself, as his amateur attempts had won high praise from all who knew that the painter was next of kin to the Master of Dornoch. Nellie was at her wits’ end how to get out of the engagement without exposing her meanness. In this dilemma youn Captain Grindon, the clergyman’s only son found. her when he came for his flying visit home. He was more to her taste than Geoffrey; there was nothing to awe her in Tom; Nellie fell in love, really, this time, with the flippant, flattering, easy captain; and showed it. : ’ Tom Grindon then offered to rescue her from_her distasteful marriage; offered to save her from hon- Pe and bestow upon ther the generous boon of dis- onor, And the soulless, ephemeral creature, scarce brani of the name of woman, accepted the deliv- erance They eloped together; and the country-side rung with the shameful occurrence. The good parson and his wife had been so proud of their son, so certain of his integrity and worth, that now they could not comprehend when supposing of course that the young pair ha gone to get married, Mr. Grindon rushed after them and discovered their hiding-place. The dee shame in which he found his almost crushed him; and Tom, base at heart as Nellie herself, tried to excuse his guilt by insinuating that he had been tempted to it by Geoffrey, who wanted to get out of ae entanglement with the girl, for the sake of his ortune, . And Mr. Grindon believed this, it was so nat so plausible; and yet it did not in the least ex- cuse Tom, it ruined Geoffrey in the eyes of the stern old man; so that when he returned to Dornoch, humbled and heart-broken at Tom’s impenitence, he took a bitter consolation in disclosing the full in- famy of Geoffrey’s stratagem to his uncle, resolved that he should never reap the benefit of it. And to this day he loathed and abhorred Geoffrey Kilmyre, tracing to him the death of his wife, (who had not survived Tom’s disgrace a month), and con- sidering him capable of any wickednees. And this was why he refused to credit anything such a character would say about the doings at Dor- noch- Weald. ; Geoffrey left the parsonage at his wits’ end where to turn for counsel or assistance. CHAPTER XX. ‘“* WHEN THIEVES FALL OvT.”’ Besipgs, all this time he had felt an ever-increas- ing uneasiness about Monica; his last glimpse of her had been as she cried out in denunciation of the bexnber or over the insensible form of Mr. Der- went. He had a hulf-consciousness of Vulpino’s leading her away; but he could never be sure about that; Vulpino was a stranger to him at that time, and al- though he knew him too well now, from seeing his ill-omened face peering into Mr. Derwent’s sick- TOP, he was not quite sure of the identity of the wo. But where could she be? It seemed to Geoffrey now the best, and indeed the only thing he could do, to find Miss Rivers, the stranger American lady, who had ‘shown such an is fall; so tha "AN AMERICAN QUEEN. unaccountable and daring interest in his uncle’s ; 419 well-being; and to consult with her what was now to be done, , It was worse than folly for him to appeal for help or co to any one in the village; rude and un- thinking as these peasants were, what strength or wisdom had they to help him in this matter? He had his suspicions, nay, convictions, that foul play was at work with his uncle, but how was he to prove or ah ih it it? Every one knew that he had been turned adrift, disinherited and disgraced; z he might ac- euse his successful rivals of would only rebound on his own head, as the jealous slander of disap- pointment. Having searched, then, through the village, for Miss Rivers, and discovered not the smallest clew | concerning her, suddenly he awoke to the horrible conviction that she had been foully dealt with; she had been last seen by him at the mercy of—vw sit not Vulpino, that sinister foreigner who haunted the eald, and who was forever muttering and whis- pering with the conspirators? ] i So he had neither eaten nor slept, until, by dint of incredibly kept vigils, he had surprised the Italian riding off on one of Mr. Derwent's best steeds across the shire, up—up further and further north, to Hoarshire, where Feltrie stood, cand and deso- ee with its little ruined, haunted lodge rottingim — the fens, And now that they were together, Geoffrey asked Monica, what next? : “How long is it since you were put out of the house?’ she asked, her vivid perceptions of her father’s desperate situation inspiring her with the ‘oe ee strength of excitement; for she knew far bett®r than Geoffrey how imminent was the peril : in which he had left his uncle. “Tt is now about thirty hovtrs,” he replied. ¢ She clasped her hands and flashed a wild glance ge ye b h " ie pie h nything may have happened in thirty hours,” . faltered she; “oh, Geotiter, dear Geoffrey. a should never have left the threshold of my fa—of their victim’s house, but have warned the neighbor- hood, and made the country ring with shouts for admittance. She was not thinking of ony personal now; she was utterly unconscious of the form of her ad- Gevilad throuae. iheudseast mille o gives teens thrii 0 e hea & passing raptu that she should have him in her mind with ccna kind sentiment, and in spite of the grief and dismay which her moan sent over him he could Vite. 7 ss frain from touching her ly and soothingly, i “Don’t antici < 2 5 kes me—tell me, dear—whi } ta ‘ _ ‘Not one,” he answered, “The dog was not mad!” she cried out, 1 gh 4 “T recollect now what Rufus Marshall said- he had a plan to work on Mr, Derwent’s io that is it; he almost shouted in Mr, Derwent’s ear, a he lay there in the forest, that the d mad— a he had SS ‘ iaergacl . highs godine mporary ferocity. twas his part « obs - Gavaine’s was to stab the dog Bi that it ean “ae never be discovered that it was not mad, od his. ; murderous impulse seized the Opnoreanity, nd he stabbed Mr. Derwent, too, though I bi that as notin the programme, Tt was ail mixed up, and did not happen.exactly as they thought; they . seen rg not expect me to arrive on did, and fought with the dog, I his head a little, or thought the . their victim, so he tried to end the matter 1h - own knife, not expecting me to be able to o Pies but I think I saw everything all at'once. Somehow’ — without even looking, J knew all they did, and ‘wanted = todo. Rufus tried his best to shoot Mr. Derwent, — just as Gavaine tried to stab him, both making the dog an excuse to commit the blunder, as they would afterward callit, and then, fearful that, "aitar 2) ae Rufus took © they had not butchered him quite dead, pains to make him understand that the dog wags mad, trusting tc his imagination, which thal trait <4 ress, Miss Montacute, told them wus abnormally = vivid, to kill him with the apprehension of hydro. phobia, But again an unexpected check camein— __ you persistently sticking by him; they got rid of me—and, oh, how it proves their guilt - hab they | considered it necessary to murder me lest mhioutl testify against them—they had got rid of me, but — they could not at first got rid of you. and your | presence lengthened out their victim’s life until, ag you say, the physician could come and _ see for him- self that he was not mortally injured by the stab- wounds, and cauterize the dog- ey and see that there were no symptoms of hydrophobia; so they had to make another plan, and affect to take him away to Paris as soon as he could be moved; and then, alas! they got you awets and now?” , In her rapid synopsis of the events, Monica had unconsciously risen, and was leaning white and hostlike, but with electrically inspired face, on the ck of her chair, gazing into Geoffrey’s fascinated eyes. But with the last shuddering—* and now?”— all her heart-anguish surged back upon her, and swayed and bowed her poor little attenuated form so that she would have sunk to the floor, crushed down completely, had not Geoffrey snatched her to him, holding her passionately close to his loudly-beating breast. and trembling in every limb at the dear cone 7
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vibrant with feeling, ‘* who are yom then, who have come from the ends of the eart to suffer all this for my poor, lonely uncle?” She started violently. In her natural reliance on, and confidence in, this fine, true-hearted young Englishman, she had long forgotten her own secret, that she was his uncle’s daughter-—/is cousin, the true heir of all this proud estate that was be: i fhe ht for with such bloody malignity; how woul e ._, unexpected and long-hidden fact? . Would it make any difference in this—this gener- | ous and noble kindness, which he was showing to a poor, unknown stranger? “Tell me dear, dea7,” he pleaded, his warm hand pe with tender stroke over and over her silky : ir, and his clear eyes full of manly admiration and faith in her, “is there anything in your wonderful ie resemblance to that old portrait of Mistress Ethel- giva Derwent, in my uncle’s gallery? You might ave walked out of its frame; your eyes—do you guess what glories they are, dear?—your thick, heavy black hair—your proud poise, and these patrician ‘hands and feet—they are all fair Ethelgiva’s very own! Why do you look so strangely at me, dear (3 girl, dear Monica—(oh, let me call you Monica!”’) be ‘ With an abrupt movement Monica released herself from his encircling arms; faint, feeble and agitated as she was, and natural as it had been to cling to oy ; ‘this her ool friend and protector through these eh terrible troubles, she could not now rest on his heart oust while he poured out so unconsciously its full tumul- -tuous torrent of love. If he knew that long dim history of Otto Der- f went’s marriage with poor Ada Rivers, the daughter 5! _of a country schoolmaster, and bis after desertion of ‘her, caused by some cafumny, which to this day the _ daughter could not prove false—if Geoffrey Kil- : myre, the proud, high-born Geoffrey Kilmyre, knew y ta ait tBie— would esee Monica Derwent as fair and lovable then? “Tru What a selfish beast I am, to pie A to my own affairs ’' (Monica’s resemblance to Mistress Ethelgiva Derwent was one of “his own affairs,’ was it?) ‘‘until we have my poor uncle _ _ gafely with ofr two selves and getting well again! _, But, dear Miss Rivers, I pray you, don’t resent my fs admiration and gratitude toward you; I cannot help » it, indeed I cannot help it! These strange évents, in have thrown me, in i ety 3 E had fallen away froth about us, leaving us two standing free together. Whoever you are, brave ” ee ‘ou are the one woman for—”’ - _. ‘Oh, bush!” she murmured, her face suffused ‘with carmine blushes, and her sweet eyes shining; _ “you are too noble, too unworldly— wait, only wait, until all this wild time is over, and you can prove pee = me well; never speak of this again till 2 en ‘Her manner was so proudly decisive, despite all al Sas ul fervor, that Geoffrey could only accept 1e and place her the higher in his heart for r ve ag man! u ty. a ‘ioe flow hotly abe in her heart was recalling the sbominable slanders uttered of this noble-hearted gt by the dastard Rufus Marshall to Mr. eve when she waited in the cor- tr oe age t i bgt Haow outside his door for the two parasites to de- part, that she might warn him of them! This man oe ‘a profligate, a spendthrift, an associate of ballet- eS Ager e demi-monde !” ‘*The persed of _ the Duke of Malthraver’s toy villa for his mistress, ‘the sister of that beast the prize-fighter,” etc., etc., . ete. How accurately she remembered all that had |. been said! ‘ -. » In the , indignation with which she con- trasted the y with Marshall’s representations, _. Monica very nearly came throwing aside all her | “ . - » mew mned propriety, and Holding out her hand a qoubetn » dose eines thst would Coca him how _ truly she believed’ in him, and how gladly she bade | him to hope for which she referred the intense expression on her radiant face, had _ he could do refrain from disobeying her, atid there and then cao ry ed flatly to be his promised wife, let what would happen in the future! a dso they bent toward each other, poring over » ‘ack ‘Ss ently ig eyes, fascina’ each other’ tly-discoursin f: ted by each other, and breathless with delicious emo- . tion; until a shadow darkened the little window by _ which Monica’s chair was set; and, both looking up, beheld Mr. Price, the New York lawyer, sing round the cottage, with his gaze fastened inquisi- _ tively upon them. “Now, who is this? Ido not know him at all, do Geoffrey, much startled by the sudden _ exclamation and look of deep resen ent which _-- @verspread Monica’s countenance. ‘Nee tear w him—a mercenary traitor!’’ she replied, i _ apd she turned toward the door with flashing eyes, oO iste: tothe peremptory knocking at the outer a ffrey saw how strongly moved she was, om any more questions. - They heard the stranger demand to see “ the young Jady ’’—he was wily yee even in the midst of his f okgetoned perturbation to utter no name, lest he might . Caenehad disclosing facts unknown as yet, which he had spent many a dollar in reserving ¥ e very best in that future to ; and he, almost dazzled b map) pA you?” eried - J. 1 : and refrained ae in Cicely’s voice was then heard stoutly refusing any admittance whatever to the presence of ‘the youn lady;’’ and then Mr. Price’s reiterated demand, an a sound of his entrance by force; then the gruff ' tones of Toby and his heavy stride across the floor iy to eject the intruder. t him‘come,”’ said Monica to Geoffrey, scorn ; “he has something to tell that has complete- ly taken him out of himself; otherwise he would | never wish for another interview withme. Our last ook upon her if she were to announce this most | hing but an amicable one.” Geoffrey pushed open the bedroom door, and checked Toby in the act of hustling out the gentle- manly and indignantly-resisting Mr. Price. “You may see her,” he said, a shadow of thé scorn he had caught on Monica’s face reflected in his own. Toby released him with a grunt, and the spruce young lawyer almost sprung across the kitchen into the presence of the young lady, whose obstinacy had led him such a dance. For a moment he stood. transfixed, scanning with shocked amazement the signs of her late sufferings, the vehement words he had meant to utter frozen on his lips. ‘*T have been ill,” she said, quietly, a chill feeling passing over her as she noted how pale he had been even before he saw her, and the appearance of re- cent agitation which that shock was changing into wondering compassion. What had he to say that should have so discomposed him? Was his expect- -_ prey, Mr. Derwent, beyond his reach? ea ‘“Never mind mie,” she cried, breathlessly; ‘‘ what do you want of me?” “Good heavens, madam!’’ he said, wiping the big of perspiration from his forehead, and layin his hat on the table with a Maan, Ryecimeniy h hand; “what fatal influenceis at work among the Der- wents? You are dying! And your father—” A strange ery rung through the room, drownin was an -| the end of his speech. It was the mingled shout o | astonishment from Geoffrey, and the scream of ter- ror from Monica. “Her FATHER!!!" ‘“ What? Is he—oh, is he—gone ?”’ she moaned, for- getting everything but her anxiety, not even feeling Geoftrey’s greedily-grasping hands, as he drew her rapturously to his breast, in his turn oblivious of all save that she was a Derwent, his uncle’s daughter— hborn as he himself, and free to be won for his e, as any lady in England. “Yes—he is cone!” bhoarsely muttered Mr, Price, grown reckless under the conviction that more un- scrupulous rascals than himself had been runni this conspiracy, and that foul play had been use on both father and daughter. “God knows, Miss Derwent, if I had dreamed that these relatives, these | Marshall brothers, intended harm to you, I never should have revealed who you were to them!” Ay? He had gone with his precious secret them, had revealed that this stranger was Otto Der- went’s daughter—‘hat explained their ruthless at- — upon her life! *“ When—did—he.- die?” gasped Monica, her mis- erable eyes fixed piteously upon the trembling oung §. r, whose avarice had brought all this orror upon him, as at present he was remorsefully owning to himself. For a moment he looked bewildered, then cried hastily: ae Did Tsay he was dead? No, no, I did not mean that; oh no, Miss Derwent, thank the Lord no one says that; but he has been spirited away to France by these scoundrels; and by the look of you, I sus- t that they have been trying to put you out of he world altogether; and if they would try that on you—they will on him!” He was interrupted by a tremulous cry from Monica; she slipped out of Geoffrey’s supporting arms to her knees, and there, between the men, she uttered a ie heed of voiceless thanksgiving to the Good God for sparing her that anguish; and as they watched her whitelips moving, and the radiance of meek and fervid gratitude upee her spectral face, a rush of manly emotion filled both their eyes with tears, through which they looked at her, seeing in her an an angel. CHAPTER XXI. ‘WISE MEN GET THEIR OWN.” Tus thrill of common humanity drew these natu- ral antagonists closer to each other in sympathy than it would have seemed possible, considering the nove figure which Mr, Price had ever cut in Miss went's eyes; but the young fellow was not bad far down, had a warm heart, and head enough to let it speak sometimes ; and then, there are few young men who can withstand the charm of a young woman’s heroism. Mr. Gilbert Price contempla‘ this brave girl, who pad greed rejected his aid to get into her father’s go aces for the sake of his ortune—and yet who could suffer such cruelties as were here manifested on her peer ghastly face—for that same father’s sake, resolutely maintaining her incognita all the while; and every moment longer that he contemplated her, he regretted the more his pees against her, and longed to make some sort of restitution, if only he knew how. Consequentl , when next he spoke, it was to say: “‘God forgive me for my part in this ugly busi- ness, Miss Derwent; if ever man heartily repented his misdeeds, J do at this moment, seeing you. Bless my soul, what have they done to you?” His earnestness convinced both Geoffrey and Mo- nica that he was really sorry for the past; so Geof- or narrated Monica’s sufierings in a few words; and then Monica struck in impetuously, demanding Mr. Price’s news, : “Let me make a clean breast of it. Miss Derwent.” | lawyer’s face with a kind softness in pe ! , Said he, looking pale and sick at thé recital; ‘‘ food | God! to think that I am the cause of ali! Why, | what devils these men are! But how was ' to dream? | Well, well, I can only range myself on your side henceforth, and work my level best to undo the mis- chief I have done, and win your forgiveness, And now, madam, collect yourself; and you, sir, mdéke her comfortable. Ihave a long story to tell, which must be narrated carefully, or she will not half-com- prehend it, for it was the different natures of the various actors, and their private feelings toward each other, that made such a tragedy possible.” Monica was tenderly propped up in Cicely’s big easy-chair, her little thin hands cree te in her Jap in atient interest, and her sweet eyes shining up in the hem that stimulated his eloquence immeasurably, and helped him to do himself justice at last. Geoffrey retired behind his new-found cousin’s chair, where he leaned with one hand resting warm and appropriative on her shoulder, and a possibility of bending over her and perry straight into her eyes whenever the climaxes of the story gave him an excuse. Mr. Price sat at a little distance from the pair, humbly apart, but the more he said the nearer they felt him coming to them in the spirit; so that, by the end, he seemed to be almost a friend, and one of themselves. “T shall first relieve your anxiety about your father,” he began; ‘‘ then costee my dealings with these men, the Messrs. Marshall; and afterward J] shall hand you, Miss Derwent, a document contain- ing the history of the separation of your parents nineteen years ago, and how the secret came into my possession. And now I shall have the deserved humiliation of speaking from my late standpoint of scheming scamp; rather hard on a fellow, eh? “Having once moro appealed to ous eupidity in vain—on the hunting field, you recollect, my resolu- tion was taken to carry my precious secret to Mr. Derwent; but then came his accident, as I, in com- mon with everybody else, was taught to suppose it, by the wily Rufus, who went about disseminating the version that best suited their plots. I made several ey ar to see Mr. Derwent for myself, so as to judge of state of health, whether he was as dangerously ill as they said, in which case the sooner I made capital out of the secret the better; or whether he was recovering, when it would be worth my while to wait. I soon saw that it was their in- tention to allow no one to see him; so berg tel nai that they were the parties in power, and It was to them I should apply. ; “T was amazed, , at your oe ae made inquiries everywhere, but was told at last (by Rufus viene that you had left the neighbor- hood, having only been visiting the place for change of air. I knew better than that myself; and their lame story made me suspect that they had found out who you were, and that there was more behind. With this idea on my mind I began to sound them; naturally undervaluing the astuteness of an insignifi- cant cad like the elder Marshall, but before I knew, the crafty fox had it all out of me that you were Mr. Derwent’s lawful and only child, to ros ee ought to leave his money; I little e hypocrisy of their avowals of delight, their fuss to discover where you had gone. I believe that knowledge sealed your doom; they had probably in- tended to keep you out of the way until Mr, Derwent’'s death, lest you should betray what you had over- heard of their sic ele 8 but as soon as it was proved that you were his enemies they determined to do away with you shears her. Heavens! had I known the true nature of their plots, 1 should— well, you're safe in spite of them, the varlets, that’s a consolation. “And Vulpino, thank God, is ge & pretty considerable taste of the same kind of. treatment which they gave you. Ha! ha! ha} I like to think of the murderous knave | yonder, yel for— beg pardon, Miss Derwent, I’m a brute to recall any- thing so painful to you. “Well, to go on with my tale: I had already dis- covered that Mr. Derwent had mace a new will within the last month, naming the two brothers Marshall as his sole and joint heirs, with the excep- tion of a small annuity to Mr. Geoffery Kilmyre, whom it is evident he can never macteeh in driving completely from his heart, although so poisoned by the slanders which these rascals continually retail about your private life, sir; yes, Mr, Derwent has made his will in their favor, and only one step is between them and the goal toward which they have been pressing so successfully. Having disclosed to them the fact of the existeuce of a Miss Derwent, I waited for them to make me an offer for my si- Iénce on the matter, but was astonished to see them take the startling news quietly; they only passed a significant glance and nodded at each other. Isee now, they had already got you ia their own hands, as a chance overhearer of their perilous schemes. To find that you were so much more important a part than they had suspected, mattered nothing o their plans—only it changed your temporary im- prisonment into death by starvation. I had played the game badly, very badly, or rather perhaps, they all the winning c , and I did not gucss it. ag Mb a no offer to buy my silence; they simply thanked me for my very extraord nary and welcome news, promised to find their new relative, Miss Derwent, and to present her to her father, and politel showed me out. ‘I had made a mess of it, sure enough, after work- ing so long, and spending so much hard cash in ad- vertisements, traveling, etc. [+ was I on thd out- side of Dornoch-Weald; Mr. D...,ent, to whom my news was so interesting, too ill to know or care about anything; Miss Derwent, to whom they were so important, obdurate in refusing to be set right with her father by me, and the Marshall brothers, to
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. Derwent’s circurastances, F a wa" . ay whom they were s0 ruinous, too indifferent to care whether I published them or not, ‘““T thought it all over, and saw there must be some strong motive for their unnatural stoicism, under facts that would have utterly extinguished all their expectations; and then I set myself to ferret out the ruth. “T watched events as well as I could from the out- side; I saw all the old servants set adrift, and from them I heard the state of siege in which you, Mr, Kilmyre, sat by eng uncle’s bod and also learned the interesting fact that Miss Montacute was in league with the Marshalls. ’ “Then came Mr, Kilmyre’s ejectment; I don’t know how; I can nevet believe that you abandoned your uncle voluntarily, sir; ah, I thought you did not. Well, at all events, there lay the rich man who had made his will in favor of these two harpies, dying, and not a soul by him but they. They had just learned the existence of a daughter, and that I knew facts concerning her that would cause her father to receive her with favor, and consequently that it only remained for Mr. Derwent to hear this and to alter his will in his daughter’s favor. I began to see the ignificance of things. ‘The old, faithful servants sent away, the nephew whom Mr. Derwent had disinherited through their lies, but whom he could not quite drive from his heart, got rid of mysteriously, the incognita daugh- ter vanished, the sick man alone with t ae oes the countryside taught to think that he was in danger of hydrophobia. x I caw that there was only one more event to hap- pen, and that they meant it to happen. “Mr, Derwent had to die. “It took me until this very morning to piece all this out, and then, all in a moment, I got wild with anxiety; Icursed my own double-d that had ut so much power in the hands of two who might be villains of the blackest dye, for all I knew. “T was si in my own room at the inn when I suddenly saw the whole thing in a flash; I was at my breakfast, I jumped up, scarcely taking time to find my hat, and ran every step of the way to the Weald, As I entered the gates I met that foreign doctor that they had had prowling about them, Vul- pino. He was riding one of Mr. Derwent’s horses, _ going, as I know now, to Hoarshire to hide the body of Miss Derwent, whom he supposed to be dead by this time. He stopped me as I shot past him, b shouting out, ‘The house is closed, nobody there.’ did not believe him, but went back to hear what he had'to say. He told me that Mr. Derwent had been taken away by the Marshalls and Miss Montacute; they had s very early this morning, and were going by stages to Paris, where was a celebra- Oe fede oie could cure hydrophobia. It struck like a knife to my heart that they were dragging the sick man to some lonely place where they could mur- der him and bury the body, without having to ex- the corpse to all the country as they would have tb do if he died at the Weald. I asked as many ques- tions as I could think of to trap him, but he was on his guard and would not be tripped up. Then I vowed i would follow the party, and then he dis- of me by saying that the party had arranged go by water, as that was ap easier mode of tray- eling for an invalid than rail. Vulpino rode off, and I went up to the house and reconnoitered. Every window had the shutters up; the very stables were vacant, the horses all sent to Mr. Derwent’s stables in town, so as to dispense with any servants who might witness the condition of Mr. Derwent when they took him away. *“So then I was at my wits’ end, but at last I thought of co: here to consult with the game- k Toby Hurlbutt, who, I had heard, was faith- |: aged oO Mr kt full . Kilmyre, and who, I though might be able to tell me where he was. And then saw you, Miss Derwent, thank God, alive ge. “We must consult. her what can be done to party, which I don’t in the least believe will go out of England.” Mr, Price had by this time so well redeemed him- self in their t, that, at the conclusion of his narration, both d him heartily. for his good- ness of heart in feeling such anxicty on Mr. Der- went's account, and for his exertions on his behalf. They then conferred together how best to institute oy eae for the sick man and his brood of viper at- 8. ing discussed all probabiltties, they determined to start at once in pursuit; such inquiries at the station as would set them on the track of the four travelers. So Geoffrey put his new-found cousin Monica under the protection of honest Toby and his pretty wife, presenting her to them in her own proper per- son, to their blank amazement firstly, and soon their exultant delight that master had got such a ‘‘ sweet ” fora daughter. Geoffrey also placed Vulpino in Toby’s e, directing him to keep him for the present secured at the shooting-box; then there was a quiet but very significant parting between Monica and Geoffrey, & murmured ‘‘God speed you, and you success!’’ from Monica, and ‘ Get well and rave again, darling cousin!” from Geoffrey. Mr, ae hefore he went, handed a thick sealed packet 8 Derwent, 5a, ‘ “This is a a te document to you, Miss Der- went. It contains the account of the cause of the estrangement between your parents, and the vindi- cation of your mother. Some six months ago I was summoned by a prisoner, in the Tombs for trying to wreck a train, to take up his case. Before it came into court he fell mo ill; and on his death-bed made this confession. He was the Jonathan Brade you will read about here. It was this story which induced Mr, Korner and myself to advertise for Ada Niivers Derwent; in the hope of reinstating her in her rights. _Brade’s story set us to eee We easily discovered his q residence and fortune by sending an agent to the county named in Brade’s story. Brade, however, maliciously concealed the address of Mrs. Derwent, by which cause we were delayed full three months, advertising, and then we only found her dead. Read it; you will only love and admire your unfor- tunate mother the more ee. when you learn her eruel story. It will also soften your indignation against . Derwent, who _was_ equally deceived. But read it for yourself. I shall narrate it to Mr. Kilmyre as we go along.” They were gone, leaving the packet in Monica’s lap, her hollow eyes raised in loving grief and tenderness toward the heavens, where now shone in joy the pure sweet spirit which had suffered such wrong and misery on earth. CHAPTER XXII. STORY OF A VULTURE AND A DOVE. Tue following is the purport of the document: Twenty years ago Mr. Otto Montacute Derwent, a PONS. Englishman of wealth and station, was travel- ig Lees the United States, e came to a remote village, named Addiscombe, in the State of Vermont, and stopped there for a few days’ fishing in the beautiful lake. One lovely evening he sauntered down to the shore with a rustic chum, and stepped into a boat which was just pushing off, with one passenger in it in the shape of a very young girl. : The girl made a very lovely and unexpected picture, sitting there in her gauzy Swiss dress, and tleecy white Shetland shawl, with her hat in her lap, and her rich black tresses waving down to her waist, with one pe ry BY poppy behind her small ivory-white ear. She held the tiller in her little brown shapely hands, and her dark eyes were sparkling St hee her white teeth glittering be- tween her arched, crimson lips, as she teased and rail- edat the tall, stalwart young man who directly faced her, with his Ror of oars touching her khee with each ull; and his harsh-featured, resolute face scarcely ripplin in the faintest response to her low- toned, playful age. This was Ada Rivers on her way home from a little friend across the lake, and the tall swain was her escort, Jonathan Brade, the best match in the little town of Addiscombe, and her devoted admirer for the.past year. He owned quite a fine farm about a mile out of town, and had n an industrious and thrifty worker on it; his old-maid sister pany kept house for him, and he was well on in the thirties himself, so that when he did fall in love, he fellmuch | deeper in than younger men would have done, and wooed hotly and desperately, because there was no reason why he should not marty his choice instantly, everything being readyfor her. But he was in some respects an odd man, and little Ada Bivens the flirt- ing, flighty, gleeful village darling and belle, rather fought shy of him, feeling a little secret dismay at his moody, taciturn ways, and his quiet but indomi- table persistence in the pursuit of anything he ever chanced to set his heart on. She hid this evidence of his power over her, however, under a mischievous sauciness, bantering and teasing him as nota woman in Addiscombe had ever dared to do before; and her tish impudence seemed to charm him only the ore and to draw him after her only the more con- antly. Otto Derwent saw her first, not yet e bu with every probability that they would be, and not @ single Pa i why they should not. Derwent asked his chum all about her, learn she was the peng di re sf tet es an orance of the situation. And after that—of course, Very soon Ada drew back decidedly from Jona- than; and in spite of his black and moody scowl, made him understand that she meant it. Jonathan went home to his sister Patty, who wrung the matter out of him, and secretly thanked Heaven that the terror of her life, a rof her domestic throne, was mercifully removed; also she vowed in her soul that Ada Rivers should m. the stranger, and so she would never be dethroned from her place at the head of Jon’s house. Jonathan, however, had by no means given up his intention of w ing Ada; but he was not the man to utter in mo ear the thoughts that were wont to pass through his slow, en brain, He brooded over his rejection long after every one had taken it for granted’ that all was over between them, and while all the village was Fossiping about the darin: little belle’s conquest of the proud British swell, an wondering what it would all come to, Jonathan was apparently plodding on in his usual rut, but in reality with a yery hell raging in his breast. And meanwhile Petty, the sour old-maid sister was furtively pushing matters between Ada and Otto, smoothing true bye's path, as surely old-maid never did before; making rash and hasty acts seem all-wise and possible, and tempting the love-gla- moured young ngs until— Well, when Mr. Derwent’s stay had been pro- longed _to eight months, one evening Patty sneered at her brother, sitting moodily at the hearth mend- ing an ox-whip—thus: ' ‘Guess ’tain’t much use you makin’ a fool of yourself after that little chit, brother; the English- man’s to old_Rivers's half the time, an’ I reckon he wouldn’t be hangin’ on so long ef he wasn’t gittin’ the vally of his time. My advice is, go oncet for all an’ see what ye kin make of her; ef she'll hey ye “ i 8 es el. he | + 4 at the house of a | a | AN AMERICAN QUEEN. | | room. : He saw his darling Ada with both arms about the to ks T’'m agreed, for I’m tired an’ sick of your glum sulki- c—, ae oT without a word Jonathan rose, donned his Sunday coat, and hied him across the fields for a last appeal. Pat rhea just ee her finger to the stone that had hung so long on the balance, her touch sent it roll- ing down the precipice ready now to crush what- ever got in its way. pe Patty knew that the old schoolmaster was off for acouple of days tothe next town; and that Otto -would on that account be obliged, in the interests of propriety, to omit his usual evening visit; for he was, guardin ‘his darling’s fair fame with all generosity? —Patty knew all this, for was she not their confi- dante, and knew all about their happy secret? So Jonathan found pretty Ada all alone, sitting in the broad fireplace with the cat in her lap, and her eyes fixed in a tender reverie on the ruby coals. Poor child! She started up with a faint cry of nervous terror when her dark-hearted_ visitor strode in without even the ceremony of knocking; she was only a timid, easily frightened little girl, and she was 80 accustomed to Otto's protection. Jonathan saw her terror, and Satan took entire possession of him. He forgot that he had come to ask her to be his wife, he forgot everything except that the tender lovely creature before him was white with fear of him, an honest man in her owa station, and in love with Otto Derwent, who, of course, was only amusing himself with her. He burst into a furious tirade against the Englishman; he spoke many things that the trembling girl could not en Ngee as outrageous things, which no oneybut a devil could have thought of in that pure presence; and Ada only comprehended that he was abusing and threatening Otto Derwent, the life of her heart—and looking in his demoniac face, and seeing the horrible excitement which swayed the usually grimly-contained Brade, her senses reeled she put out her arms with a faint cry, and then fell | forward in a swoon. The man received her in his | arms; and, baving got her there, his fury was ex- tin hed in a fierce of joy. He stood gaping at her—she had never been so close to him before; he could verily feel the satin cheek against his neck, and smell the faint perfume of her flowing tresses Oh, she was beautiful beyond compare!’ And he adored—he worshiped her! : eet wren he not do to possess this wildly-covet- e hat would he not suffer? Oh, to snatch her up and fly with her there and then! : A gentle tap at the window broke in upon his half- crazy thoughts, then the sash was raised a few inches, and a white hand flung ina knot of snowy roses, This was the lover’s greeting—the lover whom she — loved. , Something flashed into Jonathan’s slow brain; he fairly laughed out as it occurred to him. If = could only make appearances, seem black enough. Derwent was standing outside the window, waiting re oor: hts to rpmng tan Saat ‘gr he had flung her, an ono: le oe end took into the room until she had given k mission. f Jonathan went to the sofa and sat down with his broad back to the window. He drew ribet) Se ba his neck; and he placed her head Beet. s shoulder, with the face hidden, as if she nestled in his s in an abandon of love. He bent his own evil ex face upon her pretty head; and then he bege speak aloud; telling ow sweet she was crash of glass behind him showed ha heard; J Costin looked round to see the : lishman tights g in out of the black vulsed, whitened wa: and ecting de per- a single moment, He made a great show of ca’ Ada's head closer to his sheltering eae of whirl cou Derwent's eyes. age in her ear, and then he turned “Tt’s all up, is it?” he sneered: “ye e at an svicwand time, my breve hick, Herd AG wo may as show our ve the ‘answer. What? frightened? I reckon I kin protect ye, dear, don’t ye mind him.” , But Ada was nothing; and Derwen denouement had e came roun risly throat of the man she had always profess nk from with instinctive fear—the man who had peen her lover before he ever saw her—he saw her ittle head nestling on that man’s heart, exactly as it had lain so often on his, ' = He had come unawares upon the pair; they had hot su his Min ghd he had caught them at last in one of many such interviews, doubtless, “Fool!” snarled Jona with a bitter curse to quattty. the epithet, ‘did ye thin ye could get her rom me, after all’s been atween us?” Derwent seemed to be struck into stone. Fora few minutes he did nothing but stand gazing at the pair as if he would never move hiseyesagain, Ss Alast he said in a strange, heart-struck voice: _ Md at do you not know then that that woman is. my wife?’ No, Jonathan had not dreamed it, and the news _ struck him dumb in his turn; and Derwent mistook the flerce contortion of his features for a devilish grin of derision, and, struck to the very heart of his. pride and his love, believed the very worst. : “For seven months that. vile t you holdto — your vile heart has been my lawfully-wedded wife.” ** And as good as mine,” put in Jonathan, inspired by Satan. “‘Iseo,” said the aristocrat, writhing as much. with humiliation as with grief—‘‘she married mae ¥ \ 1 es 7 UF ) * » ‘ ioe ' y ASS ’ rt ngs ry Lae ees ae - in. 5 “~~ * es
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¥ Ean 22 coiled from its love at the first breath of suspicion— Jonathan could have yelled with laughter at the ma- niaral folly of the man. \/as that all he understood of Ada Rivers’s pure na- ture yet, and she his wife too? Why, even Jona- ore dull-witted, clod-hopper Jonathan, knew better than that All right. Since the Englishman’s coaay peice ‘stood sé much his friend, he would take advan- tago of his opportunity; Derwent might come back any moment, and examining details, discover his own idiocy. Let Jonathan put the capstone on helpless Ada’s omy. ; ; - He snatched up the first WEEP, wound the slight form in it, and strode through the lonely lanes and starless night to his own house. ered glared at the apparition with eyes starting from their sockets. She thought Jonathan had mur- dered Ada for rage, having discovered that she had married Derwent, Patty had known of this marriage; she it was who had ed it and made it possible; she it was who had talked over the simple-h 1 old schoolmaster to let the young folks come into their happiness first _~ as well as d_ made it seem only prudent to keep it secret until Derwent dared announce his mar- riase to the proud old father at home, to which end he was improving little Ada’s education and man- ners, so as to present her a well-bred lady-whoso beauty and modesty might commend her to the pa- . trician father, Pi And now, what was this? ) eee Re! a few muttered sentences Jonathan told the : it" to a6 vi laid the unconscious girl down, turned on his sister pee with an expression that well-nizh petrified her. “What was he going to do with the girl?” He was going to fix it so that Derwent would de- sert her, and then he was sna, Se marry her him- self. He guessed there were chances for ere 8 (3) r Patty flercely asked him what ae was going with the girl now? Then Jonathan, having divorce when he wanted it for her; meanwhil Patty mind how she meddled, except to holp. as sure as she did, and Derwent came back to Ada he, *) pene s would shoot Derwent if all the world was loo on, _ Patty trembled and swore obedience, It was her one terror that he would find out her part in the Bim, 9s in’ vain So néd s tua on, - A -week passed, and affairs stood thus. Otto Derwent was off to England, convinced of his ead ree . Rivers, with whom Otto had _ held a terrible interview, was lying unconscious at _ his home, struck down with sis at the terror [omaeg +s (04 eof his accusations, __ ~- . Jonat waited for the ripening of his scheme, . 8 m every soul the hiding-place of A whom CY Wnpeotie believed now to have sloped arth Damron, Patty was rising from the ashes once more into her old crafty, determined self; and C “ways and means of getting the unwel- come © out of Jonathan’s clutches. ate ‘ with vain appeals, and crushed b & A rebodings, cowed under fate, callous to any res: i We . When Derwent was beyond recall, Jonathan dared into his viectim’s presence, and explained matters. ~ He told her that Derwent had come to her home < that night just as she fainted, and furiously order- EA ¥ ed him out of the house; that he had answered te -™; hotles Hast there had ensued a fierce quarrel, dur- - * ing which Derwent had tried_to shoot him; that i they had then gone out some half a mile into the - woods to have the duel out; that. at the moment ¥ ee e's him instantly; that the quarrel was droppe __. in the horror of the accident, and both men ran down to the road and saw the man was a stranger; that he, Ji counseled Derwent to carry * the horse’ head | sis naman ss Derwent a belated traveler was passing along | . __the invisible road in his sulky—a two-wheeled, one- aes 1d wagon; that the ball went through his head . : ; - ~*~ it. | She felt her heart die within her; she saw the whole fabric of her admiration and belief in her } Slee husband smitten to the very dust. He had | killed a man—that would have been nothing | but a bitter, never-to-be-forgotten trouble, to be shared by his wife to the end, however dark that ; end might be; but to turn coward, to stoop to a | base deception, to abandon the victim of his poe as! her hero lay slain before her, and | had he approached her at that moment, soft and tender as she had ever been, and passionately as she had adored him, all the scorn in her nature would have lashed out to taunt and sting him, and to drive him from her sight forever. ; After that it mattered little that he had fled, not even taking time to return to his home to bid an eternal farewell to the innocent wife who had loved him so. She never heard Jonathan’s hypocritical excuses for the absent murderer; his crawling ex- cuses, such as—‘* Poor fellow, he éould not help his nature, which was not bold and rugged like my own: doubtless the thought of his proud family in England made him a little more of a coward thar he would otherwise have been; the suddenness and the first impulse,” etc., etc., oh, miserable, abject cowardice. how was it you could have lurked in Otto’s heart all this time, unsuspected? The young wife’s loving tears dried on her burn- cheeks; her torn heart throbbed high with dis- dain; in that hour her nature so changed that she was able to live the long, lonely life which lay be- fore her, without one yearning effort to communi- eate with her husband, although she knew his ad- dress porfectly well. Jonathan then explained that he had carried her that night home to his own house, fearing to leave her a prey to anxiety on Derwent’s account, when he did not appear the next day; and her inquiries might have set the village people to looking after him; he had also_fea to let any explanation be made to her until Derwent’s rare was secured, and he was really on his way to Britain. She listened no more; but witha strange, bitter dignity thanked him for the trouble be had been at, and asked him to leave her. Jonathan did so, satisfied that the old love was already cast out of her heart, and chuckling over the luck he had had in his choice of falsehoods which would keep these two separate. time work a little now, he would yet win her, But. that night Ada, with the eager assistance of Patty, fled from Addiscombe. Patty had got her her few valuables, and all the money Derwent had eee 3 on the schoolmaster’s table for his unfaithful wife; so Ada was independ- ent. Jonathan could not credit her departure. What! would she abandon her old father? : His hurried to the schoolmaster’s home ex- plained her unfilial conduct. The old man lay dead; his withered hands clasped LS lag his poor old broken heart: there were ayes like diamonds glittering on his forehead. The wretched daughter had left her last kisses and tears on the dead face of her only, her last, her ever true and faithful friend; she had nothing to linger for, So then a whole year passed, and Jonathan, grown blacker-hearted, weary of wandering, foun: at Loangerie, sewing lace, ~ She was known there as Mrs. Rivers, a widow, and she had a little daughter six months old. Jonathan boldly explained his wishes. He could get her a divorce from her murderer-husband, a rfectly satisfactory divorce, thanks to the flexible ws of some of the States; and then he would be willing to marry her, in spite of all that had been said and done, , ‘ The Ps ety at | looked him in the face and bade him go, leave hor in peace. He retired for that time, disconcerted, but hope- ful; and he hung about the little town and was al- ways in her path. She got restive, and seeking him out one day, told him with sco: bitterness that he was only wasting his time; she never would con- sider herself free from Otto Derwent until she heard of his death. , Then Jonathan’s patience fled; he first pleaded and besought, lover-fashion; at last he threatened and and she told him that she loathed him, and always would. So then he saw that all was in vain, and his love turned on theinstant to perfect madness of hatred, as it is apt to do in a bad heart, and the malignance of his feelings soon showed him the way to torture her. He found out that the secret terror of her life was that her husband would be arrested. Jonathan grinned like a very demon to himself as he saw a way to avenge his fancied wrongs upon the helpless woman; to oven his wrongs, and to sp: the | vengeance ever all her life. | He assured her that he would himself denounce Derwent for the manslaughter unless she handed ‘him the exact half of her little earnings, won | through close hard work at her lace-pillow. Poor soft soul, she had never thought of investi- Jonathan’s story; she had only shrunk too sensitively from the details of the su Seer murder; whereas had she been shrewd enoug’ seek for the dead man she would have discovered the fraud and saved herself from all the tragedy of her nineteen - gatin well, and bis base sacrifice of her whom he had sworn to love and cherish through bad and good but she could not quite crush pack her auguleli at thought of him dragged from his proud to9 : N - enough to do what he threatened, and she bent her back only too eagerly under the crushing burden he placed upon it. ’ Jonathan returned to his dreary home in Addis- combe, a moody, dark-humored man, who eould not look honest folk in the face, but repelled every soul who ventured near him, until not a neighbor ever stepped inside his gloomy door, and who abused his infirm old sister Patty, until she was obliged to leave him, and totter down her declining years in loneli- ness and indigence, so that the time came when she wese et Ce of vain HN ig that she had ever ~ anythin e@ way 0 marrying poor, pretty, ood Ada Rivers, who would have made, oh, such a ifference in these brother and sister’s lives, And in this utter isolation Jonathan was able to receive the miserable wriuginee of Mrs. Derwent’s very life, the half of her tiny, tiny winnings; he, the rich farmer, with enough and tospare to support a large family. And so devilish was the man’s nature that he used to gloat over these few coins with explosions of half- crazy laughter in the silence and desolation of his empty home, so that the pegs hurrying by, soon convinced each other that Jonathan Brade was mad, It seemed such & rich joke to him; oh, wasn’t he serving the pier minx out for her insolence in re- jecting him : j Wasn't he fooling her? And this was where the half of all that Monica and her mother could earn, had gone all these years—as hush-money to keep the husband who had abandoned her safe out of prison, Ah, pure, faithful heart that could not condone crime, and yet could die by inches in the unsus- pected service of the criminal, was it not a bitter ate that your sweetness and your youthful beauty ge upon you? But no man could live in such a pit of loathsome baseness and remaina man. Jonathan Brade got more and more wicked as the years went on, until he committed a crime which the law clutched him for, and so he came in contact with Messrs. Korner and Price, and then fell mortally ill in the Tombs, New York; and so made his confession, and they began to try to lift the ban off the long-oppressed Mrs. Derwent. The one thing Jonathan porroeey, held back was the whereabouts of his victim. He had no will, even on his death-bed, that she should benefit by his en- forced confession, and he died with the secret un- broken, consequently the lawyers were obliged to advertise as we have seen, Yes, Jonathan Brade, the wicked pee to of Ada Rivers’s life, died impenitent six months before his ae ‘died, and tothe end she never learned the CHAPTER XXII. . A RAT IN THE TRAP. vale On _ the evening of that same day, Geoffrey and Mr. Price were back at Toby’s cottage, t Mo- nica the details of their fruitless investigations. “They did not go near the railway station at Linnhe,” said Geoffrey, ‘‘ but were seen on the Kamp Road; at least a close carriage drawn by two thor- oughbreds which some peasants swear to belong to my uncle’s stables, was seen at dawn this morning slowly going along the Kamp Road, toward Millver- ton, a railway station twen' south. I tele- pp tc and received the answer that no such i ad arrived there. I have come back to do what should have done at first, only I ceive us—to wring the truth out of Vulpino,” ** Will he tell it?” shuddered Monica. . Toby, who had paid one 'y to the ill-favor- rege sier for the of fetching him su coarse food as he thought he deserved. “An’ the d n’t ramp an’ tear more vicious,” recorded Toby, with an enjoyable as he tramped by the ‘bridle of Master Geot- rey’s palfrey; “he had most filed through that there dog-chain on the bricks, an’ id ha’ bin off in another hour. Lord! one ‘ud think he hed the Bank o’ England at his fingers” ends, by his offers,” And the stanch old fellow chuckled at the reminis- cence of ce! smart transactions of his with the reigns with the utmost then loftily repudiating the ete trust; soko £ t to ls Arriving at the scene of Monica’s sary the came n the lank, tawny Italian, asleep in hi bonds, from sheer exhaustion. He was no pleasant sight in his haggard sleep, his clothing and dusty, where he had violently rolled himself about the bare floor, and the ugly distortion of pain and a still on his pale and sweat-glistening features. the two men ie into the room, han had time to observe this picture, before Vulpino started so with a snarling cry, and sitting on the floor, a at Geoffrey with far more of menace than en- reaty. “* Hobene—have bonds?” he groun the oe to mock me in dese out. “On the contrary,” said Geoffrey, “I have come ‘to offer you freedom, and a chante to expiate the injuries you have done my uncle and Miss Rivers. It entirely depends on yourself whether you leave this place us, or are left to endure a rv- ed solitude until I have the time to punish you. And
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mete last he said jlence, st he said: ing Dere is no alternatif; I submit. W’at you ex- ct-a of me.’ Pe The truth,” answered oy: “and after it, our co-operation in saving the life of my uncle, if e be yet ae eres oe willing to purchase your dom on these terms?” : a is no help; I must,” muttered the prisoner, doggedly; ‘‘but w’at dese fools about dat dey do not search-a fore me—rescue me?’ e “That doesn’t sound as if they were far off, whispered the keen young lawyer in Geoffrey’s ear, “No,” said Geoffrey, ‘if he means the Marshalls. He turned on Vulpino with a threatening intensity. “You must assist us to save Mr, Derwent from the conspirators who want to take his life,” he said. “ And first, tell us, where have they taken him?” Vulpino posse chip in the air with an irrepress- rin of wi umph. me nd ok auepect-a noting? Ha! ha! ha! Vul- ino plans well, Bote—bote—ze time have come-a speak; dere is no help. Your signore, the Maes- tro of Derwent-a cies ey now in his own castle; he ver taken out of it.’’ wie What!” cried Geoffrey, astonished; ‘‘was that only a blind? d ame blind!” admitted Vulpino. ‘Ze signore is at dis moment hidden in ze old tower of ze castle, wis his three attendants, ze bloodthirsty brothers, and ze beautiful leetle Jezebel, Signorina Godiva. He no more sick dan I, bote dey makes hina tink he dying; an’ so he weel, vera, vera queek, ‘less I am ik dere to save-a him.” 5 - as off with you and verify this rogue’s state- ment; it will be the worse for him if he as lied to us. Vulpino, tell him how to obtain ingress. “Dat he cannot; not widout me,’ maintained the Italian, grimly. ‘‘ Nobody is expected bote Vulpino, and nobody except Vulpino will enter. Take-a me h; und den— : vend then you will betray us into the hands of ur accomplices! No, thank you!” cried Price, erpccitie his shoulders. Come, old chap, you mustn’t take us for idiots; be merciful to your own hide and play fair. Meantime, while you are mak- ing up ear mind to the unaccustomed agony of telling the truth, I shall amuse myself going through our pockets, hoping to come across a key or two that may be useful. ’ Mr. Price was as good as his word, and in spite of the crestfallen Italian’s gnashings of teeth and bale- ful glares, thrust his nimble hands into every pocket about the captive, producing several of the large brazen keys of the Weald for his trouble. Vulpino saw that he was helpless, and made up his pind to turn his coat. “Dere is no use,’ he said to Geoffrey, sullenly, *¢{ go over on your side. Only you promise me dat I go free venever your uncle be restored to you.” ‘That I promise solemnly,” said Geoffrey; ‘ but be must be restored both in body and in health, else hold you responsible. sf Ha! dat makes a deeferent story, muttered Vul- pino, uneasily, ‘dey hev ze medicines, und are so— 80 impatient—un d I haf note been dere—he may be . dead.” ‘Geoffrey uttered a cry.— Bote no,” Vul- ino went on, anxio enough, now that his own ife was imperiled; “‘dey must be waiting for me; dey were atraid to leave traces; gentlemen, I must go to ze Weald if you wants ze life save, Imust.go at once. I promise you fidelity, w’at else can I—? ( webth me, dat you may do; I swear fair play. There was no time to be lost, and no other way. to trust the Italian, who, indeed, them since his accom- me t. Relie him of his weapons, then of his bonds, and Renting him with a hearty pull at Mr. Price’s capacious et-flash, the three set off for the Weald, w they reached about ten of the night. Cauti picketing the horse and gig out of he y trio Waar tine h one of the archways, one of the ancient the rest of the pile by a hundred feet, the Italian, his pra) up Ces ‘nursed by ze wovely y ze kserew round und round in ze interior of he fiiteon-foet thick wally we aell, mount ze ruined er und see ze master unsuspe me.’ votney followed him into the pitch-dark serean, and up the giddy wind of broken and dust-chok steps. Arrived at last on a tiny tri ding, ted them by a touch, and softly drew bac he arres OT xex : vea @ narrow slit-window, which oe, poaerein a view of the interior instead ior. othe 2 Bagge now looking down into a small, octazonal chamber, whose occupants were. the Fae of momnceh ess upon a , an itt him, half shrouded by the faded Doeade cuttare with her head down on the little table, either asleep or brooding. F “Thank God,” whispered Geoffrey involuntarily, “he is yet alive;” and he pored over the domestic tableau, scarcely able to a. its sinister reality. “And where may the two men be?’’ whispered ‘l / dey do not shut demselfes up in dis gloomy lace-a, except to take turns in ze watch,” returned Saipine: ‘dey leef in ze best rooms in ze house, an’ dey drinks ze wines for amusement. Ze vrettv “ | “AN AMERICAN QUEEN. signorina, she know notsing bote dat ze onclé must be hid from strangers in his dog-madness,”’ Vulpino, however, was wrong here, as Geoffrey took care to whisper to ie Ti admiring gaze was fastened to t lovely eface with rather a perilous ardor. Godiva Montacute was just as guilty as the broth- ers, and shared all their secrets. Monica had told him of her interview with Jasper in the woods. The three descended to the co ard to hold counsel. It had been Geoffrey’s first and natural intention to rush openly to the rescue of his uncle and the pun- ishment, of his enemies, but another idea had oc- curred to him since Vulpino’s enforced alliance. As yet the conspirators had not actually done anything which would give him a hold on them; and the closer he looked into their schemes the more monstrous they showed, and the more worthy of a full and terrible expiation. Would it not be possible to manage matters so that he could leave them to execute the full measure of their villainy, or to sup- se that they had done so, he meantime preservi is uncle’s life; and then, catching them red-hand punish them according to their intentions? A very short discussion, into which the wily Ital- ian interjected some of his natural craft and intrigue, decided Geoffrey to have recourse to stratagem, to trap the conspirators into showing their ein its entirety. Vulpino proposed to disguise Geoffrey so completely that he could brave the closest inspec- tion, and making the excuse that the close of Derwent’s illness (which was caused altogether by the poison he been firing him) would be too ape to be watched by Mi ontacute or the bro- hers, present him in the character of a nurse from Kondon, one of his own confidential tools whe would penduck the final tragedy. 8 hied him to one of the ancient armories which s in all its carven ee in a forgotten gallery, and shortly afterward emerged, clad in an obsolete suit of olive green livery, padded and sha: to repre- sent theform of an awkward, obese old fellow, his well-dyed face almost covered with _terrier-like whiskers and beard, and a pair of bristling ye. p relgeaal eyebrows shading the youthful flash of his rk eyes. What with this disguisement, a cleverly acted in- firmity of gait, and a high, wheezing voice, Geoffrey ht have defied the recognition of his own mother she been alive to gaze at him. Vulpino looked him over sharply, ed tacit a proval, and casting aside all care and caution, boldly age ee with him through the echoing corridors to the luxurious suite of apartments in which the brothers were wiling away the time of waiting fora dead man’s shoes, by the aid of occasional b and spirituous consolations unlimited. Upon the Italian’s appearance there rose a cry of inquiry at his protracted absence, and of astonish- ment at his companion. “Tt is right—all a-right, signori,” declared Vulpi- no, clapping his bony claw on Geoffrey’s shoulder as he spoke; “‘thees is an assistant moche needed; I ’av’ sent-a to ze London for him, because he was re- quire. Ze end weel be—ah, you weel not want to see it—but he—'tis notsing to Meester Barber, eh, amico?” and he leered confidentially at his pretend- ed aps. Ped meres a aig urn habit, and merely n » grun reply. A few more S lanitichs served to satisfy the brothers that all was right, and then they ask wathe ae tones and uneasily shifting eyes, w, 7) rl? A quick shrug of the shoulder, a grimace, and a faint smile, convinced them that Vulpino had dis- of Miss Rivers, alias Derwent, the new-found ughter and heiress, according to’ agreement; they both turned frightfully pale, and fell dead silent for some time. ¥ “ Well, what’s done can’t be undone,” muttered Rufus at last, as if in answer to some mental com- punction; “ you’re sure it is well concealed?” te » you mean? Si, si, w’at else! Ahime! una bella donna—pretty creature she was, too, ahi! ahi!’ lamented the Italian. “‘And him—how long?’ faltered Rufus, averting his g face, and vainly trying to clear the ner- vous huskiness out of his craven tones. “Vera queeck; bote Barber, he must be sole nurse now,” sai Ao Seer “as for ze sweet donna Godiva, w’at she doing’ dai fearful presence? Pore cheeild, w’y blast her memory wees such agonies?” You were so long gone, we had to let her re- lieve us,’ mumbled Gavaine the burly, whose mus- cular body represented all the strength and courage he possessed, his soul quaking miserably at every Gapger or painful sight, arber weel now relieve her,” announced Vul- pino, calmly; ‘‘he has his instructions, He and I - weel do all now. As fore you three, I say, go away from zis place, hide you some-a-w’ere, dat you can ibi, eh, in case of t’ings onexpect happen- rove Ing?” he craven pair leaped at this chance for ete Sit th nursing a bo; Mr. Der- went, of pad aty Rms, die, and of taking rie sealed re- To Geoff Ea d displeasure, Vulpin 'o Geoffrey’s an s ta) decreed that Godiva should oN in the Canto pouring forth a voluble list of wherefores, not one of which could hold water when analyzed. “What, in Heaven’s name, can he be at?” un- easily wondered Geoffrey, when he went down to the court-yard in the gray of dawn to report pro- sto young Price, who was his go-between to onica. “Don’t ye see?” ed the omniscient lawyer; ‘he’s in love with the large, soft-furred, we result of these conferences was, that lig ete ) —— =~ ed white cat, and can't endure the agony of parting from her.” ‘Nonsense! Why, she shudders at him. I saw her do it once to-night when he asked to feel her pulse, fearing she had watched too long.” : ; “And th only whets his passions,” returned Price, chuckling; “and he’ll win her, too, in_ spite of ali her shudderings and of her dainty paws; and yet, there are men who don’t believe in retributive justice!” CHAPTER XXIV. ‘THE WAY OF THE TRANSGRESSOR IS HARD.” Rourvs and Gavaine Marshall supposed themselves to be murderers, and Vulpino the Italian to be their accomplice and instrument. They believed that the new-found daughter of Otto Derwent had perished of starvation by their command; and that Otto Der- went was Aying by their command—their command : as executed by Vulpino, The natura A was that at present Vul- pino was master, and they his slaves; and what he oe ete they perforce must do, be it obvious in ts ee ae his ordering them off to Paris dur- ing the death-agony of Derwent, that in case of the worst they might be able to prove an alibi, or inscru- table and vexatious, like his fiat that Godiva should remain at the Weald. Rufus, hopelessly in love with her, despite the, somber guilt in which aml both were wading neck deep, felt the world doubly watchful and glaring when thrust into it without her brave, clever front to disarm antagonism and dissipate suspicion; then ain the man had kissed her lovely false mouth as *: hg kisses, and the poison of her spell was in his ood. It was mpre terrible to him to part from her than to contemplate the torturing See os Monica—and © this last eontenapataan sometimes well-nigh over whelmed him with terror, pity, and remorse. : But pulgin, who knew aap could bring de- cemotien he Reng pam ears With a whisper—he ad ordain € lovers must part for the pres- pot fa pr me disobey. or Gavaine, his coarse nature, which would have carried him through any scene of brute vio- lence, quailed and cowered in abject fear and fore- | boding before the half-vailed tragedy which was : Bring salen, worked at the command of himself and brother; like most brainless col as, was superstitious; and during this season of horri- ble intentions and cautious workings of them out, he never slept but to see strange visions, coarsely eae oe Se by his beast-imagination; or walked but to loll about the ruined chambers, eaten up of peevish discontent and ennui, and nervously: afraid of every sound or sight that obtruded upon his miserable moods. owt Of course he plunged into such comfort as seas of wine and brandy could give him, stupefied his already clouded senses, and only wish get dead drunk ancuge to sleep : to make e, rh e dreadful plot which was the grass on those two graves .. ’ 9 h only awaking to find th en—all the buzz of rumor over, and a soft, silver- ed nest waiting him to ae the _ Vulpino received a maudlin glance of tite. eos from Mr. Gayaine’s moist dull eyes as he: his “ command—Gavaine would have journeyed 1 ie to Iceland to escape the grim vigils he and his brother had been keep over their victim. And then, he was not in love with Godiva Montacute, om 4 the contrary, he sometimes almost hated her, sus- yet ‘sacri killing fellow he was, and dsomel . He never could have comprehended the fierce | self to reward their crimes ‘by anernying uf er brain now her heart ogee and ] p oom. e never } her out er (0 Goh fl nearview of her tious foots of stairway of the ancient tower, to join sick ing han ped, without a en ark clasp th a e he creep out beneath their I touch; his eager | smiled love into her own even over the d to do to the death; urning eyes, that always looked their best when resting upon her— from, and snatched hers ray 6 from the compli ment of meeting them, and her heart would stand still, and her 7 prow rigid, her veins fill and dayved he kiss her ips, as he had a right to do . she nob venturing to withstand him bt i , & fierce blaze = would flash out from her whole being, as it were, and . re she would tremble a little, growing very pale; and at such times, while the purblind lover was gloating —__ over all these maiden manifestations of his power, and accounting for them of course b: contraries’ her glance would flicker off to the knife gliste on the invalid’s tray, or to the poison vials on the commode, and then she would wrench herself back to the inevitable present, and enact the jiancee. ; And when Vulpino came to her, announeing the proposed departure of the brothers, and formall roqurating her to remain as the hostess of hi and his man Barber, her beautiful, jewel-like eyes flashed up one involuntary gleam of relief, which left the Italian panting and pale, and she sunk deeper into the down-cushioned chair with a great sigh of rest and peace. ced
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aa t € - : : 2 7a) a yaad $s ry a Poke eed bis introduc bend of ak to his com - @ gasp, as one suddenly — love-sick ~ "to ae tees AN AMERICAN Q Barber could not help turning long, sorrowful bait-incredulous looks upon the Vous Woy who had aevenres such feartul qualities. For many of their childis qa these two had lived together; and, al- though Geoffrey had never in the least cherished a remantic affection for Godiva, he bad warmly ad- mired her beauty, spirit, and wit; believing, as all true-hearted men do, that his girl comrade was far beyond him in goodness and purity. Of late years he had not seen her often, and upon the occasion of his recent meeting with her under the oaks of his uncle’s Weald, she had puzzled and offended him; first, by the sickly softness of her manner, which he | little suspected to be a trap to catch his love; and | next, by a something hard and coarsely shrewd in | her counsel to him to outwit the new favorites of his uncle for sake of that uncle’s wealth. Monica’s | horrible revelations of Godiva’s complicity in the brothers’ plots, had dashed his old-time comrade forever from her pedestal; but yet, seeing her again in all her rich and flawless beauty, with power seat- ed on her noble forehead, genuine sensibility shinin from her eyes, and all grace and delicacy expressed in attire and attitude, it seemed perfectly incredible | that she could scheme murder, and patiently work the lingering tragedy out. What! Fo women droop over the men they mean to kill, with gentle hands‘ready to minister to their comfort, and listening ear bent to catch the labored breath, as Godiva is doing over Mr. Derwent at this very moment? Could she actually sit hour by hour _ by his pillow, rendering him all the pitiful services which proud man’s extremity calls for from woman the ministering angel since the world began? Could she hear his faint; delirious babble about all that had gone to make up his life, his friends, his politi- eal opinions, his houses, domains, and favortte horses—ay, his loyes, too, that long-lost and dead Ada, who had exhausted the fountain of his lover- love, and then proved false as Jezebel;—Geoffrey gallant, merry Geoffrey, brave Geoffrey, who, of all the world, was the only one worthy to wear the name and own the lands of a Derwent;—yes, and even her Own name was murmured, wistfully, in- quiringly, with sighs at the something incompre- hhensible which warned him ‘not to trust her—with low-spoken, shamed blame of her unwomanly bold- ness in declaring her love for himself unasked—yet always with gentle, protecting care for her welfare; —coukl va Montacute sit by, bearing all this, and still cherish the hope of his eet death at the hands of herself and her accomplices? /True-hearted Geoffrey felt sick at the monstrous thought. | He told himself that it would be the kindest, most merciful thing a friend of this wretched girl’s could do, to slay her as she sat, ere she had imbrued those white girlish hands in the blood of her benefactor; ere she had stee her maiden soul in the red mur- _ der-tide, which all the fires in hell might not burn clean again. : All the night Godiva had not opened her mouth to after her first et ting to the Italian, on upon yor Vulping had Lert get in Wesege pd the 0 conce ac € 0. gs, us he gathered up all the Goria paraplicrnalia of his } ng systems and re ‘them with peas apts and tonics; and she had looked her relie elight when she heard that the brothers | sre 0 leave the Weald. But for the most ad bent over the sick man’s my eyes fastened on his ghastly face, y seeming to LOS gary Roar yet so intensely > ev t breath of his, or quiver of the re- that when he suddenly yee his and fixed them solemnly upon hers, she uttered plunged into icy waters— 2 a onate movement toward i oe would embrace him—then drew back a wild £2) , & eee E eyes him from head to foot, and castin appeal toward the man whom Vulpino had ; to conduct her victim through the last dread death-journey. was absent; he was €' d inh the brothers off to France; he not trust the Rufus out of his sight until he had him train for Dover. , step at once to the bed- aboard the morning Geoffrey alias gazed into his uncle’s dim and Bi je, and anxiously eS. ' what at a& of the true and tender heart id he witness the fees flin of those once ty © now strained and blood-shot by the <ysms : of 5 ical agony through which the three years ago, when he rejected her love. Geoktrey 's disguise was too complete for his uncle penetrate, an {25 truculent-looking head and at the brown hands, dear, hot-hearted, ing thro the ry of those for whose sakes cast them even now, with scorn and aversion would with cheerfulness have laid — young re to eve him; he ut- Sam cry 0 and remonstrance, the te meaning to and to assure him in Ta ) lieve that he could and would rescue him from these wretches who had be- iar rt she kept | pillow and her | tray ed hi hing | im, and that he had never done an to ! forfeit his love, and was worthy to serve ee now and always. Y But Derwent, never dreaming of the presence of a friend in this stranger, supposed the worst; and, en- feebled though he was, f the ancient race he came of boiled up at what he sup- osed to be a dastardly attack; and, with a shout Tike a general on the battlefield, he leaned up to his knees in the bed, and, his spectral face flashing princely wrath and contempt, his shriveled hands u in a noble fencing attitude, he held his supposed ad- versary: at bay right antly. Godiva, believing the end at hand, stood a mo- ment, shrieking and shrinking, mad with fear that her victim’s blood was to flow in her presence; then she darted out at the door, and into her room— chosen like the rest in the ruined part of the man- sion, for better concealment of her presence at the Weald; and here she dropped on her knees beside her bed cramming the antique, musk-smelling cover- let of embroidered silk into her mouth to choke her cries of ungovernable horror—yet steeling her | wicked heart—yes, in the bas 4 midst of its natural anguish steeling it against the clamorings of her | heart to go and save her benefactor even yet—or to die with him. Her cries brought Rufus, whose ear was ever open to hear her voice--brought him running from the room where he and Gavaine were eating a traveler’s breakfast—to hammer urgently on her door, im- ploring her “for God’s sake to say what was the matter—was Derwent—had the new man—”’’ etc., etc.; nothing but incoherencies coming from his whitened lips, after all. Godiva let him knock and let him implore, while she fought down her terrible agitation, and reason- ed that if Derwent really was—zone, now there would be no going away of the brothers, no respite from this hideous love-making—nothing put riveted chains henceforth; also, that if she gave no satis- factory excuse for her cries, Rufus would obstinate- ly stand there at her door until she went to him and calmed his love-sick soul and rewarded his solici- tude with an amorous interview; so she swept up her ‘wonderful tawny mane with one fierce clenched hand, skewering it with a long sharp steel arrow which she unconsciously thrust through the delicate skin of her scalp, never feeling the wound in her wild excitement; then, seeing in her mirror how hard her face had gro ard how glaring and evil her eyes, she tossed a flossy white illusion scarf over her head, Gearing 3 about her paie haggard cheeks, so | as to soften their rigid lines; and so unlocked her | door, and keeping it so that her lover could uot ee her, peeped out at him with a faint, reassuring Smile, “Forgive mie for startling you, dear,” she said, | kindly; “I believe I’ve sat looking at Aim too long. | I feel all unstrung—nervous—hysterical. He woke and looked at me, and—and—I could not bear it—” she could not press back the cohvulsive sob here, for oh, his eyes had looked into hers so solemnly, so anpes ly; and—ch God ! was he dead now—dead ? “Poo ove!’’ faltered Rufus, anguish in his heart for he truly loved this ill-fated woman who had come to him through crime—and what man, howso- ever wicked, can endure the sight of her sweet hands. soiled with guilt? ‘Poor love, would to GodI ha kept all this from you—would to God I had gone through it alone, or—or never ouget of it at al—” “Don’t! Don’t say that!” she cried, with sudden shrill despair, for was it not too late—eternally fixed —no back any more—and to whisper com- unction now /—“‘if you want to kill me, or craze me, Pik of repentance now. Oh! Oh!” She went back into her room in a wild way, trying to check the cries of agony which would burst from her betrayed ‘soul; for it is Nor-true. that men and women who have head to reason and heart to feel can sin without remorseful ish; it must be a semi-idiot who -could; and especially to plot deliberate murder—a double murder, as had been done; oh, poor, quiver- ‘ing, anguished soul of doomed Godiva, why were your throes not enough to soften that t will of hers, which even now could not bring itself to accept defeat, hee Bed contrition, and welcome re- Sibeten and e tion? ufus, carried out of himself by her vehemence, her distress, and the near sorrow of separation fora time, ventured in after her, and catching her in the center of the room, encircled her writhing form with eager arms, and sought to press her head to his breast; but she thrust him from her fiercely, cryi out words that pierced his very soul with grief an terror. “Out of my sight, murderer ’’ she raved, prudence, calculation, all forgotten save the flame which was consuming her; ‘it matters nothing that Iam as ty as you—do I not abhor myself?—ah! I could army own vile heart out with these hands, and trample down its hateful throbbings! And you ex- pect.me to love you—you, the low hound, the ew7, who could work upon a poor, proud-spirited girl’s evil passions to win yourself wealth—who could—” She stopped; Vulpino was on the threshold, his black eyes giecmerne green with jealousy and daring exultation; he had heard her last bitter words; and Rufus’s convulsed countenance corroborated the sinner ff ber, denunciation; Rpt be y cateah A om man imse: yg. deer ufus, and whisper- ed in his ear with a fr endly look: : “Foolish lover, do you not-a see dat yore donna amica is distract, dat you oppress her weeth love- makings now? Leave her weeth no addio; she weel sigh fore you to-morrow, repenting of her cruelties to-day. ae weeth you, brave amico.” id he gently p e reluctant swain from the lady’s room, softly closing the door upon her hysterical sobs and moans. ‘ t Five minutes afterward she heard the Lara of wheels on the stones below. and hurrying to look \ nS pee a ~_ + iesrmita ! poe blood of the | down, saw the brothers driving away witha couple of valises strapped to the back of the fly. “ And that’s the last of you,” she muttered, laugh- ing wildly. CHAPTER XXVI, AT LAsT! MEANWHILE uncle and nephew had surmounted all mystifications, and were holding each other tightly by the hand, and ponring forth their pent-up hearts as men so seldom do to each other, preferring the soft sympathy of emotional womankind, which does not criticise or smile at a man’s loving weakness, But these two had always loved each other dearly, noble heart responding to noble heart; and this rare and perfect love it was which had so imbittered them one against the other, when each suspected treachery in the other—* What! have I been deceiv- ed in him all along, and is his love of me of a baser | quality than mine? Ah! how he must have been | young man was so stro laughing at my foolish tenderness, the devil incar- nite! “For outraged love makes fiercest hate, and the torn heart strives to see the traitor henceforth in his blackest colors, as some bitter indemnity for the precious treasure heretofore wasted upon him. “Uncle, look at me, your own miserable boy!’* cried Geoffrey, tearing at his false outside in the frantic endeavor to show his uncle the dear reality beneath. ‘“‘I'm Geoffrey, your own poor, broken- hearted boy, come back to you, dear, hope—I ho in time to save you from these fiends!’ And, he stopped in the middle of the work of destruction, pd a perforce, for the man who had driven him forth jn his vain and empty pride of race, to take to his bosom in his stead a brood of loathsome reptiles who had well-nigh stung him to death, had tig ee his warlike attitude, and, with a strange ery, had fallen forward on his breast, arms clinging round his neck, face pressed down close, close upon his heart, sobbing and shaking like a loving girls the haughty Derwent all unmanned, cee ene or shel- ter, weeping for love and remorse, in the fai arms of disinherited nephew. And the men were smitten dumb with great emo- tion. Each forgot the outer hardness due his man- hood, and let the other run deep into his long-yearn- ing and bereaved heart. e old man had been brought so low that this womanish fit—no fool could presume to hint that it dis and fearless in his will to rescue him, and so pitiful of his sufferings, that these falling tears, and manly lips pressed to the thin cheek of the sick man, and panting grief and fury, only proved him nobler, braver, kinder and kinglier, than any man had ever been before him, except, pore the knights like Sir Galahad of the Holy | hard harshness of the raal, or King Arthur himself, blameless and brave. k from his nephew, and sinking upon his pillows, fixed his eyes upon him with a mournful smile. ‘* My ay injured boy,” he said, so weak was his voice that Geoffrey was terrified, and looked wildly about for some restorative, “‘I need not ask your noble heart if it ean forgive my cruelty and folly, for you have come to me in my desperate extremity, and love that had never been outraged could do no more. And, brave ne ge if it can soften the a et me solemnly assure you that, black-hear false and evil-liver as I be- lieved you to be, I never succeeded in driving you uite out of my love; I pined for you, Geoffrey, ffrey! There were hours of isolation and lon ness when my whole soul cried out for you, whatev- er a had done—when I was lashed with remorse- ful forebodings that I had thrust you further eg a the road to destruction than your own vices oa done—when life seemed heavy and aimless, hideous to look back upon, meets to look forward to— and I could have welcomed death. And these de- mons worked upon all that was bad or weak in me— oh, fool! fool! to stifle the warnings of my, instinct and accept filth for the precious metal I had cast awa “Oh, now, hang it all! what’s the use of raking things up?” aeeiaicind Geoffrey, getting in his oar at last, and pi ates A hasti is uncle out of these waters of humiliation and self-reproach; “I never was the muff to harbor malice, ay I dare say was provoking enough about the little jade, Nell Wyvern, who surely was never worth the trouble she put between you and me, dear old man. And that reminds me to say that I never cared for her, really, you know, though I a it would be a rascal’s act to desert her at your bid, and not worthy But, after a long while, Derwent drew b: aced him; while the | ae ee old stock, for all she was @ poor . Geo paused in the full flow of his confessions, sudd ming aware, by the dark blood which ed uncle's pallid cheek that he was upon awkward ground, and for a moment looked foo enough, pulling his mustache and glowering at Der- went deprecatingly. He had quite forgotten Derwent’s early marriage with the American hig 3 girl, and subsequent de- sertion of her. As yet, he knew none of the partic- ulars of the matter, not having seen Monica since she had read Jonathan Brade’s confession; he only knew that his uncle had deserted Monica’s mother, although she was his lawful wife, and that Monica’s mission to England had been to avenge her mother’s wrongs. Derwent waved his pale hand after a dead silence, to bespeak Geoffrey’s attention. “T see, by your significant interruption of your story, and your embarrassment, that you have be- come acquainted with my marriage. Did Monica tell you?” He faltered a little as he pronounced her name, and averted his face un 3; he, too, was in the dark concerning long-lost wife, and knew not that she was innocent d and that ro was all that was left him of h daugh- anf / , : { ‘ - é
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NS 2 TAI SES a ae Me ety Ee ae EMRE, ROE TEBE ALA TS ee a Ty SPER a eee ee ae tf "Yes, uncle; Monica told me,” said Geoffrey, re- covering himself in the welcome p' t of c - pionizing the Ameri and antly brir- ming over with eager intelligence; “and if you only — knew all that sweet lady has braved, ay, and suffer- ed, in her efforts to save you, you would take her straight into your heart and worship her forever!" “ As my dear Geoffrey has done!’’ said Derwent, Jooking at him wistfully; “yes, she is very attrac- tive, and strangely courageous in her attempts to make acquaintance with me; and I do think she in- terfered in my defense that dreadful day in the ‘ood, when Rufus sent the mad — me; but why is she so interested? Who is she? My boy, I knew one Rivers before, she—was unworthy—” “No! no! that is impossible!” Geoffrey broke in, fee it unendurable to hear Monica’s mother so described; but his uncle, supposing him merely to be echoing the statements of a mercenary relative of his om pe wife, only shook his sadly and continued; ‘She was unworthy, Geoffrey; she wrecked my life when it was at its bia? prime; and she seemed as softly innocent and radiantly good as this young irl, who is, of course, some relative of hers, sent ere by—er—to make money out of the secret mar- ri which she probably supposes I have kept se- cret from far diiferent motives than the real ones,” “Uncle! I can’t hear you speak of that angel so!” almost shouted eget sik ae to his feet, and towering up in the mid le of the floor with clenched fists an venting nostrils, so hot was he in his idol’s defense; then, catching his uncle’s wan look of dis- tress and perplexity, and recollecting how much fuller and more perfect would the reunion be be- twcen father and daughter if he refrained from any disclosures now, and brought his angelic Monica to tell the tale herself, he crushed down his excitement, lifted his uncle’s wasted hand to his lips with a beautiful humble and loving grace, and said, gently: “Dear old man, forgive my violence, I have only this excuse, that, when, you know all that I know about that sweet American queen, you will love me better still for standing up for her thus, Many things have happened, uncle, that you don’t know— when you do, you will never rest until—but, neyer mind; I drop the subject for the present; and in- deed I have most ge ye neglected your comfort of mind and body, my ill-regulated zeal. Dear Nunc, don’t look at me with that heart-sick expres- sion, as if you saw me in the horrid clutches of a Yankee sorceress. Suspend all judgment until you eg se this lady’s story. ill you not promise to do ‘ 7 - “Ah, m@ nerous, unsuspicious boy, what pow- er have you & stand the lures and wiles of a schem- ing woman?” sighed Derwent, almost revoking all the kindly half-belief he had to cherish secret- ly in the young girl who had hung over him with her ve pi Sandite ti her eyes, and anguish clearly ten on her front, when he lay, struck down by his heirs; for Derwent was @ man born of, and nur- tured by @ race gyre mt by centuries of distine- tion and honors conferred by the mighty of the land, in just award for its unblemished name and gallant services rendered to the king and country. CHAPTER XXVII. ; TWISTING THE TOILS, The blood of the Derwent was old before the Nor- man Conquest, and from its remotest annals not a neration passed without producing at least one scion of the house whose deeds could be fit strung upon the glittering rosary of valor and wort. which wound its dazzling way through scores of mammoth tomes, written in rude Latin by the friars of the house, centuries ago; and later, in Chaucer’s lish; later still, in Johnson's sounding diction; and now, in the smooth, flowing phraseology of the present day written by the scholarly young Etonian who filled the post ot secretary to the master of Dornoch-Weald, In this, the latest volume of the History of the, House of Derwent, two of the broad leaves were sealed together, and jealously re with the seal of the house, with the menacing motto: “Dare Not DERWENT.” These pages were written by the hand of Otto, the only surviving Derwent of the line, and no eye had as yet ever scanned them save his own. : They recounted the tragedy of his unwise and un- worthy ee - - The rest of career, aS chronicled in the open pages, was fbn and brilliant as befitted the de- . gscendant of such ancestors. He had fought with signal eed and victory for his country; he had * served her nob ele his intellect in his chair among the sta’ en; he was a power in the land. He had never stoo from his lofty pedestal of honor and a pure life, and had done noble good with his wealth; after all, had he not more rational cause for self-esteem than have the common herd, who, uninfluenced by the lives of more heroic natures as exemplified in their ancestors, lives as they may, ac- cording to their own dull capacities? Gran: this t of affairs as reasonable ex- cuse for Derwent’s conservatism, what more natural, nay, inevitable, than his shrinking reluctance to con- demn himself in the eyes of his compeers by publi- cation of his early mesalliance, after all that was sweet belonging to it had vanished, leaving only the blasting disgrace; or what more consistent than his shocked repulsion of the idea of his beloved Geof- core entanglement with a nobody like pretty Nell yv' of ern; or an American siren, soiled by the blood the traitor Rivers—like Monica, the mercenary agent of his vile wife Ada, whom he had always pic- tured for these nineteen years of sullen, dumb fury, in the home of his ignoble rival, Jonathan Brade, wing further and er out of bis toleration in e ne agg hee of her situation? So he | ned the strange, sweet American , ‘ % ~ ; ‘ ‘ ’ iia 3 . : 2° 7 TER eon es pag te Lar ae 5 Stee ANA - 3 7 na oe bien PEP maiden whom Geoffrey revéred above all women By the names of “siren” and “schemer,” and almost forgot her devotion to himself in the bitter Bei it pete him to see how Geoffrey shrunk and flushed rom the scornful epithets. But Geoffrey was wise; he resolutely changed the mee of discourse, leaving that mighty question in abeyance. 6 quietly and quickly explained the present state of matters; Vul tic had been bought over to undo do the mischief he had done; the Marshalls were hurrying away from the Weald in anticipation of his speedy death; Godiva was being held, Geoffrey explained, most likely as a sort of hostage for their return; and then he told of Monica’s sufferings. ‘Great heavens!” gasped Derwent, who had hung on Geoffrey's words with breathless attention from the moment when Monica’s name was introduced; “and she went through all that for me! For me, Geoffrey—I who have never spared her one kindly word! Oh, wHo is she?” he almost shouted. beboemeiahs 3 told of her lying helpless in Toby’s hut, eonsumed with.anxiety on her uncle’s account, ** When—can—she—come?”’ gasped Derwent,clasp- ing and unclasping his teokle tance in feverish im- patience. ‘“ Here? To see you?” said Geoffrey, secretly de- lighted; ‘oh, I hope to-morrow or next day. She’s dreadfully shaken, you know, and really ought to be shut up in a quiet place for a week or two, but she is so anxious about you that I prey we shall have to let her come whenever she is able.” “Geoffrey, oh, boy, is shé genrvine?” besought Derwent, tears rolling down his haggard cheeks; “‘avhy does she endure all this for me?” * T believe in her, uncle,’’ said Geoffrey, solemnly; * ond she will tell you the truth herself.” Presently Mr. Derwent was aeving acoeeney that deliverance had come too late, that he felt the hand of death upon him, and that he would never live to unravel this mystery. “ And, indeed, it Is a wonder that I have not felt the effects of the mad dog's bite before this,” he said, with a shudder whlch convulsed his whole be- ing, for his horror of this hideous peril which men- aced him was morbid, and almost enough in itself to kill an ordinary man. ‘ Then Geoffrey told him what Monica _ believed that the dog had not been mad, and that Rufus had only attempted to play upon his imagination. So ba was sal ps ‘he ng 7 conviction of oe truth, and inspi with new life, sprung up in sick bed almost well again. . , “She is right. I feel it!” he cried, joyfully. “I have not bad the faintest approach of the symptoms of hydrophobia, no pean dpe of nervous derange- ment, no muscular convulsions at the sight of fluids —nor mental excitation. Well, well, I need not holloa too loud yet; [ am by no means out of the wood. How much am I poisoned? Shall I ever throw off the effects and be a well man again? This horrible stupor in which they have kept me almost constantly seems to have sapped away my very heart-blood! And it isstealing uponme again. The excitement of seeing you has kept it off for a little while, but it is coming back! Oh, it drowns me ina Dee tneted aqObs reatloaly. toying 16 Aght Ok th e moved about restlessly, £ fe) C) exhausting drowsiness porkbel gd the unknown death-drugs which had been administered to him, and Geoffrey, sharing his anxiety, hurried away to find Rca that he might instantly begin to undo the mischief he had done. After some searching he met him entering the ruined tower from the court, where he had been seeing the Marshall brothers off, and dragging him hastily up-stairs, the critical work of counteracting the poison already consuming the vital forces of Mr. Derwent n. Vulpino worked his best and planned his wisest; his own safety hung on the recovery of his patient; and Geoffrey, securely hidden under the forbidding exterior of Vulpino’s London factotum, Barber, helped him and mounted guard over the patient; while Godiva. Montacute gradually banished from the sick room, waited moodily in her own hidden chamber for the fatal end—the fearful consumma- tion which she had already lived through in agony without repenting her of the crime she believed was being peroeires " Geoffrey could scarcely bear to see Godiva. Her very sex—her soft beauty—made her wickedness seem the more revolting. Had she taken the slight- est notice of him, be would have felt it impossible to retain his incognito, but would have burst out on | her in fierce, scathing denunciation. As it was she never condescended to even glance at Vulpino’s uncouth-looking assistant—dumbly at- tending to his meals three times a day, and retiring to her solitude between times. Vulpino, however, made her talk to him during the tete-a-tetes which he managed to secure with her. several times each day; and Geoffrey soon found himself watching the progress of this ill-omened love-making with a ies of ugly fascination. By what spell was it that the ill-looking, grotesque and ghost-like Italian gradually established a rule over the bitter and reckless girl, who visibly paled with aversion when his hand touched hers, and shrunk back appalled when his keen black eyes, sparkling with weird fire, probed hers? How strange conventional barriers, and the shorte of the tance between the ill-assorted pair! Once Geoffrey came upon Vulpino and Godiva standing together under the wall of the ruined it was to note the gradual and oo ae of * tower, the gay morning sun streaming full upon his , ’ devilish head and her seraphic one, the black and the They were gazing / ° gold drawn close to each other. silently into each other’s x bee Vulp Godiva’s slender hands poised on his own finger-tips; he had rete upon the. arched white wrist a flex- ible golden N \ no held one / 2 : “ i’ ax ~ Anis, — ss | — re ig) pr'al fi ~! Se MERICAN QUEEN. | eted Vulpino ' she mutely asked with furtive, ye fase, ier) lds 3 shrug d, r 3 ' Price, who moved heaven and earth to fetch her ali eapolitan bracelet, in the favorite de-— i a! | Geoffrey proposed moving the scene of his conva- _ " - Fe ~ La ae ee ere ee. ee a slzn df a serpeit with its taflin fts month, and its eg gine piety with Gg: aaa and opals. Er yy wi past, looking tixedly uw the st; pair, Godiva seemed to awake from n hreane. ; She slowly, and with a visible effort, removed her eyes from Vulpino’s, and a ae came deep and tremulous up from the depths of her heart. “Keep your heirloom for your bride, then, Si nore Vulpino; what have J to do with it?” she mut- tered, haughtily, and snate the bracelet off her wrist she for it into his hand and rapidly vanish-: ed into the tower. Mad et turned a look fraught with cold triumph upon ffrey. “Struggle she may as she please,” said he, smoothly running the bracelet round and round in te a hard black finger, “‘she weel note escappa—her estiny.” | Do you expect to induce her to break with Rufus Marshall?” asked Geoffrey, unable, in spite of her wickedness, to subdue a pang of pity for the miser- able alternatives which lay before the helplessly bound adventuress, : “Rufus, ha! ha!” laughed Vulpino, in his low, oily : ra voice, while his snaky black eyes gleamed green gm. fire. “Do you note understand thees about pretta mees—dat she s’all bow down ‘only to ze master spirit—note ever to heem who comes second? As gu ey as Rufus, he was head, mees think, ‘ Yes I aa s‘all be quéen;’ bote—Rufus, he ees heemselfs de- 1) hoe ceive; Jam head; 7 know a great something weech 2 had mees herself knows note; I say, ‘Come, proud amica, marry Vulpino and he weel unbosom.’ And } she weel yet say, ‘Yes, great chief; I weel marry — a gh Rufus—ha! ha! ha!” and the diabolic laugh- er slid out on#e more at the mere name of such an insignificant rival. i * Geoffrey hurried back to his uncle. He felt sick at CHAPTER XXvi. "’ A STORY OF TRUE LOVE. THanks to Vulpino’s zeal, Geoftrey’s devotion, and se Derwent’s relief from anxiety, in the course of a ae week the invalid was able to be dressed and to move about his room leaning on his faithful nephew's shoulder. The wounds in his shoulder 2 were healing without fever; and the stupefying ef- LAY fects of the poison he had absorbed were gradueay eA disappearing under ae skillful treatment. hae The wound caused by the dog's fangs had been 5 tae thoroughly cauterized half an hour after it was in- 5 Pe seta, and had ceased to cause the invalid any un- “tal easiness. . 5 He saw distinctly that this wound had only been ~ om inflicted that there might be a reason sufficiently ae” lausible to excuse the mysterious removal of Mr. ; i erwent from the public’s sight, and his y and d secluded death; of course if he died of hydrophobia — one would expect to be admitted to see the dread-— ; ul spectacle? And the false report that his ce- in § heirs had taken him to France asa last hope,was wi well calculated to satisfy the most i ‘ ia, that all had been done by his heirs to save the ric man that could be done; and if, after all, abroad and was brought home in'a sealed casket care the family vault at Dornoch, his poor mutilated re- _ mains tenderly concealed from every eye, whi more could his heirs have done? of Since Vulpino’s change of treatment, and the de- parture of the Marshalls, Godiva had not ente’ the sick room. She was once or twice solicited by — Vulpino, with much affected fervor, to. h pine! 1, while Barber was off duty; but his aphic description of the frightful change in the oomed m and of his haunting entreaties for oe mercy, and his paroxysms of excruciating nervous == = derangement were more than enough to Koay Gis ee h vas A va far from the terrible place. And the tru that one glance at the invalid would have ened her. Hope, returning stre: r ee ia tion, and a nameless interest in the uture, a8 con- necied with the now never-mentioned American — girl, all these were assisting Mr. Derwent on his feet _ again, and obliterating with magical rapidity the — ~ ee signs of bis past sufferings. tet ted. CS) ¥ tees And every morning when Godiva glance, “Is he dead?” and Vulpino would si, one angular shoulder "4 to his skinny ear, an ia ble about certain leathern constitutions thattook = = = — long to kill, but surely such. another night as ee. must, etc., etc. . , : Monica took longer to recover from her ordeal, though nursed with enthusiastic devotion Mr, ‘ a the delicacies her reduced condition demanded, was never so happy as when he was half. the muiiled form of his late adversary up and the strip of sward under the willows Toby’s little cottage, and watching the id cheek en faintly under the sunny breeze. cely, f romantic situation, her wonderful stor sufferings and her beauty, goodness and dignity, ait peat wi to make service a joyous boon to thi: simp taciturn though he was, and black-browed, fairly gave him- — self up to the gentle spell of the pure-natured girl; his rled features relaxing into genial smiles, an: his deep-set eye softening with feeling whenever she — se ara y Pri Geoffrey b very day Price met Geoffre appointment in a hase copse-near the Weald, and brougit , to Monica the day’s bulletin, but Geoffrey and Monica did not <— as pense again until Mr. Derwent was pronounced by his physician capable of undergoing & little aden exertion, and panied agitetien® 5 as The Weald was too gloomy a spot, and too inex- ricably associated with miserable recollections to be the right place for an invalid to po up in, so as soon as he was strong enough to ride the distance, too, ado: and served Monica, figuratively on her knees Her » Her ay e-hearted worshiper. oby, too, Are pe ae we - 0 ee an ba
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E _ lescence to Toby's cottage, where Monica awaited Fe her father with Jonathan Brade’s confession ready By to smooth away all obstacles between them, Bice It had been resolved that the master of Dornoch- Weald should be concealed with the gamekeeper while the final acts in the great tragedy of his sup- ef ye eae oe were being enacted by the three con- i" spirators. * ae They were to be cheated into running the due length of their chain, that their punishment might . be complete, | Godiva should suppose herself a double murderéss, ilty of the blood of Otto Derwent and his daughter ay onica; sothat Vulpino could command her through ny his knowledge of her crimes and the Marshall bro- thers should believe themselves.equally guilty and be _ successful in their schemes, that their downfall aa might be the more overwhelming afterward. Re Geoffrey had dutifully consulted his uncle as to me. this' course, and received his hearty ye rena oe for it was not to be thought of that the traitors should be allowed to escape unscathed, nor yet that the honor of the haughty house of Derwent should _be humbled by apyshing. abrpes the infamy of these unworthy offshoots ough. the institution of ‘ legal proceedings. To punish the guilty and yet Paste spare the innocent from the shame of a public ex- posure, became the Leng aim of Geoffrey’s life, and it was thought wisest to compass these ends by we following the course indicated. aie On the tenth morning after the departure of Ru- sa fus and Gavaine, Godiva’s sapphire-bright eyes read in the narrow slits cut in the parchment face of Vul- pino a more than usually Satanic significance, and a horrible paleness instantly overspread her charm- ing features, accompanied by a visible shiver. It was exactly as if the door of an ice-filled vault had opened upon Godiva, and a blast of wintry rigor had ', swept over her. She seemed to shiver, to blanch, to t wither up to half her size; she stood rooted to the _--_., spot before Vulpino, cowering. _. _ “Mees’s commands dey are obeyed,” smirked the poisoner, not afraid to drive the cruel shaft home in _--~—sétihe:«quivering flesh; “‘de revere oncle, he no more af Povretto zio!_ He could not take de wealth weeth. i de Ah, bah! ole Mh ae ze man fore to bring pretta Bey) mees into her fortunes!—ole Vulpino he hand and ue glove weeth king Death; they always work in con- Bett 4. r -CRIty win a fortune ior pretta mees? Ah, Tae) bah! nevave! Rufus notsing bote a stupid coward. Por donna divina?”’ Mees weel nevare marry heem! Eh ‘Sg Godiva comprehended not a word of this sly har- ——s ange; she was face to face with murder, red and hee reeking, and her very heart seemed to die within her. It was done. BD > OR 0 _ a sudden, ‘ul ery. f ee t stared in quick amazement and curi- osity. The woman’s eye wasrolling, her hands were me pis er hair, tearing it, she ore wee frenzi , _ He thought it was fear; he never dreamed it . could be love/ He flung out his long arms; he dared to catch her to his hungry embrace for the man was old, particularly misshap- en, and had all the unwholesome grotesqueness and - uncleanness of the lower classes among foreigners; but she was less a woman at that moment, with dainty flesh and blood to lure and be lured, than a lost soul, giddy and frantic from its first look into the caverns of hell. So she did not repulse him; she reedily eodurine the e@ was inflicting upon herself; she heart; it was a gruesome _ let him press her golden head against his rusty as re the pulses beat hard and hurried un- sent ear, and bend his bestial muzzle to her love- atl which quivered and gnashed under bis in- solen’ coarsely prolonged ss. She looked like re an angel prisoned in the vile arms of some hateful She scarcely knew what he was doing, though, for anguish 9 mind. And I think that even if she had _ known, she so abhorred the fair, soft body which are i area te ee apr Sia fogs word neve been ea ve, taking a grim delig: eaping pain an shame and ahasooe upon a thing so iitenotis as “ae Re ‘Then Vulpino put the serpent upon her wrist, and _ _ said loud! rd distinctly: ‘3 Y mm “Me ontacute, I ‘av reesked my life fore to _ obey you in the death of il signore; I now desire you _ fore my wife, ’aving purchased-a you weeth ‘his , ath. You cannot but obey; I ’av your life in ar ee , and a word can ruin, | ’ave love you instead; car , be mine.” Sy * Godiva mechanically released herself from his ane. fyeep and with the vacant, wandering look of an fst. 7 Adiob; tottered off to her own room. Mh i he f me mer carried the serpent on her arm, ee nazay [ttle pony “Scamp ” carefully through the forest toward Toby’s modest home. Otto Derwent rl was on Scamp’s back, leaning somewhat feebly now a. onthe willing shoulder of Montague Price, and again i _ on the magnificent muscular shoulder of his nephew scene Geoffrey was leading Toby’s es , f vein ® Se a Bit _*~ ee Agen pagel =e is al y — AN AMERICAN QUEEN: come to this piace and the wild hights and depths they had oscillated betwixt since then. e reason was simple. Jonathan Brade’s confes- sion had exculpated Otto Derwent from all that )it- | ter blame which his daughter had heaped upon him | While she sat by the dead form of her deserted | mother, Also, had she not sufferéd much for his | ake? And is not love best fostered by its own gen- erous sacrifices? Ah, yes, itis not the reception of See which builds up love; it is the conferring of | them, | For what we succor we graciously stoop down to | and so love; and what we injure we have to lift our eves ie on its pedestal of innocence, and so we hate well. Monica looked very, very sweet and tender, sitting | in the little window framed with white and golden honeysuckle; her small pale face was delicate in contour and fine in expression as any face ever car- ried by a Derwent, and the lustrous splendor of her dark, dreamy eyes compensated for every classic want the critical might detect. Anxious to please the fastidious taste of her father, she had laid aside her somber black dress and wore, to-day, pure filmy white, the transparent folds crossed over her ivory neck and bust in noblelines, and caught at the fine- ly-turned throat by a cluster of rich royal purple pansies, gathered from Cicely’s garden by Mr. Price, with the dew still glistening on them, and sweetly accepted by Monica, whose gentle goodness of heart had Jed her long ago to forgive the young lawyer all past transgressions and to sympathize readily and candidly with his modest attempts to be the nice fellow he saw she believed him to be. Gone was Mr. Montague Price’s knowing swagger, his lazy slang jargon, his ineffable wink, and his hard, unscru- pulous Yankee spirit of self-interest. He had develop- ed a genuine admiration of Monica’s noble soul and set himself in earnest to make himself worthy the coveted post of friend to her, It indicated the miracle which pure goodness had wrought upon him that he had not presumed to fallin love with h's guiding star, and would have deprecated, shamedly enough, the suspicion of so lowering her to his own level. cely, in her ig eda short striped wincey petticoat comin the neat ankles of her stoutly- shod little feet, her broad, white apronand gay scar- let shawl crossed over her swelling bust, s mod- estly behind the pours lady’s chair, watching from the window for the first sign of the approaching vis- itors as eagerly as Monica herself, and Toby, seated on a short wooden bench in the porch, where he could command a view of the road out of one pees door and a view of the graceful white lady and her Hebe-like attendant through another, industriously employed his spare energies in cleaning his rust firelocks, whistling softly under his breath, and feel- ing a queer softness about his heart as he thought on the approaching disclosure of the daughter to her father, At last! ‘ Geoffrey it was who brought Otto Derwent into the presence of his daughter, Somehow, as by a preconcerted signal, every one else had melted away, and when the first dimness of emotion had passed from Monica’s eyes and she cowd look up, the master of Dornoch-Weald was seated before her in the chair of state, the only per- son there. For two or three moments both were silent; the alteration in each startled and shocked the other with unexpected force; besides, Monica was looking consciously upon her father, and Derwent was in the presence of the enigma who had lurked in his thoughts ever since he had first seen her. Hers was the strongest emotion; it urged her first to speak. " Pow terribly you have suffered!” she said, faint- ly, and sliding out of the great draped invalid-chair in which Cicely had enthroned her, upon her knees, she bent her, lovely--piteous face and kissed, with lips that trembled, his pale hand. erwent, deeply moved, pontly caressed her glossy little head with his free hand, murmuring in low sweet tones that had not been heard in his voice for nineteen years: ‘“And you, sweet child, why have you risked your life for mine?” Still on her knees, Monica took a paper from her belt, and smoothed it open on his knee. He marvel- ed at the rich blush whieh warmed her cold cheek. at the quick swelling and panting of her bosom—at the eloquent glance, blending entreaty with pity love with tender reproach, which her dark brillian eyes flashed upon him; then he looked at the paper, and saw this heading: “ JONATHAN BRrApDzr’s CoNFESSION,” The Master of Dornoch had neither heard nor uttered this name for nineteen years; yet it had lived in his memory like a flaw in a gem, robbing it of allits value. It was a name synonymous with all that was base, black and tormenting; it was the devil’s pitchfork with which he could stir up the deepest hell-fire of the mazt’s soul. As he looked his sight was blasted; his whole face changed dreadfully; his mouth twitched and curled in a demoniac snarl. He rose roughly, letting the fair woman drop apart as she chanced, and a low, venomous curse hissed upon her tingling ear. . Still kneeling in unconscious symbolism of the leading and humble attitude of her spirit toward im; with her angelig countenance raised vaimaplers i ly, god her sweet eyes raining tears, Monica said, solemnly: “Only read it—oh, surely you will do my—do her that justice! Have you not judged her unheard long enough?” Er. He stooped over her; his blazing eyes seemed seek- ing to pierce her through. : “ «M7 ’—what ?”? demanded he, suddenly growing dead calm, ar ¢ \ A ; - - « } Ve, ‘ ae ty hy aes a -4 ° ' * F % We te ey ee a BY, rs "ar, rg ie. yw Made “8 Monin had narrowly escaped saying “my mo- ther.” ‘Chat would be to begin at the wrong énd of the disclosure. She shrunk from confessing the @naim she had on him until, her mother’s innocence p oven, he would of himself crave her for his daugh- ter. He read her reluctance, her fear and longing,. and all passion sunk like a fire quenched by a sea, In another moment he was gasping and gropin among the overwhelming tide of ideas which surg over him. . | He sunk back in his seat, grasping the young girl with involuntary ardor and drawing her to- | ward him, then pushing her away with a beseeching | . Xn, ! 1 ! rl, whoever you are, keep eternal silence— unless I bid you speak !”’ And he picked up the paper from the floor at his feet, and began to read it. : Page after page he turned; those first scenes of his love and folly; ay demi! how sweet poor Ada was—how white-souled she had seemed—the noblest woman he had ever seen; he had fondly believed this then! Oh, fickle, bad heart, how was it you could nurture such loathsome impulses in your gen- tle bosom? Ah, here comes the confession of con- fessions—the story of that night which exposed the wife’s infidelity and parted them forever. What! she never loved Jonathan? What! repulsed him?—q@b- horied him? Bah! a lying tale to extort money. No, the man’s dying confession. Every trifle faithfully reproduced—the whole dire scene painted by an eye-witness—by the principal actor himself. o forgery—no ruse; God’s truth, revealed at last. Oh, the years! the years! How mapy? And Ada, innocent Ada, injured Ada! Oh, God! could you not have opened his eyes sooner? Dear, angel Ada, abandoned without a chance of self-defense, broken-hearted! The man Jaid down the paper on the arm of his chair, his face upon it, and his whole frame shud- dered with grief. So strong was his nature, so ardent his feelings and so mews 4 rooted, that. this sudden revelation well-nigh killed him. He forgot his surroundings— Monica, late events, all; he was back at Addis- combe, the passionatel Be Plena husband, with the one love of his life lying pale and helpless in the arms of her demon destroyer, and her duped hus- band deserting her with a cruel haste. Looking upon that crushed form, passion-con- vulsed, and oblivious to all but Ada, the daughter could no longer complain that her father’s love for her mother had been. shallow or fickle; no, here it was still, a poor, blighted, tortured wraith of its old radiant, burning self, but strong enough and aasionets enough to make the silent observer remble. For Ada was dead; remorse had come too late. Dead, without one whisper to console her for her long agon hgane beyond the power of restitution. Alas! why he had so little faith in her? That flerce soul-storm blowing by, Derwent went on with the confession; and read, in the sullen pent tent’s broad, upright, heavy writing, the piteous tale of Ada’s fate. How her eternal separation from himself had been insured by that impudent false- hood about the traveler, accidentally shot dead; and here he looked through the waving honeysuckle sprays into the blue deeps of the o’erarching heay- ens, bitterly asking the omnipotent Oreator of all why He need frame woman’s head so weak when He makes her heart so strong? Deceived by a tale that could scarcely impose upon a child! recked in smooth waters, with Love and Faith on board— all for lack of a little worldly wisdom! And then he read of the wicked Jonathan’s attempt to obtain possession of this frail, foolish creature; and of his comfiture, when the frail and foolish creature tow- ered up into a goddess of all that was faithful, proud and heroic; then of his revenge, his dastardly, abject revenge, how he set himself, like a weasel in a dove-cot, to suck the life-blood of the gentle, brooding thing, a few drops at a time, as long as the loyal blood lasted out—she submitting with mute re- signation, in the fond, faithful cipposeoe that she was thereby purchasing her luckless Otto’s safety; and when the haughty Derwent, grown imperial all his habits of thought and action, through the long bend of lonely prosperity and secret wound, pic- ured to himself that soft-natured, nestling thing. that had been alllove and delicate, joyousness, and clinging fragility in his bosom, racked by thoughts of his peril, haunted by visions of picod aes by the hand she loved—meekly offering her silken breast for the viperous bite of her loathsome enemy, en- during without a moan the greedy, pitiless draining of her poor heart’s blood, and dumbly smoothing her dimmed plumage over the ely wound that no soul might see how she suffered lest he might ask why; and this in the belief that she was doing it for him, and that he was living safe and prosperous through these her eagerly borne agonies—when Derwent had taken all this in, he softly laid there- cord down, and falling on his knees before high heaven, powred out his broken heart in’ sighs and throes of loving anguish. And his daughter, not revealed to him as yet, prayed with him, silently and apart. Not for worlds would she have intruded upon the stricken man’s hour of sorrow, every added moment of which re- aid the great wrong he had done her mother, and e miserable years he had given her, more fully and generously. Looking upon the desolate man, crouching there before God in unutterable love and distress, how she loved him! How her noble heart sunk at the bitter blow yet in store for him—that this Ada was dead— and would never hear one word cf all that was rag- ing in his heart! How she trembled and gasped at the thought that soon he would read who ite was. : / / y 4 i é 5 ae 4 64 i—_e signal defeat and eternal dis-
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~ se eradlag Jeft him ot and turn to her as the only one thing ‘ Df er love, an poor, martyred Ada, and lean upon perhaps at last take comfort from it! Well, at last Derwent roused himself, and with sudden, vehement desire to know where his faithful wife was, snatched up the felon’s confession and read on. Read on to the end without pause; learning with a great cry and a single lightning glance of wonder and ecstasy that he had a child, and that this was she—the beautiful devoted creature with Ada’s loyal, brave soul, and the lovely body of proud Dame Go- diva Derwent of olden times; read on greedily, of Ada’s years of toil and privation in the obscure lit- tle hamlet Loangerie; read of her wasting strength, her waning means; of Monica’s unavailing struggles in the district school and midnight lace-sewing; of the mysterious drain on their resources that para- lyzed the daughter and discouraged the mother, \1n- = at : ihe three months ago—oh, God! she died ot wan Into the icy vault of oternal and unalterable de- air, at last it seemed to os, Otto Derwent that a clear, soft ray of heavenly ae penetrated, and that, lifting his heavy eyes, he beheld the angel of Consolation bending lov ngly over him, with a mes: sage from pitying God for him. It was Monica, his beautiful unknown child, Ada’s darling daughter; she had him in her tender arms, his head pressed to her loving heart; and her tears of affection and sympathy made a message that only God could send—saying to the lonely man: “T am Ada’s love in daughter's shape; live, and love me.” And so he will; God be praised for His grand Law of Compensation. CHAPTER XXIX, ALAS, BEAUTIFUL GODIVA! Ir was twenty-four hours since Vulpino had an nounced to Godiva Montacute: “Mees’s commands, dey are obey; dze oncle ee: no more.” She was lying on her bed with her eyes closed her face, though alarmingly pallid, was placid a: that of a sleeping child, and her beautiful bosom lightly shielded by the delicate creamy lace of hei azure yeener, rose and fellin regular and natura breathing. There was a rude tumult at her locked door, some one knocking furiously, and a high frantic voice ie her to speak—but one word, to show that she lived. Godiva had never been seen by Vulpino since he had told her that the deed was done; he had respect- ed her baa during the first twelve hours, going through all the hideous sounds of conveying the dead body secretly out of the house at the dead of night, with the assistance of Barber—actually burying a long box full of earth in a hole he had dug in the forest, and then coming back and makin all the preparations for slipping away from the fa spot to join the Marshalls, according to ‘eement, en he had for the first time disturbed Miss Mon- tacute’s solitude, requesting her to come forth, as ere all was finished here. She had not answe and after a few vain efforts to obtain some recognition of bis presence, the Ital- ian had retired; fearful of provo: the fair lady’s ‘ire by too pertinacious intrusion on her mood, which chanced to be a dumb one. After some considerable time he had applied his hard knuckles again to the panels o cute’s door, with no better result; an! then he had strode away in black jealous fury, believing that the lady was quietly intimating to her tool that she had no further use for him, and therefore considered any subsequent intercourse unnecessary, Having fumed about the and ghostly corridors for some hours, back he comes again, knocking insc lently, calling loudly, explaining, entreating, threat- . ening, and finally standing dead still, struck to the Heart with the sudden suspicion of treachery. He stacyered aga st th ite wall, glari t e n e opposite wall, glaring a the seal door while his great uncouth features writhed and grinned in hideous contortions, and his long grimy fingers clawed the air in a frenzy. Then he went away, and soon returned with a heavy jog he had found in one of the sheds, and using this as a battering-ram, at the third thunder: ing thud the stout oaken door fare way with a crash, and he came reeling into the middle of the room, ram and all, and eimpperaaig a velvet foot- cushion, sprawled his length on the floor with zrvai din and confusion. ~ As he gathered himself up, cursing like a brigand in his own liquid tongue, but with the voice of some foul bird of rapine, he saw Godiva lying among her illows, beautiful, tranquil, unawakened through all] his deafening bruit. | y With a cry the passionate Italian was beside that lovely waxen shape, his cavernous eyes devoured her, eat bat-like ear bent to listen at ber pale lips ont her slowly-beating heart; his ugly, un- trimmed finger-tip lightly and delicately litted one nolia-petal eyelid, while his burning eyes peered at the half-seen pupil, which neither quivered nor ghrunk from the ray of light let in upon it; and then the poisoner stood up white as death, and wiped the great beads of sweat which agony had brought out ons eeeat & deed t lady!” he whispered, scaped me inde swee © whispe mournfully, in his own tongue; q thou hast drank thy last draught—from this. He picked up a small vial from the table at the bedside; it was salt eteciy, and the nature of the poison still remaining in it, was to sink the victim into a dreamless, painless sleep, from which there * oy pet 4 ; ge STD Lee ae ee Se eo” a” wth iin ke by a een OR ge ae OF en eS Cee i, A ee PS ee Te ee he 3° y ah =, ¢ 7 - A hr os 2 : ° Miss Monta-* was no awaking, unless the strongest measures were adopted to rouse him and keep him awake. But Godiva had already been asleep for twenty- four hours, and her pulses were even now so feeble that Vulpino despaired of saving her. Why had she done this? Was it from remorse, or was it fear of him? “Oarissima—my soul!” he moaned, weeping bit- terly as he hung over her; ‘I love thee—I would have been thy slave! And I am rich—oh, so rich fair amica, and thou rtrey pir and homage. Thou shouldst have reigned in Valdemara, my palace on the Adriatic, a palace coveted by many an archduke and Turkish dignitary; thou shouldst have by ee my principessa, over all the beautiful houris of. my harem! Why didst thou choose vile, worm-infested death to the love of Vulpino?” ’ Thus he raved for some time, despair parsipging all efforts at restoration; and the miserable woman would undoubtedly have died as she intended, had not Geoffrey, struck by manly pity, come back: to the Weald to succor her if she were in need of his aid, and really desired to escape Vulpino’s horrible assion. é The first shock over, he, being the calmer of the two, suggested that as long as there was life there was hope; and that surely the Italian, out of the fullness of his knowledge of such matters, might save her by his skill. : This was all that was needed to inspire the inflam. mable Southerner; instantly he was immersed in the case, and with Geoffrey as faithful executor of all his commands, soon began to hope. How they toiled with that oor, self-destroyed wo- man, walking her between them to and fro in cold places, incessantly bringing back sensation to her skin by the use of strong stimulants, forcing other stimulants down her reluctant throat, which me- chanically refused to swallow of itself; always re- opening her eyelids which would droop over the fixed and senseless eyes--plying her languid nos- trils with sharp essences; and so on through all the hastiv and toilsome course of battling out a death- deali: ee aig Baier nae : And Godiva, tottering about on unfelt limbs, sleep- ing on her feet, staring at the sun with blind eyes, wincing not at the terrible touch of such desperate agents asice, fire, stinging essences and thrilling elec- tricity, knew nothing of it for many, many hours; until the two men, worn out but exultant sat, one on each side of her, in the rose-garden at dusk, and she lifted her head suddenly and looked at them, * Geoffrey!’ she w; iled, in feeble but passionate- ly-entreating tones; and then hysteria overwhemed es hve Ses i ge ei cre an hy too S grinniniy os to re- el the hateful contact, and the greai rs coursing own her white cheeks in rivers. And Geoffrey’s honest heart ached for the mis- ided woman whose falseness and self-seeking had rought her to such a pass. He made up his mind to follow her when she had had time to recover her self-control, and in spite of Vulpino’s oft-repeated entreaties that she should be left under the subduing belief of Mr. Derwent’s death, that he would her the truth, give her back her ce of mind on that point, as also con- cerning onica’s safety, and afford her one more chance to redeem her character by a life of peni- tence and sincerity. : His merciful thoughts were pneit ige by the sound of wheels on the gravel in front of the honse. Curious to see who could be coming here when the lace was supposed to be shut up, he made his way astily round t+ >» many angles of the mansion, and eame in sight: n unexpected tableau. A closed coac, «as drawn up close in front of the little sheltered door of the ruined tower; the coach- man on the box, and the lackey who was handing u a valise to him, wore both the same rather fantastic livery of dark blue and scarlet, with gold cockades, and were both dark, aquiline-nosed, and black-eyed; evidently servants and countrymen of Vulpino’s, Geoffrey was still perhaps fifty yards away, s0 as- tonished that he had come to a halt, when, in spite of the closeness of the door of the chariot to the door of the tower, he saw Vulpino step into the former, bearing a muffied female figure in his arms. Ha! an abduction? No, no, poor Godiva, not while such an honest heart as Geoifrey’s beats near you! He bounded forward; Vulpino’s lynx eyes detect- ed him coming. Running like a hare, he shouted a brief order; banged to the coach door; the, lackey was in the rumble; the coachman wheeled cleyerly, and the coach and four spanking horses were spin- ning down the avenue. Geoffrey flashed out a revolver—he had carried one since his inforced intercourse with the profes- sional murderer—and cried: “Halt! or I fire!” And in spite of Vulpino’s yell to drive on, and the unlovely apparition of his hobgoblin torso thrust out of the window, in grim companionship with the twin of Geoffrey’s weapon, the white-livered Tuscan actually did halt, and, with all the odds in his favor—namely, sixteen Seropshhred legs to carry him out of shot at the rate of ten miles an hour, two men beside himself, every man of the trio armed to the teeth, and only one enemy walking sturdily upon his own two legs—poor Leonata da Vinci cowered down in the boot, dodging his sleek black head and flapping ears down out of range, and waited with a very scared and pacific visage for the denouement. In spite of Vulpino’s reiterated assertions, clinched with oaths of the hottest Tuscan com plexion, that he would shoot him dead as “‘i1no cano,” if he ventured a step nearer, and his sworn word that the lady was with him of her own free will, and he would not per- mit her to be agitated by another sight of Geoffrey, that voung hero marched straight up to the m e we, es te ee USS ee NP RAAT AN UREEBE. 5.” ‘of Vulpin6’s leveled six-shooter, looked him sternty | j j | | | | in the eye while he wrenched the door from him, and then, shoving him unceremoniously to one side, looked in at Miss Montacute. She was not_muffied or bound in any way visible, and she looked at him eee aye no appeal. Was Vulpino right then? Was she capable of this last most unwomanly act of all—to sell herself to the man whom she knew to be a paid assassin, and supposed to be the murderer of Monica Derwent and her father—to purchase her own personal safety? Oh, wretched Godiva, when you began your down- ward course, in the undisciplined desires and ambi- tions of a selfish nature, could you have believed that you would ever come to stoop so low as this? Perhaps, poor desperate soul, you know not what this man is doing, or, in your half-crazed dismay at the success of now what befalls you; you have played your last card, in trying to fly life, and your wily opponent has dashed down the winning card after you, and in mht your miserable life, snatched at it for his re- ward. “Cousin,” said Geoffrey, entreatingly, “‘ where are you going?” “With “him,” replied Godiva. “Of your own free will?” a“ x es. ? “To be his wife?” : Godiva answered not. Her slow, rigid smile made Geotfrey’s heart stand still with a momentary thrill of foreboding. _ ““Godiva—poor girl—don’t destroy yourself. There is really no cause why youshouldrunaway. Godiva, I pray you, don’t be frightened—but—you have been deceived, Nobody has—has—died.” He fea kill her with the shock; he was doin; his best to soften it. She heard him distinctly, an gave no sign whatever. He could not believe his senses. “T swear it, Godiva, nobody has been sacrificed— Mr. Derwent and his daughter are’ woth alive,” he repeated, with deep earnestness, : ‘Let us go,’’ said she to Vulpino, stonily. j “Do you not believe me?” cried Geoffrey, well- nigh beside himself. j She answered nothing. : “She does, of course; indeed I have told her the truth already,” muttered Vulpino in Italian and in Geoffrey’s ear, a vicious smile of triumph on his evil features; ‘‘ but it is natural that she should nof care to meet them again, and refer even my love, and a royally voluptuous life with me, to the contemptuous ity and maddening forgiveness of those she in- jured, Now let us proceed. I have earned my iberty according to contract. You have no right to delay me another moment.” ? ~ That is true, and since she will not let me save her, although I am her kinsman, I have no right to. detain her either. Go, then! Alas, vo jae 0 you indeed prefer the love and homage of such a mis- creant to the heaveniy kiudness of that love —_ Monica Derwent, and the noble-hearted pardon her Hora For I can, without hesitation, promise you both, > She suddenly bent toward him, her gem-blue eyes glistening strangely. ; ' “ Geoffrey Kilmyre,” said she, in a low, breathless. voice, “you argue as a man argues—as & good, | brave man argues, who is not afraid to face any- thing in heaven or earth. Let metell you meee arguments are different; and the arguments woman like me—like me’’—she had spoken lower and lower, her last word here was a groan, and wags followed by a little wild silence—*‘ oh, they are the most unex of all,” she resumed, aly: “you ti me the wickedest woman in the and you only speak horror and pity. I might suffer this from , you know why? J never loved yout Perhaps yo sometimes imagined that I did: ou to marry me—that is, erit your uncle's fortune. with indifference bitterly wounded my pride, but not. my love. I wished you ill because you presumed to slight me, not because you did not love me, with your uncle it was did—oh, God!” own that I wishe if whe were sure to in- ai Her invocation was a tingling c cry—euch a shriek , of human woe might have issu: chamber of some ancient i poor soul, drenched with the own agonies, them with the sight of that she loved end worse, in silence, for her sake! Geoffrey s betel against the door of the coach, turning sick an even Vulpino, smitten through his love for the guilty his ears with his hands, and hu . belts et 2 Sepia Regt his he etween his knees in abject distress. one dared comfort her. She glanced atone and the other and suddenly laughed, ; Geoffrey could not bear it. With a choking sob and his eyes hidden, he staggered back, and turned | uway to the Weald—turned away Jorever. That wild poeeter was still ringing silverly, when the chariot rol distance. Ay, so you go, sinning woman, to drink your cup of humiliation to the dregs—and no mortal can save | you, Only God. A few hours .afterward Geoffrey slowly and \ sy aa wended his way back to Toby’s cot- age, Since the reunion of father and daughter he had not seenthem. As he walked in the golden light un- der the ancient oaks that had crowned the demesnes. of the Derwents for three centuries, he thought of the everlasting foundations of truth, and ty me ephemeral reign of all that is false and evil, when it. comes to issue with that grand power. ~ Be a s Nee pee 4 our schemes, think it little matter » i ¥ Ne ofa to me out of the depths of your —do 4 t you passed me } ry erent. J did love him t was foreed to lift her sa and blast | on its way, and only died outin ~ ¢ bas om Wal < w: oor 40
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_ Alas, for beautiful Godiva! CHAPTER XxX. ' THE STAR OF LOVE. GEroFFREY came to the rustic gate of Cicely Car- gills garden as the star of loye rose golden above efirmament. Every scented leaf bore its row of dew-brilliants, and the sweet gilly-flower and triplet _ clusters of small pink cinnamon roses swung incense to the beloved star. ' A murmur of voices mingled with the hushed sounds of oral with the low breathing of the oaks on the hillside, and the creaking of the dr ‘branches far mid-forest; with the chirr of the birds uae as they fluttered to their leafy perches, anu the ce SUSY. Ww. nc of a lonely whip-poor-Will; with the ~-. gubdued. tink le of Corl’ pink china cups and sau- ‘ders, as she step about her little kitchen putting away her modest tea-service; with the juxurious snoring of Toby's favorite wach dog, honest, ugly Mop, who sprawled across the snow-white door stone, raggel and yellow. It was a time and scene to make all that was artificial seem irrationally so, and all soa suggested fashion, worldly wisdom and con- -ventionality distasteful. As Geoffrey walked gently up the white sanded garden walk between low borders of box, with knots of peoaay. and spikes of southern-wood aunounc- ing themselves in odor-language of otto and nuts, he : bared his graceful head in involuntary reverence to the genius of the hour, and a great rush of soft, de- ? icious longing brimmed full his heart. The voices which murmured in the dusk were Mo- nica’s and her father’s: he could see the soft, white his; also that the bowed till his cheek rested on her soft And th two pa and drew him down be- etter bat notes be okt tn th no g; he loo he grand face of eh Derwent, transfigured with holy emo- aS et a rifled in the furnace of the affections, and into the dark, divine eyes of high-souled Monica, glorifi too, with love and sympathy; he was very t he crested handsome head, look- j bu ing at the “love star” in the firmament like a young caf si cid ge hove know it all—the bitter blunder of how blessed I am to-night, daug’ boy; you saw it ‘ ! and you knew ou were earings q ove iy the better for your defense of : her. Take her hands, Geoffrey, and tell her how - welcome she is to our hearts ané her rights,” Beeears ie en Ge ffrey took both the sweet hands in his, _ and bending, with a flashing glance info her eyes, ne softly on her white forehead, and said, Jy Welcome heute, darling cousin, to uncle and ‘to me.’ ew burning red and her face quivered; F; ee grew Be age and she breathed quickly, an is hands on hers seemed to shoot electricity straight to her bounding heart, and hers in his seemed to do ae me to him; their eyes met, and each emitted a flash of strange dazzling fire, and they w together—for five seconds as mortals measure : fine, for an aeon at least of rapture, as love's sand- ; counts it; then the lady shivered and drew ae. 3 her long, jetty lashes failing over the brilliant windows of her soul, and a final rich tide of crimson babi J from brow to chin and slowly dying out ag ‘ _ And Geoffrey turned to his uncle, panting a little -and smiling; such a Snentint tons need uniacet _ the a Derwent, who looked wistfully from _ ne to the other, with a pang of sharp feminidoence a ry bay heart. : _ promise?” said he, as soon as he saw that they were - Eapable of Tsbenitis to the utterances of mundane ate: Se you know what my little girl hasmade me | no ‘in truth will I, you two shall share a: ‘descendant, and when she marries her husband _ must take the name of Derwent. Eh, boy?” | | | | . bs : _*¢ 0 ws or © a or Ay PA r ¥ ’ mgt ; ri Ni light.’ So, as my Monica will be ny x a $0, and so 6 when Iam dead—only the Weald shall be hers as direct lineal For answer Geoffrey rose and stood ‘ore the father and daughter, an exquisite humility and sup- pliance in his attitude. ‘* Only on one condition shall I consent to such roy- al generosity—and, oh, don’t tell me that your good- ness has made me presumptuous. Uncle, give me Monica for my wife!” Who with human sentiment could have remained unmoved by the quick, low, thrilling voice, the ‘| humble ey gS dase the suppressed passion and en- treaty of the beautiful youth? Not Otto Derwent, whose passicas had ever been tropical, and in spite of that, lasting, and who had loved this boy from his infancy as David loved Absalom, and with far more justice. ; “Dear boy—dear Geoffrey, oh, Iam so, so glad of this!” he exclaimed, almost in his old, full round tones. ‘‘ You loved her before you knew who she was; I saw it all the time—and how little I guessed the profound i it was to bring me! Yes, Geo pa do, with all my heart, give my consent to your w a) my daughter’s hand if you can. And, children—I do think love will run smooth for once.’ This the master uttered playfully as he wrung Geof- frey’s hand, patted Monica’s bent head, and slowly paced up the dusky walk. There was a short silence while the lover pored over the fascinating story of drooping attitude and hurrying blushes of his adored. en he bent his proud head in true love’s royal humility. No anoint- ed queen was ever more reverently wooed. “T think I could win your love in time, Monica,” murmured Geoffrey. “Tam so far beneath is sir—” “No, no, no—what blasphemy!” cried he, inter- rupting the low, sad murmur vehemently. So far beneath hes and your compeers, sir,” Monica resumed, with timid earnestness. “I mean in courtliness of training, in social culture, and in all the etiquette of the highly born. Would you not blush for at lack of training?” “ As God hears me, Monica, the Jack you speak of is such a bubble com with the treasures of mind and heart which you that 1, cannot think even for a moment of it. at! AmTI to lose the lovely spirit which could make the rest of my life a heaven on because to-day —= do not know how to enter a drawing-room or how to make a court bow? In a week you could learn it all. Darling, let me teach you how to love me. Oh, Monica, my one love!” He bowed his head still lower, till his face was on her clasped hands which lay in her lap, and he was almost on his knees. He was so anxious to win her. and so skeptical as to his own merits, that he rea‘li- ly dreaded above all things, that the prond Ameri- can girl, accustomed to despise the cramping fetters of conservatism, and born to laugh at rank and title—would calmly reject his proposal, and by ' mere forceof an independent character, force him be accept his share of his uncle’s wealth in spite of m He was not bd ap to feel two soft hands flut- | tering tremulously round his neck, creeping nearer and nearer, until they clasged in a close clasp, leav- ing a chain of love about him, and a hot satin cheek pressed to his, “From the first—I loved you, dear—dear /” whis- pered Monica. Ob, the lovely hour of love, first love! Tender and true be it ever—ever! ? CHAPTER XXXII. A TORTURING VICTORY. Rourvs and Gavaine Marshall were about equally unfitted to appreciate a holiday season spent in Paris. To be sure, both were supposed to speak French fluently, and to be well enough informed on that and every other similar matter, to know how to get along without attracting more than usual share of foreign attention to their British gaucheries ; at least that had been their own candid opinion, backed up by the envious admiration of their com- traders, every man of them)—and the ever quoted fact that Rufus had gone in at one end of a university course, and out at the other, with quiet success; and that Gavaine would doubtless have kept neck and neck with him, had not his forte been more in the prize-fighter’s line than in the scholar’s, causing him to be ignominiously ‘ plucked” in the third term of his martyrdom, when he retired upon his laurels to the bosom of his particular circle, as villainous a crew of harpies as could be found on that prolific field, the English turf. Both the sons of the tailor-millionaire, Jack Marshall, had always had more of that idiotic man’s money to spend than was at all good for them; but while Rufus used his in a most ardent pursuit of sO distinction, counting all means fair that would advance him one hair’s breadth up the steep hill of exclusiveness which stretched its grim bar- riers between the sons of tailors and the sons of “ gentlemen "—Gavaine ruffled it at his ease amon his kindred spirits, delighted to feel himself “ coc 0’ the walk,” as he loved to express it, and cheerfully humored on that point by the s cophantie mob who surrounded him, ready to fool him to the top of his — bent as long as he mounted the throne among ‘ p PUR eS yee A fv U Pa | spread on the little marble table which stood .| cout | wealth; Rufus had a way of sinking money mean | and selfish as he was, that had hein le appalledand lately had infuriated his father almost to the verge ) of disinheriting him; there was an incredible base- ness, and a monstrous vice in his expenditures that revolted even the roughs who did homage to Ga- | vaine; and then he was such an ingrained ‘cheat | | and liar *—to quote his father—that even when the ‘truth would have been his best friend he chose prevarication and mystification; in fact, no one, not even himself, actually knew the ruinous. results pending his sneaking course, and it was sheer fright and desperation which had set him on the dark road to replenish his fortunes, which we have seen him follow, at the Weald. avaine’s extravaganzas were Costly, too, no doubt, and once or twice a quarter li up far over his ears, which were obo n ee in debt, and had to come before his exaspera ent; but Gavaine had one great merit—he could not ‘tell a lie,” any more than could the first utterer of those great words. But there was this trifling difference between the English rake and th2 immortal Ameri- can: Washington ‘could not’ because he “ would not ’'—Gavaine could not simply because—he could not. It requires imagination to make a lie; Gavaine had no imagination. It requires fancy, some reas- oning faculties, enough observation and knowl- edge of human nature to impose on people pos- sessed of these qualities; and Gavaine had none of these. Therefore, his debts were wont to come before poor cowering Jack Marshall's seam-bleared eyes in all their hideous reality, the items represent- ing “value received” unblushingly detailed in the strong black characters of Gavaine’s pet lawyer, a ‘“shyster” and “ blackleg,’’ very emphatically ig- nored by his respectable brethren in the profession; and Gavaine took care always. to be on d in all his sullen insolence, ready to none & storm and blas- pheme his unhappy parent into the breach, and not / even having the grace to promise amendment for the future. : | The old story—ignorance, toil, saving, hoarding, } for the father; indulgence, savage unrestraint, self- ishness, extravagance and ingratitude for the sons. Most money-grubs have at least the small consolation of dying out of the way before their butterfly heirs commence to scatter the golden shower out of their rigidly-sealed up bags; but poor Marshall had the anguish of seeing these beloved eas tossed away by bandfuls--gutneas which he had gathered by the hard toil of a lifetime; no wonder if, at last, half crazed by the spectral apparition of ruin, he had re- volted from the crushing yoke, and sworn in hys- terical screams that they should henceforth earn their own bread. ! That was what set Rufus on the war-path as an adventurer. Well, the guilty pair were now waiting in Paris for the fatal bulletin from Vulpino. They had taken extrao precaution to carry cut their part of the plot, although Rufus, with a lurking uneasiness, was always ge oy cg he did not exactly see Vulpino’s game _in sen them off insuch a hurry, and keeping Godiva with him- self and his assistant, Barber. Vulpino’'s sudden care for their safety puzzled the conspirator; he could never be got to believe insuch conkidepation for other people. ‘ And it was not a well-thought-out move, either. “Rather a mixed-up affair, eh, Gay?” be would mumble, raising his haggard face from between his hands, where he was over alitter of papers © an islet in the middle of an ocean of polished floor in the wide. barren salon of his Parisian ‘ apart- | ments;” “this shoving of us two off here while he stops to oversee the death, with Godiva mewed wu : beside him. All very fair to a superficial | dare say, but it don’t satisfy me.” Rufus, you Pe see, had by this time so familiarized h to the | thoughts. of his kinsman’s murder that he could name it without perceptible flinching; and enter- tained as high an opinion of his own sagacity as ever. : Gavaine, who turned over all/ matters requiring / thought to his brother, as being his suliar pro- vince, lazily lifted his bull-dog head and bloated red face from the hard velvet and gilt roller that did duty as a cushion in one end of the low flat sofa—he was dozing off last night’s carouse, and felt not averse to a little fraternal communion of soul. **What’s up, old chap?” yawned he, closing his mighty jaws with an audible snap, and wiping the . water from his eyes with his hand. Gavaine never could be a gentleman. ) Rufus pushed into a heap the papers on the little 1 glance, table, raps of the great Dornoch estate, parch- ments covered with specifications of the innumera- ble sources of the Derwent income of thirty thou- sand a year—the toothsome enumerations of that Promised Land for which he had sold his soul; and res to his feet, he moved nervously hither and thither through the broad, echoing room, catehing unpleasant glimpses of his own insignificant person and mean facein the mirrors which almost lined the walls, according to French ideas of elegance. “Let's see, now, what was Vulpino’s ostensible lan,’’ said he, thrusting his hands elbow deep into his trowsers pockets, and snatching them out again, ) to clasp them behind him in more diguified pose, when he caught the mirrored reflection of that un- h figure; ** Derwent bitten by mad dog on hunt- ing fleld—further wounded by accident, by favorite kinsman, Gavaine Marshall—named, with his brother Rufus, co-heir im will. Wound cauterized with due ee guests depart: nephew in disgrace in- rudes; is ejected by stratagem by co-heirs; excel- ‘ ‘ 4 ‘ , we ar y 4 ' yi , Lae % 4
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‘ And with this vagu ter was only developing. — oo ? : Fel 7) te 5 , 4 “AN AMERICAN QUEEN. lent excusé In Derwent’s estrangement from him; Derwent kept concealed from all eyes save those o: co-heirs the physician they have summoned; ex- cellent excuse again, in symptoms of hydrophobia; and now comes in Vulpino’s last game!” ae Rufus had a habit of summing up cases in the above highly elliptical style, always to his own entire satisfaction and enlightenment; but Gavaine was apt to feel bewildered and half frightened, as at the inexplicable mutterings of an enchanter, and to turn rusty on the head of it. : He turned more than usually rusty now, and hoist- ing his mighty bulk on’one giant elbow, his red- streaked eyes roe from their sockets, he bawled in no loving manner: “What the dogs are ye gibbering about, man? Can’t yes out if ye’ve got anything to say? Hang me if I couldn't mash you to a jelly this precious minute, ye sneaking varlet! Rufus, the superior spirit of these two deplorably inferior spirits, thus unwarrantably assaulted when he was doing the reasoning process on behalf of his brother as well as himself, although he looked a little white about the mouth from physical fear—which was a morbid weakness he had always much ado to conceal from the brute Gavaine, who would instant- ly have rushed at him and gratified a life-long grad e against his sulky, sneaking, superior ways, had he suspected this terror— I say, though quailing as usual before Gavaine’s physical violence, was so exasperated by his idiotic interruption and insolence under such umstances that he came to a dead halt not far from the bully; his eyes glaring so eerily, his lips so pale and writhing, and his hands, which, like a woman, he never clenched, quiverin so strangely, that the great booby on the sofa actual- ly thought ‘Rufus had suddenly grown mad, and floundered off the sofa and behind the gilded easel in the corner with a how! of terror. “What do you mean, Gavaine, by daring to talk so to me?”’ panted Rufus, in that husky whisper that always e his brother’s blood run cold, because it was so unnatural to him, who in his furies yelled at the top of his voice, to hear such suppressed ac- cents coming from a fellow_as angry as Rufus. “What do you mean, I say? Dolt, fool, blundering ass, if you can’t understand anything but how to eat and sleep and A ed drunk, can’t you have the decency to let me alone when I am bothering my ‘brains to see into your business as well as my own? Take,care, you fool; don’t rouse me; I warn you, I’m not in the mood to let you off too easy if you go too far—and if once I e you in hand—well—” 6 me all the more appalling to Gavaine from its mysterious indefiniteness, Ru- fus, seeing him cowed, choked down the insane rage which had possessed him, rather startled himself realize how excitable he had grown, and how wildly murderous his ee es had been. The natures of these men were changing strangely under the course they were pursuing; crime can- not be taken by the hand, welcomed to the hearth, seated at the board, housed and consorted with as an honored guest, without fearfully} and swiftly re- constructing the nature of its host. And Rufus had head ‘enough to observe this hopeless deterioration, and heart enough to pine and fret himself over it. He would be a gentleman: was he only perfecting himself into a rufflan? As for Gavaine, he began as a brute, the charac- After an awkward pause the younger brother eame out from behind his barricade, and scowling sullenly, threw himself again on the sofa, and mut- red: ; te Well, what were you saying, anyhow?” Rufus made a desperate effort, and recovered his iteness. ra right, old man; I needn't have been so ’ po. ‘p- ” he said, a graceful apology which cowed his butly brother i cee than oh the violence on ea: leasant. I’m anxious—I’m un- easy; I don’t half trust that foreign serpent, Vul- pino—can’t quite make him out.’ “Eh? eh?” shouted Gavaine, sprawling up again double his fists and square about the room; to "think old blackamoor’s ng it low on us? Shall I sort of waltz over there elf punch the truth out of - him?” and, completely subjugated by Rufus’s su- periority in self-conquest as well as in logical paw- ers, he stood before the slim, sickly-looking schemer, neGhE to stride off on any mission at his nod. “No, not exactly, my poor fellow,” quoth Rufus, with amicable contempt; “that would not help us much. You may thank the Powers that you have not got to reason this thing out. A ly mess you'd make of it! No, we can do nothing until he communicates with us. His ostensible reason for sending us here was—({now attend, and try to un- derstand, for as long as you are in your present haze about the scheme you are as dangerous as a con- cealed torpedo; the merest hint of a question put b keen parties mages set youoff.) Weagreed, Vulpi- no, Godiva and I (as usual, you were drunk, and heard nothing)—that the death could never be man- aged safely at the Weald, right under the noses of all the neighboring gentry, who would be the first people to attack our position, hating us as they do for hay- ing taken their confounded aristocratical” (“* aristo- eratical”’ was one of the test words which branded Rufus as a plebeian) ‘“ Kilmyre’s place in the old man’s favor. So we had to remove the invalid to some place where it would be possible and natural for him to die quickly, unseen by any one but our- selves, so that we could safely aver that his remains were disfigured and decomposed through the vio- lence of erings, and the poison of hydropho- bia in his system; and for that cause fetch him home to the family vault at Dornoch in a sealed casket. ‘Paris was fixed upon, and one of the medical es- i} tablishments for hydrophobia judiciously hinted at without being named. To outsiders it sounded well that we two should spare no trouble and neglect no means open to us, to save our kinsman’s life; it was also Ree plausible for us to remove him secretly permitting no eye to see the hideous sufferings of the madman, “But, although the world was to suppose him un- der the treatment of the most skillful specialists and attended by his devoted connections, we dared not let him out of our sole custody; we might be tracked by se bigs and our prize taken from us; so we hid him in the ruined tower, shut up the house, and waited, tbe four of us, in one common prison for his death. “Then comes Vulpino back from the hidden tomb, with news of safe removal—fetching ong one of his own creatures to watch Derwent tow: the last, with the excuse that the sight would be too painful for.us; and no sooner is this stranger, whom none of us ever saw or heard of before, set down by our kinsman’s bedside, than Vulpino comes to coun- sel us three, Godiva, you and I—to go off to Paris ing the the jinishing—the excuses for this being that folks all believe us there, and it might leak out that we had never left the house; then again it might leak out that Derwent died under suspicious circumstances at his own house—and we could thus prove our residence in Paris at that precise time— while Vulpino would be far beyond. pursuit, and easily could elude justice, even suppose they traced the death to him. ‘“*He was to telegraph when Derwent died, then we were to come from Paris with our sealed coffi which would receive the remains when it reach the Weald. All this seemed sensible enough, and we agreed to fulfill his directions; and you remem- ber how struck I was when at the last minute he de- clared that Miss Montacute could not accompany us for a reason he could not then give us. I saw her alone for a moment, and she seemed half bes Je herself with excitement. Then I thought Vulpino had seen that it would be dangerous for her reason should we take her away with us, where he could not watch her, ‘ ‘*We have obeyed his instructions to the letter. Instead of going to one of the big hotels here we have mewed ourselves up for ten days in this slow hole where no English people ever come. I have ar- ranged matters so that should any trouble rise by and by as to the cause of Derwent’s death, or that he died in his own house, and not in Paris—witnesses will come forward to prove that you and I lived here by ourselves during the whole latter part of his ill- ness, and never left Paris till all was over. But wh do we hear nothing from Vulpino? Gavaine sometimes turn sick with the thought that Vulpino has turned his coat and is letting Derwent redeem ne ay fora few more thousand than we promised Gavaine, who had gradually fallen asleep under his brother’s lengthy synopsis of the case, started broad awake as he uttered the concluding sentence, ote, roused by the sudden change of his voice rom a thoughtful monotone to the quick, sharp tones of keen apprehension. “ Tet me overhaul him!” shouted he, to prove how wide awake he had been throughout, “Tllargy the case with him by law of fist. Lor’! I’d soon puta head on him !” rl’s Mr. Gavaine Marshall’s diction was always rather highly spiced, both with blasphemies and with the silliest and vulgarest slang of the day. Rendered fit for dainty ears by the weeding out of all his oaths and much of his his utterances look tame and pointless on paper, like some feeble musical theme without its variations. - “Be quiet!” said Rufus, much as you would say “ be quiet!” to your dog; “* you know you are to do yas I bid you and no more or less. On sec- ond thoughts, I do not see how Vulpino dare betray us; it would only ruin himself, after his share in the removal of the American girl, eh? He was acting agent there, d’ye see? and whatever happened to us as his employers, the actual murder would have to be answered for by his own neck; and what would he do with Godiva? Then again, what if she broke down and refused to let him go on with Derwent? I scarcely think that likely, ing how splendidly resolute and calm she was over it when we were quaking in our shoes. But, bah! how intolerable suspense is!” “““ Splendidly resolute ’ means cool as a butcher, I suppose,”’ growled Gavaine, even his brutal nature revolting from the recollection of the beautif eiless woman. “I wish ye A Ag your wife, . I'd rayther you nor me, you b'’lieve.” ‘Hush!’ snarled Rufas, for the hard knuckles of the concierge (the door-keeper) were rapping smartly upon their door. A telegram had come at last, which, rip open with feverish excitement by the long, trembling fin- gers of Rufus as soon as the old man had withdrawn, was found to contain this announcement: ‘ew. to Ms.: “Achieved. Return at convenience.” “Done!” cried oaks Be a hoarse, half-heart- d attempt at the note of victory. 4 Rufus earned away, laughing ydtotically. Soon he turned round to his brother, still laughing loudly, but with a fixed, painful distortion of the facial mus- cles, and a distracted air. mer- oo) “ Get—me—something—I’m going—to—to faint—” | asped he, and suddenly stopped his hysterical ughter, and fell pone on the floor. Gavaine stared ret ly at him; after some mo- ments he bethought him to stoop and examine his brother, and discovered that he was not dead, Me- chanically he rummaged his pockets for his flask, and not finding it, would have given up in despair. had not the glittering wine-service on the sideboard caught his eye; he poured out @ large goblet full of | tremble: he hurried on to meet the echoes, b Ls Keen old whisky, swallowed about half of it himselt neat, without winking, and returned with the rest to This young man soon ralli athered himself and the fateful telegram up from the floor, and tottered into his dressing-room, which he instantly locked. Gavaine ga) stupidly at the closed door, flung a nervous glance around, grew yellow pale, and then rushed to that door, and hammered on it with fists and feet, yelling out like a savage: ; in, Isay! Tl go “Rufe! Rufe! let me in! let me crazy out here by myself 1’’ A voice hissed through the crack of the door: “Tf you don’t stop your noise and leave me alone, | £1 shoot you dead. And, after that there was awful silence, while the brothers faced their blood deed, each by himseif apart, an 6 air seem of § and groans. sad rustling wings of evil imps nejoising: Neither went to bed that night. CHAPTER XXXII. : THE WAGES OF SIN. Turex days afterward the brothers Marshall ar- rived at Dornoch, bearing, in mournful cortege, the presumed body of their deceased kinsman. A telegram don from Rufus, announcing the melancholy end of the Master of Dornoch-Weald, who had died of hy- pe Lat ge in spite of the utmost skill of the best medical specialists in Paris; and naming the day when the remains would arrive at the railway sta- tion, Linnhe, to be conveyed in solemn state to the Derwent vault, on his own estate. The whole country-side turned out to do honor to the greatyman. The procession was longer than any’ that had trodden these rugged mountain passes. since her majesty had passed by ten years before. on her way to Wales; the cathedral was acked with the flower of the country gentry, as wellas by hundreds of the tenantry, whose uncouth comments; let many a proud heart into s and moving se- crets of the late ra benevolence and charity.. The clergyman did his best in eulogy of a life that had always kept jealously aloof from ecclesiasti- cal interference; and a death too terrible to dwell} upon; and the old man’s heart waxed sore and bit- ter as he noted the conspicuous absence of Geoiirey d then a guick pang of remorsé convulse him when he recalled his part in the estrangement between uncle and nephew. , ; ' After all, was it well to drive from his side the boy whom he loved—the boy who loved him, as Geoffre certainly had always done, in spite of the’ wild fol lies which had revolted and imbittered the soul of the clergyman against him? Ah! how caey, it is to sow dissension and mis between proud hearts; and h« - ha give them back to each other, with the old full, un- questioning faith? ' See Alas! Is it worth while to point out the follies. and frailties of our r n-marred hearts— since all are more or less short of perfection No, let us rather shut our eyes to the faults of our friend; have not we, too, our miserable failir LF hay _ Only one ever lived on this fair earth, from dar- One! The lid of the coffin was not removed. was heart-harrowing reason for this—the malady which the master of Dornoch-Weald had died disfigured his countenance too dreadfully to pert n it. The lid was No went home to the Weald the k wae tele — sev pony culapaneee of Ri as to; Se Be essed notably e ent, to . utter exclusion of the nobodi a tating in on ca) ape Ww. awoke e scorn derision. ae hand low: aa pre" os wrk ” us was in no to face new disagreeables. ee ong He was sick with anxiety and suspicion. Where was Vulpino? Or Godiva? Or least, with a message? tionary who bad never attracted al! his genteei life, found himself the relucta of interest, as he a a: up to the you they were quitting the place of sepultw se Sa intention <3 Hear Hentai ; will in the presence o eSsrs. | aa aera errr get ‘ e ee, verybody wan see what manner of man it. was de © was going to read the infamous will w - was house, in favor of the base and ar sons of what mamond escribed as a miserable, uneducated old miser of a tailor. ira é Shocked and disgusted as the old lawyer was by the brusque crudity of Mr., Rufus’s manners, a6 the swinish lethargy of Mr. Gavaine’s, he was glad to hide his head in the depths of the traveling-coach. into which the co-heirs thrust him and hu them- selves; and he shut his respectable old eyes as they _ | rolled rapidly toward the Weald, so as to escape the galling sight of the pieenen souls and bodies of the P Tiveatel the We ld, Mr, All inte rrived at the Wea: . Alleyne was sh ' | the library, and bidden to wait A icant re ais | Gavaine was dispatched by his brother to fetch — Mir | y rother tch wines as he might deem suita- = | from the cellar su ble, ers \ all eet ez VE gS NT Reape ~aeagerga Ie. ohaie ad come to the Reverend Mr. Grin- | Kilmyre, the only mortal whom Derwent had t »~ ek ah ised * how Bard to ae ay ae pk to manly prime—and sinned never, — Me 3 ot: Mr. Derwent’s solicitor, Mr. Alleyne, a grave fi pi Tr atten oi nt point men as. — Derwent’s. Rufus disinherit one of the noblest scions of the old Port? i er e “ ee 6 met ‘hes t + Ne * < vet Pd es { Pi
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Pe OAS Bh eee yey ewe tee ridin Sled, eel A ? ira) ~— ; eR Sie Ey ‘ « ota man; vi Wa tainie tothe doov nt Cadica's Tats ofher woman; the unfortunate man loved truly and quarters in + reaking the ruined tower; the door which had been burst pf epee Naga elie aaSioneel sie a open, youremember, The idea of abduction came Her name on the coarse lips of Gayaine hurt him next, and sickened the lover; but then, he saw a sealed letter lying on the dressing-table, ran for it, saw that it was addressed to himself; and reading it, di:covered the true complexion of his love. This is the letter, written by Miss Montacute du- | ring the process of getting off with the old love be- fore you are on with the new: i “Mr. Rourus MarsHatu:—I have fallen forever | from my seat among good women. Henceforth I | must, perforce, consort with bad people. But there are degrees in that sinister society, as in the other. One may have their choice even in that ill-omened | like a wound; she had trodden his love and his self- _respect in the dust, but who was Gavaine, to dare | animadvert upon her conduct? He fiercely rebuked his brother, and so frightened away the blunt but honest go bm ser he would otherwise have enjoyed. “ All right, old man,” said Gavaine, lazily; “it ain’t my funeral, and if you're pleased, Iam. But Lord! don’t care to stop here; the place is haunt- “Bah! don’t be a fool!” snarled Rufus; “you'll stop here just aslong asIwantyou. If yousuppose I’m the softy to let you make ducks and drakes of our well-fought victory, you’re mistaken. Here you company. L 2 I : ¢ “Tam a Derwent; that is to say, supremacy is life and I live, according to the will, for the specified to me. I cannot accept a SBcORdAey station —ea- year, if all the ghosts in Purgatory haunted the place.” : And Rufus longed to escape to some solitary nook where he could brood over his miserable victory; yet dared not be alone for a moment, so cowed had hi spirit become, under the terrible contemplation of his late crimes, For it was not the least feature of the retribution which had already begun, that these brothers dreaded solitude as a man might dread torture by fire or cord, and preferred each other’s uncongenial society to it. They felt themselves to be brande. with the mark of Cain; this horrible comradeship in murder knit them together; and, in fact, so awtul were the visions they saw whenever they slept, that it was only each other’s proximity pecially if a first is offered me. You wish me to be your wife; I acknowledge the compliment at the same time that I am obliged to decline it. You are as wicked as your know how to be; but your nature is weak, and your intellect small; you could never be.. anything but curvishly wicked, ere is not enough manhood about you to subjugate a proud woman. ie “TI have discovered in your hideous ally, Vulpino, Sats sare ity of evil that transcends anything the ___- world has §een since the day of Cagliostro, Prince of . Charlatans‘and Adventurers. His person, hideous to fascination, is a true index of his nature, which is equally hideous, Since I must be a wicked woman, Tet me earn distinction in my chosen line; with you, ra; 4 ___. _Ishould have been only a despicable wicked woman: | that reassured them. f ss With him, I shall wring unwilling applause from | And all the while they distrusted and despised ‘ic every gallant, adventurous spirit, for my un- | each other. paralleled iniquities. Adieu forever, Rufus Mar- ci All was settled at last; the will had been presented for probate and duly passed; Geoffrey Kilmyre had not come forward to dispute anything; all was ap- parently secure. At this juncture, one would have expected the lucky heirs to be at the hight of felicity, and ab- sorbed in merrymaking. It was not so; had they lost the game, they could not have sat in more hopeless dust and ashes. Ru- fus mourned his lost love with a devotion worthy of a far better object; and Gavaine’s addled brains were reeling with superstitious fancies, caused part- ly by conscience, partly by the oppressive loneliness of the mansion. : Rufus had done his best to get back the family servants, and to lure the family friends to their places at Otto Derwent’s fireside; but without the slightest success in either direction. he family servants refused to re-enter the Weald as long as it was held by “the likes of them tailor folks;” and the ‘‘gentry”’ opened their eyes in amazement at the presumption of “ that sort of peo. ple” in expecting them to associate with chem ; also ugly stories were afloat, and ali Dornoch b with the whispers of the curious. Meanwhile the refugees were daily By. yoisped ne strength and health in the shelter they had chosen; carefully guarding against discovery for a time, during which they watched with interest the doings of the guilty pair. y The denouement came one day, unexpectedly. Tn vain had the brothers searched for the grave of Mr. Derwent. Vulpino had left no clew to it. This of itself was a source of keen anxiety; Rufus wearied mind and body searching for it; and Ga- vaine imagined all sorts of absurd things, and nearly died of fear at his own fancies. As Rufus strolled over the domain, accompanied by one of the new servants he had at length got from London, he trembled lest they might stumble over a rudely-made mound of earth any minute; and Gavaine was apt to see strange glistening things shall, son of Jack Marshall, the tailor; your presump- ea he tion in lifting your eyes to a Derwent is hereby just- ly punished. Feeble of intellect, plebeian in mind and body, how dared you expect towin me? My - Caliban is ‘of noble blood; possesses a race for- tune, and appalls_me with the depth of his wicked- should have stifled; the atmos- here of trade in my drawingroom would have sti- -fledme. Faugh! Get you to your victory:—I pass _ Over my share in the spoil to you. “Signed. GoptvA Monracurs.” Vulpino had added a few lines at the bottom of the sheet, Bh “Mussrs, MarsHatu:—I tender my profound thanks for your goodness in introducing me to the brayest and most beautiful lady of the nineteenth ' century. Be tranquil concerning the ten thousand _ pounds owning me for professional services on your Ben shalf;—{ have paid myself quite satisfactorily in - the 5 peg of the charming Signorina Montacute, “Adieu, excellent friends; be happy. as Iam, aithfully, ness. With you, I in « “ Ever yours, ; ‘*VuULPINO.” ' Rufus Marshall reeled under this most unexpect- ed blow; for a time his distress was enough to have won him pity from his bitterest foe. Among all his forebodings this Sad never cast the faintest shadow; - he had never thought of Vulpinoas a man, a man _ actuated by masculine emotions and impulses; if he had ever cherished jealousy, it was Geoffrey who was in his thoughts. Never, oh, never indeed, could :‘ he have’ guessed that Vulpino, the hideous Italian a er, was dangerous in that way. cai Fora time his anguish overcame all bounds, and _ he shut himself into his faithless lady’s room, and - wept and moaned like a stricken La And, vile as _ he was, his love was genuine enough to give him the fenrit of apprehension on her behalf; it years im to imagine the delicaie, exquisite Godi- merey of that horrible man; in this one _ matter Rufus’was @ man, and he would have laid | rising whitely out of the ground, and to utter crazed beta ae tee what from misfortune, | acres se i brought the cold, inquisitive eyes of Pas tear out the hope of any other reward than the | the hirelings upon him with perilous interest, while they set the heart of Rufus beating wildly. Presently the new domestics were received into the bosom of Dornoch’s society, and in return for their sketches of the life lived by the brothers at the Weald, were instructed in the whole history of the disinheritanve of Geoffrey Kilmyre, and the ‘good luck of the ‘common trash” now in power, for by these terms were the fortunate heirs uently de- signated by Derwent’s people. ‘I see, I see!’’ as Gavaine’s valet was heard to as- sert; “it wa’n’t for nothing my boss is frightened for to bene alone—for a great baby! An’ makes me consciousness of her happitiess. His heart-broken reverie was interrupted anon by _ ‘the arrival of Gavaine, clamoring for him to come ~ and hear the will. _. Without a word Rufus went; ten minutes after- _ ward the brothers stood on the upper step of the grand portal, bidding adieu to Mr. Alleyne, who had read them into the possession of one of the finest es- and incomes in the kingdom. ; As they watched his modest gig rolling down the j on avenue, they turned with one accord and looked at each ee “ty G pris sleep on the sofa in his room. An’ as for sleepin’ in ie Te ior Maipht my bem diate quite sachs wot Be ? Hum my such a@ so ga7--' Separate homes, drawing the | gaiq ir. Rufus's wall in his cere “but of all the of itse pining, sickly devils, he’s the biggest one I ever come across. ‘Stead of takin’ pride in his good luck, an’ acting wlan. mom he just sets and frets, An’ it ain’t all along of the young lady what jilted him, neither; mark my words, good folks. Mr. Ru- fus Marshall he has got something onto his mind which is bound to come out, soone7z or later.”’ Thus the authorities down-stairs; soon every eye was riveted wpon Dornoch-Weald and its new pos- sessors. According to the provisions of the will they had tacked the name of Derwent onto their own, and now flourished in all dociiments written by themselves as Rufus Marshall Derwent, and Ga- vaine Marshall Derwent, They stayed drearily alone at the great house, hoping to live down the effects of the curse they had brought upon themselves; but never did time pass so maddeningly slow; at that rate the year of probation would never pass! Rufus still held the mastery over Gavaine’s brute : nature; more than ever before, indeed, for avaine was giving himself up more and more habits of intoxication; there were few moments of his day and night that were not at least scented with the odor of intoxicating liquors. His mind, never a Seana atid has ray cost rus SCOM ly ec sensible - on. tay with Godiva ween bere reminsili 2 tna Perea | ee 6) eee AN AMERICAN QUEEN, — | berin eer vara ee eS eT OO SAOEE SAE SES AER ATT SE LEE > Tae sound one, was rapidity giving way; sometimes Ru- fus would come out of his wretched reverie, struck with the grisly suspicion that Gavaine was turning imbecile. If this were so, what ht he not babble? Ay, | but if this were really so he would have to be re- | moved to an insane pean whose functionaries | would have to be blinded by gold, deafened by gold, a of all logical inference by gold; gold paid by us. Rufus set himself to watch; set himself to guard’ _ against the perils of Gavaine’s awakened conscience: Once he caught himself speculating on Gavaine’s chances of abe Mae wondering whether it would | not be best for him to die instead of living to bea maniac, ready to make such revelations as would ruin his brother. But when he had detected the turn of his ei) Rufus uttered a cry, terrible as the dismayed yell of the condemned soul, and he tore his hair and beat his breast in self-abhorrence. It had come to this, that he could speculate on his brother’s death! One evening Gavaine, rendered courageous for the moment by deep libations with his dinner, strolled out by himself into the moonlight. He was drunk; yet so thoroughly well seasoned that he walked as 609 hy as ay Pharisee, only foolishly beneficent of mood. Some hours afterward he bounded into his brother’s presence, as he sat crouching over his everlasting ae in the library; he seemed to be convulsed with terror, his eyes bulged from their sockets, his features worked, foam oozed from his gaping, panting mouth, and his hands twitched, and rasped the air. £ ; He fell ina heap on the et at his brother’s feet, clutching his legs and’ clngtbe to them, like any frightened child. “In heayen’s name, man, what has happened?” muttered Rufus, in adying voice; he was always repared for frightful misfortunes. It was now the bit of his mind to look for disaster, ; “ve seen them—seen THEM—Oh, God!’ shivered Gavaine; “hand in hand—loving each other—but the look—oh, the look od gave me!’’ he moaned and writhed, almost seized by a fit. ** Seen who?” demanded Rufus, sternly; he thought Gavaine merely tipsy; ‘don’t be a fool, Gavaine; go and getsome soda. You're drunk.” ““You won’t believe me?” cried Gavaine, looking up in his brother’s eves with his own blood-streaked orbs, “why, man, I tell you on my oath that Isa Mr. Der- went and the young lady from America walking in the forest deat outside of Toby Cargill’s patch; they held each other’s hands, and they were smiling at each other. And Geoffrey Kilmyre was walking by him- self, behind them a little way, I tell youl saw them! I wasn’t thinking on them, For a wonder I had for- gotten the whole cursed crew, As they came to- ward me through the trees I thought they were some strangers who didn’t know they were tres- ssing; and I stopped to tell them so; but by-and- y I knew them, and I very nearly died. They came on closer—and closer, not speaking a word, but only coming closer and closer—all three gazing at me, oh, such awful eyes! So at last I broke away from the horrid spell, and ran the whole way home. Sneer as you please, you will see them yourself some day; don’t think to get off any better than me; if they haunt me they will haunt you; and far worse, I should say, if our deserts are taken into ac- count. You were always twice as full of this here Plot as I was; oh, Lor’! if you had only let it alone! I see them again I swear Pll go to Justice Fair- bairn and confess the whole.” *“You needn’t take the trouble,” snarled Rufus, whose contemptuous attention to Gavaine’s weak maunderings had given place to sudden bitter hate and dread; ‘if you want to kill yourself by hanging I had rather accommodate you myself. ain’t the fashion in the Derwent tamiige If you die, you die privately, like a gentleman,” “* Hist!” sharply aspirated Gavaine, sittin; up on his knees with a scared face, “‘who’s that at the window?” ¥ The brothers turned their heads with one accord toward the open French casement; and perceived three people entering. These were Mr, Derwent, Monica and Geoffrey. _ A frightful sense of choking, of blindness—of help- less, hopeless dismay, and Rufus slid to a kn osteo and buried his craven face in his hands, Gavaine gave one yell, a into a corner, and cowered there, @ raving maniac! ““We were comin you,”’ said the Master of Dornoch-Weald. “It is time the farce should end. We have given you time to enjoy your ee won as you sup eo crime ‘and bloodshed —have you enjoyed it? No! look at that mental wreck! Look at ‘ap own emaciated frame, and re- call the never-lulled gnawing of remorse which has eaten into every one of the spoils, which you periled so much to obtain. This shall be your punishment; (I desire no more Peiehats one to overtake you. Was it worth all the risks you have run, the anguish - of mizid you have incurred, the scorn éf each other, and the self-contempt; was your supposed victory worth all these? No, you wicked men; your will to do evil was great, but, being enlightened beings, you could not quite smother conscience. Fools! To dream of enjoying a victory won through such enor- mities!’ Go, wretches; I have no wish to retain you for punishment. God has taken your punishment in his own hands. Away! Let me never behold your Judas faces again.” Rufus Marshall staggered to his feet; and with head on his breast, eyes half-closed, and his whole frame mapa gh hey grief and trouble, drew the peers arm of the idiot Gavaine into his, and in ead silence these two went forth from the state Weald, defeated, f : But the Master of Dernoch-Weald, and his idolized daughter, and the ever-loved y; these three were happy together, Kee A ae
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1 Adventures of Buffalo Bill. From Boyhood to Man hood. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 2 The Ocean Hunters; or, The Chase of the Leviathan, Captain Mayne Reid. ga@g~ An extra large number. ee) 83 Adventures of Wild Bill, the Pistol Prince. Remarkable career of J. B. Hikok. By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. 4 The Prairie Ranch; or, The Young Cattle Herders. By Jos, E. Badger, Jr. & Texas Jack, the Mustang King. Thrilling Adventures in the Life of J. B. Omohundro, “ Texas Jack.” By Col. P. Ingraham, 6 Cruise of the Flyaway; or, Yankee Boys in Ceylon. By C. Dunning Clark. Roving Joe: The History of a Young “ Border Ruffian.” Brief Scenes from the ‘Life of Joseph E. Badger, Jr. By A. H. Post. 8 The Flyaway Afloat; or, Yankee Boys "Round the World. By C. Dunning Clark. £9 Bruin Adams, Old Grizzly Adams’ Boy Pard. Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 10 The Snow Trail; or, The Boy Hunters of Fur-Land. A Narra- tive of Sport and Life around Lake Winnipeg. By T. C. 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TS ane a Pp af FH LY 4,4. Awe! “4 \ Es STEIN 5 SRL TRAD ORENE ITO |) SR A SS INET NE 2 1 The M-skea B ide; or, Will She Marry S, Him? By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 2 Was it Love? or, Collegians and Sweet- By Wm. Mason Turner, M. D. By Bartley T. Campbell. 6 The Sceeret Marriage. By Sara Claxton. 4 A Baughter of Eve; or, Blinded by Love. By Mrs. Mary ] Crowell. s 8 Meart to Heart. y Arabella Southworth. 9 Alone’in the World; or, The Young Man’s Ward. By the author of ‘ Clifton,” ete. 10 A Pair of Gray Eyes. By Rose Kennedy. 11 Entangled; or, A Dangerous Game. y 12 His Lawful wit s Law ifes; or, M the Child of Adoption. By Mrs. Ann e Mic phouk 13 Madcap, the Little @uakeress; or, The ; Naval Cadet’s hae 8 y Corinne Cushman. 414 Why I Married Him. By Sara Claxton. 15 A Fair Face’; or, Out in the World. By Bartley T. Campbell. 16 Trust Her Not; or, A True Knight. By Margaret Leicester. iz oa Bang ae P Seabag 4 BF athena pecan AGS Kis ol; or, The Starred iage. B Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. . 19 Khe Broken Betrothal; or, Love versus Hate. By Mary Grace Halpine. \ 20 Orphan Nell, the Orange Girl; or, The ' Lost Heir. By Agile Penne. 21 Now and Forever 3 or, Why Did She Mar- “a Him? By Henrietta Thackeray. 22 Whe Bride of an Actor. By the author tes ‘of “‘ Alone in the World,” “ Clifton,” etc. 23 aoe, Wears or, Why She Proposed. By Sara 24 Mer Face Was Her Fortune, By Elea- nor Blaine. acret. By Arabella Southworth. 26 Without a Heart. By Col. P. Ingraham. 2% Was She a Coquette? or, A Strange Courtship. By Henrietta Thackeray. 28 Sybil Chase; or, The Gambler’s Wife. By . Ann §. Stephens. i 29 For Her Dear Sake. By Sara Claxton. i £0 The Bouquet Girl. By Agile Penne. ms Rt A Mad Warri ge. ByMary A. Denison ‘ . 82 Mariana, the Prima Donna; or, Roses ' and Lilies. By Arabella Southworth. 33 Khe Three Sisters. By Alice Fleming. 34 A Marriage of Convenience; or, Was Hea Count? By Sara Claxton. 35 All Against Her. By Clara Augusta. 36 Sir Areher’s Bride; or, The Queen of His if Heart. By Arabella Southworth. ite a7 —_— Sohatky Conshe: Bose Kennedy. ee: s Own aim; or, Trust Her Not. B Arabella Southworth. 4 41 Blin 42 pa aeg the Beautiful; or, His Second -*_ . Love, 43 Th By ae Sa pi n. ou a UL er; or, Bro ains we ae Spey eming. ye tile. . ; er en Foe? or ve At All Odds. By Arabella Southworth. ’ ‘46 The Little Heiress; or, Under a Cloud. By mg 8 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 8. R. Sherwood. 49 His Heart’s Mistress; or, Love at First ____—*Sight. By Arabella Southworth. 60 The Cuban Heiress; or, The Prisoner of La Vin se: By Mrs. A. Denison, 51 Wwo. Yoting Girls; or, The Bride of an : Farl. By Alice Fleming. ; 52 The Winged Messenger; or, Risking All for a Heart. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 53 Agnes Hiope, the Actress. By William , ey ‘a i: Turner, M. D. ne oman’s Heart 3.or, Saved f: .. Street. Py George 8S. atone, “4 psothiy 55 She Did Not Love Hinz; or, Stooping to * Conquer. By Arabella Southworth. 56 Love-MMad ; or, Betrothed, Married, Divorced and ——. By Wm. Mason Turner, M.D &7 A Wrave Girl. By Alice Fleming. ot 68 gt hehe 4 presi 3 he uardian. By . Mary Reed Crowell. 59 A Widow’s Wiles; or, A Bitter V . 0 cee eset Se Dunind Lager eciPs Dece or e Diamond Le x By Mrs. Jennie Davis Burton, 61 A Wicked Heart. By Sara Claxton. _ 62 The Maniac Bride. By Margaret Blount 63 The Creole Sisters. By Anna £. Porter. _ 64 What Jealousy Did. By Alice Fleming. 65 The Wife’s Sucret, By Col, Juan Lewis. t $ 4 Bip Dies AL ite orl Yael te TEER SON Soe { av on American Copyright Novels and the Cream of Foreign Novelists, Unabridged, FOR FIVE CENTS 25 Only a Schoolmistress; or, Her Untold | ‘ or, The Mysterious | 93 Love’s Victory. erley Ty Pap? a a, ary. 3 or, Flora’s Forgiveness. By Rachel Bernhardt. 67 Forbidden Bans, By Arabella Southworth, 68 Weavers and Weft. By M. E. Braddon. 69 Camiile; or, The Fate of a Coquette. By Alexandre Dumas. 70 The 'Fwo Orphans, By D’Enery. 71 My Young Wife. By My Young Wife's usband. 72 The Two Widows. By Annie Thomas. 73 Rose Michel; or, The Trials of a Factory ‘ Girl. By Maud Hilton, 74 Cecil Castlemaine’s wakes or, The Story of a Broidered Shield. By Ouida. 75 Ape Black Lady of Duna. By J.8. Le ‘anu. 76 Charlotte mony te By Mrs. Rowson. 77 Christian QOakley’s Mistake. By the author of ‘‘ John Halifax, Gentleman,” etc. 8 My Young Husbands or, A Confusion in the Family. By Myself. 79 A Queen Amongst Women. By the author of ‘‘ Dora Thorne,” etc., etc. 80 Mer Lord and Master. By Florence Marryat. 81 Lucy Temple, Sister of Charlotte. 82 A Long Time Ago. By Meta ; $3 Playing for High Stakes. By Annie Thomas. 84 The Laurel Bush. By the author of “John Halifax, Gentleman.” 85 Led Astray. By Octave Feuillet. _ 86 Janet’s Repentance. By_George Eliot. 87 The Romance ofa Poor Young Man. By Octave Feuillet. 88 A Werrible Deeds; or, All for Gold. By Emma Garrison Jones. 89 A Gilded Sin. By the author of “Dora Thorn,” ete, 90 zee gen esnen’s Daughter. By Mary. owitt. 91 The Jilt. By Charles Reade, 92 Eileen Alanna; or, the Dawning of the Day. By Dennis O'Sullivan. By B. L. Farjeon. Quiet Heart. By Mrs. Oliphant. Lettice Arnold. By Mrs. Marsh. Waunted Hearts, By Rachel Bernhardt. By Katharine King. By Miss Mulock. 94 The 99 Bhar haete Bruce’s Lovers. By Mary atrick. 100 Through Fire and Water. By Fred- erick Talbot, 102 Pee Woffington. 103 A Desperate Deed, B 104 Shadows on the Snow. by B, eon. 105 The Great Hoggarty Diamond. By W. M. Thackeray. 106 From Dreams to Waking. By E. Lynn Linton, 107 Poor rtp ! By ¥. W. Robinson, 108 The Sad Fortunes of the Rev. Amos Barton. By George Eliot. 109 Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses. By B, L. Farjeon. 110 The Wandering Heir. By Charles Qe | 111 The Brother’s Wet; or, Within Six - Weeks. By Emilie Flygare Carlen. 112 A Hero. By Miss Mulock. 113 Paul and Virginia. From the French of Bernardin De St. Pierre. ; d. L. Far- 114 °fwas In Trafalgar’s Bay. By Wal- ter Besant and James Rice. 115 The Maid of Killeena. By Wm. Black. 116 Metty. By Henry Kingsley. 117 The Wayside Cross; or, The Raid of Gomez. By Captain EK. A. Milman. 118 Whe Vicar of Wakefield. By Oliver Goldsmith. 119 Maud Mohan. By Annie Thomas. 120 Thaddeus of Warsaw. By Miss Jane Porter. 121 oe King of No-Land. By B. L. Far eon. 122 Lovel, the Widower. By W. M. Thack- eray. © 123 An Island Pearl, By B. L. Farjeon. 124 Cousin Phillis. 125 Leila; or, The Siege of Grenada, By Ed- ward Bulwer (Lord Lytton). By 126 When the Ship Comes Walter Besant and James Rice. 127 One of the Family. By James Payn. 128 Whe Birthright. By Mrs. Gore. 129 Motherless; or, The Farmer’s Sweetheart, By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. 180 ee York. By Albert W. Aiken. 131 Sister sgrinet Sisters Hearts. y Mrs. Mary Reed Home. 180 Was She a Wife? or, The Proof of Lové or, Two Orphan Girls in New r, The Rivalry c* Crowell. ’ x 132 Sold for Gold.. By Mrs. M. V. Victor. 133 Lord Roth’s Sin. By Georgiana Dicken 134 ane Me Love Mer? By Bartley T. Caim)) ¥ 135 Sinned Against. By Lillian Lovejoy. 136 Was She His Wife? By Mrs. Mary Re Crowell. 137 The Village on the Cliff, Thackeray. 138 Poor Waleria! or, By Margaret Blount. 139 Miargaret Graham. By G.P.R. James, 140 Without Mercy. By Bartley T.Campbell.! 141 Monor Bound. By Lillian Lovejoy. 142 Fleeing from Love. By Mrs. Harriet Irving. ’ 143 Abducted; or, A Wicked Woman's Work. By Rett Winwood. f 144 A Strange Marriage. By Lillian Lovejo. 145 tN oli gg ris Lives. By Mrs. Mary Reed rowell. 146 A Desperate Venture; or, For Leve Own Sake. By Arabella Southworth, © 147 The War of Hearts. By Corinne Cush 148 Which Was the Woman ? or, Strange - Misjudged. By Sara Claxton. 149 An Ambitious Girl; or, She Would Bi An Actress. By Frances Helen Davenport. 150 Love Lord of All. By Alice May Fleming 151 A Wild Girl. By Corinne Cushman. 152 A MWan’s Sacrifice. By Harriet Irving 153 Did She Sin. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowe 154 We Loves Me Not, By Lillian Lovejoy 155 Winning Ways. 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; or, A Young Girl Folly. By Agnes Mary Shelton. ; 159 Lady Helen’s Vows or, The Mother Secret. By the Late Mrs. i. F, Ellet. 160 Buying a Wieart,. By Lillian Lovejoy. 161 Pearl of Pearis. By A. P. Morris, Jr. 162 A Fateful Game; or, Wedded and Pa By Sara Claxton. 163 The Creole Cousins; or, False as Fair By Philip 8. Warne. 164 A Scathing Ordeal; or, May Langley’ Mad Marriage. By Mrs. Georgiana Dickens 165 A Strange Girl. By Albert W. Aiken. 166 A Man’s Sin. By Rett Winwood. 167 The Hand of Fate}; or, The Wreck o Two Lives. By Arabella Southworth, 168 Two Fair Women. By Wn. M. Turnet 169 Tempted Three Love; or, On Woman's Error, By an Lovejoy. 170 Blind Barbara’s By Ma Grace Halpine. 171 A Woman’s Witchery; or, Much Tribulation. By Sara Claxton. 172 Black Eyes and Blue. By Corin , Cushman. By Mis The Broken Tro Secret, 173 The Cost of a Folly. Dickens. 174 The Pretty Puritan. Daughter. ; 175 Is Love a Mockery? or, Revenge - weet. By Arabella Southworth. 176 Adria, the Adopted. By Jennie Dav Burton. 177 For the Woman He Loved; or, Fu : ful Links. By Agnes Mary Shelton, 178 'The Locked Heart, By Corinne Cushmat 179 Parted by Treachery. By Harriet Irving By Rett Winwood. ; 181 Under a Clouds or, A Daughter's § pieion. By Sara Claxton. 182 An American Queen; or, The Heart ¢ Gold. by Grace Mortimer. 183 A Point of Honor; or, Diamond C Diamond. By Lillian Lovejoy. 184 Pursued to the Altar. 4 Cushman. A new issue every week. Ty Tan Waverury Lisrary is for sale by all New! dealers, five cents per copy, or sent by mail on ceipt of six cents each. A BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers. ; _ 98 William street, New York.