Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 184) (1883 05 22)

Page 1

Pursued to the Altar. Ah Aili Aull ‘ Aa ~ aS ye oa BY CORINNE CUSHMAN, AUTHOR OF “THE WAR OF HEARTS,” ‘‘ BLACK EYES AND BLUE,” ‘‘ BRAVE BARBARA,” ETC, CHAPTER I. ONLY A POOR CLERK. Brryt Warp at eighteen was called the belle of Chicago. Not that there were not plenty of beautiful girls in that great, gay, growing cit; —belles by the dozen, each with her own pecul- iar claims to the champion-belt of girlish su- premacy. But Beryl’s claims were, perhaps, more widely acknowledged than those of any other, on two accounts: first and foremost, her exquisite loveliness—secondly, her father’s posi- tion, - Anthony Ward was not only one of Chicago’s wealthiest men, but he was also a leader in poli- “MR, BRISTOW, PRAY, LET ME SPEAK! OH, PLEASE LET GO MY HAND! MY FATHER CANNOT GIVE ME AWAY WITHOUT MY CONSENT.” % tics, and expected, in due time, to be a member of the Senate of the United States. - He kept open house in sumptuously generous style; and traded a little, too, on the capital of. his only daughter’s wit and charms. o this latter selfishness of his may be charged all the trouble which arose in the Ward family, with- out which there would have been little material for this story. Beryl came eighteen on the 10th of February, 1871—the year of the great fire, but months and months before that disastrous event. Her fa- ther gave her a party to which one thousand invitations were sent out; and he made arrange- ments for the comfort and enjoyment of the fullnumber. There were to be guests from ev- ery adjoining city and State—from Cincinnati, Detroit, Toledo, Cleveland, Buffalo—a few from New York, twenty or thirty from Washington, seven or eight from Baltimore, a dozen from Philadelpbia; for, while this was the birthday and coming-out party of bis daughter, it was also a political instrument to be deftly used by 1 Anthony Ward. We have nothing to do with his machinations except to state, at the outset, that he was determined to marry Beryl to Nor- man Bristow, a rich bachelor of thirty-five, who had great influence with his party in the State and city; that Beryl knew nothing of this cruel determination, and was fathoms deep in love with Fennel Gray, one of her father’s clerks; and that Mr. Ward was utterly unsuspicious of this infatuation on her part. No private mansion—even in Chicago—could. be expected to accommodate one thousand guests, and, at first, Mr. Ward thought of en- gaging the Palmer House; but changed his mind and arranged things in this fashion: At the side of his house, and behind it, in L- shape, was a large garden, crowded in summer with the rarest flowers. He caused the whole of this ground to be floored, walled and roofed. Where trees or shrubs intervened, he floored around them, and they were left to form part of the decoration of the place, Gas-jets were introduced; and the space was divided into two

Page 2

ese vers in, eS 2 tie TREN SRE GARR remy ee hit Ii PR TN eee We Se {ae | s ; ate eed Jie op PURSUED TO THE ALTAR. ke — vast apartments—ball-room and supper-room, when she entered the Dall-room; and was as | gaveThim what he was resolved to have—It was Tho ball-room ended in a fine conservatory which stood at the bottom of the garden. 3 rough walls and ceiling weré draped with soft blue and French-gray muslin, which, in its turn, was nearly hidden by hundreds of bril- y liant, blossoming American is large trees and shrubs in and banks of delicious roses, , amelias and flowering plants. The whole place was like a bit of gorgeous June, taken out of some tropic country and set down in. that bleak é dake region, eh _ The center of the supper-room was occupied by a@ mimic iceberg, made of real ice in the most fantastic lem ie that glittered and sparkled in the flood of light, forming an en- chanted spectacle, with smilax here and thew ? clinging to it, and red roses peeping out. of its fe crevices. About this unique center-piece the + tables were arranged. It is hardly necessa , | to say that the most famous caterers had fade ot these all that the fancy of a gourmand could de- sire. In the house proper every room was thrown open—a suit of three on either side of the broad hali—a long drawing-room and music-room on one side, on the other a library, parlor, and a loyely boudoir made out of the dining-room. . Exquisite flowers, exquisite music, golden floods of light everywhere! The first part of the evening’ Beryl stood by her father’s side at the head of the drawing- room receiving their throngs of friends. A convention of poets and artists, each doing his best toward it, could hardly give you a true picture of Beryl Ward as she stood there, that evening, just eighteen. How, then, can we do it? We cannot. _- Wecan tell you that she wore a dress from \* Worth’s, white, clinging, complicated, wonder- p>» ful, showing the palest pink and _ straw-color roses crumpled and delicate, amid a foam of lace and lisse; that her jewels were pearls and diamonds set by Tiffany; that her fan and bou- quet and slippers matched her dress and her or- naments. .Wecan tell you that she had dark- \ brown, hair, soft, silky and rippling, with little infantine rings of it clinging to her white fore- *- head—hazel eyes,, very dark and lustrous— cheeks of the purest oval, colored like two wild roses, a faint, clear pink—lips fresh and deli- cious, dimpled at the corners of the sweet mouth—a white neck and lovely arms, with a figure of medium hight, rounded into girlish —— ve. ge symmetry. All this is mere outline. How re paiat the flash of wit or the shadow of tender- ' ness in the eyes under those ea lashes? How ; escribe the wavering of the wild-rose color— ‘| the smile that came or went—the hundred cheratng airs and ways of one who knows she is beautiful and happy, young and beloved—and well-dressed ! ; Beryl Ward was as little-vain as a girl could . be a it the circumstances, which is not say- ing that she was ignorant of her fascinations. . She had been petted and flattered from baby- hood; only .her own warm, loving nature had |. prevented her being utterly spoiled. . | ' “Tt was ten o’clock before Beryl felt at liberty to desert her station as hostess and enjoy a _qance. Then she entered the fairy ball-room on ‘the arm of Norman Bristow, a tall, handsome, imperious man, whose lightest attention the oe ie, | eit of Chicago considered an honor. They stood together at the head of the flower-wreath- ed room while the sets were forming, he, bold, , ing aig a ambitious; she, young, lovely, py and fair. None could look at them, standing side by side, without thinking what a match it would be, if the two should fall in love with each other. Fennel Gray could not deny it, as—al- _ gaost as much alone in that brilliant assemblage és ifin a wilderness—be leaned against a ban- - oe and bitter envy. fe wished that he had not been so foolish as | Ge come, ' Anthony Ward had kindly invited the most xespectable and intelligent of his clerks and ac- , svuntants to the grand ball. : As the moth circles about the candle Fennel mo come, aeig ee that he should scorch his wings and gain for If pain and despair. It was as far from his hope as heaven from earth wat Beryl Ward should love him. True, he bg - kad saved her life that time when the yacht ss Gapsized out on the lake last summer; but an | ‘common sailor would have done that as we and she had never told him that she was parti- ae 43 ood bel nd solitary by the col Poi: 7 8 hesto e and solitary by the colum | +e e was not even sharp enough to discover that * ‘ Miss Ward was aware of his presence; yet she ha given him one t «A iier-twined column, watching them with a sick swift and flashing glance — conscious of him as he was of her. “Poor, poor, dear boy!” she thought, and, very unreasonably, this pity for Fennel made her dislike the gallant, smooth, prosperous gen- tleman bending over her with such suave assur- ance of his own powers of Segre All through the stately quadrille Fennel watched only her and her partner. ‘Nobody dances with him!” Beryl was thinking, as she smiled and chatted with Nor- man Bristow, ‘‘so, I shall have to dance with him myself. {ll do it, before long, see if I don’t! I wonder if he waltzes?” Crowds of the young eligibles of thearistocracy were waiting beg for a dance with Miss Ward. Itwas a long time before sho could make opportunity to carry out her whim. At last she found herself stranded. beside the mel- ancholy clerk. “ ¥ou have not danced wnce, Mr. Gray.” “How do you know, Miss Ward?” ** Oh, I have had an eye on you.” “T know none of these glittering creatures, Miss Ward; and, if I did, it would be preswmp- tion for me to ask the favor of them.” * Ask it of me, Mr. Gray? Come! Do you like the round dances? This is my favorite of all the Strauss waltzes: Oh, come! the music oi got into my feet so that they will not keep She held out her little white hand; he t«<x it, his arm slipped about the plastic waist, her flower-like face smiled up into his, hey witching eyes sent up rays of glory into his own; the de- ligious music throbbed like kis own blood through every fiber of his being; he forgot the crowd, forgot that he was a poor clerk, forgot there was a bitter yerersay and a wretched to- morrow—he held the sweet girl whom he loved in a tender, pure, supporting clasp, as they glid- ed and circled to the pelpietias measure, and his spirits arose and floated gloriously like thistle-down struck through with sunshine. His movements were easy aud graceful; Beryl had never danced so long without fatigue, and she was as happy to waltz with him as he to have her. “here was a third person happy at the sight, too; and that was Thalia Conyngham. Thalia had set her heart upon becoming mistress of the handsome Gheblietinent of Norman Bristow. She was an ambitious girl, bound to make a brilliant marriage. Love did not enter into the question settled in her mind—that she wanted an elegant home and a husband who command- = a high position, Mr. Bristow suited her ideas, Sharp and subtle, she pierced, in one evening, the plans of their host and discovered that he was bound to make a match between his lovely oe daughter and Mr. Bristow—saw that ristow. admired Beryl—that her own plans were in danger. , Jealous and alarmed, it was a relief to her to observe this little side-play between Beryl and her father’s clerk, , ‘The little fool is in love with him!’ she laughed to herself. ‘*I must draw Mr. Bris- tow’s attention to that fact!” and she proceeded to do so, immediately. j Norman Bristow drew down his black brows sending a subtle look, from half-closed eyes, at the young couple, while the lips under his waxed mustache curled into a faint sneer; but Miss Conyngham gained nothing by her malice—he almost turned his back upon that he had seen through er motive, ‘and given her ‘‘ the cold shoulder,” . She bit her lips with vexation and was glad when she was asked to dance, though the one who led her out was a person she would not have hesit&ted to refuse had she not been in haste to leave Mr. Bristow. : ; When she had gone Bristow stole another look at Beryl and her partner, still floating airly about the great room. He was vexed, but not greatly so. He cared no more for the clerk’s fancy for the millionaire’s daughter than he did for the rose which had eet from some beauty’s hair which itis foot had accidentally crushed. He expected dozens of men to be in love with Miss Ward, He was not jealous of them. Why should he be? He smiled slightly as he asked himself the question—a smile of conscious pow- er. He, too, had fathomed Anthony Ward’s game—knew the price he, Bristow, was expect- ed to pay for the daughter’s hand—and was willing enough to it. For, Norman Bristow, when he first led Beryl out to open the ball, had made up his mind that he wanted her for his wife; and a man not used to giving up what he had decided u . People often said “‘ Fortune favored him,” it was not the favor of the fickle goddess which Con ‘ . ; \ wih 53 a ! rae Ra A 4 - re . . SO ee ee ek, ee ee, Oe NO ae aed Ie “6k A ae noe er, and she felt n but. the persistency of his will. Beryl might like to waltz with that good- looking clerk—let her have her waltz out!—but she was going to marry him! CHAPTER II. THE VISITOR WHO CAMH UNBIDDEN., . THALIA CONYNGHAM had a will, too. _Where the man had egotism, she had cunning. She was sorry in amoment that she had betrayed her spite to Norman Bristow. She felt thatshe must moye more cautiously before so astute 4 person, whose glance could be so sarcastic. But she did not relinquish her plans; she hugged them the more tightly. ‘*T must know this Fennel Gray,” she said to herself. “It is true I have not the honor to number a clerk among my friends, but it is not ae late to doso, I will ask Beryl to introduce im. Scarcely had she completed the “‘Lanciers,” which followed the exquisite waltz the youn couple had danced es eel than she manag to get near Beryl, and to say: “*T do wish you weuld get me for a partner 1e young ventleman you waltzed with last! He is the best dancer I ever saw! Iam sure I shall enjcy a round dance with him! Who is he, anyhow? Is he from New York?’ ‘Oh, no, Thalia. I am afraid you will be shocked when I tell you he keeps papa’s books.” “Really? Ishould not have amed of it! He is awfully handsome, anyway, and dances | like an angel. Do, do introduce him! You know I am not so exclusive as some girls.” Bery] lifted her rely eyebrows in surprise; she had thought Miss Conyngham the haughti- est girl of her acquaintance; it pleased her, thoug’, to find that “poor Fennel” was being appreciated, and she beckoned him to her side, mentioned his name to her friend, and saw him take Thalia by the hand and join the whirl of couples who were circling about to the melting measure, The next moment she, herself, was gliding about with Mr. Bristow, who certainly =e well, and who murmured graceful nothings in her ear as he bent his dark, glowing eyes to her own. She felt his power without knowing what it was that alarmed and repelled her. As for Fennel Gray, he could scarcely credit the evidence of his senses, and believe that he was actually moving in that distinguished company supporting the stately form of Miss Conyngham, meeting her sweet smile, and half-blinded by the flash of her diamonds. The whole world — had changed for him—his life—his prospects— in the last half-hour. He was madly—foolishly, dangerously happy. Beryl had been so kind, se gentle to him; their eyes had met im that daz- zling look of soul to soul; it seemed as if she had allowed him to see that she returned his love! The mystery, the bliss, the enchantment of it was about him like a magic web. And Miss Conyngham had sent for him to be introduced to her! He did not like her—did not care for the honor she did him, except as it ap- peared to open to him the doors of that great world which had heretofore been closed against him. In that light, it seemed to bring him neag+ er to Beryl. The young lady was very affable; she danced with him for some time; and, when that was over, held him by her side for several moments in pleasant conversation. She was very hand some, magnificently dressed, one of the queens of the room. A red rose dropped out of her belt; ‘he stooped to restore it . her; she bade him keep it as a reminder of the waltz they had enjoyed together, and of her dear friend Bery/’s. irthda: 7 a ‘She is looking lovely to-night, is she not? Do not think you are the only one who knows it, Mr. Gray! Admire her while Ng may. ‘The rose that all are praising’ will soon = Mr. Bristow made up his mind abjure bachelorhood—so great are the charms of Miss Ward and her million—and when Nor- man Bristow makes up his mind the matter is settled for all! Look at them now! Well-paired, are theynot? Mark my prediction, Mr, Chay Nee will be Mrs. Bristow’s health we will drink. father is bent upon it—for political reasons. But, why dol retail this gossip to you? This ball-room isa triumph of art, isn’t it? I never before saw anything quite so fine in its way. Ah, there is Mr. Sheridan comi © me to supper! I gkaie op) to go with him. Au revoir, Mr. Gray. ake care of the rose I ie you.” Did he bow, or did he not, as the careless beauty moved away on the arm of a stranger? _ ‘He never knew. at did it matter? The magic web was shivered into shreds—the. en- , y ‘ ’ 2 when we meet to celebrate her next Lanta it er

Page 3

‘PURSUED TO e 7 chantment had given place to dull reality—he wes ill, desolate, stricken—an alien in that gay, babbling, jeweled throng—his heart was a dead thing in his bosom. Beryl went by, step by step, with Norman Bristow, marching to the music of Wagner’s Bridal March, to the supper-room. She gave him a soft, wistful glance as she passed, noting his pallor. Her companion gave him a look, too—a look which stung like a blow with net- tles, so cold, contemptuous and triumphant. fhe music clashed out joyously; the well- _ Gressed throng floated by; the banners shone in \red and white; the flowers gave out their sweet- »Jest, dying breath, while Fennel shrunk back be- hind the drapery of a pillar, angry and sad, _ feeling himse\f, more than ever, only a poor clerk! Feasting and dancing were not for such | as him—the wine was near his lip, but it was | the cup of Tantalus. He would not break the bread nor eat the salt of those who despised shim, and hé made his way out of the splendid bei pe through the suit of beit-deserted par- lors. + Fennel stood a little while looxing at a lovely anor’ of Beryl painted the provious summer—. eryl, ina white muslin dres: a.x} red roses~ then, with a tid sigh, quitted th: gorgeow scene where he felt himself so little at home. |The wintry air of the street struck revivingly on his heated face, and he looked up at the great stars with longing eyes. Were thers snobs in those heavenly planets, too? _ As he came down the steps his foot strud ‘something lying neaped at the bottcm of them,’ ‘To his dismay he discovered that what he hat thought to be a dog curled up there, was a we- an. i The poor creature lay huddled at the foot of those marble steps just as she sunk after being Pinter out of the house. She had not been there many moments, yet she was already half insen- jeible ee icy wind which blew from off the __ great lakes and went shrieking through the city avenues fast chilling her to the heart. ; “Who is there?. What are you doing here?’ called young Gray, stooping and shaking the woman by the shoulder. She lifted her head with a faint moan. “What are you doing here?” he repeated. ‘* You will perish.. Get up. Where do you be- Te Are you drunk?” ‘Drunk? Yes, with misery.” He was astonished at this reply, spoken in a refined voice, with an accent of indescribable suffering. There was no affectation about that voice!—his sympathies were at once excited by it. ‘You are gotting chilled. You must not lie flere. Whatcan1 do for you? Have you no place to sleep?” ‘*T suppose I can go to the station-house, I’m not sleepy. I dare say they have plenty to eat bere, where they are celebrating the young lady’s birthday; if you. could bring me‘a bis- ad sir!—I have not tasted food for thirty-six Fennel’s dollars were hard-earned, but he ran _back up the steps and forced a dollar bill into a policeman’s hand, asking him to go to the tchen and get a cup of coffee and sandwich, and hand them out the area door. Hethen half draggeupbalt urged the stranger into the area, ih were partially sheltered from the een wind, removing his overcoat to place it about her shoulders, “He obtained the hot cof- fee and some food, although the policeman looked doubtfully at such irrcguint daecoan: ings. its a woman, half starved; I’ll see that she does no harm,” Fennel explained, and the offi- cer, who knew Mr. Ward’s bookkeeper by sight, made no serious Objection, beyond mut- tering that ‘he ought to be too cute to be took nr C) »not trouble you, O’Brien; I will take her home with me, and haye mother give her a bed to-night.” nt 4 “Very well, Mr. Gray; only look sharp after your valuables.” . _“ Will your mother really shelter me?” asked the poor creature, eagerly. ‘‘Oh, sir, I am so glad! Ihave nover slept in a station-house; I should dread to herd with the women there!” and she shuddered. ‘‘I have never been in quite such extremity as this before; but it took every cent that I had to bring me on from New York to Chicago—-I dared _not eed anything ») for food on the way—and I was obliged to come on important business. I expected to have come into the city by noon, but it was after nine this evening when the train arrived—too late to see the person who would have let me he was attending a q 4! uy 5) here. where DEANE Oe ae ett ae Se? eee chy ’ ats dt. have some money, So I came to the house, TT loarned saree: intending to stay about until he came out; but the cold was greater thand realized, and I was getting numb and stupid, I think.” ; The warm drink and food revived her incredi- bly. She could talk fast enough now, in a low, leasant voice, which prepossessed Fennel in er favor, though he had but a dim view of her face. ‘*For whom were you waiting, may I ask?” ‘For Norman Bristow,” she answered him, almost in a whisper. The young man had forgotten his own sorrow in that of another for a few moments; at sound ot shat name it rushed back upon him in a bit- ter, surging flood. “- Ah? > ‘You know him, and you do not like him,” gaid the stranger, with a sigh. “That will not prevent my doing you a ser- vies, madame. It will be late before he Jeaves suis place—four. or five o’clock, at the least. You had better come home with me; and see Mr. Bristow to-morrow.” ‘“‘T will be only too glad. to do: so, sir, if you think your mother will be willing to let me stay. {can lie by the kitchen stove—” ‘* Come on, then; it is growing colder every minute.” ‘* Because I have your coat; Please put it on again! Indeed, I cannot walk with such an incumbrance, and {shall be warm enough while Lam moving.” They went out onto the pavement, and Fen- nel Gray gave this unknown beggar his arm, for they could walk faster thus, and bore up her feeble steps when fierce blasts from around street-corners nearly swept her from her feet, A walk of half a mile brought them toa small white frame house in the suburbs, standing in a tiny garden of its own; an humble cottage of a house, one of twenty similar dwellings in Syl- van Row—the decent and comfortable homes of people on small salaries, who preferred to keep their Lares and Penates all, to themselves, be the shrine ever so modest, than to herd in “tenements.” Fennel softly opened the front door with his latch-key. , “There is no need to disturb mother to-night,” he whispered. ‘*Come in here,” leading the way into a sitting-room where there was a fire in a stove, and a lamp left burning on the table, “T will warn her, in the morning, that you are here. Do not go away untill see you. I want you to have breakfast first.” “Thank you, sir. Yow are very kind.” **You can use this lounge for a bed; here,is my coat to put over you. With the fire, you will keep comfortable.” ‘* Ok, yes, sir. God bless your generous heart; and reward you for your goodness to. an entire stranger. I will tell-you and. your mother all about myself in the morning.” te oe you please about that, And now, good- tt occurred to Fennel, after he had gone, to his room, that he had done an imprudent thing in admitting an unknown woman to the house; ut he thanked Fortune they had not much, to se, and leaving his door open into the little hall, that he might hear her if she attempted to quit before morning, he threw himself down on his to brood in bitterness of spirit over the gay scenes transpiring in the home of his em- ployer. ‘That soft, wistful glance which Beryl had given him! How swest would it have been to remember, had it not been followed by that iplguiphent, contemptuous look of the man who expected to marry her, nd this stranger he had taken in knew Nor- man Bristow? What business could she, poor and friendless, have with this handsome and haughty favorite ot fortune? He was to learn what her business was before many hours. The long after-part of the night wore away. and Fennel had not slumbered, when he heard his mother arise and move about her room in the gray light of the late dawn.. He had to arise and knock at her door and explain about the strange guest whom she would find in her tidy sitting-room; and receive a gentle chiding for his imprudence; after which he lay down again and had an hour’s sleep, from which he was aroused by the tinkling of the little break- bell. ._ He made a hasty toilet, and went down to the neat, warm room—kitchen and dining-room in ane: Waete the meal waited to be placed on the ting by the window in his mother’s rocking- chair, _ “How does she aie: es a 2 0 ASS PP reer 5) iE SoM ag» Out Rae Sanat pe mA Ge THE: ALTAR. . see—an old blacksilk, much mended -was but bosal dined em sutamer garment, Yet He bowed courteously to the woman sit- |; i strike you?” he asked his | | . * ee re at : ie) pm ee sotto voce, as he helped her place the things. ‘*{ think she is all right,” was the assuring answer, ‘‘Come, madame, breakfast is ready. Sit bere, if you please. Well, Fennel, my d boy, did you enjoy yourself at the great par- ty? na smiled bitterly in answer to her fond, anx- ious look: : ‘As well as I. need expect, mother, dear.” Then, secing how pained and. disappointed she looked, added, more cheerfully; ‘I was quite a beau, mother, dear, You may. not credit it, put. 1 danced’ twice with Miss Ward, herself, and once.,with the superb Miss Conyngham who actually requested to have me introduced to her, .There’s.triumph for you!” . . “Then why did you come.away so early?” ‘*Oh, pleasure palls on.the unaccustomed pal- ate! I was afraid the lagies,,would, spoil me with fiattery! I was :vexed because Mr. Bris- tow led in to supper the lady I longed to attend upon. Yousee, I took it for granted, that Mr. ard’s spookekeeP gi, would baye the privilege of waiting upon Mr, Ward’s daughter, and being disappointed, I came away! It wasfortunate for our guest, here, that I did so, J think in half an hour more, she would have been a thing of the st. 9 , The pale face of the stranger flushed, andshe raised a pair of dark eyes, in, which were tears . and smiles, to his face. ‘*T suppose L ought to be very grateful,” she ‘an said, slowly, in that musicel voice of hers which | had won his attention in the dark, ‘‘and Iam, for your kindaess; yet, it would doubtless have been far better for me had I frozen to death 4 last night. I have nothing'tolivefor—nothing! , — Had you left, me where I was,,all would have , been over. Now, to-day, the struggle: must re- commerce, I cannot tell you how I dread it,” They both looked at her more closely than _ they had before permitted themselves the liber- = ef acing. She was a woman of,about thirty. — Once she must have been very, very pretty. Her silken darkhair wavedalongaforeheadlow | and fair. Her delicate features were worn and. sharp, there were hollows about her dark eyes; ait her complexion was of a yellow pallor, -like , ivory; but, when she had more bloom and — spirits, she must have been very attractive. er dress was better than they had expected to “f andshining =~ with wear, with a mantleof the same, which, wore them With « jedty dike in, She had laid 7 aside her biack straw bonnet when SO IARNEY. a : and had braided her, long, handsome. hair, and aa. had folded it about hergraceful head;becoming- = ly. There wasnothing of the adventuressin her _ air—nothing theatrical, but intenselyearnesbin- = stead, in the way she had stated the simple fact a ray, after.a.mo- © gs ag to throw away assoonasw@findithardtobear. So long ought to have t 3 yong : ‘ 4 ” ’ : ? ‘ ; these articles had been of good quality, and she y earth. Oh, youdo not know! You cannot con- ceive what cruel injustice God een: wicked walk in high places,’ and the innocent — poor are crushed. Do you know this man, Nor- man Bristow?” turning suddenl, : ly to the young man with boon searching eyes. i tee ol, ine? ints) 2S . ey I me egsnee rete know of ‘cit Ks eis one of the lea men of yourcity. He is rich, courted, flattered, honored. Minie- A ae ag scdeome pe glad of hig Hivep subserip-- | ons to benevolen oses; politicians b« : down before him; a ilipnaine taahar seeks to ain him as a husband for his pure young — ughter. Is this not true?’ B34 “You seem to know him very well, madame.” “7 ought to know him well: and 1 do know him keel and through, and to the bottom of his world oe Vonea breakfast is be ia for itistrue. Youshall - s.” She drew from her bosor : closing another paper, yellow and w i handling, “Here ‘

Page 4

- ing it 1 ie =e 4 CHAPTER ITI, THE WAY TO WIN. FENNEL’S eyes began to sparkle. He read the certificate of a marriage celebrated fourteen years ago, the names of the minister and wit- nesses signed; the names of Helen Romayn and Norman Bristow standing out before him in characters of fire. He did not think of the poor, deserted creature who sat at his table—only one feeling filled his heart, thrilled his pulse, mount- ed to his brain in burning waves of joy—the feeling that Beryl Ward could never be the wife of man a already married! “What would Anthony Ward give for a sigth of this document?” he cried: to his mother, ex- ultingly. Then he turned and ‘clasped the stranger’s hand. ‘It seems providential that you should have ccme to us!” he said, warmly. She drew her hand away with a troubled look. ‘‘ You are young and enthusiastic,” she mur- mured; “you do not know the world. Nor, have I told you all. There will not be time this erties if you have to goto business, Let me return here this evening, and give you my his- tory, Fie you seem interested in this youn, lady Mr. Bristow has honored with his choice, “Why leave us at all, to-day? Remain here and rest, if you will,” said Mrs. Gray, and their strange guest bowed her thanks. “One thing only,” urged Fennel, whose ar- dor was suddenly chilled by something embar- rassed and anxious in their visitor’s manner: “You are truly Norman Bristow’s wife?” “Tam. Wewere legally married, of our own free choice, and our marriage vows are regis- ’ teredin Heaven. Are not such vows eternal? _ ‘which groun ‘Will not the register last while our souls live? Ay. Icall God and his angels to witness that I am that man’s pure and spotless wife. ‘What God hath joined together let no man put asun- der.’” She spoke these words with an indescri- bable solemnity, then added: ‘‘ Do not think me mad because 1 am in such terrible earnest. I heard a rumor to the effect that Mr. Bristow had made up his mind to. marry a wealthy oung lady; and this it was that called me to hicago when I had not the money to come comfortably. I sold my watch and chain to get the means to purchase my ticket; I had but a dime left when that was secured, but I was determined to come. I paid out my dime for a cup of coffee, in Buffalo, and had tasted no food since leaving New York, until yourson, madame, procured me some, last night. Oh, I would die oe Mabey d deaths of hunger and cold, to warn at gi ne fat, there is time enough. To-night I hope to be stronger—less nervous—and then I shall be too willing to weary you with sop fick Sip When Fennel Gray started out to walk the two miles to his fami of business, it seemed to him that he trod on air. His spirits were as light as last night they had been heavy. rece His own prospects were none the more rosy—he was still the poor accountant of a rich employer who looked hrs him as a part of the machinery out his money—he was still far below all hopes of achieving the hand of the girl he was foolish enough to love; yet, so strange, so unreasoning and unreasonable a f or sa is jealousy, that the mere belief that - Jook which Be ' she given him the jewel from her hand, the rose ~_ orman Bristow could not have Beryl, either, made him happy. A The man who had insulted him, in the ball- room, with a look—ah, he had gained the dark- est secret of that haughty gentleman’s life, and he could afford to anal e at that look of insolent defiance! 7 He could even afford to remember that sweet 1 had bestowed on him. Had from her bosom, the gift would not have been more tangible. Then he smiled sr at as he recalled the red blossom Miss Conyngham had siven him and which he had purposely lost. hy had she been so pleasant to him? It must be that he had it in his power to further some plan of hers. ei Conyngham never gave something fot nothing. When he entered the great stone building down among the docks, in the office of. which eight hours of his life were passed, each work- 8 day, there on his lay a perfumed no “So early?” he said, with a little scorn curl- ing his handsome mouth. ‘She must have ‘written it before she went to bed.” And tear- he read an informal invitation to a small **musical” which Miss Conyngham. had concluded to give on the next evening but one, -and which concluded with the magic words— ' “ Miss Ward has promised to be present.” - I see! ek, » ‘* Why does she favor my meeting her? Ah ave I not heard that the binekeved | his “igs rr being sent to ~~, belle was herself an admirer of Mr. Bristow? She wishes to make him jealous! Good heavens! not of such a nobody as I am? Perhaps she thinks I am so unprincipled as to urge my love on Beryl if the opportunity is made for me! Perhaps she thinks I may persuade my darling to run away with her father’s poor clerk!” an here his scorn melted before a tender dream of what he might but would not do. He opened the great ledger, which might as well have been a photograph album, filled with fe ap of Beryl Ward, for he saw nothing but er face upon the page—her lovely face, in its setting of fine, flying, golden hair, as he saw it that day, last summer, on the yacht—her pale face, as he saw it when he dragged her up from the drowning water, to the sunset light of that same summer day—her beautiful face, as he saw it last night, on his breast, with flushed cheeks and blue, blue, smiling eyes, as the whirled and glided about the limitless, ered, flower-sweet ball-room. These dream-pictures took —— when two gentlemen came into the office—the great man of the firm and his friend, Mr. Bristow. They entered with a very cheerful, wide-awake air, despite the fact that they had ‘been up all night, an rope Cney dom a@ morning nap between six an eight. e employer said ‘‘ Good-morning ” to his clerk, but the other gentleman ignored his existence; both passed on into Mr. Ward’s pri- vate office, closing the door after them, and sit- ting down, one on each side of the baize-covered table, with their heads not far apart, where they entered into a conversation which seemed to have for them a deep and eager interest. Poor Fennel could not refrain from glancing covertly through the glass door now and then. He knew what those two rich men were talking about as well as if he could hear their words. There was a pleased smile on the countenance of the millionaire merchant. His companion wore a self-satisfied look, full of the complaisant happiness of a favored suitor. Fennel read that smooth, handsome face with the keen eye of jealousy and by the light which the revelation of the morning had thrown upon it. Hesawcraftin the smile under the black ‘waxed mustache; love of pleasure and power in the gleam of the half-shut eyes. Mr. Bristow stood high in the community, not as a man of aoa but as a man whose good- will it was ve esirable to have, Ant - Ward desired that -will exceedingly. He needed it. Without it, his hopes of controlling ashington, were ith it, he was quite sure he could make his way. No wonder that he looked pleased during the interview, in which the elegant ladies’ man, the influential litician, the ‘‘power behind the throne,” told him how passionately he was in love with his beautiful daughter, and how he hoped his friendship with her father might be cemented by his’ union with the idol of both their hearts. Fennel saw them shake hands across the table and knew the compact between them was seal- ed. His sight grew dim, his own hands trem- bled so that he made a blot on the neat page, he grew sick, sick at heart; but he fixed his thoughts upon that stranger who had come with such eee tidings, and found comfort in the remembrance of that document he had seen. It was impossible to fix his mind upon his work. When Norman Bristow finally went away, he asked permission of Mr. Ward to fo home for the remainder of the day, pleading ill- ness. ‘*Of course, of course, Mr. Gray. You can easily make up the lost time. Late hours do not agree with you, I see, ha, ha! Too much cham- pagne, eping 9 Hope you had a pleasant eve- ning. Fine affair, wasn’t it?’ Mr. Ward was in an excellent humor for patronizing his clerk. ‘*Oh, a magnificent affair, sir! Ishall never forget it. anks for your permission to go home, sir.” “The r fellow was awfully pale,” thought the great man, when Fennel had disappeared. ‘Too much wine, I daresay. Well, well, I will 0 home, too. Plenty of guests still to see off. f wish to ess Bristow had spoken a week sooner!—then the engagement could have been announced at supper last night! That would have added the last blaze to the glory of the oc- casion!—I wonder what Beryl will have to say! She will be proud asa peacock, little minx, no doubt! There isn’t a marriageable girl in Chi- cago who wouldn’t give five years of her life to ‘bein my daughter’s shoes. By Jove, I ss ra she’d Bene him, last night! She was as pre ty a Sikes to look at as ever I set eyes on!’ : . Ward’s cdachman was waiting for him ae : . PURSUED TO THE ALTAR. od outside—he having left orders that he shouldbe sent for to luncheon—and, wrapped in furs to his ears, was walking the restless horses up and down the street to eep them warm, for the wind from off the frozen lake blew keenly down by the docks. If the streets had the feeling of | Arctic sbi rn Ward’s house, when he en- tered it, was like a garden out of the tropics, all drowsy warmth and lavish perfumes, me of his distinguished visitors would not leave for a. day or two; there was to be an important poli- tical secret caucus held in his library that eve- ning, and the talk, at luncheon, was principally~. about it, so that the ladies felt slighted, and had their revenge in pouting. **T tell you, ladies, we will have our dinner in a@ room ourselves,” laughed Beryl, who, young as she was, was obliged to preside over er father’s household, Bristow had dropped in to luncheon, and he now looked quickly up at the lovely girl and said, smilingly: ‘‘ Agreed! With Miss Ward’s consent the entlemen shall all dine with me, at my bache- or’s hall; and we will have our meeting in my library,” and so it was arranged, The lover had learned, by a sign from the fa- ther on entering, that he had not as yet had the opportunity to speak to his daughter on a certain subject. . “Suppose you introduce the matter, Bris- tow,” he said, in an undertone, as they arose from the table, ‘You will be more eloquent than J.” “T am more than willing, since I have her father’s permission.” No steps had as yet been taken to remove the temporary ball-room, Mr. Ward being unwill- ing that his guests should be annoyed by the noise of such removal. Mr. Bristow erpposed that the ladies should get shawls and have a promenade in “The banquet-hall deserted,” a suggestion which the younger ones accepted, eagerly, several of the gentlemen volunteering their attendance. Mr. Bristow he his arm to Beryl, and, for a time, they walked and talked with the others, amid the fading finery of the improvised hall; but soon the suitor contrived to — away from the party and to seat Beryl by his side ona settee placed in a little bower of evergreens, where flags, pillars, flowers and, trees hid them from sight. {s it true that any girl can prevent “7 man from committing himself to an offer of mar- riage, and so spare him the mortification of be- ing rejected, if she does not intend to accept him? So it is said; but it is far from bein alwaysso. Here wasa girl, pont and timid, with a man worldly-wise, cool and determined. Norman Bristow saw that Beryl was uneasy and anxious to escape the téte-d-téte he had de- cided upon. Not even his good opinion of him- self could blind him to the fact that she wished to get away from him, Still, this might be maiden timidity. He was bound she should listen to him—bound she should yield to him. He felt certain that his will was the stronger of the two. “ Sweet pee he murmured, as his firm hand closed softly about her little one, and he bent his head to look into her wavering eyes, “Do not be frightened,” as she strove to draw her fingers out of his clasp. ‘Your father knows all; and he has given me the inestimable privilege of claiming this little white hand for my own. He has given you to me, darling, to be mine, forever—my sweet little wife. Need I say how grateful to him lam? How happy he has made me?” It was a masterly stroke of policy in him to take it for granted that she was his, because her parent had given hertohim Beryl looked up at him in fear and wonder. The magnetic eyes smciled into hers with a look which thrilled her, despite her vague distrust of him. The warm, close clasp of his hand had power in it, too. He meant to surprise and charm her int» con- sent, and he came near having his wa}! He knew well hovw to manage women—wl.en to threaten, when to coax, when to command; when to take everything for granted, as he was. doing now. “You did not dream that I was a marryi man, did you, Beryl? Nor could I have believe it of myself until I met you. Now, it is all set- tled that tt are to be my dear little wife; and I cannot tell you how glad I am—what bright prospects open before me!”—he bent so closely over her, his eyes poured such a Jook into hers, he held her hand with such a clasp of owner- ship, his voice murmured at her very ear, so that Beryl felt as if under a spell, and began to wonder if she could never open her lips to utter 18 Co i ae en

Page 5

7. F a word of protest. Now shé struggled against this wil which was overmastering her, and drew in her breath with a gasp. ‘* Mr. Bristow, pray, pray, let me speak! Oh, please, let go my dt y father cannot give me away without my consent. I will not be iven away!” and here, recovering somewhat m her fright, and regaining a little of her ) « natural spirit, Beryl stamped her pretty little { foot onthe waxed floor, and burst into tears. | 1 “Twillnot be given away!” sherepeated, “T | donot wish to marry—I have never—thought / of—marrying!—particularly you, Mr. Bristow.” “Tt is not necessary you should have thought of it, sweetest. You are very young and girl- ish; that is one of your greatest charms to me; I did not expect that you would love me just at first—but that will come in good time. Iam not disagreeable to you, am I, Beryl?” It was on the tip of her tongue to say, ** Yes, ‘you are!” but she was too polite. “T will not believe it,” he went on, gayly. *« And I know you are too good a daughter ie take pleasure in disappointing your father with- out reason, His heart is set on this matter— more than you dream of. But, come! I will not vex you anymore at present. I don’t want your answer allin an hour ora day.” He gar- ried her hand to his lips and kissed it, rose, and offered her his arm. “fam quite certain I shall never pe willing,” Beryl forced herself to say, as they recom- menced their promenade, and he only laughed and began to compliment the dress'she had worn at the ball. She knew that she ought to have said some- thing far more decided—she knew that when they reéntered the parlors her cheeks were sus- piciously flushed, and that her companion wore an air of happy possessorship that was plain to everybody—she saw that her father smiled at her meaningly—that eloquent glances were tele- graphed about the rooms—and she suddenly be- came very miserable. ‘“*T won’t have it! I won’t have it!” she said ¥ to_ herself, Pht) Sel “Oh, why did I not » tell him so decidedly? “TI must speak to papa.” She followed her father about from place to place, until, finally, they were alone together in the recess of a large window. i “What is it, Beryl?’ he suddenly asked her, ‘with a sinile. ‘Do you wish to be congratulat- ed on your brilliant prospects, little puss? I do it, with all my heart. [have not been go pleased since the day you were born.” “No, no, no, papa!” she cried, in a low voice, growing very much agitated, and turning pale under his sudden black look of astonishment. “T-want to tell you, now, at once, that I am certain I can never love Mr. Bristow well enough to marry him. J am afraid I did not make it plain enough to him.” .“I hope not, indeed,” responded the. father, his brow like a Gianiler Sloud “T hope youdia not insult the best friend I have in the world, Beryl, what nonsense is this? You must have got some infernal nonsense into your head about some other fellow, to refuse a man like Norman ettapow 4 ou are mistaken, papa,” murmur2d 4 trembling gir » papa,” murmured ‘he é Then let me hear no more romantic prattle or out not eee man J havechosen for you. Tf you offend Mr. Bristow you ruin my 3~™s- pects, do you hear? I will not have it! He isa splendid match for you in every wa —waa?th, osition, personal qualifications, {£ do not wish or a better. Is my jud ij You can learn to th wig’ dng eye ea 2 ; ike him as w other man. After you are married, you wi ow fond enough of him; and I, for one, do1’t bey by girls falling dead in love before tney are married. om this momentconsider your- self the fiancée of Norman Bristow, I “have ven him my promise and Ishall hold it sacred. shall manage by to-morrow to have the an- nouncement of the engagement made public; it will be in the papers, East and West; and the sooner the marriage takes place the better it pit i: vat bef h ; er never before seen her fath - gry—never before felt the full tyranny of 8 arent’s will. She was too frightened to dare My Ags the tears which swelled under her eye- traces there for days. _ “‘Come out from behind this curtain—get up your color—make yourself agreeable to my guests and to him!” These were the orders which Beryl did her best to obey; and before night, she had been mpelled listen, tongue-tied, to the con- rattlations of every visitor in her father’s ae 7. ne AR GS ker fe . if +}. me He laid a grasp on her arm which left its PURSUED TO THE ALTAR. CHAPTER IV. THE WIFEH’S TRAGEDY. FrnneLt Gray surprised his mother by com- ing home in the middle of the day. He found her sitting with her visitor in the little plain parlor whose handsomest furniture was his shelves of books and two or three fine engray- ings which his taste had selecter. oth the ladies were sewing away busily ata chintz dress for Mrs, Gray. The stranger had declared that she could not sit idle while her kind hostess was busy; and the latter soon found that her guest knew far more about dressmak- ing than she did. “Yes,” she said, in answer to Mrs, Gray’s question, ‘‘I have made my living by it for some time. It is all that I have to depend upon.” Yet Norman Bristow was one of the wealthiest of Chicago’s citizens. The young man found the two women thus quictly engaged. “You are not ill, Fennel?” asked the mother, anxiously. : “No, mother dear. I asked for a half holi- day. deed, I could not fix my mind upon figures to-day; IT should have made some bad mistakes bad t kept at work—so, here I am, ready to be entertained,” and he looked at the stranger, whose dark eyes were raised to his, and who knew, very well, that he was impatient to hear her story. “Let us have a cup of tea, first,” said Mrs. Gray, putting aside her sewing. In a few moments they had tea and toast served in the little sitting-room, the tea hot and fragrant, the toast hot and crisp; and so it fell out that, by the time this light repast was done with, and the strange, sad, pretty woman was reseated in the great rocking-chair and ready to begin the account she h romised, it was the very hour during which Norman Bristow was walking with Beryl in the ball-room and sitting with her amid the flowers and ever- greens, doing his best to win her—that soy, ure, Aelicate minded maiden—to promise to is wife, “You may find it hard to believe,” began the stranger, with a slight smile and blush, ‘but, when I was sixteen I was yeu, pretty, I was tall and slim, my cheeks were the color of wild roses, and my eyes, when I looked at them in the glass, almost dazzled me, I don’t think I realized it then, or was at all-vain of my beauty ; but now, thinking back to those days, I know that [must have been very, very pretty, The most that troubled me then was that I was so poor. My mother, my sisters andI lived in a comfortable house in the midst of a great. gar- den, at the end of the village street; but the house and the good things out of the garden were almost the only comfortable things we had. “‘My father left us the house when he died with no income to keep it up. He wasa pbysi- cian, who had saved up some money, but lost it by the failure of the bans in which it was de- posited. My mother had never been used to parva for herself and knew no more than a aby what to do when she found herself; after the funeral, with no resources except to collect the few bills still owing. These kept us, ina pinched way, for a year or two. Meantime, we children were growing older, our made-over clothes were wearing out, our wants were in- creasing.. My elder sister, Belle, had three or four music scholars; but her income from this source did not keep us in shoes; and so it camo about, after much consultation among ourselves, that we concluded to take afew students to board —for our village boasted of a college—that year that'I was sixteen. Oneof the five who came to make their home with us was Norman Bris- tow. He was one of the gayest, handsomest tellows atcollege—had the most money to spend drossed tho fincst,and was looked up to by all tine rest not only because he was a Senior, but because he had such a free-and-casy way of spending his liberal allowances, and it was known that bis father was a leading New York politician, “Well, he fell in love with me. He did not seem to mind that my dresses were shebby, my shoes cheap and worn—he said that he loved me for what I was, not what I wore, and he would twine wreaths of roses for my old straw hat and help me pick strawberries for tea from the long beds in the delicious old garden; and Iwas the very happiest girl in the whole wide world; for, of course, I loved him in return with a blind, foolish fondness that absorbed my whole nature. Ah! what a happy summer that was! Before commencement we were engaged, very rivately, as he wished; though my mother ew of it and approved, thinking, in her igno- ’ pinks) =the 3 Cher 4 Fy * Rig ‘ts fi %, i 4 a Ry ea jar Se a rey f |. “My mother knew of . ‘ i May 7. i 6 Sea tun, te COG se Te te Ef rot 4 ee _ “pi ea Lite Y EI ASP Re i 5 rance of the world, what a fine thing it would be for me to make such a splendid match, 3 ‘‘T remember that Commencement Day asif it were yesterday! A glorious day, late in June, How my heart throb as I dressed, myself in my white frock—which I had ‘done up’ with my own hands the day before—and tied on my straw hat with its pink ribbon, and pinned some half-open roses in my belt, to walk with my sister to the hall and hear Norman read the class poem! ‘‘T knew that his friends from the city would be present—he had been away the previous eve- am ning at the hotel with them—and I expected to . be introduced to them as his future wife; soit ~ is no wonder my pulse bounded with fright and pleasure, : ‘Well, he read his poem—which I thought lovely—and was applauded till the roof rung; and I saw him, bright, laughing, handsome, go- ing to bis haughty-looking, elegantly-dressed ce mother and his beautiful, proud sister; but not once did he look toward me; nor did he bring them to me, though I lingered as long as my sister would allow me. ; i ‘That night I went to the reception which was given to the graduates by one of the great ladies of the village. If we were poor, our po- sition was good there, for my father had been a leading physician of the place. Norman and an his mother and sister were there, Itwasa long time before he noticed me at all. “‘T was blind with tears, angry, miserable, when I made my way out onto the cool, rose- wreathed porch to hide my trouble. Oh, if I had profited by that one lesson, which should “ have been sufficient! No, I was y in love } —Norman was the one being in the world who " could not do wrong—and when he came to me tt there, hurriedly, and stolé his arm about me and told me, in whispers, how that he dare not confess his engagement just yet—he was so very © ‘ young, his parents would be so dreadfully dis- ey leased !—but how he loved me a thousand times tter than ever, and should come back at the end of a fortnight to spend a whole week with me—how he could hardly exist through those two weeks till he saw me again—I forgave him’ and was happy as a little fool in. t “That was the whole story of my life for the next five years—always having my feelings wounded—my faith strained—always forgiving — him and believing in him! i ‘¢ He did return to me at the end of the fort- 5, night. He told me that his people were at = Newport and how they wondered that he re- eS fused to go with them but chose to go off himself. They had no idea where he was.’ Doubtless Norman loved me in those da At least, my beauty had for him an irresistible fas- | cinntion: : ME Gas ““*f have seen their boasted city belles,’ he tA would tell:mo,. ‘There are none likemy ~~ a Helen—uno, not one! And then he would urge x me to a secret marriage. Before he left'me, that summer, I had yielded and become: his wife. I idolized him; I could not resist his | arguments, his pleadings, My elder sister was in our confidence. She, too, was overcome by. his passionate persuasions and consented toae- — company us on the little excursion from which — we returned—married. A fellow-student, re- siding in our village, was also of the party. “We took a buggy-ride one pleasant after- Me. noon to a neighboring town, where Norman had already onan a clergyman to form the ceremony. The clerk from whom Norman ob- ~ tained the license was.a friend of his and said nothing about it at his request. + ee mer ‘“We had a month of bliss, heavenly, but ; troubled: Then Norman’s’ family made so much ado about his not joining them, that he x. wenttethem. That was tle beginning of the —= — end. He wrote to me at first, regularly; and I Se lived on his Ictters, i ** He paid me a flying visit in the autumn— 4 * + + * wet 4 : another at Christmas. He was already chang- | ing—had already repented of his:imprudent — — marriage to a poor country girl. Is cted'it, and was too wretched to be as agreeable to him as Lonce was.. ‘Youspoil your brighteyesby erying so much,’ he told me, il-humoredly. ‘His imten&e selfishness—that selfishness = which had uryed on our marriage, thoughD could not see it then—asserted itself more and = eres a text for be oe ‘He got up a pretext for being aagry w: iol me, monieieras that an excuse fee int) cating! ’ poe toseemeagain. Long months, that were years — rey tome, wore away. Spring, summercame—oh, what a miserable June I spent! No wreaths of yi roses—no help in picking strawberriesnowi ITO shut myself up in my room and wore out the hot days and weary nightsasbestIeow'd = our > NOW, -7 = . y A oid g per] : : ox ee a Tae +

Page 6

and was indignant at the neglect I received, which did me no good, however. ‘The whole % village knew that I was a deserted wife. ‘in the fall my little girl-baby came, and I wrote to Norman face. He came, and was very kind and loving —for a few days! After that he did not come - again until my little darling died, when nearly a year old. He was at her funeral, shed a tear 2 or two, and wasaway again. StillI loved him, . would have died for him, I made for him more : than all the excuses he made for himself. He - was rich, petted, talented—he had sacrificed ’ ' himseJf by his hasty marriage. “In the third year he had ceased even to correspond with me; but he attempted to enter - . 4nto negotiations with me, through this friend of his, the student who had been present at our marriage, and who was now settled in our vil- lageasa lawyer. If I would get a divorce on the ground of desertion, he would promise me a handsome settlement for life. This I refused to Re do. I was Norman’s wife, however he might n choose to treat me. “The go-between came often to see me; _ threatened, coaxed, but I was firm as a rock. é Then he desisted, ut still kept up his visits, making excuses that he was bringing me word of my husband. A few months ed along. Then Norman wrote me very kindly, saying that some {pert would be sent to me by his family, and asking me, if I still loved or ‘cared for him, to burn these papers, without reading them! How could I fathom the wickedness of this man, the very touch of whose hand on the letter he wrote I still madly loved? How could I comprehend the devilish plot he had laid against me? Ah, [ still she te him, cruelly as he had treated me, and when a bundle of documents came to me, I obeyed him, and put them in the fire, unopened. It was not for ' ‘nearly a year that 1 discovered, quite by acci- _' dent, that Norman Bristow had obtained a, di- vorce from me in the New York Court!” cae divorce!” murmured Fennel, turning white. _ “Ay. The terrible truth fell on me with a '. stunning force.” __ “Then, — are no longer his wife! That man is at liberty to marry whom he pleases!” cried the young. clerk, rising to his feet. “T am his wife,” persisted the woman, pas- d sionately; ‘‘ before atleast, I am his wife! 4 Let me tell you of the foul plot he was so heart- less as to use against one who loved him.” _ Fennel sat down again, working his fingers _ \ ‘together, pale and nervous, scarcely listening at first to what was being said. ae _ “Those papers which I burned at his request a were the notification of the suit begun against if me, and, of course, I remained ignorant that such suit was in progress and made no defense, se Lean scarcely bring me? lips to frame the words _- Mecessary to tell you, that in that suit for di- a vorce the cause alleged was the most dreadful _ ‘which can be brought against a woman. The : with whom I was accused of being un- y intimate was the founs lawyer, who had. planned to visit me often, on purpose to give some shadow of _— to the infamous accusa- tion. Could Lucifer himself have plotted any- Sak, ing more utterly diabolical? Is a divorcso - tained by deceit, fraud and treachery really a ) _-divorce? Am I any the less truly Norman Bris- “aE tow’s wife? Can any other pure woman feel herself at liberty to wed that man? Never! -. -mever! Iam his wife, God and his angels bear Pe ‘me witness!” a ced ‘Poor lady, truly you are,” said Mrs. Gray, : ‘wiping her eyes. ‘‘But, in all these years have you taken no steps to defend your own good _ ‘Mlame%—to have the decree of divorce set aside?” “Ah, yes, indeed; I took all the steps in my ‘ ee after I discovered the fraud. I-went to New York and had a default taken; but, madame, I was poor and friendless; he was rich and backed by all the power of his _ family—a family whose influence kept that mf, judge in the seat where it had placed him—and, we could it be expected that I would obtain jus- tice? My terrible wrongs were not righted _ there, you may know. My case was dismissed _ «=Norman Bristow left his native city and set- _ ‘tled.in Chicago—he is a leader, a great man—I iia Pees fue sewing-woman.” si he paused, overcome by her emotions, and then continued: : ; “But, I will never give up my true and hon- - «rable title of wife. Let any girl beware how she marries him! That divorce shall yet be be ncéled.. The time will come when another judge will be on the bench, who will listen to py’ Sa / re ~~ earl % again, I should struggle for my os Z come and look on its sweet | _rcason and do what is just. Ihave not yet giv- |. il Were Norman Bristow even |. rights all thesame. The lady who marries him will be in danger of finding herself in a doubt- ful position. I shall warn her, when I know who sheis; and then if she runs the risk, Ivan afford to have no pity for her. Oh, for a little money! If I had not been so very poor—he keeps me so, purposely, that I may be harmless —I should have settled this matter before this. Obliged to tcil with my needle for the bread I eat, what time or means have I had to battle with this aristocrat?” “Tf Thad any money you should have every dollar of it!” cried Fennel, to be so poor! I am glad you_have come, ath ou shall have food and shelter with us, We will be your friends, though we are without influence. The young lady Mr. Bris- tow is B eae to marry is the purest, the sweetest, the loveliest girlin the whole city. I saved her life out on the lake, last summer, and —and—” : “You love her,” added the listener, with a faint smile, as he hesitated. “Tf Ido, Inever expect to marry her. She is far, far, far above me! Ihave no hopes-— none! But I will do all inmy power tosave her from a union such as that would be! A villain like Bristow marry Beryl Ward! I would rath- er see her dead. I shall contrive that you shall meet her, madame, and tell her yourstory. It will not be so very difficult to bring that about. She shall hear it from your own lips, and after that we shall see if she cares to give herself to such a dastard. It will not be as if she liked him. She is not at allinlove with him. Her father is forcing her into the marriage as a con- venience to himself. Itis a mere matter of bar- gain and sale—my beautiful young daughter in exchange for the votes you can influevce! Such is the fashion in high life!” “T will try to save her, Mr. Gray. I will fol- low them to the very steps of the altar, if need be, to snatch her from arms that have no right to her, I will forbid the ceremony to go oa—I will shame the man of God who ventures to make them one!” “Heaven prevent such a necessity as that! I trust the affair will never go as far as that!” Yet the woman’s dreamy eyes, as she fixed them steadily on vacancy, were looking into a future where such a tragic scene might be quite possible, CHAPTER V. MISERY LOVES COMPANY THALIA CONYNGHAM’S little “musical” was quite an affair, considering that. it had been got- ten up on the spur of the moment, There were a good many people at it—Miss Conyngham was a leader in the society of the gay Western city— and many beautiful toilets, plenty of good mu- sic and a charming supper. : Anthony Ward and his daughter were there; so, of course, Mr. Bristow was in attendance. Thalia was magnificent in a pale blue velvet dress and diamonds; her black hair, her cream complexion, her dark eyes, were very hand- some. But there was a heavy weight on her spirits which she more or less successfully con- cealed under a manner of unusual gayety: she had heard of the new engagement, She kissed her dear friend, Beryl, with great empressement on her arrival, lo ng to bite that pretty nose off, instead. She kept a watch for the sill young fellow who loved Beryl—the poor cler who was unobtrusively making such a fool of himself. She wanted to be the first to tell him the bad news—to gloat over his efforts to con- ceal his suffering. Since she was herself disap- pointed she was quite willing to enjoy his dis- comfiture, ; It was quite late when Mr. Gray arrived. She knew, well enough, that he could not stay away, though he might resolve to, and she had not given him oP we So, ou are here, at last, Mr, Gray? Thank you for honoring my stupid little musicale with your presence. That is Signor Farina who is singing now—lovely tenor, isn’t he? Of course ou have heard the news! Look at Miss Ward, ow brilliantly happy she appears! Just as the lucky fiancée of Norman Bristow might be ex- pected to look! You know the el ge Nes is announced? I have congratulated her. You raust do the same—” ‘ Fennel turned pale, despite of a fierce effort to betray no feeling, as he followed the slight ‘motion of Miss Conyngham’s hand, and saw Beryl Ward standing by the piano at Mr. Bris- tow’s side, her fair head a little drooped, her sad eyes bent to the ground. |” os Hagagea! Are you certain?” *¢ All the world is aware of it.” : “Then, am I to condole with you, Miss “Tt’s a bitter thing | URSUED TO THE ALTAR.’ 4 \ “3 : a vai : / ” ‘ | Conyngham?’ This youngclerk had turned the tables on her as neatly as any man of the world could have done it—her color rose slightly un- der his cool look, but she laughed as she answer- ed him: A ““Yes; we are both of us in need of solace, I dare say. However, we shall find something to divert our minds before long, I hope, Beryl is too good for Mr. Bristow, that’s all. I didn’t believe she would have him! But the soft little thing may be more worldly than she looks. I don’t deny that Jam scheming, ambitious, and all that—but, Beryl Ward! [did not dream of ve : **T don’t think even you would marry Mr. Bristow if you knew as much about him as I do,” remarked Fennel. The instant he had spoken he regretted it and was very glad that Signor Farina “nished his song just then, and that some one spoke to the young lady by his side. “7 must hear more about that,” whispered Thalia, as she moved away. } Fennel had come here just for one look at Beryl. He had had his look, but “his hunger grew with what it fed on;” he could not tear his eyes from that face, which, only two eve- nings ago, had smiled under his gaze with a happy, contented look which it did not now wear. Had those blue eyes lied to him that night when they told his own the old, ever-new, sweet story? Was Beryl no better, no truer, no fonder, than other fashionable girls who were quite willing to offer themselves on the altar of the world? He had not expected that she would ever marry him—but, to accept that other man! Ah! she was too childlike and pure-minded to conceive of what such a man really was. She must not—should not marry Norman Bristow! He must arrange a meeting between her and Helen Bristow. He did not. like to do it, butit must bedone. Or, perhaps, it would be better to go to Anthony Ward with the story. Surely, Mr. Ward would easily enough find a way to break the en ment, when he learned tne true relations of Mr. Bris-. tow to another woman. He did not remember how steadily he was looking at Miss Ward while these thoughts were rushing through his mind, until, suddenly as if his fixed gaze had drawn her, she lifted those drooping lashes, their eyes met, and she ave a little start, while the sweet color over- owed her “ace in rosy waves. Mr. Bristow, at that instant, chanced to turn toward her whom be chose to consider his fiance, noted the warm blush and traced it to’ its souree. That clerk again! Was Miss Conyngham right in the suspicions with which she had favored him? The aristocratic vein thatran straight down his forehead swelled out, a gleam of something very like hatred shot out from under his lowering brows, a jealous rage choked him. Fennel Gray was as honest and manly-looking as he was handsome, His love for the beautiful girl who blushed and thrilled under his chance look was pure, tender, full of the romance and the witchery of youth. The older worldling envied and hated him for these things—could have throttled him, because Beryl had colored under his glance. Never mind! She was his, no matter if that young fool, in the last year’s coat, did make her blush? Her father would see to that! Anthony Ward knew what were the solid qualities which make a husband desirable. “What has come to us that we have our bookkeepers at our soirees?” he said, insolently, to Beryl. ‘‘Is the haughty Miss Conyngham becoming democratic? Has she surrendered her colors to our conceited clerk of the frock-. coat? Itlooks like it. When we give parties, © my sweet, we will ask none whose names are notin the blue-book. That fellow is imsuffer- - ably vain! If he dares to make eyes at you again I will ask him what he means by it.” ‘Don’t do it, unless you are willing to make me very angry, Mr. Bristow. Mr. Gray is not any vainer than other men; but he is brayer— he saved my life at the risk of his own.” Her sweet voice trembled slightly as she said this with some spirit. i ‘Little Spitfire! I had no idea of displeasing ou. If that fellow really saved your precious e I am unspeakably grateful to him, even though his conceit leads him to make eyes at you forever afterward,” Beryl shut her rose-leaf lips tight together to keep from saying something too warm in Gray’s defense. Somebody. began to bang the piano with a force which made talking quite a feat. “TLet’s escape into another room,” proposed her suitor. %y ied Beryl looked where Fennel had been standing iN *

Page 7

~~. —he was gone. ‘* Anywhere you please,” sis answered, languidly. Mr. Bristow found her a seat in a little room nearly deserted, and took one beside her. Oh, if ~ he would oe, away—let her alone! It was becoming dreadful, the persistency with which he persecuted her with his unwelcome atten- tions! Why would he not see how tired she was? » | How she disliked his love-making—trembled at his easy assurance of their future marriage! It could not be that her father would persist after he had time to see how wire N they two were ) making her! What a miserable mistake it was, to have allowed people to believe in the engage- ment! So the poor child fluttered in the net that was spread so airily about her that it still appeared almost like freedom. As for Anthony Ward, he restrained his ex- ultation over the affair so as not to betray his delight too plainly, and went on, at the musical, as everywhere clse, talking politics to such men as he could button-hole. He had no more idea of allowing his daughter to object to what was arranged for her than of the sun’s not rising. Thalia did not get any further talk with Mr, Gray who had given her the slip and gone away before he had been there an hour. “{ thought he had more spirit,” she said to herself. ‘‘He looks like one of those romantic knights who are ready to carry off their lady- loves atallrisk. I wanted to suggest an elope- ment, to him. I believe Beryl could be per- suaded, I shall not rest, now, till I learn what it is he knows about Mr. Bristow. It would have to be something very bad to keep me from having him if I could get him to ask me! What has the goose run home for? Well, I sha’n’t show any spite to Norman Bristow yet. If Beryl drops him, I may pick him up,” and, with this in her mind, she was kindness - itself to Mr. Bristow, concealing her bitter disappointment under an amiability which made that astute woman- reader doubt if she had cared for him as much as he had flattered himself. The * musical”? went off with sufficient bril- liancy, but nobody was quite satisfied with his or her part in it. The next morning, when Anthony Ward came down to the warehouse in his carriage and marched into his office with his usual bustling impressiveness, he was followed into that sacred inner precinct by a certain bookkeeper, who stood before him, pale as ashes, and trembling from head to foot. “Good heavens! What’s the matter, Gray? You havy’n’t—you hay’n’t—none of the boys have been guilty of falsifying the accounts?” For the clerk looked so guilty and agitated the employer could think of nothing but that he had come to confess a defalcation and beg for mercy. . “To isn’t that—nothing of the kind,” said poor Fennel, steadying himself by, lacing one shak- ing hand on the table. t’s quite another affair—it is, indeed! I am aware thet I intrude .—that I take a groat liberty, i fact, in—in coming to you, sir.” ‘ “Then, why do you do it? I am very busy this morning.” er beg your pardon, Mr. Ward, but this—is a matter—in which you are more interested than am. It is on your account—and—and Miss Ward’s account—that I make su bold as to pe -, Vt course, we have all heard of your aughter’s engagement to a gentleman who stands very high in this community.” Here he paused again, and the great man be- n to imagine that all this embarrassed pre- ude might be to introduce the idea of a silver servico which the clerks proposed to order for the bride; he smiled with suavity, waved his hand gently and said: ioe high, indeed. You say rightly there, . Gray. “ And I cannot but feel it my duty to let you know at once a fact which a ne to ye knowledge very recently,” and now the cler fixed his grave, troubled eyes full on his em- ployer’s. ‘‘Norman Bristow is not free to marry your daughter. He is a married man, and his wife is living. She, herself, has shown me the marriage-certificate and told me the whole story.” The rich BL paEpla hue slowly receded from Anthony Ward’s fat cheeks; he gasped for breath; be stared at the brave young man who had dared to bring him this ill news, “Do you tell me that Norman Bristow has a wife rhs) cs ) pa _“T do tell youso.. Hearing of his intention of wedding a young lady here, she has come on from New York to prevent this great wrong to another woman. I found her on the steps of ox house the night of your ball, and took her _ Rome with me.” iz re bbe ate eet a ¥ * ere VaT wesc tet 7 “y * ae Ne ie et ee ai We a tn ae Oe ey ‘*Was she comingin? Was she going to make a scene? That would have been»mighty dis- agreeable! Iam glad you prevented it!” “She was too nearly starved and frozen to have made much of a row, sir.” “Starved and frozen! Norman Bristow’s wife! Ha, ha, ha! Some vile impostor! You have been made the victim of some bold crea- ture who has worked on your credulity, young man. ** All I ask is for you to see her and talk with her he aoe Iam sure she is noimpostor. It will be easy to prove the truth or untruth of her story. Surely, before your daughter is further compromised, you will desire to examine into this thing!” Compromised! The word stung the haughty merchant. He started to his feet, black wit anger, eBy all that is holy, if what you say is true, I will shoot the scoundrel the next time I meet him. I know nothing—care nothing for this wife, but—my daughter shall not be trifled with!” Then he sunk back in his chair panting. “Tt don’t seem like Bristow,” he muttered. “T cannot believe it. He thinks too much of himself—and he would not dare. Mr. Gray, I am almost certain you have been humbugged.” ‘Perhaps. You will at least inquire into it?” **T suppose I shall be obliged to. It will not do to run risks—but, I can’t and don’t believe it! Some adventuress is in for making money. Where and when can I see this fraud? “You can see the lady at my mother’s this evening; or she can go to your house, if you say 80. AE pee to meet her at yours. Less daazet of = . What does she say for herself, axy: wa Fennel mentioned, very briefly, the dates and some of the main ‘points of Helen Bristow’s story, until he came to that part where the fraudulent proceedings for divorce were insti- tuted, when he was suddenly startled into silence by his employer again springing to his rag and bringing down his fist violently on the 8. ' “Sol” he exclaimed, in triumph. ‘‘There was a divorce, was there? He has a divorce from her, has he? I thought there would be found to_be ‘a nigger in the wood-pile,’ some- where! You may drop the subject right here, Mr. Gray. And let me tell you, you have made At offensively officious and meddlesome orman Brirow is a man of honor. The wo- man was one ef the worst sort, no doubt. She entangled a rich boy into marriage before he knew what he was about. If he is free from her. I take the judge's decision that there was a good cause for it. rd! you came near to getting me into a fatal quarrel with my best friend! Let this be a lesson to you, sir, not to meddle in what does not concern you.” The look of angry Be ont he cast on Fennel was hard to bear; but he did bear it, and an- swered, patiently: “JT warn you, Mr. Ward, that the divorce was obtained by treachery, and that it will be set aside.” “Pooh!” said the great man, snapping his fin- gers. “Tf there is any sacredness.or permanence in the institution of marriage—if there is any jus- ticc in earth or heaven—any rights which the aie are bound to respect—any punishment or heartless wickedness—any value to our laws, then that woman is as much the wife of Nor- man Bristow as she ever was. Would you, could you, sir—you, the father of a pure young creature!—-resign to glittering infamy the daughter you pretend to love? Give her deli- cacy, the first bloom of her young affections, to the keeping of a man like that?—to a man whose only, and true wife—the wife of his youth—lives in enforeed solitude, desolate, broken-hearted? Will you sell your innocent child for place and power? I do not believe it, Mr. Ward!—I do not believe that Ihave told you this story in vain. The young man’s eyes flashed and his lips quiv- ered witha noble scorn, In that moment he tow- ered the superior of the man of policy whoshrunk from the pure blaze of a pair of honest eyes. In that moment, the shy, silent clerk was eloquent and beautiful. It would have been a favorable moment for Beryl to have studied him. And there, indeed, she stands, in the office door, a lovely vision in furs and velvets and roses who has stolen lightly in to ip ees her father, and has been struck into statue-like pale- ness and stillness by the words she hears! “Out of this office, this minute, you imperti- nent upstart!” cries her parent, alnwst suffoca- ting with rage, to the brave emplové. or want , none of your advice. Lthink shall be able to Es manage my own affairs, Go to the desk and 5 draw what is due to you, take your hat and y coat, and leave! You are discharged.” : And then the two men turn and see that love- ly, pale vision in the door, with the trembling rose-leaf lips, and the pitiful, startled blue eyes, pure as an angel’s, but full of trouble. ‘*Flow much has she heard?” was Anthony Ward’s thought. “Thank God, if this places her on her guard!” | — was Fennel’s. He went past her where she stood,pale and star tled, flashing on her one dazzlinglookashewent ~~ by, flushed and handsome, and quite as proud as any other living man. CHAPTER VI. OUT OF HIS WAY. ‘WueERE is Beryl? I thought I sawa pair of blue eyes at the window as I ran up the steps.” Mr. Ward and his friend Bristow were at din- ner. The soup had come and gone, but the young lady had not made her appearance. The ‘* guest was inclined to be in gay spirits but the host was rather quiet and ‘' glum,” and frown- ed when her fiwnceé asked after his daughter. ‘*She has retired to her room with a head- ache, I believe.” Two servants were present so that he could not explain that he and his child had had what Anthony Ward in his own mind denominated “arow.” ‘There had been a second scene in the office that morning, after Fennel Gray had taken his hat and left the place—a scene in which a young girlhad remonstratedin horror | and desperation with her tyrant’s resolve to © force her into a union with one of whom she had ? ust heard such a wretched story: ~ ‘*] did not like him before, papa; and,now, you may persecute me, cast me off, kill me, but | | you cannot force me to m Mr. Bristow. It a is wicked, shameful for you to ask me to.” ; You don’t know what you are talkin me) about! You are a little fool! To think o throwing over a man whom Thalia, or Te- 15 fsa, or Lilian would give their eyes to catch! ¢ ¥ilare say, if you could have your way you’d ®arry Mr. Gray!” Y * T don’t know—he has never asked me.” oe “Saucebox! Of course you think yourself — much wiser than your elders! Of course my opinion of what is right axd iain gael goes for - nothing! When I tell you that this woman— “a whose bel ohivenecbon your wonderful Fennel 9A) Gray has been silly enough to constitute him- self—is a vile adventuress, bent on obtaining black-mail, you turn up your nose at my - opinions. ou set up your flighty notions against my experience. You take pleasure in _ showing me that you do not care a pin for my — wishes or my judgment.” ’ 5. “Oh, papa, you know it isnot that!” “ What is it, then? te if you are the mod- est, lovable girl I thought you to be until now you will go home and keep | prac quiet, and P guided by your father. Ifthereisanything wrong about Mr. Bristow trust me to find it es out. Don't you suppose lam anxiousfor your __ true happiness? Whatelsedol care forf—you — are all I have in the world.” PE ae “I will go home—and keep quiet; papa,” was the answer, in a meeker tone; Beryl did nob care to add, just then, what she thought, asshe . went out of the office with her pretty lips pressed tight together; ‘‘but I never—never will let that man make love to me again!” or She had gone home and received a throng of as callers all the afternoon, preserving her out- = ward self-possession, going on to © herself m pretty and agreeable—as women will while — they are wild with grief or pain—smiling at the. sly mention of Mr. Bristow to her, again and again; yet, when twilight drew down, andshe| | saw the man himself, pompous, handsome and! =—_ smooth, coming up the steps, she ran away up- Be stairs, nor could the commands of her father = bring her down again. ee “Pp am very sorry for Miss Beryl’s head- = ~ ache.” yey Norman Bristow half-laughed as he said it, _ thinking to himself: ‘‘Some caprice of tho spoiled beauty, I dare say. She likes toshow |) _ me how little she cares for me; but I can afford ; tc bidemy time. Inever met thé Sib semana ata I could not conquer. Llike her the better for her spirit. The mdst of them are too willing.” The dmner hour was rather a dull one, © though enlivened by good wine. The master of the houss ordered some dessert and coffee, sent up to his daughter as he left the table; then said to his friend: Nig Pep bes ni IR “Come into the library a few minutes, Briss tow. I want to speak to you, before visitors come in. Those confounded servants kept my _ * » Di \ «f 1-4 ; ' ; ‘ > Aa ate ak Pies i i TN . nih : A a a? + 2 ee Pa b Ps ear? * 5 ah oo ae any

Page 8

‘2 eae ae ee” ae es ey ST’ ae ae 4 i ‘ T] voy t i “s mouth shut during dinner. Their ears are the best part of them.” “shee As the two went into the room designated Ward closed the door behind them, then turned ee up the gas to its brightest, and turning toward — ab his companion with a sharp light in his gray 14 eyes, said: “*What is this I am being told about your | having a wife, Bristow?” The sleek, handsome man of the world to whom this question was so unexpectedly put | turned yellow and green and afterward crim- son; there was dead silence for a minute before he cleared his throat to ask: ‘* What the dooce have you heard?” That you have a wife.” Led ‘That is a falsehood.” iM, “ But you have had?” . NOS.” ; 7 And the woman is still living?” ‘ es, “You should have told me this before you asked for my daughter.” “Tt was an unpleasant confession to make, and—unnecessary.” ee ‘Tt would have been better.” S - When did you hear about—about this wo- man, Mr. Ward?’ “My clerk, Fennel Gray, told me, this morn- : “ Ah!” a dangerous sparkle shot out of the _ __ half-closed eyes, ‘‘ A cursed impertinent jacka- ae napes that Gray is!” ; ‘T have discharged him for impertinence.” “Good! Where did he pretend to have ob- tained his information? Been meddling in my 4, ea "a business, has he? I will thrash him, the pe eid rst time it comes convenient. He would like to be your son-in-law, I dare say. I have no- be , ticed that he is troubled with a ‘ vaulting am- _° bition which o’erleaps itself.’ Good!” ‘a “The person is stopping at his house. At -- Jeast he told me Imight meet her there. Come, Bristow, let us talk this thing over thoroughly. T have a right to know just how you stand.” “Certainly. I never should have proposed a4 for your Senebier had I not been legally free to " - 50. By the way, Beryl knows nothing, I : hope? wee She came in while we were talking—I don’t _. know how much she overheard,” was the eva- sivoreply. ‘‘ We can manage her.” _ Now, Beryl’s little pink ear was at the key- hole when her father made this assertion, and she drew her breath in hard as she repeated to herself—‘‘Oh, you can manage me, can you, "you two men?” It was a bad vag to play eavesdropper, but , the girl felt that all the rite were against ber and that she was at liberty to protect her- _» self by any means not wholly wrong. These A “men were plotting against her happiness—she had a moral right to possess herself cf their weapons if she could. However, she was on ard but a few moments after that; the street oor-bell rung, and she took a precipitous flight up-stairs while Thomas was coming from his _ supper to open it. There wascompany to spend _ tbe evening, and she was called down. Pretty soon her father joined them in the drawing- | 4 room, but Mr. Bristow did not put in an ap- + pearance; her quick ear detected his voice ask- te Thomas for his overcoat, soon after which the outer door opened and closed. “He had not the face to come in here’ to- - ; > , 4% 7 ae | night,” she thought; but it was not shame --. which kept the man away—it was something _ important to be done: he had asked, for Gray’s address before parting with Mr. Ward, and on _ leaving had taken a horse-car in the direction of ape unfashionable suburb called Silvan Cot- oor e Row. ‘ia en Fennel left Mr. Ward’s employ, that -' © morning, he did not go directly home, disliking to distress his mother with the news that he was out of a place, or to allow Helen Bristow to know that she was the means of it. He went down to the ice and skated for hours, trying by vigorous exercise to overcome -his miserable, _ discontented mood. ‘Not for a moment could he be sorry that he «had spoken as he had; yet he knew that in so | doing he had angered a man he would have .. Place much to please, had lost his situation, and a still more disheartening distance be- himself and the girl he loved. a ing home to tea, he did not allude, to his _ troubles, making himself quite gay and enter- f: ining, so that his mother looked at him sharp- ‘Sapir hs pyepent tate tre inten toice thers ipper ¢ ‘oO ladies e them q fe a ee the Philharmonics which came rn ; Mrs. Gray was delighted; but Helen Bristow declined, with many thanks and ‘much appearance of alarm. 4 = Cae : XV ee » ~ f F fo ee = ee, eee aA ee | = PURSUED TO THE \ “Tt would not do for me to run the risk of | : ’ 4 , “ , 1 ' dont LO alia de aR ha: hop oo Se a: oe - - "Ser ,? oe meeting him. Lhave no suitabledress, I would not put you to the expense, etc.” : However, she insisted on their not remaining at home on her account; there were books to read and sewing to be done; and, truly, there seemed no reason why she should not be safe and comfortable in their absence; so they went tothe concert. — _ Mrs. Gray, at least, passed a pleasant even- ing. a their return they were surprised not to find Helen Bristow in the little parlor, book in hand, waiting for them. “She told me she should sit up for us, and have acup of tea ready,” said the mistress of the small household, somewhat disappointed. There was no hot water to make the tea; the kitchen fire was quite out. ‘TJ don’t like the look of things. Suppose you go up to her room, mother, and find out if she is there.” Mrs. Gray went, with a lamp, to the little hall bedroom at the head of the stairs. “She is not there, and her bonnet and cloak are gone,” she soon said, coming down again. “What do you suppose has made her leave us in this style? “T don’t know, Fennel.” ““T feel very uneasy about her, mother. Do ou suppose any one could have come here, nowing she was alone, and done harm to her?” “Ttis hardly probable. Who would do such a thing?” “The man who wants to be rid of her—in whose way she is.” “Hush! ‘You must be careful what you say, Fennel.” “There is no one to hear me but you; and were there, I should say it, all the same. How- ever, I dare say she has only gone to seek an in- terview with him. She will return presently. It is imprudent for her to go to him alone; and not very kind not to consult us, or at least take us into her confidence.” ‘Well, I shall retire, Fennel. I am weary enough to be glad to go to bed.” ‘*T will wait up as long as there is any hope of her coming back, mother.” *‘T bope there is nothing very wrong. Good- night, m me * Good-night, mother, dear.” She went to her room, while Fennel replen- ished the fire, drew an arm-chair close to it, took up-a book—and waited. He could not settle his mind to reading; it was all one whirl of min- gled pictures. He had lost his situation—what was he todo? He had lost all hope of keeping near the girl he loved—what was he to do? Oh, what a world this was for poor folks! Why was he so sensitive to Beryl Ward’s beauty and gra- ciousness? She was not for him. She was her father’s, to dispose of to the highest bidder! It made him pi ears to think of it! What was that the clock struck—three? Ay, it was three, in the morning; the oil was low in the or the fire was low in the stove; he shivered as he arose to his feet. Helen Bris- tow had not returned. What could have hap- pened to her? He crept to bed and fell asleep with the care of her on his mind, awaking late and springing up with that sense of impending evil upon him which comes after taking our troubles into dreamland with us. The aroma of the breakfast coffee saluted his | nostrils; he hurried to dress and go down, more than half-expecting to find the sad lady in her seat at the table; for, in the morning, we are hopeful. he was not there. His mother expressed the opinion that they had been deceived in her, and that it might be just as well for them that she had taken herself off. As they were alone together, Fennel took the opportunity of telling his mother that he had been discharged, an what for. She shook her head and groaned. ‘You are altogether too hot-headed, Fennel! You don’t consider your own interests enough! And in the winter, too! I dare say you will not get even a recommendation from Anthony Ward, after making him soangry. And places so hard to find!” betiG Poor Fennell!’ He had spoken out in defense of purity and honor, the words God had put in his mouth, and now even his mother blamed ‘him! It was hard to bear,and made him angry fora while. / : ‘People get no thanks,” went on Mrs. Gray. ““Do you think Miss Beryl will do anything but laugh at you, my poor boy? Look at Besa Bristow—as she calls herself! What gratitude she shows! Gone off, without a word. I shall | look through my bureau-drawers, after break- fast, to see if she has taken anything.” / 1> Yat } : S é . A ee ae 7 .LTAR. oe a —. **Mother, please don’t. speak so about her. I wish I could feel easy about her. I know, well, enough, that some harm has come to her. She may have been murdered! Who knows? I | shall make it my business, to-day, to try and find out what has happened to her.’ So he did, not for that day only, but for sev- | eral more. Finally, he came home in the mid- die of one bright afternoon—the days were growing longer and sunnier in the latter part of February—with a pale face and disturbed air. “‘ Mother, there’s no need of my spending any more time looking for Helen Bristow. She has : wit , - J PE he Va POON Po eA been found—under the ice in the river.” ** Fennel! is that so?” y Pat eB, 2 ee SEM ez. 1¢ o Ae, ee ae. Oe oe \ ut that item in- x ‘

Page 9

es asl r* Sree + ’ "3 — Ae Me: 7 : #4 = ¥ Ww Fey Ne ’ 7 x RS ) - ? Z 4 $ ven ee , Bae os 49 ul _ to imagine any flattering reason for her Eee ‘done so. It must be some errand she wishe him to do for her. Or, it might be she had been _ kind enough to get him a situation in place of that she had been the cause of his losing. He. tried to tame bis bounding pulse—to convince himself that the little message meant nothing very important; and, as he was not as vain as most men, he succeeded in keeping himself only reasonably elated. It had been about ten days since his disthares from Mr. Ward’s employ, who had refused his name as a reference, and consequently pre- vented him from finding a situation. Indeed, Fennel was quite certain—from the manner of some of those to whom he had applied and who had promised an answer after seeing Anthony Ward—that the merchant had been revengeful enough to insinuate charges against his hon- esty. He had no means of knowing this, but he suspected it. e was therefore the more deeply surprised at Miss Ward’s note. He received it about four in the afternoon, and the four hours until eight prolonged themselves into ages, despite the di- version of making his toilet and taking his tea, Precisely at the hour he rung the Conyngham door-bell and was admitted by Miss Thalia, her- self, who observed that the servants were at supper in the basement. he conducted him, with a mysterious air, to a small room back of the long parlor, furnished as a boudoir and crowded with knicknack- OLY .J5- 5 “There!” she exclaimed, in triumph, ‘here we are! andif any persons call, we shall have warning bef¢°».they come in upon us. Beryl, fere is Mr. G2! apa and mamm7 have gone 0 the theater, brother Fred has gone to see his girl, aunt is up-stairs engaged with a new novel, and so, let us make the most of our op- portunities.” _A slim figure arose from a blue-satin sofa, a little cold, tren.bling hand was extended to Fen- nel, who eagerly clasped it, and gazed devoted- ly into a pair of violet eyes swimming in tears —eyes which seemed to him to appeal to him like a child’s, “Miss Ward,” he stammered, “what can I do for you? You ‘sent for me—if I can be of the least service in the world te you only let me know how,” and quite unconsciously he held the small hand which she forgot to take away. ‘‘T have had such a time with papal It was last Malar she said, looking up at him pite- ously. ‘I have been crying ever since.” ‘Such a time with your father?” his anxious looks asked her to tell him more. “Yes; and as—as you were the cause of it, Mr. Gray, I thought—perhaps—you would be willing to share the consequences.” ‘* You make me very happy,” murmured Fen- nel, not knowing what he was saying. _ “Sit down, both of you, and take it Pad interrupted Miss Thalia. ’“‘Take the seat side her on the sofa, Mr. Gray. I am mistress of ceremonies, The poor child has been woe- fully abused, and she has sent for you to sym- pathize with her,” : el seated himself, timidly, near the ob- ject of his adoration. ” es I do for you, Miss Ward?” full in his face with a strange a ae ae i aie can marry me.” ‘ Marry you?” he repeated, incredulously. “I thought you loved 1 me well endugh to war LB lingly,” she said, gravely, not even blushing, but regarding anxiously. His heart throbbed, his face burned, a blaze of glory leaped into his eyes, : “I do love you, more than there are words or Mei to tell you, Miss Ward.” ‘Then he added, a hess wape dying Fe of his countenance: Y, is at * ove you too well to marry you, is thoughts had gone back to his ome, which, ils as it was, he Bee eles ive up, unless he found something to do—to is loss of salary—to his pitiful bank-account of one hundred dollars, just enough to keep his mother from starving until he could again. This lovely young creature in ing silks and jewels was mad to tempt him to take her into such poverty as his! Her breath fanned his cheek, the touch of her dress thrilled him, her eyes were again filling with tears—his heart bounded, reason and common-sense had a ba ts struggle with rapture and love. _ ‘Your father would never forgive Pilg d he went on, ‘‘never! And sie are not fitted for ¢ hardships you would have to encounter as “ce the wife of a clerk—a.’ i olaek ante employment) 2% a BO ut of ye 2s q eA ‘ _ very fond of me ‘There it is again,” she interrupted him, speaking bitterly. “P did not think you were so worldly l—or I should not have come to ou! A “‘T! worldly? Heaven knows, Beryl, I am only thinking of you. I would live on mold crusts all the days of my life and be contented, for the sake of your sweet company. But you —would I offer you such fare?” ‘T have quarreled with papa—desperately, I had a scene with him, that night after what I heard you say in the store. ast evening we had it all over. again, only worse. Never, for one moment, have I accepted Mr. Bris- tow or consented to consider myself engaged to him, yet our engagement is taken for granted, and am to be forced to marry him, when I hate him! He knows I don’t like him—papa knows I don’t like him, yet thev laugh at me as if I were a baby who didn’t know its own mind, sr wnat was good for it. We, arver that time at the office when he dis- charged you, I told papa pretty piel. what I thought of Mr. Bristow! I assured him that these were not the days of despots, and that I wouldn’t and couldn’t be made to marry a man who had a wife already! He was dreadfully angry with me, which made me very miserable; for papa and I have always before been so fond of each other, and he has been so good_and in- dulgent! And Mr. Bristow came and came, and was always so pleasant—would take no offense at my rudeness to him—and here, day before yesterday, papa comes to me, not angry at all, but so very mild and cons@lerate, to in- form me that there is no longer any objection to Mr. Bristow—the woman who made him so much trouble, and veyei nim so, and was so wicked and ugly to the poor gentleman, is dead —and now there is nothing to prevent my set- ting the wedding-day, and let it be soon! After telling me this very sweetly he goes off with- out listening te my expostulations. So, yester- day, Mr. Bristow calls to see me in the after- noon, takes everything for granted, and wants | to know if I will be ready to go to New York | Then I told him, | and Paris with him in peek to his face, what I thought of if his wife was buried Sgr ag the weed, that ought to be on his hat, was? He got ve green and asked me if my taste was for bread- and-cheese and dishonest bookkeepers? At that, I flew into a passion, accusing him of trying to ruin an innocent man, out of jealousy—I told him I had no taste for ‘whited sepulchers’— that I thought more of the nail on your little finger than I did of him and his money, and his house, and his position. He was in sucha rage that he grew quite white and still, and he swore an oath that I should marry him now—‘ not be- cause he any longer fancied me, but because he was determined to have me where he could punish me for my pretty speeches.’ “Oh, Mr. Gray, there was something in his manner, then, that frightened me, although I wouldn’t show it. He never told papa that he was angry with me; but staid to dinar and was as social and gay as possible. So I told = myself, after Mr. Bristow went away; and he was awfully angry with me. He sai he would turn me out of his house if I didn’t be- have as I ought to his friends. He said we should be married the first day Mr. Bristow was ready, if that were to-morrow. Those two men will make me do it, I know they will!” she added, wringing her hands. ‘They shall not!” cried the lover, fiercely. “TL have thought it allover, Mr. Gray. Thalia and I have ed it over; and, as she suggested, if I were married to some one else, I should be safe from them! They could not force me to | be his wife then, could they? So, of course, I. him! I asked him thought of you Ned ‘““Angel!” exclaimed Fennel, in a daze of bliss, Beryl blushed at the ardor of his look, and | proceeded hastily: “You bere pooneeaa hie Gray, I ask you to do this to protect me. I don’t expect you to—to— assume the care of me, or anything like that, at least for years, when I am older and you are better able. I mean for us to remain apart, | just as we ara now, only I will have the cer- tificate of our marriage to show if they try too -hard to urge on that other hateful affeir, It is | asking a great deal, I know, to ask you zo bind yourself to me—” | ** Nonsense!” putin Thalia’s calm voice. “He will be willing, I dare say,” ana she laughed with good-natured malice. ‘There are not ' a” RSUED TO THE ALTAR, | # both beg of you to reflect upon the i 4 : PE aes oe itane hor gpk aie ie ietos J ‘ ba gi) Baek ’ ( ey. Sy pee,’ Tr t iyjar ovat tnt qe oa Pies wer ae vee aay eR ea Ane a BRB 4 ee Th. Phe a eg re A Sas Wed pr a eh ae eee, pie has ’ Rags Rr ee oe) Se Rea peer oe SA a ee » tat ans. oat “=F : " eo i agus to send round for him now, te conie ere, when I will See enough of the sto: to him to make it plain to him that itis bis bounden duty, as a Christian and a moralist, to unite you two in the holy bonds of matrimony. You are both of age; but, it will be necessary to have a license—which you cannot now obtain before to-morrow. Therefore, we will appoint | an hour—say 2 P. M., when we will meet some- where—say at your mother’s, Mr. Gray, when my friend, the Rev. David Dash, will speedily 5 perform the necessary rites. Berylcanthenre-—f — turn home with her ‘marriage lines’ in her bosom, which can be produced at ®uy critical is moment and flaunted in the astonished faces of _ her persecutors. There! isn’t that a simple, — pretty and satisfactory plot for you? Sh ft m a hasty note. and send it around to Mr. a I will, without further parley ”—and she’ did. Miss Conyngham had heard the little story of : orman Bristow’s ear:y marriage with a pang. : which would have been much sharper had it n as been counteracted by the knowledge that this: tah troublesome discarded wife was opportunely an dead and out of the way. She was quite wille ing to have Beryl disgusted with Mr. Bristow; = her own moral sense was not outraged so deeply = — but that s>e was more than willing tosecure the . great catch for herself: and the prospect for herself now looked much more’ hopeful. In- imagination she was already playing the part of the Good yeaah eam gual | the oil of flat- — tery into the wounds of vanity, and winning gratitude in return.. mo After the clergyman was sent for Berylgrew very nervous. She shrunk away from Fennel as if she had suddenly grown afraid of him; and she said to him, in a very low _ voice, just before Mr. Dash entered upon the — scene: “You understand that you will be quite free afterward?— that Iam to go home just as if i nothing had occurred?’ “You shall do just as you please aboutevery- thing, Beryl,” he answered her, though hiseyes = shone with a fire which she could not meesé ~ — without the downfall of her own. ‘I only wish = ito do what is most truly for your welfare. Certainly, I would not marry you now—poor, as I am and d tested by your father—were — there are any other way of effectually protect- - ing you from that man. ' ere the clergyman entered and was soom initiated into the secret purpose of the conspi- — rators. Being dead in love with Miss Thalia, and she making herself very sweet and persua- sive, he gave his consent to their wishes, prom- ising to meet them at the designated numberin | — Silvan caine Row the next day at the hour ~ appoin A beryl was wry mild and sweet to her honor ed parent the following pncrning Thaliacalled; asked for her pounenty on a shopping expedi- tion, and Bery] orde an early lun S herself in a pretty street suit of brown silk, ar the two friends sallied out and entered Miss par nig s carriage about five minutes past — one, tl be in left . ae A the same time, helped the young ladies into the carriage, ith ciosed the door on them, and sauntered leisurely " 1 «|» down-town, without a suspicion of the mischief _ Ee plotted against ie family pride, Ae ‘Drive fast, Harry!—round to Mr. Dash’s é They picked up the clergyman, and the horses’ heads were turned in the direction of _ & that unfashionable locality in which was situa- |. ted Fennel Gray’s humble domicile. ma <4 Thalia kept up a lively chatter with the gen- tleman while the poor little runaway masliok A beside her, silent and pale. Vo Ma Ae It was a very pee young gentleman, too, who issued from the door of the cottage before which — they drew up, to help his visitors from the carriage. y ip Had Fennel been a fortune-hunter, sagen to. secure the millionaire’s daughter on any terms, ee he would not have appeared so conscience- stricken, almost reluctant,ashedid now. = He led Bery] in, with an air of the greatest = respect, and presented her to his mother, who = ut her arms about the trembling girl, kissed iy er, and said, gravely: ve ; tl Ward, because of the trust — ““Tlove you, Miss ust snd affection you have for Fennel; buthe and’ - t tmportance of the step you desire to take. na few moments it will be too late to change peed aoe bx mind. Look about on this poor place! Look a plain, old-fashioned woman—” Whom I ‘love already,” whispered ° smiling through her tears. “I have mother since I was a very little girl—” _ “There® best pe no delay,” i Bho eee "2 at me. “ec

Page 10

pa OE ll ee el A i ee oe Re oo Re 1 rf a we ta 2 Pats aig Sa “ets ee’ 3 ‘ - ‘ Thalia, ae | ages gl who seemed to be master of ceremontes; &stand right where you are, Beryl, and you, . Gray, take your place by her side. I shall ‘ . ‘ not fee i — sl easy until the words are spoken that "|. make you man and wife.” a é a NE Seay CHAPTER VIII. pe A LAWYER HIS OWN CLIENT. _ Papa, why do you work evenings? You @ill kill yourself! Ican’t and I won’t have it, there now!” and a pretty little white hand, - sparkling with rings, went down upon the pile a. of legal papers on the table before the gentle- ©. %man who was scanning them. ; \ _- “This is something quite out of my usual line of business, Claire. At least, it is business for ‘myself which Iam doing, and therefore I keep oot ea Sor od evenings; my clients keep me busy «during office hours.’ '_ “Pii wager you my largest diamond it’s that 4 er a estate, again!” on s4* You“are 1 es answered the pie prion blushing under his daughter’s amused and ske _- ticalobservation. ‘‘Do you take no interest in ? it, Claire? Would you not enjoy coming into _' . an inheritance of a handsome landed estate and ne -? ‘fifty thousand pounds accumulated in the Bank of England? My poor brother—and he was a __ keener lawyer than I, Claire!—used to be very +, . senguine that we should prove our claims to it. on oe ‘And if Robert had not died just when he did, I + believe it would have been oursbefore this. He understood the case—had mastered it—while I had left it.all to him, and had, at his death, to begin at the beginning. There is such a raft of papers, and my eyes trouble me so much at "ee eet this winter! A pair of young eyes anda _. fresh mind ought to be brought tothe task. If __ you were a son, now, instead of such an orna- ‘mental piece of furniture as a girl, Claire!”—he . looked up at her with fond pride, however, as “You received a letter, a day or two ago, ye: papa, from my cousin, saying that he was out eae ye a hae er and would be glad if you could '. find him anything to do.” _~\. “Oh, Fennei? Yes, poor Fennel! I would - have liked nothing better than to have written _ tohim to come on, and I would salary him for - ayear, to make it his sole business to investi- | gate this case. The truth is, I am not able to , offer him a salary, such as would support bim and his mother. * If it were only himself!” ~ Vou could afford to do anything, papa, ‘which would secure us the estate. What we et to allow our claims to lie idle d If my cousin is as industrious energetic now as he was when a boy, he ‘ha tust the person for the work!” ** But what can we do with his mother?” ex- aifmed the other, testily. ‘That has always - been the difficulty. Poor Fennel wanted to read law witn me, but he had her to support. I papa. y . ve had a lucrative prac- He ce the last few years; but it takes every dol- _ lar of my earnings to keep up the style you and your mother must have. That’s a good sugges- _ tion of yours, ona, puss, about my nephew. J will write to him this very evening. I cannot i A een more than a room and board y house and thirty dollars a month for his es and pocket-money. He must understand has an equal interest in the work with lf—that he is, seclly. vA ea for bimself. if we get the estate, ha fof it be ongs to him s ani his mother as his father’s heirs.” - Twill tell you what aunt Lucy might do, if fl] ae zy not too proud—take the housekeeper’s re Ci le — . She would be independent; and poor goed is too ill nowadays to make trouble _ “Twill suggest it, at the risk of giving of- “fense; and Teil write the letter ce He scratched off a couple of pages which he : d, “Your affectionate uncle, Arthur Suth- thur Sutherland Gray, Esq., wasa popular Pyne Tegan, Who hed, alrite nga pe titty, ined a paying practice, which enabied him to ve a house oy h avenue, a carriage and | and utler; yet, like thousands living in ilar , he was constantly obliged to do

Te i yer ss + 7, Anthony Ward did not half Helteve the fellow; he hurriz dimness and silence there. into the drawing-room, but all was ‘““Where had those two gone to meet that scoundrel?” He had no clew—not the slightest—and time was soprecious! ‘ake which choice of ways he mightin pursuit, he was liable to make a fatal mistake. He never in all his life-—noteven that | day when he expected his notes to go to pro- test, and was saved from bankruptcy by a loan made at ten minutes before three—was so nearly crazed as he was that long moment he stood in the empty parlor, wondering in what direction he had better proceed next. He stamped his foot; he tore his hair. Then he turned back into the hall. “Ts Mrs. Conyngham at home?” ‘Ves ain? ‘Go ask her if she has any idea where the young ladies were going—immediately, my man, do youhear? mina cok Tell Mrs. Conyng- ham not tocome down—I can’t wait to speak with her—but tell her I want my daughter.” ‘¢T guess the house is afire!” thought the sery- ant, moving more rapidly than his dignity usually permitted. Anthony Ward tramped up and down the hall till he came back. ** Her compliments, and missus knowsnothing, if you please.” “Yow’re right there! May I ask who called here last evening?” “The Rev. David Dash was one of ’em, sir,” answered the man, scratching his head, and before he could get any further on the list, the gentleman had plunged down the steps and was off. Fortunately for Mr. Ward, he encountered an empty carriage, hailed the driver, and got in. “Rev. David Dash—do you know his addréss?” ‘Yes, sir.” “Drive there,” screamed the despairing father —‘ drive like the d——!” Of course the reverend gentleman was not found at homie. } “A couple o’ ladies took ’im off in a coach, ‘¢ Where to?” % Can’t say, sir.” The inquirer clirabed slowly back into the car- riage, where he sunk on the seat quite limp and elpress. - “Wait a moment, driver,” he gasped. - The Jehu looked down at his face with some anxiety; he apprehended a stroke of paralysis; but Anthon ard fumbled in his inner coat- pocket for his note-book, and searched for the address he wanted. ““That’s it, by thelord Harry ! Eleven, Silvan Cottage Row. Driver, 11 Silvan Cottage Row, and the quicker time you make the bigger pay, Don’t spare your team! Ill buy you a better, if you kill this. ne “Tt is hit or miss,” he groaned to hiniself, as he was being rattled along at a lively ‘pace. “itm soing it blind; but this is the likeliest place I can think of.” In fifteen or twenty minutes they were trotting along a quiet suburban street; he let down the glass, and stuck his head out the window of the vehicle: “Hit or miss, and it’s hit by Jove! There’s the Conyngham carriage in front of No. ii! Driver, you’reatrump! Here’sa ten-dollar bill! Let me out! Now-—it only I’m not too late!” In the modest little parlor of No. 11, the young couple, pale, frightened and grave, stood side by side, the minister in front of them, the mother and Thalia pte 4 earnestly on. The young pair had just joined hands when Thalia, whose eyes had wandered to the window, gave a loud scream. ; “‘-Your father!” The next instant Anthony Ward burst into the room, his face distorted by passion, his right hand clasping a revolver: ‘‘Have you married her? Is she your wife?” With a cry the mother threw herself between her son and the furious man: ‘*Not yet,” she answered him. ‘You inter- rupt the ceremony.” It is well I am not too late, or I would have — shot him like a dog! Come with me, Beryl! Come home!” “Not untll Ihave been made Fennel Gray’s wife,” sho answered him, with a look as de- | termined as hisown, ‘‘Assoon as I am mar- ried, papa, I will be at leisure to come with you, Mr, Dash, proceed with your duty, sir—we are elton: do ours.” mered the divine. ‘ “1 am of age,” declared the girl, “I have id chosen for myself. _Thope you are not going to Ce eo tO ee ce eu oe t—but—surely, a parent’s wish—” stam- . fa ! ws Mae a hits, 4 INS. ai 4 : , Toes 7

Page 11

_«* weg yea PURSUED TO aD edge 5 hele wie tee ee ae a/ % A ; io T ees = * Pe -, ‘ . wie * 4 aS HE ALTAR. mA Fy Pe ¢ 7 } a 3 at _— eye 8 me Re eee See te play the coward, sir: Go on with the service at.once.” ‘*Never! I would kill that poltroon the mo- ment he became your husband! What are you doing with my daughter, you sneak and scoundrel?) You fortune-hunter! You mean, spiritless scamp, who are only too ready to take advantage of a girl’s folly, to get hold of her money! Oh, you are a pretty one to prate about a suitable husband for a pure girl! Oh, you are a pattern of honor! an example of wighteousness! A poor, penniless clerk, turned out of your employer’s office for impertinence, trying’to marry his daughter! Why, sir, you wil starve her to death!—for not one cent of my money shall she ever touch if she takes your name, Take her and starve her, if you will, Keep her in this pleasant home of yours, if you think it a fit place for one brought up as she has been! Ay, you must love her rarely! You must be very tenderof her! Such unselfish love merits all the sacrifice she can make! A little soft thing, brought up in velvet and down, take it and see it die by inches before your eyes! There’s love for you!” A deep groan came from Fennel’s lips in an- swer to this torrent of reproaches, curses, vil- ification: “Itis all true,” he said, “too true. Beryl, darling, God knows I warred you of it. I have but a hundred dollars to my name—I am out of work—don’t you see, my darling, it is as I tried to convince you—a piece of inexcusable selfishness in me? iioade not marry you.” “TT prefer starvation—death—with you, to a life with that other man whom my father is de- termined shall have me. Oh, I know what I can do, Fennel, if you refuse to save me—I can do what Norman Bristow’s wife did—jump into the river.” . He looked into her flashing eyes with anguish in his own, shook his head sadly and turned to the millionaire: af Ward, if I resign all claims to her hand—if I give you my word of honor not to seek her acquaintance further—to leave this city—to never write or speak to her—will you pledge me your word in return that you will not ask her, or influence her, to marry Mr. Bristow?” ‘*T makeno terms except with my equals,” was the haughty rejoinder. ‘‘ Come, Beryl, I want to et out of this. Miss Conyngham, I thought etter of you than that you would engage in such foolery as this; your acquaintance with my family is at an end,” and seizing his daugh- ter by the arm with a gripe of iron he forced her out of the room, still keeping his revolver in his other hand, At the door he turned and added: “As for you, young man, it may give ye great satisfaction to know that I shall now eel compelled to set a guard over my child, nightand day. Ishall hire a trusty woman to keep her company until she is safe in the keep- ' ing of the one I have selected for her husband Pte mg I shall feel justified in making very _ Beryl stretched out her hands a: lingly to her lover, who only shook his Mead again, abandoning her to her fate. So great was Fen- nel’s horror at being thought a fortune-hunter, so keen his fear that a marriage with him bs bring want and misery on a girl he loved a bin for that, that he saw her father drag Well. P, with almost a feeling of relief. Well, must say you are an ardent lover!” cried Miss Thalia, with great anger and con- Lemley To let her go, like that! You, too, Mr. Dash, behaved bravely! I wish you both ood-morning,” and she marched out of the umble parlor and entering her carriage was ' driven off without even offering to return the young cler an to the she had ahavcted him. quarters from whence _ _ Thalia’s chances for winning Norman Bristow Were as small as before. She had aided and jetta the romance of a runaway marriage solely and only that the dis- carded lover might be left to her, Now’ it looked asif Anthony Ward was more likely to have way than any one else. She went home in an ill-humor: the Rey. David Dash returned to his lodgings, having lost his luncheon, his fee, drive, and the good-will of the young lady he most desired to please; the widow and her son were left alone. When all were gone, Fen-’ nel threw himself down on the homely chintz iene, buried his face in the pillows, and fair- ly sobbed and moaned likea girl. He did not realize how bright, how heavenly had been the _ Ropes he had built on a secret marriage with ryl, until they were rudely destioved. He “thought to himself that,even if married ars before it would be ri ; _ iw mld lode ¥ a before the two left the table i would i and | to claim | 9 and still—in the ie me ae Pals were to accept the thereafter, pe mstpr set: Mot Lt Sain “are that she was gone, he saw how much happiness he had felt in the prospect of having secured their love by such a tie. His mother, secretly glad that the affair had not been consummated, yet felt her heart bleed for her son to see him in such distress. ‘** Mother, did { do right not to bind her to our verty?” he asked, after a time, lifting his ead fromthe cushions and turning a sad face toward her. ‘Quite right. Iwas proud of your decision —for it was—it must have been a powerful temptation. You did what you believed to be best for the young lady, not for yourself, and Ihonor you for it. That father of hers is a vicious man; he can be ugly enough if he wish- es. He would have given neither of you any comfort; very likely, would have been cruel to his daughter; I cannot Kut be glad that the marriage was prevented. It would have been hasty, ill-advised, imprudent.” “Oh, mother, yes—but if he forces her to marry that man she abhors!” ‘He can hardly go so far as to absolutely compel her, if she resists as she ought if she hates bim. Atallevents, having done ourduty, we must leave the rest to Him who ‘doeth all things well.’ Come, Fennel, dear, you -have eaten nothing since morning, nor much then. It is three o’clock; I have made some coffee; come and have some, with a slice of cold ham; it is very nice, my poor boy.” As she had consoled him with tid-bits when a little chap, so the mother sought to console her son now that his heart was wrung with a mighty ief; she took him by the hands, drew him up rom his tear-wet pillow and led him into the warm little kitchen, where she placed him at the table and sat down opposite him. The strong coffee certainly did cheer poor Fennel temporarily. After he had eaten and drank, he bethought him of a letter he had taken out of the post-office that morning and thrust into his pocket without opening, so intent was he, at the time, on procuring that license, the getting out of which had caused the traitorous clerk to hasten to Anthony Ward with the in- formation. hee ‘* Here seems to be an answer from my uncle Arthur, at last,” he said, examining the envel- ope, with its post-mark of New York. ‘‘He has taken his time about it; now let us see what he has to say.” : A faint flush of excitement crept into Mrs. Gray’s pale face as she fixed her eyes expectant- -s on her son, who cut open the wrapper with the tea-knife, opened the sheet, and read: ‘“My Dear Neruew: There are five thousand more clerks in New York to-day than there are places for. dearer than in Sak aie “Still, I will say this: I have lately taken up the old question of the Sutherland estates. I have no doubts of our being the true heirs. The thing is—to prove it, Ihave now the time (nor the eyesight,) to go into the papers as they Se ay to be gone into. you havea mind to take hold, diligently and thor- oughly, and get our claims into shape, I offer you my house as a home while you are doing the work, and thirty dollars a month P sage yin ‘‘I foresee that, your mother will have to be provi- ed for; therefore, I will further say, that your poor aunt.is in wretched health—mostly confined to her room—and if your mother will put aside pride and take charge of the housekeeping for my wife, she will be welcome, and entitled to two hundred a year, salary. This is not brilliant, but it is a living; and if, meantime, you are put in the way of proving your half-heirship to the Sutherland estate, you will e making money with a vengeance! Let me from you right away, and believe me, sincerely, “Your affectionate uncle, ** A, SUTHERLAND Gray.” ‘Well, mother, what do you say to it?” “T say—go, Your aunt will quarrel with me, but what of that? Your poor dear father was certain that property belonged to us. If you can prove it—well, we will not be quite million- aires, like Anthony Ward, but we shall be rich enough for our wishes, and be ‘landed gentry,’ as they sav in England. Who knows? tC) knows? There’s many a turn to fortune’s wheel.” The fading eyes of the poor lady glowed with the light of hope, the color of outh dyed her cheeks, ‘‘The parvenw mil- oe may smile upon you yet!” she added, q y. . Fensal; I know of nothing you can do here, and living is. oung and enthusiastic, was much elated at first; but when he came to think of _ triumphan going so far from Beryl—of leaving her unde- ended, to bow to the will of her unyielding fa- ther—he became very low-spirited. However, t was decided they uncle’s offer; and three da No. 11, was: + Mid oe Para ea Pax +h 5 | overwhelming despair which mastered him, now | mother and son were on the train, en routeior , i | | for the “Wedding in High Life,” little fore-- rem. the East. CHAPTER X. A FRIGHTFUL SCANDAL. GREAT preparations were being hastily mads ~4 a ae runners of which continued to appear in Wes ern papers, and even to be copied in the “‘lead- ing journals” of the metropolis. There could | not a very elaborate trousseau,.or a grand reception, like the birthday ball, on account of — _ the brief time given by the impatient bride- — groom, who was obliged to be in Paris the first me of April; but the fashionable world consoled it- An self by the hints thrown out, that the trousseau would be completed afterward by Worth, and 4} a grand party would open the season after the bridal pair had returned from their summer ay. wanderings. The bride, however, was to have a a white satin wedding dress, of home manufac- ture, and to be married in church, which was some consolation to her numerous friends. Since the hour that Anthony Ward had ~ brought his daughter away from 11 Cottage Row, at the revolver’s point, she had beens different girl. Either the mortification of her lover’s rouse to marry her, or her feeling thab + i it was useless to resist a will like that.of herfa- - 3 ther, or some other reason not yet tail ig 3 had changed her conrse of action effectually. a She was meekly obedient to her father—coldily ~ pleasant to her suitor—she refused to even read a ie impassioned letter written by Fennel before . e left and smuggled into her possession by Thalia—she consented even tothe severance of — her intimacy with that true friend and confi- —_ dante. Her parent was puzzled and delighted. He intimated to his friend Bristow the policy of ce striking while the iron was hot, That gentle- man thereupon suavely begged the young lady ~ to name the blissful day, and makeitnear, = iat ' Beryl humbly asked for a few hours to con-- — | sider; at dinner, that evening, in company wifi her dear papa and her devoted fiancé, she seb Thursday, the eighteenth of March, that being the fourth, | agg * To oblige Mr: Bristow, who had expresscda _ wish to be in Paris by the first of April, or as soon after as possible.” P pe The lover was in raptures—made some very © pretty and gallant speeches—gazed with covet-' — Sag hed at the lovely young creature promised to gladden the journey for him. Lae wee In his secret heart Norman Bristow sneered at his bride as he did at all women. “They c all be bought with a price. Miss Beryl had be mighty independent—put on some telling of scorn when she learned of his past life— er Ww he A AB Se to Tiffan old on the bri ie ie a etit souper, a change of @ and then, gh, the me bridegroon the car!”—Mr. Bristow had chartered a sp palace car to take the bridal party through t the seaboard. a8 shone like jewels; the rosy lips were gether rather tightly—all at once it struck ¢ match-maker that there was thing curious in her expression !—was it no apt Re fies Peay Beas» Sy oS

Page 12

ee Ae A OLE me ROS a os ‘ : Ak ti ; om — eae Cat a ee ee ee it re 7 i oes to outwit two men. Nevertheless, he watched her all through dinner with a vague anxiety. _ . After dinner she went to her room to be eae wet eo 7 A fe so natural to hide our deepest feelings from the careless touch of those about us.. He was little fitted for work that day, and locking wp his pa- pers in the secretary, he stole out of the house fora long, rapid walk, where, he neither thought, nor cared. It was a bright, windy March day, dry and rather chilly. He walked on and on until he found himself in Central Park. It was bleak there, with the wind swee ing between the two rivers, and he quickened his pace to keep warm. It was two or three o’clock of the} afternoon. Not many carriages were on the drive. One handsome turn-out, whose horses were on a Dh oes trot, attracted his attention. He looked after it, becoming vaguely conscious of two vailed ladies, richly dressed, with two fine-looking gentlemen, hat one with the haughty poise of the head, the waxed mustache, the half-shut eyes, was that—yes, it was Nor- man Bristow! Of course that was his bride be- side him! Poor Fennel! his heart ceased to beat, he stood stock-still to look after the retreat- ing vehicle, his mouth open, his eyes staring out of his head, his color gone. Then his pulses be- gan to bound madly, his brain to whirl, his face to grow crimson. He had seen those two to- gether; and, as he wandered wearily home- ward, his whole future life stretched out before him—a blank. Among the arrivals in the evening papers he found no mention of the distinguished pair from Chicago, which was probably because they stopped with Mr. Bristow’s relatives. he following day he found the names for which he was seeking in the list of ¢ Ts sailing for Havre, on the Cunard steamer. He laid aside the paper about as sadly as he would have closed the coffin-lid on the face of a dear friend. At the dinner-table Claire asked him to take her to the opera. ‘Papa will pay for the tickets; but he has no music in his soul, and hur is away at school, and it is so jolly to have a cousin whom one can take the liberty of asking! Now, do t> good- natured about it, Fennel, and pretend you are glad to go. You ought tobe! Miss Kellogg is. sweet in Margaret, and—and—” ‘To say nothing of the privilege of escorting a pair of bright eyes! Well, I am quite at your service, Lady Claire.” ri Gray, senior, looked at the two pleasant- Strange as it may seem to us, who know how scornfully our hero has been treated thus. far, in the eyes of his uncle he was not an alto- ether ineligible parti—provided the Suther- d property was secured! In that case, it. would be a most convenient way of rosa: it all in the family to have Claire and Fennel make amatch. Andit was beginning to look as if their title to the estates could be proved! Claire abandoned two-thirds of her orange heen g to her ravenous little brother Edgar, run up-stairs and make herself pretty for the: Academy; and very charming she looked when she came down, her chestnut hair glimmering — under her tiny white lace opera-bonnet, her brown eyes sparkling, and her cheeks rose-red with excitement, her white opera-cloak, her blue silk dress, her Dig he: fan, bouquet and lorgnette, all comme faut. e felt mighty important to see the ca: come round just for her and Fennel; if he was rather dull after they were on their way, she was lively enough for both. _ Many eyes in that vicinity viewed them kind- ly as a handsome young pair when they had taken their seats in the parquet. Every one has felt the strange, magnetic in- fluence of a pair of eyes fixed steadily upon him when he was unaware otherwise of their obser- vation. While the orchestra was playing the overture, Fennel became conscious of this sin- gular influence. Involuntarily he turned his glance to a box over the stage and was fascin- ated, for a full minute, by a pair of sarge sinister eyes, that were regarding him with a sneering smile. He turned red and pale—red and pale—as he recognized Norman Bristow. Vexed with himself for betraying his agitation, he finally tore his gaze away from his enemies. Then, slowly and timidly, he stole another look at the ladies in the box with Mr. Bristow. He would rather not have looked, but he could not hely it—to have one more aia a lovely, peloved face, though it deepened his misery,. was a temptation he could not withstand. Neither the one-nor the other of those two ladies was the bride! Both were dignified ma- trons of middle age, richly dressed, haughty of mien, resembling Bristow near enough ren- oa: probable the supposition that they were his sISters, y it Where was the fair young wife who should _ { | q

Page 13

vee. ney Yes | have been by her husband’s side? Why was Bristow himself here, when it had been pub- lished that he had sailedfor Havre? Was Beryl too ill to go?~hardly, or Bristow would not enjoying himself at the opera. - . Question after 8 td forced itself on Fen- nel. Alas, he could answer none of them. Yet his heart beat more quickly; a splendor came into his face which pretty Claire had never be- fore seen there. Could it be that something had happened to prevent the marriage? For a few moments Fennel hoped this; then despair closed round him more darkly than be- fore.—He was making a fool of himself—the bride was wearied out with her long journey and had preferred rest to an evening at the Academy! ‘ ; _‘ What a stupid, stupid escort you are, cou- sin! I might as well have gone alone, so far as having any one’ to talk to me is concerned,” pouted Claire, pulling her bouquet to pieces, as they stood a moment in the hall before going up to their rooms. “I beg ten thousand pardons, cousin Claire! | Lknow I am duller than dullnessitself; and you ' looked so pretty, too, I was proud of you! ‘It’s @ shame!” “That you were proud of me?” |, ‘That 1 didn’t make myself more amusing. Pm afraid I shall never be a lady’s-man,.” The next morning, as he was settiing down to day’s occupation in the library, a servant Came in to say that a lady at the door was ask- ing for him. What lady could be calling on fim? Again his heart began to flutter and his _ face to flush. “Did she give her name?” “No, sir.” “Well, show her in here.” he vaguely expected to see the one wo- man in the world who had an interest for him? It so, he must have been cruelly disappointed. This lady was tall—he saw, before she threw aside her thick vail, that it was not Miss Ward. She closed the door in the inauisitive foce of tha servant, cast aside the gray gauze which hid her teatures— “Helen Bristow! Have the grave?” ‘Phat wag another scene in the comedy, Mr. Gray. I am here in the flesh, but I did not come from the grave.” _, Yes, there the woman he had thought buried in Potter's field stood before him! She was much better dressed than he had ever seen her, _ and her expression was brighter; but the hol- lows in her once oval cheeks were deeper; the Shadows under her eyes were darker; she had that hectic flush, beautiful as the tint of sunse., _ and, like that, the herald of approaching night. _ “ You left us very suddenly, Mrs. Bristow.” “T did; but not of my own free will. I am Come to explain my absence.” ; ~ ¢ 1 you come back from CHAPTER XIL BEHIND A JAPANESE SCREEN, . | Inthe dusk of that day on which the Grays had departed from No. 1 , there came stealing ‘Ong Silvan Cottage Row a figure which had een seen in that locality a few times but not often, and stopping at that number timidly pulled the bell-handle. She Waited; noone came to the door. Pre- sently a neighbor put out an inquisitive head from a gi : ey lli oun Hee de window of the next house, calling - folks had 1 ; furniture soon? BW ay for good—sold out their : and broken up.” * (|, x2 You tell me where they have gone?” Vai No, ™ma’am not for certain; I think they m3 Br 3 d New York?) “Thank you,”—there was the fall of disap- ointment in the voice saying these two words; the woman turned and went away, slowly, like one who knows not whither to bend her ‘steps. _ The rain was beginning to fall, not violently, but ina thin, chilly drizzle, against which her _ thin mantle was almost no protection. Savory _ Odors of hot suppers, preparing for tired fathers , bor, mingled with » Were being lighted _ blinds were not the sleety rain. The lamps along the curbstones, Tho pc bape de over cheery win- dows, through which the poor wanderer had Slimpses of comfortable tables spread for the _ Vening . PURS & nobody lived at Eleven, now—‘“the |. _ Of families hastening home after their day’s la- | af Ses. ae , es 2 Grice tie Mee ae ak ia oh oe se te ah ge wee 5 5 faioel ae aed Sey ae Lah, i Ss en a ; Coe. “ - + " - ae, aye = a } "A oe vat ] oy THE AL gry eyes; went up the steps, paused irresolutely ; then rung the bell, A liveried eine A opened the door, letting a blinding stream of light fall over the worn, wet garments, the pinched, white face of the intruder. “T want to see Miss Ward. I will her a moment,” s My young lady is at dinner, mum; can’t be seen. cBnals rer 1 ged, I tell you,” e’s partik’larly engaged, I tell you,” re- sponded the fat and full-fed menial, Whe hada Silene contempt for all needy-looking intru- ers, ‘*T wish to see her about some sewing—some embroidery.” ‘Come some other time,”—he was actually shutting. the door in her face, when a sweet voice cried out, ‘‘ What is it, Popple?” and a sweet vision of youth and beauty appeared, be- fore whom the servant slunk back; but not far —he had strict orders about who went out or came in, or who held interviews with his young mistress, in those days. He kept his ears wide open while Miss Beryl, peeping out at tho for- lorn creature on the steps, said, kindly: ‘““Why! you are getting wet! I’m afraid you'll take cold. Do you want work? If-you do, what kind of work is it you seek?” ‘“f can do all kinds of French embroidery, Miss Ward. I beg your pardon for asking for you; but itisso hard to reach the ladies—with these servants between, who will not help us— and [am in very great need.” ** { buy everything ready-maae, Still, [might have you do something for me, Have you references?” ; Beryl was full of compassion, and had been imposed upon so often that she had learned to ask for some guarantee of character from those she sought to benefit. This applicant ap- peared so ladylike that she blushed as she asked the question. ‘Yes, plenty of references that I am sure will prove satisfactory.” She took a card and a pencil from her shabb pocket-book, and quickly wrote ‘a few wor which she then handed to the young lady. * What was sage ’s intense astonishment to read—instead of the list of names she expected —the following: “T am the disearded wife of Norman Bristow, falsely represented to have drowned herself, It is important you should know what I have to com- municate—can you arrange an interview?” Suppressing the cry which had nearly es- caped her lips, Beryl, well aware that Popple’s ears and eyes were bribed to watchfulness, said, carelessly: ‘‘ know these people, whose names you give me. Come to me at eight, in the morning, and I will try you on a Japanese screen which I be- gan myself, but have grown tired of, Opie. when this person comes to-morrow, send her up to my room,” ‘**'Yes, miss, to be master about it.” only keep Tate , 8 hel sure; but I'll have toask the | woman sat in the.shadow of the Ja AR. water, lemon, rum, etc., were broughtinfrom the dining-room and punch wasbrewed. Beryl had a few callers and was gladtosee _ them; her spirits bubbled like champagne. The _ first dim outlines of A PLOT wereformingin her — mind. She could hardly wait untilmorningto see and hear more of this strange visitor who had given her the card with thesingularmes- sage. She lay long awake after she went to bed, her brain working busily. 2 The next morning she was upbetimesandhad oufé the screen, which had been covered with ~ muslin and set away ina closet. Her maid was . directed to rip off the muslin and to find the various-colored sewing-silks employed in the — pattern; the embroideress was warmly wel- ~~ comed and set to work on the tail ofa bird-of- pacadines while the fair heiress went to her. reakfast. After that meal, an excuse was found for sending the maid out; she was dis- patched for more silk along with fifty other things to match, or sample, so as to keep her an_ hour or two; and then Beryl locked her cham- ber door, and two tongues, ready oiled, began — to run. The bird-of-paradise did not get his gorgeous feathers very rapidly, but Tan PLor- advanced with startling rapidity in Bery?s — mind—was confided to her companion—assented to if/not approved of—and began toexist in action. he em “YT must and f will have my revenge for the way in which I have been treated. IT _ must and J will punish papa for his cruelty. I must and I will teach a certain man that) girls — are not to be ordered into marriage against — their inclination, You, too, poor dear, will have your revenge! Oh, I should think you could hardly wait for it! Do you,know, I have always LIha oe what Norman Bristow was? no proof of it at first, but I shrunk from bim—I — said to myself, ‘‘ He is cruel—he is selfish—cold- hearted—a tyrant!” Andsoheis! Oh, I would just as soon crush that man’s pride asI would put my heel on a serpent’s head! I would like to make Chicago too hot for him!” © ae ‘*Can you trust yourself? Have you really the courage, Miss Ward?” Saeki el “If I found myself failing T would only have — to recall a little of what you have told me, dear madame. You are sure that papa has never — seen you?” A ‘*He never has, tomy knowledge.” —__ “At all events there is small danger of meeting him. By a little care you might b the house six months without facing him, t: your meals as you do in the servants? which is an outrage, but can’t be helped. madame, since you have told mé what yo murderer! Oh, what fun, to have you he: der papa’s own roof and neither of them of it! Oh, what confusion, what dismay, utter rout we shall carry into the ranks oj enemy !” Scare From that hour dated the beginning of Linn +4 concessions which ere made her Vow her an suitor, so surprising and delighting them, 'T evening the wedding-day was seb forthe and } the fortnight b* AS ees All through the hurry, bustle, confusion o; approaching marriage a pale, quiet, sad-ey ” screen, patiently working out the elaborat sign in brilliant stitches, hiding the flutter of heart and fingers, trembling at the thought « what she had promised to do—unflinching determination to do it. ; ah a More than once she heard the gay, smoo tones, which once had power to thrill her heart with passionate love, speaking to another in t same low, dvvoted, intense accents. On occasion the master -of the house act brought Mr. Bristow into that very. where she cowered behind the ivory-silk tain which alone hid her face from eyes th would have stared to see her there! It was for a glimpse at the wedding-dress and vail Jaid out on the bed; the bride-elect being absent an unaware of this unwarranted intrusion. The minutes the two men were in the room were | ages to Helen Bristow, and when they had she slipped off into a dead faint, remainin } time unconscious, but finally recovering with- out any one’s knowledge or assistance, _ During those two weeks a new black was being made for Helen. There also.

Page 14

week: oat. bie) Ac bol) ee ne Sg SN PhS wae ory is SUE fo oi int elle Waa a Pee ST Sea tied Jk Se 8 a tee Ap a yk I On Ul ig io Bas ie ii eit Seg: ee ae Pa, 2 Seren ei erie Aap 2 Ress ee Verena pata ea ice hs es oo porerat sy 4 “ih Py Se ae : : i mei ‘ NT: m~ “TIT ATMA: eee aot } 4A 2 SP IRSUED- TO “THE ALTAR. Cig 2 aa ee rer a os ee wR RT eS 2 alee” ows Mt ae eee eee ae eee goa ee aes eee ae ae let; but, before it was complete, she retired to jana obtained a divorce from her—a divorce | but supposing some neighbor had céme to make - ‘ the eae bedroom Miss Ward. had parol for | which, indeed, le a friendly c on Mrs. Gray, I went to the her use, dressed herself hastily but carefully, | _ stole down-stairs when none were in the hall- ~ ways to observe her, and left the house. _ And now we are back to that critical moment when Beryl, on her smiling and satisfied parent’s Be 7 arm, is being conducted to the altar—through — the ‘brilliant ‘lighted church, all aglow and Se ed with flowers and crowded with her _ dear five hundred friends—to the sound of the prove more congenial. She has no more claims on me than any woman outin yonder streets. She poisoned my youth, drove me West for health and peace of mind, and now, when I am about to experience my first real happiness in life, she comes here—here, in this church—to endeavor, in her futile rage, to stab me to the heart. Friends, you know me—what I am— pe _---wereever paler; even her lips were blanched; but, ‘* with steady eyes serenely, She, with level-fronting eyelids,” :- records. Herestands Anthony Ward: he knows 2 all, and he is satisfied. He has given me his si Ba walked on and took her place beside the man | beautiful and innocent daughter, knowing eae RBar eet at | Powel ee gens ran _.__ The organ still & ayed on very soft and low, toke & page hig Ere a Ot aiered MABE __-while the clear, firmly-modulated tones of the Pe. OF PPD taee. y, , Mr. Montgomery,” he then added, with a slight smile, turning to the rector, ‘‘to go on with your part of the ceremony.” : “Certainly, certainly, Mr. Montgomery, go on, go on!” seconded the father, attempting to ull his daughter back to her station by the ridegroom’s side; but Beryl’s silver voice now rung through the breathless silence—the organ- ist had at last discovered that something was amiss and had brought his music to a close. “* No, papa, not now or ever. I will not marry Mr. Bristow.” In vain he scowled and made signals to her yrector made their way to every part of the _ thronged edifice, beginning the solemn mar- -Fiage-ceremony. ‘‘Jf any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined to- gether, let him now speak, or else hereafter for- - ever hold his peace.” It was the usual form ‘and __ was spoken with no expectation of calling forth _-s & Tesponse, ) No sooner, however, were the words out ot: he mouth of the good rector than a woman in aseat nearest to the parties arose and stepped into the aisle, and said, in a clear voice: ee: can show just cause, I forbid this mar- Ao: es fe L ete riage. HK and gh at her arm. Pee 20k aent thrill of astonidhment ran through | ,, Helen Bristow looked bravely around upon that fashionable crowd. There was not a mur- | the sea of cee i faces, scarcely one of which pat? gave her a kindly glance. \ “mur, but every head advanced and every breath caine more quickly, while still the organist, un- _ aware of the interruption, played gently, ex- ‘e bleeclagd on. The rector looked sharply over ab the speaker, and saw a tall, handsome wo- ‘*He has lied to you all,” she said. ‘ Heis very plausible. I never was untrue to my mar- riage vows: although he sought to betray me into imprudence I never gave him reason to leave me. He had to get up false evidence—he perjured himself—he gave me no opportunity to defend my good name. It is true that he ob- tained a divorce—by perjury. I have fought and shall fight, to have it set aside, so beware Miss Ward, of possibilities! Not that I would ever live again with him whom I once worship- ed—believed in—but who has treated me with cruelty, even to leaving me to starve while he rolled in luxury—not that I would live with him, but that any woman will do her best to protect her good name.” ‘Tt is money she is after; she is levying black- mail,” retorted Bristow. ‘‘Come! is this a lace for allowing such a creature to rant? some, Beryl, let us have this over.” He seized her hand; he motioned to the rector to proceed, who Dogan again, irresolutely: “ and drawn her a little away; he was grindin _ his teeth with oi genes Bey cesta He di _ not suspect, as ye at Be anything to do with bringing about this Sisgracefal scene. “What explanation have you to make, Mr. Bristow?” the rector asked, this time aloud, for 16 document seemed genuine. “ This,”—answered ¥ iy 4 as we arranged, or that man will do something dreadful, in his anger. And now, Beryl Ward, summon up all your fortitude to enjoy the fruits of your victory!” - pleasure of peaing age bees the eg Mid, Melca ere t CHAPTER XIII. THE WRONGED WIFE’S REVELATION, HELEN Bristow had a hundred things to tell Fennel Gray. Their interview was necessarily a long one, and very provoking to Claire’s curi- osity, who knew that her cousin had a lady call- er, who was staying. unconscionably long. d barg “On that évening of the concert,” the wronged Pa nil refused wife explained, “‘ you had been gone but a little + it ih as while when some one knocked at the outer door. su to und | Believing that my enemy was unaware of my | presence in Vicage, I never thought of him: a! ag. Pare. Mere et if vee oA aS * * Syke Me anne e en See) pe Ss the present! Helen must fly, this very night, | ? es pel him; but he quickly pushed in, and him- self shut and fastened the door. ‘There’s no need of your making a fuss,’ he said; ‘T saw ul-thrilling Wedding March. No rosy blush | what I do from day today—howlI live! Do you ie rive the cheeks of the girl under tha fee of | know this serpent who lifts up its head to strike _ all those admiring or envious eyes; no lilies | its venomous fangs intome? Well, I tell you nothing but what can be proved from ‘the | ct mp eae = ae ua wags Te ee Rees my prisoner, until after | am married to my the others go out. So, madame, you are in your old business of making me trouble, are you? Heseized my arm and drew me into the parlor, where he could look at me by the light of the lamp. His own face was. diabolical. ‘What are you doing in Chicago, where I have forbidden you to set foot? he asked me. ‘I came here to prevent your deceiving an inno- cent young lady,’ I answered him. ‘ You may be seemingly at liberty to marry again, since by fraud and perjury you got a divorce from me, but in my eyes, and God’s, you are not at liber- ty, and I shall do what I can to break up your per: ‘You are endangering your very life,’ e said, meaningly. ‘I would give that, and more, to save another of my sex from my fate.’ ‘I have a mind to shoot you where you stand,’ he retorted, with an oath, playing with the han- dle of a revolver in his breast. ‘Who would ever know that Ididit? Noone. Norman Bris- tow stands too high to be suspected.’ ‘The birds of the air sometimes carry such secrets,’ I answered him, quite calmly. ‘Ido not think you could injure your own cause or better mine more effectually, than by doing that very thing. Remember, I have not sought you, but you me, and that will look like premeditation, when I am killed.’ ‘You are quick-witted,’ he said, with a savage grin—for the Norman Bristow the world knows, suave, elegant and gay; is very different from the Norman Bristow 1 know. I kept a chair between him and myself, and tried to beon my guard, yet, like a tiger spring- ing he was upon me, and had a handkerchief bound over my mouth so that I could not utter a sound; then my hands were fastened together with the silk muffler from about his neck. I was forced into a chair, and tied there, “He now sat down opposite to me and thought for a few moments, evidently plannin what should be done with me. Soon, he looke around the little house until he found my bon- net and shawl, which he put on me, drew me up from the chair, took my arm with a gripe of iron and forced me to accompany him. I could no more resist than I could resist a whirlwind or ap engine. He led me along the most unfre- uented streets; we met few persons, and to these 1 could not appeal, a my mouth was bound, My vail was over my face, and so no one could tell, at a casual glance, that I was a victim to violence; we seemed hurrying along — peaceably enough. . “After a long, long walk, when I was ready to sink with fatigue, we came into a handsome street and stopped before nearly the first house after we turned into it, I was helped up the steps by a strong arm under my elbow; Mr. — Bristow took from a pocket a latch-key, opened the door very softly, and dragged me into a hall dimly lighted by a turned-down gas-jet; seized me in his arms and carried me up a flight of stairs, and on into a large bedchamber, where he set me down, locked the door, and turned up the light. ‘This is my house, madame,’ said he, in a whisper, ‘ where [ do as I like. There is a dressing-closet off this room which has no com- munication with the outside, or with any other room but this. In that closet you will remain, beautiful darling, Beryl] Ward. I shall dismiss all my servants to-morrow, except my old housekeeper who is stone-deaf, on the pretense of shutting up my house. You can vent your ~ spite on the furniture or by starving yourself to eath, Please your own taste about such mat- ters. Youhave put your hand in the tiger’s jaw and you must expect to be nipped.’ ‘“* He dragged a lounge from his own apart- ment into the closet, threw on it a pillow and blanket, lighted the gas, forced me in, and turned the key on me. T was his prisoner, in sober truth. ; “The room was, as he said, only a large — closet. It had one window, high up, which looked against a blank wali. On the other side of the room was, doubtless, another closet, for I never, during the time I spent there, heard footsteps or sounds of any kind in the ad: joining apartments; the only door, as he had told me, opened into Mr. Bristow’s sleeping-room. As he unbound my mouth and hands I made a des- ehigs effort to escape, but he easily thrust m ack and, laughing in my face, locked mein. I scorned to male an outery which I knew would | be entirely useless. _ There was nothing to do * tn tore * ee LR fet we w

Page 15

but to fling myself down on the couch and brood over the SS of escape. “The following morning he brought me my breakfast and a small table on which to place the salver. I dare say it was his own breakfast brought up by one of his servants, and that he afterward obtained a meal at some restaurant. He allowed my room to be ventilated through his own, whose windows were open, removed the dishes, and brought me two or three novels. I might have made a rush to his windows and screamed for help; but I knew I should fail if I made the attempt and that then he would be merciless and cut off the privileges he was ac- cording me, “Well, I suppose he dismissed his household as he had said—he often did, as he informed me, Close it and go to the Palmer House for months at a time—for I heard no movements through- out the house; and after that first breakfast, my food was all such as might have been ob- tained at a bakery, with canned meats, and oc- casionally eggs and coffee which he had himself prepared over a spirit-lamp. ““He came twice a day and brought my meals; the remainder of the time I passed in hideous solitude, without even the light of day, for the little window, high up in the wall, did not admit so much light but that I had to keep the gas burning. If he had not been human enough to bring me books I believe I should have gone mad. TI used to think—‘ What if the house should take fire and I be roasted alive?’ ‘What if he should poison my food? ‘ What if some accident should be to him and I were left there to starve by inches? I was so afraid of this last contingency—for I grew frightful] nervous in that close air and solitude—that put away a little of my food every day that I might have a store on hand in case of necessity. ‘You will begin to beg for my marriage with Miss Ward as earnestly as you once tried to revent it,’ he said to me once, noticing with een, wicked eyes, my look of suffering. I made no reply. He was careful never to bring me a newspaper, though I had asked for one, I had no idea of the fraud which had been prac- ticed to persuade Miss Ward that I was dead, until she told me of it, later. “Thad begun to dwell on the chances of es- cape, by making a rope of my blanket and venturing the window, when, as if he read my very thoughts, he took the blanket away, sub- stituting a down Be which could not be torn into strips and had no strength. ‘‘ Fortunately I still had in my pocket a little article called a ‘housewife,” in which were needles, thimbles, thread and a small pair of scissors, I had found out, by experiment, that by placing the table on the lounge and climbing onto the table 1 could reach the window, open it and look out below. The next house was only about three feet from it and had no windows on that side—between the two buildings was an iron fence, spiked, on which it would be certain death to fall. ere was a carpet on the floor —Norman Bristow did not think of that. 1 thought I should never make any headway with ose tiny scissors of mine; but I loosened one | il of the carpet, and in four days I had : titinto as many strips, leaving it always in dolore, a order on the floor; and he did not per t that it had been meddled with. In short, aa rome twilight I made the perilous descent, Ind, mantically as you read of in the old days of ! masa knights. I had resolved upon what the h we drt and I made my way straight to a e ae bak Anthony Ward. Miss Beryl should telling i re th if I was killed the next hour for Helen then went on with a minute account of Anthony Ward’s own house—had once had only a silken screen between her and discover tng confin and peamlngy DADA nis. igh- handed autor, ent on her high ‘I am telling my story better now,” said Helen, with a smile, as Fennel’s eyes began to glow and his cheeks to redden, “You are deep- y interested, are you not?” “Tam, indeed. My whole heart and happi- ness hang on your story. Is it possible that Miss Ward, so young, so timid, the courage to carry out such a purpose?” “She has plenty of spirit, that girl has, Mr. Gray! Aside from the embarrassment under the eyés of the crowd in church I believe Beryl sexed it better than anything she ever did. She felt that the posh was so richly de- Towed! She had advised me, beforehand, to eave town immediately after the affair was \ Over and had given me the money to do so. Ags _ We did not believe that Mr. Bristow would care to come on to New York in that special car without his bride, we had arranged that I should take that train and so get out of the city that night. As soon as I left the church I too a carriage for the depét, and had been seated in a car some time when I was surprised and alarmed by seeing Mr. Bristow get out of a carriage and come on board the train. That very moment, before I could decide to leave the train, it was in motion; so, by a singular fa- tality, I came all the way to New York on the same express with him. He knew it, too; for he came through the cars the following day and saw me. I never saw a look of deadlier hatred on a human countenance than came into his when he discovered me. I feel a presentiment that he will yet kill me. I have angered him past forgiveness now. Once I do not think he would have been guilty of any dark crime; but hate and revenge are passions which grow with indulgence. I confess, Iam afraid of him.” “Now, Mr. Gray,” continued the sad-eyed and ‘sad-hearted wronged wife, ‘‘I not only eame here to thank you and your mother for t kindness, and to give you Beryl’s dearest ove, which she sent you by me, but to ask you if your uncle would not be just the person to attend to my case and get the divorce annulled? He is an honorable man, you can interest him in me, ahd he will not be compelled to work without suitable reward, for dear Beryl has promised to furnish the means to carry on the suit. Fennel was quite sure that his uncle would be willing to take charge of her law affairs; he called his mother down to see Helen, and much more conversation was ‘had about Miss Ward, and all the topics of common interest. Mrs. Gray’s face brightened, too, when she heard that Beryl was not married. Her secret thought was, ‘‘ We may obtain our English es- tate before long, and. then, who knows?’ Doubtless even sweeter hopes were springing up in her son’s breast. Before Helen went away she wrote her ad- on a card for Fennel. He was to call and let her know when his uncle would appoint a meeting to look into her business. “Do be careful of yourself, dear Mrs. Bris- tow,” urged the young man, as he was finally showing her out at the door, ‘‘as long as that manisintown. I shall call on you within two days—probably to-morrow, at four in the af- ternoon.” *T shall not go out at night, and very little at all,” she answered him, with a sad smile in her beautiful dark eyes; and with those words, and that mournful smile, she went away. The address she had given him was a respecta- ble, but not fashionable boarding-house on the Hast side. At the time appointed, four the next day, Fennel ran lightly up its steps, rung the bell, and inquired for ‘‘ Mrs. Bristow.” ‘*Mrs. Bristow?” stammered the girl. ‘‘ Why, sir, don’t you know—” “Know what?’ impatiently, and in some alarm; had Helen again disa; peared? “Why, sir, that she’s dead? “ Dead?” ‘Yes, sir. She died some time in the night, very suddint.” The visitor leaned against the door, very white and shaken. The girl looked at him with that mingling of curiosity and excitement natural to the occa- sion. ‘* What did she die of?” he asked, presently. “ That’s what nobody knows, sir. The cur- ner’s set on the body, sir, an’ I b’lieve they think it’s heart disease.” ** Did she have any visitors last evening?” “Not asoul. She seemed to be a nice, quiet lady, six.” ‘* Indeed she was—a perfect lady! I must go home and get my mother, We shall be here in an hour to see your mistress. We are friends of Mrs. Bristow.” ‘* Yes, sir. Missus’ull be glad enough if some of the friends will ’tend to the funeral, I know, sir. Fennel went immediately for his mother. Both were shocked and troubled to the last de- . Helen had never complained of heart Sinaia: They had dark suspicions; yet, what could they suspect, when no one had been near Mrs. Bristow—when she had died alone, in bed, at night, in her own locked room? For so, it seemed, she must have died. The woman who kept the house gave them ali the particulars in her ion. The new lodger had made no answer when they knocked at her door with her breakfast which she had asked, the previous night, might be sent up to her. They had become uneasy and broken the lock, and there they found her sf 7 oF al PURSUED TO THE ALTAR. ‘ aise in bed, quite cold, lying on her pillow as peace- © fully agit she had died, without stirring, in sleep. They had sent for a doctor, and then for acoroner. The landlady had taken possession of the lady’s purse, which contained money enough to meet the expenses of the burial. She had not much baggage, the dead lady had not, ° only a waterproof cloak and a few toilet arti- cles in a bag. ; 3 Fennel asked to see the room in which she died. It was shown to him, everything being just as it was, except that the bed had been made up, and the body lay on a board on some chairs, with a sheet thrown over it. : Fennel’s eyes ran around the apartment with keen, suspicious glances. The house stood ona corner; this was a back room, with two win- dows opening upon the side street. He stepped to one of them and looked out. The side of the house was covered with a stout Wistaria vine, some of whose woody branches were three or four inches through; one of these large branch- es came up directly under the window, and clambered to either side. ‘‘Were either of these windows open when you entered the room this morning, madam?” ‘The one at which you were standing aa but the outside shutters were closed. ‘Why you don’t think a burglar could climb up there, do you? Besides, there are no marks of vVio- lence, as you can see for yourself, if you will ; take a look at the poor dear lady.” It would be madness for young Gray to utter asuspicion unless he had some corroborative evidence, and he held his peace; but he did not relinquish his ideas. : He wrote a letter to Helen’s sister—-whose ad- dress in that college town he chanced to know— and she came and took home with her all that was left of beautiful Helen, to commit it to the kindly care of the spring violets and roses in the country church-yard. If her death came | about in any wrong way, only one living being “ pecs it, and that one would not be likely to of it, On the day she was laid at rest in her native © | Fennel Gray read, among the “per- ‘ valle 3 s” of a daily paper: ‘“Mr Norman Bristow, the wealthy and influential banker of SERED: who was prevented from a getting off on the Russia as he expected, sailed t ° the Ville de Paris for Havre, to spend a couple of . months in Paris.”’ CHAPTER XIV.. ; ORANGE BLOSSOMS. my Srx months passed away and the belle of Chi- cago was more than ever the reigning beauty. Thatscene in the church had been a nine days’ wonder, from all unpleasant personal conse- quences of which Mr. Bristow escaped by his trip to Europe, which he had concluded to take without a wife, seeing that he had failed to secure the one he wanted. Beryl had never been blamed by any one for her part on that oc- casion—not a soul except the woman now dead was aware that she had herself arranged the little drama—not even her father, who ma: have s cted but could not be sure of it. Very much out of temper, indeed, Mr. Anthony Ward was, for a long time—would not speak to his daughter for weeks. On the stree fended Bristow—told how he, Ward, knew all | about the adventuress who appeared so oppor- tunely, and only regretted his daughter’s course in giving up the marriage... ‘ ‘ “Tt will ha a match yet—when she gets over the surprise a little; the woman is dead, any- how—died of heart disease in New York—so that even that objection no longer exists. is, Beryl’s a bit of a flirt; rather young to settle | down; knows her power over my friend Bristow, and likes to try him. Mark my words, she'll be | fond enough of him some day!’ In this strain the father friends, making far less of the affair than he really felt, iets regarded Berylas a pag to have received such a terrible shock and dis- appointment; almost everybody condemned the | oor dead wife; in less than a month Norman ristow was more popular than ever. However, he remained abroad three months; and when he returned the girl in all the State . of Iilinois who was the sweetest to him was _ Beryl Ward. And now three more months have passed and - Beryl is again in herroom dressing for the wed- | ding. The same dress and vail lie on the silken counterpane; the same diamond coronet flashes and sparkles on its velvet cushion on the dress-_ pri Sango She really means to get ; this time, and she seems very gay and happy. There has been more time to sere a@ gre affair than before. Six pretty, delicate giris , a i , am ates : se Je uni’ hede- a i , ad talked with his ae — | :

Page 16

Pi 4 i= est 7 i} P| aN 4 ar paral be ; a i De’, 7 oes Gegtond with bikm, ‘vens were as rosy as at a June sunsetting. A | crimson binsh pen 16 are to act as pridemaids; the whole second floor \ is aflutter with gauze and tulle; all the gaslights by all the pier-glasses are blazing their brightest for the benefit of the sylphs who are arranging sashes and bouquets, crimps and ringlets; there is aconstant twinkling of white satin slippers and leads to and fro of fluffy white trains, -and Babel of musical young voices. Thalia Conyngham is first bridemaid and is dressing in the same room with the bride. In her breast is a small world of bitter envy and he a pe had done her very best to “catch the heart of Norman Bristow on the re- bound and had been compelled to bear his re- urn to the old allegiance—yet she makes no sign ' of discontent, chattering on like a magpie, as their toilets proceed. _, “Who do you think I saw to-day, Beryl? I d an unexpected call.” _ “Tshould not know where on the list of your acquaintances to begin,” laughed the bride, * turning to look at the ‘‘set” of her train. - “Not lower thana G, my dear. It was Fen- nel Gray. He said that he had only been in town since morning. When I told him of the . grand event to come off this evening, I actually ria fd the fellow would faint dead away, like a girl. He turned white as a ghost, and could not speak for several minutes. I was surprised. I thought he was engaged to that pretty cousin ’ Claire of his: that he had quite gotten over his first love.” . The bride felt her own color changing, and turned still further away to study the set of ‘that shimmering mass of satin and point-lace. {‘ He and his cousin are the most devoted of jovers,” she answered, gayly. ‘‘ You have too - touch imagination, Thalia! I dare say he showed no emotion whatever at news that does not concern him in the least.” “Oh, but he did! I couldn’t be deceived; I rung for a aoe of wine. He had just told me _he expected to remain in Chicego some time; after that he spoke as if he might leave to-mor- row. “Thalia, have you noticed that the fire-bells have been ringing over an hour? There must be an extensive fire somewhere. I wish they would stop! I don’t care to go to church to the music of such wedding-bells as those. What time is it, Julia?’ to the maid who was assisting them to dress. “Quite time we was all ready, miss. There’s nothing, now, but the vail, and the diamonds ‘and your gloves, Tl just take a look at the other young ladies to see if they’re all right.” **Do so—and find out if papa has come in,” Julia returned in about five minutes to say that the bridemaids “‘ looked beautiful and were getting on their gloves—but Mr, Ward ain’t come back, miss, which is strange, for it’s a epics to eight o’clock and the carriages are at ‘the door.” “Has Mr. Bristow come?” .**No, miss, he hasn’t arriv’, neither, And oh, the sky is awful red. There’s a big fire, an’ John, he thinks it’s down among the ware- houses and that’s the reason master hasn’t got back yet. Let me pin on your vail; and Miss ‘Conyngham she can help me fix the diamonds— ‘which you mustn’t forget your earrings, by all -means—an’ then we'll “be ready when they do come. There! don’tshe look just too splendid , for a mortal being, Miss Conyngham? And you look beautiful, too, miss!—such a sweet a a to the bride, with your black eyes air. **T think we do, both of us, look rather stun- ning,” said Thalia, with a laugh, giving herself an admiring glance as she swe { past the mir- ror; ‘‘and now, Beryl dear, I’ll. just run for a ‘peep at the rest of the girls.” “Open the shutters of one of the windows, Julia; I want to see if I can tell if the fire is in ‘papa’s direction; then you may go down, so as , to know the moment he enters and come tell So the bride was left alone a few moments in _herroom. It was high time they were on their 'way to church, where the people must have be- gun to look for them; but she was not thinking of the waiting people. In the first place, when she saw how thes -was lighted up, she wondered if her father’s” : t warehouses were burning; then’ her oughts flew quickly to Fennel Gray and re- he forgot the fire, forgot property, forgot to her father, the danger to his ried. The hea- wonder why the bridegroom on the white-robed, slim, race in the window; it dyed the il dress, the bridal vail, it dyed the fair, ara wc pee if with the hue of shame. The bells kept up their rapid clangor, but she PU RSUED TO THE ALT was lostinadream. Allher and feeling were concentrated in wonder as to what brought Fennel to Chicago and why he betrayed emotion on hearing of her approach- | made up his mind. This It could not be that he cared il for ing marriage. except that perhaps he felt a sense of when he heard her name. Had he care her as she once thought he did, he would have | answered the two letters she wrote him last May. How ungentlemanly, how cruel, he had been, never to answer either of them. Oh, she had borne bitter slight at hishands! How many thousand times, that summer, the blood had flowed to her forehead to think of how she had made love to him, and he had always neglected her overtures, until finally, he had treated them with the scorn of utter silence! He had hung back and refused to marry her when she had begged him to do it as the surest means of preventing another from gaining her hand; he had madeno effort to detain her when her father claimed her—why! that night of the birthday. party when he had danced with her, she had asked for the dance! When blind to the real meaning of this, and still belioving that it was because he was poor and she wasrich, that he did not appeal to her—after that storm in the church had. blown over—she wrote tohim. Her letter not being answered she said to herself that it had miscarried, and wrote again. Again no re- sponse! That ended it. Only a short time’ after her failure to break his silence, she heard —in some chance fashion, through friends who were acquaintances of the New York Grays— that Fennel was engaged to his cousin Claire, an exceedingly bright and pretty girl, and that the affair was approved of by her family. Try to imagine the blow this was to Beryl’s ride! He had not cared to write to her—per- aps he .had even shown her letters to this tri- umphant cousin, and she had laughed at them! Beryl had always been courted—a petted dar- ling. A smile, a rose, a waltz from her, were riceless favors to many young gentlemen. ennel Gray, alone, had slighted her prefer- ence. Oh, how she had humiliated herself! H 8 pride, as well as her love, suffered a mortal wound. Her self-reproach amounted almost to. insanity. It seemed as if she must die. Wound- ed peg tien her on to recover her lost posi- tion in Fennel’s' eyes by showing him she was not so much hurt ashe might flatter himself. She could have lovers, plenty and to spare! She could have back the man she rejected in Fen- nel’s favor! It was very easy to tell that she could have Norman Bristow, since, no sooner did he return from, Europe than he began to re- new his suit, saying to her, at once, thatnow she was dead who had oncestood between them, he took it for granted that they were lovers once more. It chanced that he came to her in the hour when her humiliation was deepest; half-mad, ready to do anything reckless to prove to Fennel that she was not broken-heart- ed at his loss, she permitted the man she detest- ed toresume his position as her fiancé. Girls have done just such foolish things be- fore, and will do them again—ruin their own happiness out of spite to some one else! nd, having once set her feet inthe wrong bath Beryl would not turn back. She deadened conscience, she silenced fear, She would bea merely fashionable woman. She would lead a Yife of extravagant display. Her father and husband should furnish the money—she would spendit. All that dress and jewels could do to enhance her loveliness should be done, Her | father expected to be elected Senator at the November elections: he would take a house in Washington; and she and Mr. Bristow would spend the winter there. She would try for the queenship of beauty and fashion with the high- est ladies of the Kepublican court. He—the poor clerk who had failed to appreciate her condescension—should hear of her as the loveli- est and haughtiest, the most luxurious, the most extravagant, the most heartless, most sought-after lady in that brilliant circle. Asif that would ease the aching of heart, the sick- ness of soul, quench. the mad thirst for love’s sweet draught, still the wild hunger for love’s | sweet food! Beryl knew it would not.’ She knew she was binding herself to life-long wretch- edness. She refused to think—to feel. She treated Norman Bristow with a gay indiffer- ence, but no longer with aversion, Sha was talkative, witty, eager to be amused; she want- eda magnificent wedding; she liked costly pre- sents; mi spoke fondly of the dissipations of the coming season. ', Her father was so delighted; he gave her everything she hinted she would like. As for her lover, he understood, well enough, that she did not care for him. Neither did he care for Por ee iar mower an ar ere eee ea ee no longer comprehended what it meant. her, except to covet her beauty. He had not e y wers-of pees | forgotten that scene in the church. He fully in- tended to be revenged. It was his boast that he was never thwarted in any purpose to which he young girl had very nearly gotten the better of him—not quite—his wee was coming and he was willing to bide his ime, Beryl would have opened those blue eyes of hers in dread and wonder if she could have read his disposition toward her! ¥ Well, the wedding-day had come the second ime. The bride stood at the window, lost in that dream of the past. It was bad for her peace of mind to learn of Fennel Gray’s visit to Chicago —of his agitation at hearing the news. She might have dreamed on longer, forget- ting that she was dressed for her bridal, had not Thalia and the other bridemaids trooped in. There was awe and fear on their faces. “Tt is half-past eight, and they have not yet come. There seems to be a tremendous fire somewhere!” said Thalia. ‘IT don’t think a fire ought to keep a bride- groom from going to church at the time ap- pointed,” pouted one of the group. They pressed about the window—that pretty group, with their fleecy-white draperies, their wreaths of pink roses, their bouquets of the same, their half-vexed, half-anxious faces, over which the ever-brightening glare of the distant conflagration cast that blood-red dye. “Tt always makes me nervous,” shuddered another. “TI feel anxious about papa,” murmured Beryl. ‘Tt must be something very important to keep him away,” ‘‘ And the people in the church sitting there, waiting!” ““Oh, dear! isn’t it unfortunate?” ‘‘T wish there was some one here to tell us what to do!” ‘ ome one was there. At that instant, Mr. Ward came hurriedly into the room, fol- lowed by the bridegroom. The faces of both were pale; Anthony Ward looked tired out; his coat was torn, his linen wet and soiled; he spoke rapidly: “‘['m very sorry, Beryl dear; but it could not be helped! My three warehouses are in ruins, and I had to stay by for a time. The fire is spreading—it looks as if it might take a quarter of the city—it is frightful—frightful! But we will not be so ungallant as to keep the ladies waiting any longer; we'll be off at once. 1 shall not stop to make a toilet; the minister is ina pretty frame of mind by this time, I dare say! So the words are said, it won’t matter so much how. Heigho, I’ve had a time of it! Come, all of you! e@ carriages are at the oor. Three of the ushers have been waiting down in the parlors over an hour—the other three are at the church.” “Yes, come, my love,” said Norman Bristow. stepping to the side of his bride and looking ab her with glowing eyes, ‘‘I must not miss you this time! I should have been here on time, but my hotel was threatened, and I had to take my property away; then I was told your father was down at his warehouses and 1 went after him. The hotel is in flames this minute. I begin to feel as if the fire was getting the better of the city. I never saw anything like it. How- ever, you and I willsoon be far away from it. It is nine o’clock already; the express starts at midnight. One hour behind time at our wed- ding, my sweet! I trust it is not a bad omen!” ‘You'll have to let Norman take you down, little girl; lm too dusty and smoky and grimy to come within touching distance of that white rig. Come, girls! no ceremony now! Run down-stairs, my pretty dears, and scramble into the carriages,” Vhen Patrick opened the outer door to the atient ushers, and the bride with her six at- endants fluttered out like a crowd of white butterflies, there was no crowd on the sidewalk to see them off. The people who had gather- ed there when the carriages came round had grown weary waiting and had gone off to a still more exciting sight. There were a great many little screams, starts and signs of ner- vousness when the young ladies got in the open air, A dull pall of smoke shut out the stars; they could see tongues of flame shooting up in the distance; there was a lurid light over every- thing, and a hot breath came in gusts down from above. “Half of the business Bats of the city will be certain to go,” remarked the nsillionaire, as he sprung into a carriage with two of the ushers. “When this wedding is over I must go down and take another look.” ; Bane

Page 17

The streets through which the carriages roll- ed on the way to church were as light as day; the sky, to the east, was black as ink, except when great waves of color washed over it at in- tervals. There were more fluttering tokens of girlish apprehension when the fair bevy alighted at the church doors, Every one looked up at the heavens and around them at the weird sens i familiar things in that ruddy light. There was no crowd on the pavement there, either, to idmire the fine toilets, ‘Oh, you’re here, be you?” said the sexton, as they entered the vestibule. ‘‘Mr. Mont- somery got tired an’ thought you wasn’t com- ing. 1 wastorun into the rectory an’ let him know, if youdid. Just wait here one minute, if you please.” he rectory adjoined the church; very soon the sexton was back, bidding them enter, as the rector had already gone in by the private en- trance at the rear, Tho ushers, who had been waiting in the sacred edifice, and who had seat- ed the spectators, came out with rather doleful countenances, ‘*More than two-thirds of your. friends have gone away,” said they. “‘Never mind,” answered Anthony Ward, cheerily—considering that half a million of his property layin ashes, protected by an insurance of not more than fifty per cent. ‘The main thing is to get this little affair off our hands. Better late than never.’ Here we are, in good order, and now—to business. Beryl, my dear.” She took hisarm, No reference was made by any one to a former occasion very similar to this, though, doubtless, it was in the minds of oneandall. The next moment the fair train was sweeping up the aisle to the rhythm of the slow-beating music. r CHAPTER XV. A NIGHT’S SUSPENSE. BrsmpeEs those immediately interested in the ceremony, there were not half a dozen of the pig a sex left in the building; aJl had gone to fight the great fire, to see to their property, or to look at the destruction of other people’s. "The body of the auditorium was about half-filled ' with brilliantly-attired ladies. With a dull pain in her heart, Beryl paced to the altar’s front; she knew that she was about to seal her life’s wretchedness, but had no thought of retreat. She had not been herself since the hour she welcomed Norman Bristow home from Europe. The pure, gentle, affec- tionate girl had tried hard to make herself a cold, selfish woman of fashion. She knew that she could only endure existence by not thinking or feeling; she had been like a person under the influence of some baleful but exhilarating drug. She must not look back—she must not look for- tone but do what sho had made up her mind 0. As she took up her station before the altar she raised her heavy lids and swept a half-glance about her at her surroundings. As she did so she met a pair of eyes fixed upon.her with such an eXpression of utter hopelecsness, of bitter despair, that she could no more prevent the ng it gave her than she could prevent a knife t om piercing her heart if driven by the power- ul a another, a A love Whee ay reproach, anguish, unutterable Presi Gray had come early and taken one of i om ti ee nearest to the chancel. He must ear with his own ears, sce with his own eyes, the completion of his disappointment. , Or, did she mistake his Took, and had he come there to witness her weakness—to note if she faltered—to show her hig disregard? | Beryl drew up her slender figure to its full hight; her eyes flashed fire: she made the re- 4 §Ponses in a clear, cold voice that could be heard through the house. The pain at her heart did not vibrate in those Pei: tones, This time, no shocking interruption occurred to mar the beauty of the solemn ceremony. The woman who had once intruded herself there, lay in her unmarked graye with the leaves of autumn dropping over it, She had no longer the power or the will to object—she must, etecpar hold her peace forever, The man of God was very courteous to the man of power ; the bridemaids were beantiful and . faultless, the ushers graceful and gentlemanly ; he fee was enormous; the flowers were lovely. the organist had reason to be happy—and iuthony Ward—though terribly anxious abont es red-tongued monster who was devouring his peloved city—was briumphant for his daugh- , the Beryl was, at last, . Norman Bristow: eu Service was ended, the congratulations be- RURS With stately grace the bridal procession pass- ed out, this time with the lovely wife clinging to her husband’s arm. To any who might have observed him, criti- cally, instead of the bride, his face wore a sin- gular expression as he looked down at the beau- tiful face of his new-won treasure. There was a smile on it—not of fondness, not of pride, not of tender affection—but of sneering, cynical dislike and contempt. What did it mean? Was his revenge for her former treatment of him still to come? The old sexton stood on the steps outside as they came into the vestibule. His wrinkled face was ghastly in the strong red glare. He waved his arms when he saw them, shouted ‘‘ haste, haste!” and ran past them to warn the unsus- ecting ladies still seated in the pews. ‘Anthony Ward ran out on the pavement and guickly back again. ‘¢ Tt is time to be out of this,” he gasped; ‘‘ the spire is in flames—the fire is sweeping down the street, the firemen are crowding this way—for God’s sake, don’t lose a minute!’ Out they all ran, pell-mell. Thalia was screaming and the remainder of the bridemaids following suit. Beryl remained calm; but the. contrast, when she got out of doors. of that hot, stifling, blinding atmosphere to the flewer-fra- ant, cool, silent air of the church, was intense. he roar of the flames, the rattling of the en- gines, the hoarse bellowing ofthe firemen, the shrieks of little children snatched out of their soft sleep, made a Hi ane of deafening noises. ‘The spirited horses attached to the car- riages of the bridal party were plunging and snorting; some of them had run away or been taken away by their drivers. ‘**{ did not think the fire could touch this part of the city; the wind must have changed,” said Bristow, as he lifted his' bride into his barouche. “Hurry, Miss Conyngham! Hurry, young la- dies !|—Patrick cannot hold.theso animals a mo- ment longer. Good-by; for a little while, my darling,” he added, when he had crowded the carriages, with frightened girls. ‘‘I will come, when [ see all the others safely off.” Anthony Ward was on the box with the coachman, who had trouble to control the restive horses, **Let ’em go, Patrick. There! we are off, thank goodness! Why! the fire must have taken a leap over a good half-mile of space to light down here so suddenly! Yes, to my house, eare safe, at least—it is traveling away from our street, I should say, by the direction of the wind. Don’t look so pale, girls! We'll eat our wedding-supper in peace. By Jove!—begging your ee I’m nearly famished. Nota mouthful since luncheon, and working like a beaver at those warehouses! A glass of cham- pagne anda bit of chicken salad, with an oyster or two, will have more of a relish than the ever had before. Ha, ha, ha! I flatter myself it isn’t every man who could boast of an appe- tite after seeing two or three hundred thousand doliars 4 up in smoke! But I mustn’t cry at the wedding! I guess I can stand it. There are some men who will lose all they’ve got in the world to-night. Bristow’s a lucky dog!— not much property in shape to be burnt up. His money is most of it in New York banks,” Here one of the bridemaids gave a scream—a burning cinder had dropped out of the' sky into the midst of her tulle flounces, setting them in- stantly ablaze—but a dozen gloved hands smoth- ered the blaze. It had been a still, soft Indian-summer day, damp and warm; now, a fierce wind seemed. blowing everywhere and every way. The street through which they were now driving, although illuminated by the general glare, was comparatively safe and quiet. The conflagration appeared to be remote; the in- habitants of the street not at all alarmed. As they turned into the fashionable avenue on which stood Anthony Ward’s residence, he gave acry of dismay. “ Everything is going! The fire is here, in | the block adjoining ours!” insensible. Patrick drove steadily on until he reached the house; followed by several other carriages con- taining the wedding party; but the flames were close at hand, the sparks falling on their light dresses, the awful, irresistible devourer drawing rapidly nearer. “ Girls,” said Anthony Ward, turnin oe on the pavement, ‘‘ this is no place for you. Tho wed- | ding feast will be twice cooked—that is Paaies | es them a pale face, from where he st Patrick, for God’s sake, take these young to a place of safety. ' rae CAE Ee hye ee Perey. evs Pee TO Tie Mire eee | and went off, too. I will save what I can | covered the light bridal dresses with woolen’ ‘am 49 ‘out of the house. Tt will not be much, for a | dray cannot be had for money. Good-by, and carted care of yourselves. I will come as soon as can. “* Come where?” asked the bride, as the horses plunged, reared and backed. “Tell us where to go, papal Where will you meet us?’ Tho ridegroom came up at that instant. “I would say to my house, Mrs. Bristow,” he said, with a smile, “‘but that has already perished in the general ruin.” ‘“‘Our house, surely, has not gone,” cried Thalia; ‘‘ let us take refuge there. ‘Mother will be wild about me.” ‘Very well, try Thalia’s,” answered Mr. Ward. “Are you not coming, Mr. Bristow?” asked Thalia, ' ‘“‘Not until Ward is ready. I must aid him what I can.” Again the party set out, seeking a place of safety. Only one carriage, however, went to the Conynghams’; the other girls were fretting and weeping, A et what had happened to their homés, and insisted on being conveyed to them, if they still existed, and so the bridal party broke up, ; The bride and her first bridemaid, with one forlorn usher for attendant, arrived at the Conynghams’, where all was quiet and, for the present, safe. The male members of the family were awa atthe fire. Patrick put his team in the stable The two py were quite ° exhausted with what they had been through; Thalia’s mother brought them cake and wine. They sat and talked about the fire. Half an hour passed away. : apa would come!” sighed Beryl. “*T do wish Hoe * Ab! if anything should me im!” “Or to your husband,” added. Thalia. The next moment there was a loud knocking at the street door, and ringing of the bell. Tes they have come!” cried the bride- maid. All three ladies ran to the door, eager to wel- come them and hear the news. A young man,. . a stranger to Mrs. Conygham, stood there; Beryl and Thalia knew him well—it was Fennel Gray. He lifted his hat. “T beg your pardon, ladies, but it is time you were preparing to leave, Tho ple are get- , ting out of this street as fast as they can. The houses four blocks below are alr burning. Please get away, before ‘the crowd is ‘worse. Do not try to save anything but the smallest articles—your jewelry and silver can be put in the carriage—and a few shawls or blankets, by all means. : “Oh, where is papa?” cried Beryl, in anguish of terror about him. i ‘And where is Patrick? Our coachman is, off, too. Not a soul to er A those spirited horses. Had we not better walk?” , ‘*No; in my opinion you will have to go some distance before ion are in a place where you can remain for the night. I will bring out the carriage—this is no time for ceremony—and drive them,’ if you will allow. Let me urge _ haste. Five minutes are all I care to give / ou.” % Beryl wrung her hands and moaned for her father. Perhaps Fennel: noticed that her ¢ was only for bim—not for her husband. He hurried to get out the team; Mrs. Conyngham _ and her female servants crowded some silver into a basket, Thalia rushed for her jewels; at the end of the five minutes they had bidden adieu to the dear old home. ee Fennel, whose calmness helped to keep them calm, sent the maid back for the wraps which had been forgotten. me x, ahd et you lodge out onthe prairie you willneed = them,” he observed. ‘“‘On the prairie!” echoed Thalia. “What put — that in your head?” hie ‘Thousands will be driven there to-night,” ~ » was the answer. ie And now the rushing heat and smoke were | very near, indeed. ‘“*Oh, papa, can that be true?’—Beryl stood | up in the barouche, looked, and sunk back half Delicate ladies, sobbing children, were hur- _rying on. Some had their arms full; some had ' not evenashawl. Two or three wagons went by, filled with household effects thrown hastily in, : Fennel climbed to the box and drove rapidly ~ on; presently he ag ee to take a lady and her infant in, who seemed too feeble to walk. They seemed now to be almost surrounded iy the fiery circle, The women, shrinking an shuddering, wondered if he would succeed in tting them out of the dangar which environed them. Great clouds of spar é crackling and shining overhead—Mr, Gray had i due : » ae ey *) Me a en eit 1 te ee ery Ce eS. sand cinders went ~ ,

Page 18

“+ , _ orange-blossoms, the ‘ ginning to fall. 18 hr 1 ey clouds of pitch-black smoke, catching the red reflection on their billowy edges; sudden currents of hot air swooped down and enveloped them; long tongues of flame lick- ed the sky and were withdrawn; a dull, heavy roar trembled on the ear. Beryl flung the ‘corner of her cloak over her face to shut out the sight, and kept moaning for her father. Amid the wild improbabilities of life this was one of the wildest—that she should be separated from her husband on their wedding-night and thrown upon the care of the poor clerk her fa- ther had discharged! More than once Gray had to retrace his way and take another course; there was no calculat- not be able to“buy you any more until I have made asecond fortune. Bristow’s a lucky fel- low! He has lost nothing but his house anda few other buildings. I wonder what has become of him! However, we'll not fret about it. He’il find us before long. Meantime, the only serious question is, how are we to get some breakfast?” That was a serious question, without doubt; yet, before night, the question of what had be- | come of Norman Bristow became a still more important one, In vain, after getting his daughter housed with a friend whose home was not destroyed, did Mr. Ward hunt the city for the bridegroom. Had Mr. Bristow rashly rushed ing where the fire would be; finally, about mid- amieht, he drew rein out on the open prairie, miles from the dwelling they had deserted. Hundreds of women and children were before them; poor creatures without a blanket to spread between them and the damp ground on which they were seated, their faces blank with despair or lighted up with the strange excite- ment of the scene. “Here you are,” said Fennel, ‘and here you will have to remain for the present. You area thousand times better off than the most, since _ the carriage is comfortable and something of a protection against the drizzling rain which is be- i I will take the horses out, asten them somewhere, and return here to mount d—if you wish, or will feel the bet- ter for having some one you know near you— until your friends discover your whereabouts.” Thalia ged him to remain with them; so did her mother; Beryl] said nothing. ‘ He took the horses away, soon returning to his self-appointed charge. He did not attempt ‘to make conversation; seemed to wish not to in- trude; gave two ladies the box of the carriage —not very comfortable, but safer than the chilly —and flung himself down not far from them, where he could watch the melting away of the doomed city. Not once did he ad- dress himself to Beryl, nor did she once speak to him. ._ The long, long hours dragged on. All the ladies were too anxious about their husbands, brothers and fathers, who were either fighting the foe, or victims to his wrath, to be able to sleep, ‘All that endless night Beryl’s wide-open, shin- ing, feverish eyes stared out before her, looking for her father. In that strange crowd, now ilot not numbering thousands, with nothing to im, it was not wonderful that he shoul discoverthem. . And so, after the weird night had worn itself away, the wan morning arose over the smolder- ing ruins, and the desolate, homeless ones, find- ‘ing the bride, pale, hollow-eyed, still watching _ from shivering with cold and nervousness. _ down from her slim ig ah and she stood _ and Beryl jumped down to the ground and | jew flung her arms about his neck, he added, ina «lower voice: . have. It’s well for you, you are sctile Beryl, for your father is a ruined man! I have lost nearly everything. age}? Ne was so glad her arms. eogerly, for her father. he had removed the point-lace vail, the glittering garland of dia- mo. and held them in her Jap; her pa satin dress was crushed under the heavy clo which had not been heavy enough to keep her Allat once she sprung up, the cloak Esa like a lily, white and tall. ‘Papa! papa!” she screamed, stretching out A figure emerged from the crowd and hurried toward thecarriage—Anthony Ward, tired, hag- ard, with smirched face and dirty hands and rn clothing, “J have been searching for you six hours,” he called out. Then, when he had come nearer ‘‘Where’s Norman? I expected to find him | with you, wherever that was. We ‘parted, at | eleven, to look for you in different directions.” “He has not found us, papa. Do you think he is safe?” “Safe? why, what could happen to him? He didn’t Sapert to bother himself any more about the fire, but to try and find his little wife.” ‘Well, he bas not succeeded in finding us.” “My poor girl! This is a sorry celebration of F babes wedding-day. But, cheer up! Norman will put_in an appearance, presently, just es bs in life, The insurance money —if I get it all—will not save me, and some of the companies are sure to break. Never mind! We'll go to Con , after all! Why, Beryzr here are your vail and diamonds under the car- | } t to see you, papa, I forgot they | ‘were in my lap.” “Well. take good care of them. child. I shall , into danger, only to find himself surrounded— cut off from escape—as some other hapless men had done? Was his life a sacrifice to the fire? It looked as if it must be. CHAPTER XVI. “T CANNOT MAKE HIM DEAD.” ‘ue terrible day which followed the fire wore slowly on—slowly to Beryl, in her unhappy light, though all too swiftly to thousands of busy men vee ae in providing the necessaries of life for their families, or striving to find what wreck of their business the great disaster bad left them. The lady with whom the bride had taken refuge furnished her with a black silk, @ world too wide for her slim form; yet better, in Beryl’s eyes, than the mocking sheen of white satin and orange-blossoms, All day friends were coming to her to inquire, to hope, to wonder, to make vague efforts to cheer, use- less suggestions—to advance theories, to con- dole. Nothing altered the fact—Norman Bris- tow did not come. No one had seen him, heard of him, knew anything authentic about him after he had parted from Mr. Ward on Wabash avenue. When dusk came, the young wife, utterly prostrated by the excitement and fatigue of the previous night, and the intolerable suspense of the lagging day, was compelled to act on her hostess’s advice and Fo to bed; nor did she raise her head from its pillow fora week, No visit- ors, except Thalia, and one or two other inti- mate friends, were admitted to see her; the doc- tor had ordered quiet, or he would not answer for the evils which might ensue. Many a heart ached in ma wig with the poor bride’s; many eyes which had never seen er moistened at thought of her pitiful story. Was Beryl, herself, so very wretched? Yes, she was miserable enough. Not heart-broken, not desolate oe Beers all hope of future bloom, as if she had loved the husband snatched from her almost at the altar’s foot—but frightened, awed, remorseful, weighed down by bitter self-re- proach. Did she hope the man she had married was dead? No. She was no murderer at heart to harbor such a wish, even when she knew that his return would be the worse for her happiness. She prayed that he might be alive. She said to herself, wildly, that, if he returned to her, she would make up, in tenderness and devotion, for all the wrong she had done him in marrying him out of spite The world would never allow nim to see that she was indifferent. She would never permit herself to contrast him with—with that other m,n she had once loved. She would be a good, faithful wife. It was such an awful thing to feel that he might be dead—that man, in his vigorous prime, who had stood by her side the picture of health and energy, handsome, self-willed, strong; full of projects for their pleasure, ambitious, com- manding admiration, Often and often Beryl wakened out of trou- bled slumber with screams that rung through the house. Dreadful visions haunted fuse sleep, even more than her waking hours. No, oh no! she never was guilty of the wicked’ wish that her husband might be dead. Day after day glided on. The sounds of hammer and saw, the crash of removing ruins, the clatter of brick and stone, all the multitu- dinous clamors of rebuilding arose from the blackness of ruin, Anthony Ward was busy from early in the morning until late at night trying to save what he could from the wreck of his immense fortune, He found that matters were not quite so bad as he had at first thought. He was no ys 3 wealthy; at the same time he was not in debt; and there would be fifty or sixty thousand dollars of insurance money with which to begin again. He did not care to re- engage in business until after the election, If he went to Washington he would prefer being free for the present. His daughter, thank Heaven! was a rich woman. lf poor Bristow was never heard from. as his wife she was en- a PJIRSUED TO, THE ALTAR. ered | titled to a third of his fortune, which was a | handsome provision for her, “Poor Beryl! poor little girl! How I dread | going back to her with the same old story—no /news! Her face turns so white and her lips | quiver, and she looks so awe-stricken, poor girl) | She must have grown to like him, after all, if she did make such a fuss when I first urged the matter! It’s a sad thing for my little pet!” Yes, the most painful thing Anthony Ward | had to do, was to tell Beryl, whenever he re- | turned to her, that there were no tidings. At the end of a fortnight no one doubted that Norman Bristow had perished miserably the night of his marriage. His partners in the New York bank had not heard from him. Not even his bones appeared to remain on earth to show where and tite he fell. As soon as Beryl was able to sit up the lady with whom she was staying began to agitate the question of clothes. For once, there was no denying there was one of the dressy sex ‘‘ with nothing to wear.” The elegant bridal trousseau had perished in the flames. Her wedding-dress was, actually, the only dress Beryl possessed. It was to her like an ugly dream from which she must awake, when. those around her began to talk about her ‘‘mourning.” ; It was the simple truth that she was a widow and must put on black. They fitted the girlish figure with those dreary garments, The first time she was able to come down-stairs she ap- peared in ‘‘ widow’s weeds.” No enemy who saw her could accuse her of not mourning for her husband. The face which had been soft and bloomy as that of a flower, was white and sad, with dark shadows under the tear-dimmed eyes. There was nothing bright left about Beryl but the glory of her golden hair. Terror, awe and self-reproach had done the work of sorrow. Whenever she caught sight of herself in the lass, robed in black, she thought of Helen Bris- w. She could not shake off the idea that the frightful fate which had befallen Norman Bris- tow was Heaven’s vengeance on him for the cruel way in which he had treated that first wife f his. It terrified her more than ever to believe it, but she could not help it. It increased her ner- vousness to be reminded by her own self of Helen; but she could not help that, either. is pale, sad girl in black must own some sort of kinship with that other blighted woman whom Norman Bristow had killed by cruelty if not by quicker means. , : Beryl never asked her friend Thalia what had become of Fennel Gray; but Thalia volunteered the information that he had returned to New York the day after the fire, and his name was not again mentioned between them, Then came the proudest day in the life of Anthony Ward: he was elected to Congress. His friend Bristow had not been there to work in his interest, yet he was the successful candi- date. He had plenty to absorb his time for the few weeks before he went on to Washington. He made many sales of lots made vacant by the fire, for he had about made up his mind not to go again into active business; by these sales he secured money for a winter of lavish expenses, while his insurance money, as much of it as had been' paid, was placed in bank. He sighed to think that hisdream of a brilliant society sea- son was over. With his daughter in mourning, there could be no prospect of those festivities at which she was to have shown what Chicago could do in the way of beauty and elegance. And now Beryl began to display a peculiarity of mind which caused her friends to shake their heads gravely; even her father, at times, be- lieved that the sudden shock must have affected her, mentally, more deeply than they had at first seen. She began to say that she did not believe Mr. Bristow was dead. She obstinately refused to draw any money as his widow, or to enter into any business arrangement with his partners. When they complained that she was putting them to inconvenience—preventing a settlement of affairs—she begged so earnestly for a few months’ time that they had to yield: ‘“‘Give me six months!” she pleaded. ‘‘ What is one little half-year? Surely the business can go as it has.” ‘ Then, when they desired her to at least draw her husband’s salary, she refused. ‘*No, no, I will touch nothing—for the pres- ent. Papa is able to take care of me still. I should feel very strange to be using Mr. Bris- tow’s money.” i “What makes you think he will come back?” her father asked gether. ' e - ie er when they were alone to- .

Page 19

9 f “T cannot explain the feeling, papa; it isa strong impression.” ‘It is folly—madness, Beryl, for you to-feel ~ so!’ Mr, Ward said, almost sternly. “If Nor- man Bristow were alive, what would be his ob- ject in remaining away—concealed from us— from his wife, whom he was determined to have? He is incapable of such a—an insane freak! There is no reason in what you say. Still, if it is any comfort to you, my poor little girl, go on deceiving yourself! It is my idea that you had best give up all hope and try to reconcile your- self to what has happened.’ And still to Beryl would return the memory of a certain strange expression on the bride- room’s face, when he said good-by to her so ightly, as the carriage drove away from her father’s house while he remained behind to as- sist in saving some of the more precious pictures and silverware from destruction, She did not recall that look so much at first, in the dire shock and suffering of the sudden blow; but as time went on, she dwelt on it more and more and it became more and’ more significant. It did, indeed, seem the madness they called it, to believe him alive; yet she could not change her mind about it. “T cannot make him dead—I cannot!” she re- plied to Thalia, until the confidante was weary of the strain. Thalia Conyngham had lost the man she had been so ambitious to win—had given pies hopes long before he married Beryl—and his death was not the grief to her it would once have besn. She had never loved Norman Bristow; but she had hoped to secure him as quite the most eligibie parti in. her neighborhood. She lived only to make a brilliant match. Having given up her first choice, she was already look- ing about for a second. “ ' ; a; ‘Oh, how I would like to spend a winter in Washington!” she said so many times and with so much enthusiasm; and flung out so many other little baits, besides—in the shape of won- dering if Beryl would not miss her, would not need her friend, would not be better for having some one with her who sympathized—that, finally, the fish was caught—Mr. Ward invited her to join them and spend the winter with them in the capital. Very eagerly she accept- ed, and very extravagant were the toilets she at once ordered, and very bright her expecta- tions of the conquests she was to make. Beryl would no longer be a rival; Beryl was a widow now. She would have things her own way; her great dark eyes should do effective execution while the blue ones were quenched behind the mourning vail. A day or two before they expected to start for the East Servi received a curious epistle out of which she or her father could make nothing. It was contained in a soiled, coarse envelope whose direction had caused some difficulty at the post-office in deciphering, and it was at last sent to Mrs. Bristow in some doubt as to her be- ing the one for whom it was intended. It had the post-mark of a little lumbering village far ‘up on the shores of Lake Michigan, and it was dressed to “Miss BurRRIL Bristo, “ Chicogo, Ilinoy,” and the contents were as follows: ‘Miss Bristo wen I com tu town in_about a fortnit I got suthin tu tell u wil cirpriseu. Kepé ur pouder dri an trus in profdunse. Murdur wilout. Ino wot IT seen, no mistak, ur tru frend in nede, % ' “Zack G., lumberman.”’ “Papa! papa!” cried Beryl, white as a ghost, “itis Terns about Mr. Bristow !” ‘‘Nonsense! I would to Heaven it were! My oor, poor darling, do not deceive yourself any prea If you are going to cherish these wild delusions—put these forced constructions upon everything—it will be aie peat for me to tell ou some sad news which [ had hoped to keep rom you until after we reached Washington, at least.” : ; The blue eyes turned to him with an intense look of dread expectancy: her lips moved but could not frame the question they wanted to ask, ‘‘Something has been found,” he continued, solemnly. ‘‘More than a week ago a body washed out from under the docks; the face was disfigured beyond the yee ats of recognition; but from the hight and shape of the figure, the color of the hair and the fact that the clothes were those of a gentleman in fullevening dress, it was believed and pronounced to be that of Norman Bristow. It was necessary to get the _into its grave w tn e@ p You, as Wit Agge rie er aee y. The story is in t nich I have Durposely kept from Nr ot he alec in, EP real ith: litule ceremony; andj. bie other pe teres attend- , uiet h ‘ Lk F Pades ae ToL aa thought you would bear the tidings better in another pldce than here. So, now, my daugh- ter, give up these vain hopes, these insane fancies, and bear your loss as bravely as you can. As for this silly, impertinent letter from some coarse fellow who wants to get money out of you let us put it in the fire and be done with it. Beryl’s brain grew dizzy and her sight dim. Her breast labored fearfully. Was it terror— grief—or was it a dreadful joy? The poor child could not have told had she studied her own emotions; at all events, they were too much for | ae | less her—tottering into her father’s arms she gave a little gasp and fainted. CHAPTER XVIL. LADY CLAIRE AT THE CONFESSIONAL. On the night folowing after the terrible fire, Fennel Gray started back to New York. For | the last three months he had been in England, | from which he had only returned a few days be- fore his brief visit to Chicago—returned in tri- umph, having proved the right of the Gray branch of the family to the Sutherland estate, his uncle and himself. a aE: It was very strange to feel himself a rich man, for he was now possessor of a handsome income and half of a fine estate—not a million- | aire like the man whose daughter he coveted, but quite wealthy enough to satisfy his aspira- tions. His relatives in New York gave him a warm welcome; he had done great things for them as well as for himself; nor did Claire make an effort to hide the glad sparkle of her brown eyes or the telltale biushes on her fair cheeks when she greeted him. A man less vain than Fennel could not remain blind to the encouragement given him by one and all; the uncle said, laughingly, ‘‘ How fine it would be to keep the estate undivided,” the aunt flattered and caressed him; while Claire’s eloquent looks wooed him to speak. Only two purposes were fully developed in the young man’s mind—to place his mother in a happy home of her own, and to make another effort to win the young lady who had been too high a prize for the poor clerk. He knew rin Ep the present state of af- fairs in Chicago. hile abroad he had not cor- responded with Thaha, so had heard nothing. He scarcely feared that Beryl would ever marry his rival, whom she had scorned at the very altar and left to the punishment of pub- licity; he hoped, ah, how blissfuliy he hoped! that Anthony Ward would now look upon him with kinder eyes: As soon as possible after his return he set out on the long journey to the city by the lake. Claire burst into tears when she heard where he was going. Then, at his look of surprise covered her blushing face with her hands and ran out of the room. ‘*Poor foolish little cousin!” ke thought to himself, looking after her tenderly, ‘it might have been possible to like you, for you are be- witchingly pretty and fond and fresh; but my heart was stolen from me before ever I saw you —stolen forever by a girl, fairer and sweeter than you, little Claire! Ah, Beryl, if you have and obtained legal possession of the property for | , oes f, | at the door. | fearful night he did what he could for her com= tape, ty ent 4, a half realizing the long delay, nor the éxcite- — ment about the fire which gradunily drew inate BS the audience away. e OTN At last the bridal procession came; he saw with his own eyes, heard with his own ears the ceremony which gave Beryltoanother. He sat — in a stupor after the white-robed bride and sr attendants had disappeared’ until the sexton shook him by the shoulder, ordering him out of the church, saying that in a few moments it would be in a blaze. abi When he came out into that frightful glar which turned night into day, he wandered aim: on until he found himself, without any fixed purpose, sitting on the steps of the Conyngham residence, staring at the a t flames which were making their appearan down the handsome Michigan avenue, and, not creeping, but flying nearer every moment, while the hot cinders were showering down-at- his very feet. He came to his senses enough to realize what it meant, and to determine to we the-Conynghams in time for’ them to get away — in comparative comfort. He did not know — that Beryl was in the house until she appeare {cre Se to his li them back and kept silence. During the remainder of th . Words of bitter reproach sprun when he saw her; but he crushe fort and safety, never once addressing ; | When he saw her father seek her out the nex morning, he concluded that Mr. Bristow could not be far away; and himself immediately lef the vicinity. All day he wandered about, h AS oy been as faithful as I have, we shall have no | more heart-breaks—only the most wonderful, the most rapturous happiness the world ever knew!” ; He spent the hours of that wearisome journey in a dream more enchanting than the visions of Feramorz on that magical journey with the Eastern princess, ? Arrived at the goal of his hopes, he shrunk from intruding too suddenly upon her who was so dear to him, but hurried to Miss Conyngham to first get news of her and her surroundings. There, the blackness of night came down on his world of delight—there the glittering bubble of his rainbow expectations dissolved in air—there, joy perished. It seemed he had come to the wedding of the girl he hoped to win—her wed- ding with that man of the shadowed past, whom he hated and despised, Whatis that curious craving of the human heart which makes it desire to deepen its own misery by féasting on that most repugnant to Fennel hung about town all day waiting for the hour that was to make his love another’s. He haunted the’vicinity of the church for hours before it was time for the ceremony. The fire that was gathering strength far away, had no interest for him. As soon as the church was | dressed in her pe to please his eye crazed, thinking how like to those blackened /ruins were the castles in Spain he had bee | building. At night he took the cars—crowde to overflowing with unhapov fefugees—wi | out having heard a rumor of Norman Bristow | disappearance, and in due course of time was . back in New York. rr ae A gentleman of elegant leisure now, hung heavy on Femnel’s hands. The glory’ gons from his good fortune; there was nothi he cared for. Claire saw him return with the loomy face with deep and secret 0%: She oved him, and now she hoped to be the one ' win him from his first dream to ano sweet. She sung to him, played for i4 made him take her here and there. y “You shall not shut yourself up in he? brary and mope, cousin. Fennel. Come, it’s go afternoon for an excursion ‘to ark, FN sa ’ ¥ # “You must take me to Wallack’s to- ou ungallant fellow! You know I am go. ; "Miss McFlimsy will be offended if - fuse her invitation for the German.” So she kept him in attendance upon though she saw that his heart was heavy, mind unwilling. ion One morning, just after breakfast, she into the library on some excuse to spea. and was astonished at the face he rais brooding over the daily paper as she ca She hardly recognized it, it was so glo his eyes dazzled her, a strange smile about his mouth. POA: “What is it, Fennel?’ she asked, involu tarily. ae Sr <eWhy do you Wok Boe, ny do you look so—so happy?? «Parhage dt was because I heard my € us ia coming,” he answered, with forced essness. Wasi “Poor little J could never make you — Eh way,” she replied, with more bitterness in bh tones than she had intended, aa “You are a darling, bright little cou: ever a man had,” he said, with sudden ea ness, “If I had not loved another as a man my nature can love but once, Claire, I dar I should have been head over ears in th ’ passion for you long before this, But w it is love once—love always! supa ‘They never loved who say that they lov: Mrs. Browning sung, and I believe her, die an old bachelor, £ suppose,” returnui bantering tone; ‘‘ but it’s all the poate wouldn’t have had me, of course, eve had never seen the other lady.” paper on the table and rose. ‘*I pror father to come down to the office 0: Claire. Good-by, until luncheon,” he out, still with that deep light fein nh and that strange illumination of his sad features. ead " cai e disappeare' a the paper, urged by é bart cur the i given 5 ‘4 aba 7) Bi + As soon as if anything Se:

Page 20

| “theory ae that he had met his fate by too " | that wicked trick of minel Wwe rf ip is fu tS" —/ .*Fenne » Claire, dropping her head on her folded arms on . he will 20 putting it down; but she went patiently over it, column’ by column, and after a long search came on a paragraph headed, ‘‘Chicago. Nor- man Bristow’s body not yet found. Search among the ruins, © young bride still pros- trated by the shock,” and underneath a brief account of the bridegroom’s disappearance the night of the fire and the circumstances since, showing that, although his body had not been discovered, there could be no other possible brave a fight with the ‘devouring element.” will marry that girl yet!” cried ‘the table, and beginning to cry. ‘‘ How his eyes shone! I could never light feck into such splen- dor asthat! And just because she is a widow! He did not dream how his face betrayed him! Love once—love always!’ Ah, it pays me ior How could I have been so selfish—so dishonorable? It weighs on ' my conscience like lead; I shall never be happy, or feel that I have any right to be called a good gin, until I have confessed my sin. Yesterday could not have done it, because of the re- proach I should have to meet; to-day repara- tion is again possible, and remembering that, not be so severe with me. Yes, I have made up my mind! When he comes home I ‘will confess everything.” She cried to herself softly fora long time; there had been something in Fennel’s manner | of saying ‘‘ love once—love always,” that con- | , ‘inced her of the vanity of the hopes she had cherished. Of course, she thought that her _ heart .was broken—that she should never love any one but her handsome, high-minded cousin that “the world was hollow and her doll | stuffed with sawdust,’—and she went about all the mornin eyes bright with tears, her red lips all aquiver. At Tuncheon she had no appetite, not even for chocolate-eclairs and peach sorbets. She had, indeed, done a very wrong thing, and it was not easy to keep to her resolution of confessing it. | It would have been enough to spoil her appetite, ¢ ian + 6 without adding the fact that she had given up | ed ‘her desperately-cherished hopes. _When the family left the table she crept to her cousin’s side. “ Fennel, I wish you would come in the par- lor a few minutes; I wish to speak to you, ;»,. -@lone,” He looked down into her distressed face with some surprise, . ‘* Certainly. My time is at your disposal this Claire “afternoon, Claire.’ They went into the parlor together. waited a few minutes until convinced that the others were not coming that way. She had taken a seat on the piano-stool. One hand idly ', thrummed the keys as she sat facing her cousin, her eyes downcast, her cheeks flushed, her whole expression one of such guilt and embarrassment, astofill him with an uneasy wonder. Finally she looked straight at him for a moment, the littering on her long lashes. | ile you were in England, cousin Fennel, Idid you a great wrong.” “Did mea great wrong?” “Yes, I did, And I’m ue AP i a sor- At the hesitatingly-uttered word “ jealous,” | _ | Fennel started and looked more sharply at the eS |. fair penitent. Bcd monk out, Claire,” he demanded, in a less ] gentle tone. _ Bursting into an agony of tears, she drew two . , ¢ letters from her et and held them out to i He seized them,.turned them over—their : had never been broken—there was the © monogram, B. W., and the handwriting he knew so well, from that one little note of hers . which he had always preserved. ' | “T knew they were from her,” the guilty girl faltered, ‘‘and I could not bear to think of your vetting them; sol held them back, instead of orwarding them to England, asI should have _ done, They came very soon after you went “ever. There! now you know how foolish, how ' ish, how wicked and base I have been! I don’t e you to forgive me, As she was marri fore I had an opportunity to confess what I already repented, I thought then it would do no g and kept silence until, this morning, [read in the paper that which made your eyes so bright, and, boping it was not yet too late, I made up my mind to humble my- . self and give you your property.” 7 a | have answered them! with listless steps, her brown | } | "a, hy PURSUED TO THE ALTAR. guess ** You have, indeed, done a very bad deed, ire—worse than I could have dreamed. However, I don’t like to hear you sob like that. There is nobility in true repentance. I dare say I shall be able to forgive yousome time. As to the harm you may have done, I cannot tell the extent of it until I have read these letters. | so! You are very | There, there! do not we? young and thoughtless, little cousin; you did not realize what avery wrong thing you were doing.” As he passed her, in haste to reach the privacy of his own room where he might open those long-detained missives, he raised Claire’s ey a face and kissed her on the fore- head. ‘*Stop crying, and [ will try to forgive you,” he said. Never could the young man realize how dread- ful that confession had been to the girl who made it, nor the amount of moral heroism it re- | quired, since it was not only to betray her wrong-doing, but the motive which had tempt- ed her to it. She threw at the closed door, af- ter he had gone, a despairing and indignant glance, as she muttered: ‘Oh, you are in sufficient haste to get at those letters! Little pity you have for poor me!” = her burning cheeks quickly dried her ars, Meantime, Fennel, in his own room, with the | door locked—his heart throbbing audibly, his eyes glittering—tore open and read those two sweet messages in which the writer had allowed her soul to appear. **Oh, cruel, cruel, cruel! Cruel to her not to Oh, Claire, Claire, what fatal mischief you have done! Now I under- stand how Beryl might have been driven by pique—in return for my apparent slights—to punish me by accepting that man! I see it all! Oh, Claire, how I would like to punish you! You could not have realized what you were do- ing! Beryl, my poor darling! what could you have thought of me? Ah, what a scoundrel [ must have appeared in your eyes. Beryl, my darling, my own—to be so shamefully treat- He walked the floor in intense excitement. Yet, under all his trouble and distress over the pact there was an undercurrent of joy. Beryl ad loved him all the time! Beryl was free! He had only to wait and time would bring him all that he coveted. As soon as it was decent to do so he would write to her. explaining everything. In an hourthere were his castles in Spain again standing on their golden foundations, more spa- cious, more splendid than before. The words the magician had uttered—the mystic spell which brought them into being—were only three—“‘ Beryl ts free !” CHAPTER XVITi. WHITE ROSES. BeRyt and Thalia were engaged in conversa- tion together late one brief winter afternoon, a few weeks after their arrival at Washington, in | their private parlor, Mr. Ward had not taken a house, as he con- templated, his daughter’s mourning nag re the idea of that brilliant social success he ha aspired to. They had a swite of rooms, and the two young ladies kept a maid. Thalia was only $00 sad to step into Beryl’s shoes and go with . Ward whenever and wherever he wanted. The pair went out a great deal, for Beryl would have it so, knowing the ambition of both. Thalia, for the first time in her life, was thor- oughly satisfied with her lot. ,A superb pro- cession of dinners and receptions made her days happy. She dressed cleganily and her style of beauty was appreciated in the kaleidoscope throng with which she mingled. Her fine figwre, her complexion. like a fresh-blown calla, her flashing dark eyes and haughty carriage set off by numerous costly toilets, made her quite distinguished; so that her charms were pic- tured and her dress described by the Jenkinses at every grand reception. Just now she was pre- eminently blessed, for a French nobleman, friend of the embassador, had paid her very ‘particular attention for some days. ‘ [shall meet him at the dinner to-night,” she was telling Beryl. ‘Do you know, I half-be- lieve he has made up his mind to propose! I know very wll how selfish those foreigners are—that hoe will not have me without a mag- nificent dot; but I think papa can satisfy him on that point. Papa can settle on me a couple of hangeed thousands as well as not, and he must doit! How do you like my dress, dear?” ‘‘T like it extremely. White is always most becoming to your type of beauty. | no more co : | a calla—purple hair—dark, brilliant eyes—a Your jew- | elry suits the toilet, too... Those broad bands of en Sy gold, and the pearls, are charming, for a change.” awh Thalis swept before the glass to take a good look at herself. She remembered how she had | been jealous of Beryl’s wonderful loveliness that eet of the birthday ball, now it seemed ridiculous that she should ever have feared the rivalry of that pale, slim girl sitting by the win- dow. At least, she feared it no more. Very handsome indeed were the face and figure she saw in the Dae rich warm complexion with or in it than. the velvety surface of dazzling smile—the glimmer of pearls—the flash of gold—the sweep of a velvet train back fron a stately form. ‘Ah, I forgot to mention it, Beryl! Whose arrival do you think I saw announced in the morning papers?” ‘How can I possibly tell, without going over the list of our dear five hundred friends?’ was the mechanical answer—that sad face was not likely to brighten at the mention of many names. “Mr, Fennel Gray, Mrs. Gray,’” laughed Thalia, carelessly. At that moment Anthony Ward came bust- ling into the room, “Well, how do you feel this afternoon, my dear daughter? Iam very sorry you would not o to this dinner with us—a very private affair. t spoils half my pleasure to think of your sit- ting here alone.” ‘“Dowt let it do that, dear papa. I prefer solitude—and I have a very interasting book here which will entertain me until I feel like re- ore. “Well, well, you will have your own way! I have ordered ycur dinner sent to your room, so that you need not go down to the dining-room unattended. Nora will be close at hand, in case you need her.” “Yes, papa, everything is all right, I shall have a pleasant evening, and am sure you two willhave. Does not Thalia look well?” ‘“* Magnificent! magnificent!” said Anthony Ward, with a pang at his heart to think it was not his own lovely daughter whom he was to escort. ‘‘Come, Thalia, call Nora to bring your wraps; the carriage is at the door.” The gas had already been he a couple of hours; the maid brought Miss Conyngham’s wraps and placed them lightly about her; Beryl was kissed y the departing ones and left to the solitude she desired. “Here’s your dinner coming up, madam,” and Nora, with the waiter who brought it, bustled about to serve the fair girl whom even the attendants liked and pitied—as Nora said: “Such a shame she should be a widdy, an’ she not much more ’an a child, an’ that beauti- ful it makes the heart ache to look at her.” It was.a light dinner that Beryl ate; but she very pleasantly gave the anxious waiter to un- derstand that it was not his fault nor that of his tastefully-served dishes, and sent him away happy, leaving her with her café noir, her reading-lamp and her book. Nora returned to her sewing in one of the bedrooms, and the soli- tary girl was at liberty to indulge her silent thoughts. ‘Fennel Gray, Mrs. Gray.’ Was Fennel mar- ried? Was this hiswedding-trip? What sort of a woman had he chosen? Oh, that pretty cousin Claire, of course! Oh, what a mistake to op pose that he had ever loved her! Had not always been the one to make the love—he, to make excuses, to defer, finally to treat with eon- temptuous silence? And now, he was married —so soon! Oh, she hoped she had not lost all woinanly pride! Why should she feel so lost, so lonely, like one out alone in a frail boat in the midst of a wide waste of waters? ; She took up her book—put it down again. She went to the mirror and looked at herself —at her pale face, her black garments. : “I hate this dress!” broke from her trembling lips; then, she looked awed and remorseful as if she had insulted the memory of the dead. “Oh, to be the Seong ae happy girl I was the night of my birthday ball!” She felt old, yet she was not nineteen. The caprice seized her to play to herself that she was that merry girlagain. She went into her bed- room where Nora sat sewing. . : “J feel as if I would like to wear white this evening, Nora, No one will be apt to see me; and white is mourning, too, you know.” “Yes, madam; I’m sure you must be very tired of those same dreary things, But youhave no white dress.” ive ‘Oh, yes, [have one. I wore it last winter, at my coming-out party. It chanced to be saved from the fire. with a few other things. I think

Page 21

ru Sani Ste Sac te £ ratte » “ly it would rest me to wear it a little while,” with along sigh.. mn ea _ _ “Certainly, I’m sure it would, ma’m. Where shall I find it/—“ poor young thing!” sotto voce. Beryl directed her where, and in a few mo- ments, the deft hands of the maid were array- ing her young mistress in the lovely, diaphanous birthday dress, with many an exclamation of _ admiring wonder at the metamorphosis pro- duced by the change of raiment. “I need a few pink roses. There are some fresh ones on the parlor table, Nora.” The girl brought them. ‘ Now, these in my hair, these in my belt. Oh, Nora, I feel like a different creature!” ** An’ you look like a different creature. I wouldn’t’a’ believed it if anybody had ’a’ told me, Take a good look at yourself, madam! There! is there any lady in Washington can beat that?” “You are a sad flatterer, Nora,” said the young lady, with a faint smile. “Not a bit of it! Can ye gild goold, as the good Book says? Can ye flatter an angel? If there was only somebody to see you an’ admire you—there! there’s a knock at the parlor door this minute!” “But I cannot see any one, Nora!” The girl was off to answer the knock before the remonstrance reached her, presently return- ing with a card. ** An’ he’d like to speak with you, a few min- utes, very much, madam, if you’re disengaged, as he expects to leave town in the morning.” Beryl knew the name that would meet her eye before she glanced at it. ‘Very well, Nora, I will see him. He is an old friend who has seen me in this dress before. I will explain to him that I had a fancy for trying it on and bringing back old times.” She very leisurely placed the remaining pink roses in her belt, that the girl might not notice her agitation. Certainly, Nora, with all her anise perception, would never have guessed that her lovely young mistress was going to meet the only man she had ever loved or ever would love. The burning, bitter memory that she had sued and he repelled, gave her an air of cold pride worthy of a society queen of twice her ears, as, having arranged the roses to her satis- action, she went into the parlor to receive the ‘visitor, standing, hat in hand, with flushed face and bright eyes, near the door, As the exquisite vision floated toward him, all in white, and he saw the gold hair, the blue eyes—as a breath from the flowers in her warm bosom was wafted to him, he gave a repressed aie 1” That cry told her the whole truth instantly. ps ponsed, startled, the pink flying to her eeks, “Fennel,” she said, tremulously, ‘I thought you had brought your wife.” “‘My wife!”—bursting into a merry laugh; “my mother, you mean. Beryl, let me tell you something quick, quick, before we are in- terrupted. I never received your blessed let- ters, written last spring, until less than a month ago. were withheld from me purposely. I was in land on business for my uncle. The day after my return from abroad I started for Chicago. I arrived there the cathe day —of your marriage with another, Beryl, if I liad gotten those dear letters, do you think I we mg have allowed any man on earth to again come between you and me? I came home, oh, sc happy !—for I came home rich, the owner of a handsome inheritance, more the equal in money mathe of Anthony Ward, and I dreamey aeavenly dreams of a bliss too great for mortais, and then—it was as if a bird, in swiftest, rapturous flight, dashed itself to death against an unexpected obstacle. That night of _ agony! The fire that raged and consumed was Within my breast as well. I cannot speak of it, darling. Let us put all the foolish, mistaken a aside, We can be happy yet. Tell me, eryl, is there now ne to'prevent our be- ing to eavh other, from this hour henceforward, what I crave?” . ? He came close to her; he seized the little soft ands which yielded themselves to his anxious Clasp. Her pride had melted into thin air; bat enough of the old, mischievous spirit of the girl emained to tinge her reply: “‘T do not know, Fennel. |The future rests ‘With you. ‘One thing is certain: if there is any _ Wooing to be done, you must do it! I have done my share,” and. then she gave ” he cried, and, in an in- resist, he had caught her her; for the first t: i 2 PP a ar ul smile accept the pone , before she could Perens eae and kissed \- Soe an] : i ¥ s a eg rece / 4 him a daz- tua 7 t Petes Satis NL é “That seals the compact,” he said, gravely. ‘‘ Then, perhaps, you are ready to ait a seat. “Can we really be alone together a little while?” ‘“* A good hour.” She went to the bedroom with an order to Nora to admit no other visi- tor, came back and drew her little rocking- chair near the sofa where he sat, Then eac stole a long, happy look atthe other. Fennel, by his travels, his wider experience (and that dignity which an estate confers), had improved immensely in self-possession, and the blue eyes Ragen it at once, as well as that he was twice as handsome as ever, as they dwelt shyly upon him. The lover, studying that sweet face, asked himself if he had forgotten how perfectly charming it was, or if Beryl had grown more beautiful. A little while they sat in blissful silence, only their looks speaking, while their hearts beat al- most too se for breath. Then their tongues were loosed, and the past and present were reviewed. There was one subject they could not altogether avoid, and at last Beryl touched upon it. ‘Fennel, I have been a wicked girl. At times it seems to me that God cannot forgive me—that He will: yet punish me in some still more terrible manner, for the wrong I did you, myself, and another. How could I—oh, how could I, because I thought you did not care for me, stand at God’s altar and promise to love and honor a man whom neither liked nor respected? It was worse than mad- ness—it was wickedness! Oh, if I could -warn every young girl in the world against the foolishness and sinfulness of marrying from pique, or for inioen or position, or any- thing but deep and holy love! Oh, I have suf- fered tortures of remorse! I would give all I have to be able to take back the false words I uttered in that church, More and more I feel the dreadfulness of such a sin. Of course”— speaking very low and hurriedly—‘‘when I romised to be Mr. Bristow’s wife, I meant to true and faithful to him as a wife, to try to like him—but the words were a lie. Fennel, it is horrible to be glad because of a fellow-being’s death! [Iam not glad of Mr. Bristow’s death! —I am sure I can say it, honestly. Could it be that he were to return to-day [ would accept my punishment humbly—the punishment of losing you, dear Fennel—and try sincerely to be as good a wife to him as possible.” “Let us not talk any more about that,” said the lover, shrinking from the subject. ‘Girls do not reflect when they do what you did—they act from an unreasoning impulse. I trust God has forgiven your fault, my own dear love. Try to believe that he has—try not to fall into a morbid state of mind about it. And now, we, who have both been so miserable, may surely be tempted to indulge in a taste of happiness. The certainty that we love each other is bliss enough for the present. I know that I have still your father’s prejudices to overcome; that Thave still a long penance of waiting before e. “Yes,” said Beryl, with downcast eyes, ‘I am in mourning, Fennel. _ You look at my dress—it was a caprice of mine to lay aside my black dress to-night. I shall believe in pre- sentiments.” He lingered and lingered until Beryl had to insist on his going. ‘*T do not feel equa) to having you meet papa to-night. Neither is it necessary for him, or any one else, to know that we have come to an understanding. Only think, it is but six weeks since—since—” _‘‘T understand, Beryl; and I mean to be very discreet and patient. Ah, I suppose it will be a long time before we have another dear visit alone together, like this? The world, with its cruel conventionalities, stands between us. At | least, I may tell my mother?’ | ‘Yes, Fennel, tell her everything; and give | ove. You are taking her to us 15 [= SeiS te Ces crn scgreet ee RSUED TO THE T her my: fond Florida, rfeep say?” ! “Yes, for a brief stay.’ We shall be in Wash- ington again before Congress adjourns. Then, Ishall have a talk with your father. Now, 1 | am contented to go and leave you, my darling. | It would only: annoy you to know that I was lingering about, and I want to be considerate of | your feelings. So, I must say good-night and | ood-by, my love.” He held her a moment in > is arms, and went heroically away. When the door closed between them, Beryl — flung herself down on hey knees by her chair, | up a tear-dewed Ror 0, my, Heavenly Father!” she murmured, “Idonotdeservetobesohappy!” inf pi wae ue DAs sci geeas Wy gna thie od i= Sk : a ETAR... | ceiving the whilome clerk he had once sought to _ disgrace with a degree of sauvity according | was there, and that was enough to maké | ei | as did also the French nobleman before men | fulfiked, and | her friends. Sa see EM eat a 8 Sa Ras W Spee t's. Sa, So a a Gets 2S ae | C74 “Set t - ‘ wr - 7. aa oe) Lan 3 CHAPTER XTX. FOR WEAL OR FOR WOK. |. AFTER the adjournment of Congress Anthony — Ward brought his daughter on to New York : and took board at the Fifth Avenue Hotel fora — couple of months. There was nothing in the way of business compelling him to return to Chicago; his home there was destroyed; and, as , there was only Beryl and himself whose pleasure _ was to be consulted, they couldarrange matters to suit themselves, Their programme was aso- ~ journ in New York, one of equal lengthin New-. _ ort, then, in the autumn, a visit to Chicago, fore returning to Washington. ; Beryl was secretly highly pleased at the pr pect of being in New Yorksolong; Fennel G that = SoM ib ahi. + 7+ * = ao a the most attractive spot on earth toher,’ halia came on from the capitol with them, tioned; and here they parted as betrothed loy- , ers, Thalia to go home and there commence magnificent preparations for.a wedding inthe _ early autumn, when Beryl, too, would be in | Chicago. fal 7a Miss pei ey wildest aspirations were she was returning in triumph to’ hal @ xt On Fennel Gray’s return from Florida with _ his mother the two had made a formal call on « — Beryl, in their way through Washington. This — flying visit had been eminently unsatisfactory. r. Ward had been present; and, although re- | ve <e ts | with his changed station, it was not likely there | could soon be any real friendship between the _ | two. The lovers dare not allow even their | to speak; but Hope can exist and flourish on | i _ every minute of my life, I love you moré | the merest fragments of a feast}‘and her rains | thou eyes. : bow wings played just as enchantingly around ie them as if one repressed sigh, one stolen HOS? 4 he sure of the hand were not all she had to feed on, Yet Beryl had brooded, ever since, over some- thing gloomy and almost savage, which she saw or fancied in Fennel’s expression. She langed for another confidential interview, think- _ ing of writing to him, but kept patient by the: ght that she would soon be inthe city. eae The day after her arrival at the, Fifth Ave- nue she received a note from Mrs. Gray, asking her if she could not contrive to take luncheon with her and her son the next day at their home in Forty-second street. Fennel had rented furnished house for his mother, not caring to 7: buy until certain where they should wise SOA make their permanent home. “hgateats Fortunately Anthony Ward was to be en- gaged with political friends several hours of to- morrow, so that Beryl had no difficulty in send- ing an affirmative answer. vig ac t was a flushed, lovely, slightly-embarrassed. young lady who made her appearance at Mrs Gray’s at the appointed hour. The nother ke discreetly in the background for the first: hour, and Fennel led the lady of bis love into a marry back drawing-room. vie ae ‘*T had more than half a mind not to : observed Beryl, as he asked her to take bonnet, without even kissin were alone. ‘‘ You know know how affairs staid Fennel?” : The sweet eyes that were raised to his’ took on a look of perplexity, for, instea lad assent in his, she saw that dark, tro er expression. What he answered his: ‘It may be wiser to wait longer before ing to any one, even your father,” and he it very gravely. FS ‘*Do you think so?” she asked, her | bling. ‘Perhaps I ought not to have here; perbaps you think me unmaidenly—” i: No, no, no, my darling! Do not— ieved at me. I have my for de io not : f you think they are that I do not love OU ough, you are sadly mistaken. lip siete 7 ee :

Page 22

uneasy wonder i, - brown hand with her satiny palm. . 22 2 in the unfverse could adore your lightest smi! as Ido.” “PURSUED TO e | your hotel with you, Beryl, I will ask : with your father alone, [ will tell him what we | ed at the change in _THE ALT He caught her in his arms, passionately, as if | intend doing in the autumn—” he bad been yearning to do so but had held himself under control, kissed her twice or thrice, then led her to a low chair before the fragrant wood fire which the chilly air of a day late in March made very pleasant. “Sit here,” he said, “and let me feast m eyes on you. Mother will be in Hehe gt asked her to leave us to ourselves at first. Well, Beryl, here we are, face to face, once more! That ought to content me for to-day. Let us be happy while we may. Let us throw care to the winds. Let us a the past, ignore the future, think only of the rapture of being to- gether—looking into each other’s eyes, hearing each other speak, This room is our world—this hour our eternity.’’ He drew his chair close to hers, took her hand, smiled into her eyes a strange, eager, pathetic smile. He had spoken earnestly, almost wildly; she did not fully understand his tone or his look. Why should they “ignore the future?’ Was not that future to be better. than all the past? She met his intense observation with a question in her blue eyes, which he avoided. “My darling! my own little love!” he mut- ** You will call on papa before long, will you not? she asks him. aif ‘ , | { “Certainly, .I hope he will not be so cava-' lier in his treatment of me as he used to be. And do you think he will ever give his consent, dear Beryl, or do you fear we will have to mar- ry without it?” **T hope he will give a cordial assent, Fennel. If he refuses it, however, that will not affect us very deeply. We are ‘bound to each other now by ties stronger even than filial ties.” *“You say truly, my sweet love. We are bound to each other, for weal or woe, for life or death, for right or wrong! Is it not so? Are you not mine, dearest, forever and ever? Can anything na us? No, surely not. Why do I vex myself with such questions?” he asked, joy- fully, smiling at her, radiantly. Yet, the next moment his eyes were fixed on the fire in moody reverie. ‘The same alternations of passionate delight ‘with deepest gloom continued to excite Beryl’s yet the three hours she re- mained in that house were the brightest of her life. Mrs, Gray came ‘in, after awhile, giving their visitor so cordial and gentle a welcome as to make her feel at home. The three had a dainty luncheon in the dining-room, after which the good mother returned to her own room, knowing how seldom those two could be alone together, and how much they must still have to Bay. Upp you remember that waltz, Fennel, at my ball?” ‘Remember it! If you had spent an hour in Paradise would yoube apt to forget it? It was a long while before I got over the surprise of it. I could not understand that you really meant it. My bliss was soon at an end, however. Then, as always, sneered the Mephistopheles—” he paused, abruptly, and a dark frown contract- ed his brows. “Let us forget all that, dear Fennel,” mur- . mured his lovely companion, softly stroking his “Tt is not es well to brood over troubles that are past; we 7 _ be happ have begun a new life—together.” “Over! ‘Ay, there’s the rub.’ You are a wise little girl, Beryl. I will not brood—t will . y fiercely, ‘‘and you, too, my own. Do you know I have been dreaming of how pleasant it would be for 2" and I—and our mother—to go away from this part of the world as s00n as we are married: *** Par off, to some sweet little isle of our own In a blue summer ocean, far off, and alone, ere a leaf never dies in the still blooming bow- And the hes banquets on through a whole year of flowers.’’ He smiled in his own gentle way, as he said it —the fierce fire had disappeared assoon as it had flashed up. “You would not have me entirely abandon cp all ie “Of course not. There is always something to eae the dream from becoming a reality, an he sighed, Lom ging _ “Are you always so fitful in your moods, Fennel?” ; “No, darling,” ing, and looking at her in some alarm. “AmI fitful? Well, as pee oe Ihave an annoyance, which I cannot explain. I dare say it es me appear bearish. Now, I will tell you what I will do to atone for my peevishness,” laughing, “I will walk back to | | same, without a copper. “In the autumn!” remonstrated the young lady. ‘‘Oh, that is quite too soon!” “It will be a long time to me, sweet—it is all I can think of giving you! any objections; and, if he has, will very polite- ly inform him that if regret it, but that it can- ALTAR. 1 to speak | seaside to pay her a fying visit, sho was shock- physical appearance. cheeks had grown hoilow, his expression haggard, his movements nervous. “You have been ill, and have concealed it | from me, Fennel!” . I will ask if he has | not alter our plans. After thatI shall be at | | liberty to call very often. You will not find me a cold or tardy suitor, my sweet,” and his | glowing eyes flashed a look into hers which rought the vink to her cheeks. **T must go now, this very moment, Fennel. I have been here over three hours.” ‘Give me one half-hour more!” ** Ah, you are ungrateful!” t **T hope not, nor exacting; but, it seems so incredible for me to be so blessed that [ live in constant fear of losing whatis so precious to me. If this should be the last time we are ever to be happy together, it will be something to remem- ber, will it not?” ‘The last time! Why, your hand actually trembles! What a misanthropic person you must be! Lreally must go, Fennel. Papa was to be back at three, and it is half-past already. He will be alarmed about me. lease, let me go. You are coming with me, so what differ- ence does it make! © shall not be parted just yet. There! Ihave found rey haga myself; and now, you had better let . Gray know am taking my departure.” When the pair were once on the street much of their happinessin being in each other’s com- eee vanished; they realized that it would not pleasant informing Anthony Ward of their engagement, t was full as disagreeable as they had antici- pated. Having once scorned and shamefully mistreated the young man, it was impossible for the wronger to retrace his steps and begin to do him justice. In his eyes, Fennel Gray was still his book-keeper, and an impertinent puppy. lt was true that the young man was at that moment wealthier than himself, and of a better family; but he could not see itin that light, He complained bitterly that Beryl, with her beauty and position, had not made a bril- liant match at the Capital, if she wanted to marry again, Look at Thalia! See what his chaperonage had done for her! Why, Beryl might have had her pick out of a splendid crew! And now here was this Fennel Gray again— faugh! However, the young man persisted in his rights, his daughter persisted in hers—he was helpless. He could show ill-humor, be un- gentlemanly—he could not persuade an obsti- nate girl that she was making a romantic fool of herself—throwing herself away. “You will have it your own way, this time, Beryl, I dare say! Confound the presumptu- ous understrapper! It’s lucky he got that money, for L suppose you would have had him, all the It won’t be so bad to have a landed property in England. But, you might have done a hundred times better. ou are sacrificing yourself like some sentimental school-girl.” His pining and fretting did no very great harm; at last, it seemed that the lovers had come to a period when they were free to be happy in each other’s society. Outof respect to the memory of the dead the engagement was to be kept, for the summer, strictly secret; it was avery small matter, however, after their more serious trials, to have to be circumspect about seeing each other too often, or going out in public together. CHAPTER XX. NOT AT LIBERTY TO EXPLAIN. Nearty three months fled af by before the Congressman and his beautif aughter gave up their rooms at the Fifth Avenue and pr ed to Newport. Three months of what should have been serene happiness for the afti- anced pair. Beryl no longer was te and sad, as befitted her black garments; she could not keep the light out of her eyes, the roses out of her cheeks, which would attest her health and hopefulness; yet she had not, for a single day, been entirely free of doubt and care on Fennel’s account.” She was learning that he was not the person she had supposed him, but a creature of singularly changeful moods—one hour, radiant, delightful, the most devoted of lovers; the next, morose, melancholy imbittered. After she went to ‘Newport his letters were in the same strain—one pa eloquent of joy and love; the next, dark with vague, formless hints of a desperate destiny which would prevent eir ever realizing the life they anticipated. And when, after a Month. he came on to the “No, darling; T have been a little worried in my mind. I would explain it to you at once, but I am not at wee to. Even my mother must not know of it. 1t will wear itself out in without you. cruel Fate should again tear us apart, I should not suffer long. You have become a part and rtion of me—a vital part—without which ex- istence would be impossible. It is terrible for a man to love a woman as I love you!” Beryl was sorely puzzled to think he should have a distressing secret which he was not at liberty to disclose; she could not understand it. Neither could she doubt the love which some- times clothed itself in looks and accents almost painful in intensity. Sometimes Fennel would come to her looking like a man in a nightmare, so wild and haggard; once she said to him re- proachfully: “Tam “ig” § my affection cannot make you happy. See, how blooming and well I am! I love ee I expect to | ae my life by your side —and I am contented. But you are restless and dissatisfied; you are’ pale and ill; you scarcely seem to anticipate even our wedding- day with pleasure. I begin to fear that I do not understand you. I begin to be afraid of you.” ‘*For Heaven’s sake, Beryl, donot tell me that! Afraid of me? Then, indéed, I shall be miser- able. Beryl, Iam the happiest—the very hap- piest man in this whole wide world: Am I ill? —that is my misfortune. Have I fits of des- Samat ys ?—they are caused by a one trou- le which will soon be over, h, my own heart’s darling, to think I should compel you to fear your power to make me happy! Why, Beryl, sweet, ours is one of those cases of true love which there can be. no doubt about. The first moment I saw you Heaven revealed to me that you were my mate; your own sweet eyes acknowledged that you felt it, too. I knew you were my spirit-wife when I drew you back from death in the chilly waters of Lake Michi- gan; I knew it, when your dear head rested on my bosom, and your little hand in mine during that waltz you gave me. I knew it even when —but, no more of that! That man’s dark image shall not come between you and me. All that is over! You are mine. God permits it. I think it is only ecstasy that is driving me wild. When I am sobered down into a married man I promise not to vex or frighten my little love by any dark moods. And now, Beryl, when will you be wholly mine? This is the first of August—may I say the twentieth of September?” ; hen Beryl brought forth the plea of ‘‘ what will the world say?’ and her lover had to argue that down. “‘ Papa wants to spend September and October in Chicago—I would not—I could net be mar- ried there!” shuddering. ‘I will beas good as I can, Fennel, and bring papa back the latter: part of October. Then, in New York, or some other nar lace, we can go very quietly into some church, with only the minister and a friend or two, and be married.” “Yes, sweet, and I will take you away where I can have you all to myself for awhile. Your father will have enough in Washington to ab- | sorb his winter—supposing we go abroad, travel | about as long as we please, then finish the win- ter in England, on the family estate. I have word from there that the house can readily be put in living order; we can how we fancy it, and, if we then grow attached to it we'can make it our permanent home.” “‘T don’t think I should like to make a home anywhere butin my own country; besides, papa would not allow such base desertion.” “He could spend part of his time with us; there is nothing to prevent. The truth is, Beryl I have taken a fierce dislike to my ‘native land. I prefer living in almost any other. There! now Isee you think me strange again. Well, dar- ling, we will not attempt to settle any less im- Seige question at present. It is enough to fix he time of our wedding. tus say early in October, since we are going to cross the water. for fear of stormy weather. Oh, why should there be such folly as consulting the world’s’ opinion at all? Now is the time for our union; we are ready, yet we put nearly three dismal months of waiting and absence between us out of respect to the Mrs. Grundys who will, after all, criticise us just as severely.” Then, almost crushing her two little hands in his uncon- x

Page 23

cen Sciously-fierce clasp: **Beryl, marry me to- morrow! Say thatyou will! The pee Me can be private, and we will be off on the blue ocean before any one knows of it but your father and the clergyman. evil presentiment haunts me that I shall lose you. It is that which makes me so nervous, so moody. I shall not be my own natural self, well and happy, until you are my wife. Cannot you make a small sacrifice of the proprieties for my sake?” She hesitated, with face that flushed and . Her heart pleaded for him: she saw that e spoke the truth; she longed to bring him eace and comfort—to put an end to his morbid ancies. Finally, she whispered: If I can bring ae to consent, he shall go to Chicago alone, and I will go across the sea with you, Fennel.” They had been walking back and forth the in- terminable length of the Ocean House piazzas on which the golden, moon of a summer night shone down like a softer day. It was late, and Beryl cut short his rapturous thanks by assur- ing him that she must go in; indeed, her father came for her at the moment, to escort her to her room. Fennel stood looking after her slim figure until it was out of sight, then, with a re- pressed groan—the last sound you would have expected from the lips of a lover for whom the wedding-day had just been set—he turned and walked out into the street, The demon of un- rest was on his back, eh ie him on. With long strides he went through the beautiful moon- lit avenue, with its blooming gardensand costly villas lining either side, Sounds of singing and laughter, of lovely piano-music, came softly on the dewy, scented air. From afar came the salt breath of the sea, and the haggard rambler wandered on and on until he found himself tramping the beach, where the silver-edged waves were gently curling and sighing. Suddenly he stood still. His hat was in his hand, the meridian moon shone on his white face, bearded with the drops which were signs of bis mental torment, ere was a look of horror on it. There had come back to him—re- called with vivid distinctness by the glittering sands, the night and the moonlit waters—the memory of an evening in Florida when he had walked upon the sands and something had hap- pened which had been the cause of all his moodiness since his return. ‘¢Tt is too late to think of it,” he muttered. ““My doubts have vanished. My course is chosen. My only dread is the look in those blue eyes if she should ever hear of it. That look would be fatal as lightning to me, I be- lieve. Oh, what a long and doubtful battle I have fought! Shall I enjoy the fruits of my victory? Will they not be dead-sea apples, ashes at the core?” He wiped his pale forehead, letting the faint night breeze touch it coolly. A ghost sprung up on the verge of the glistening waters and came toward him waving phantom white arms, It was only the August fog, spectral in the moon- light, but it appeared to his excited fancy like a warning spirit, and it chilled him as it came close and clung about him. CHAPTER XX. ONCE MORE AT THE ALTAR. Newport is at its A A ceag aie early in September. The’ sea fogs ve kept away the frost; the carefully-plotted gardens are at their most brilliant epoch; the graceful cottages and ay villas, with their daring vividness of color- ing, look brighter than ever under the deep- blue sky; the bay is'a dazzling sapphire; the Virginia creeper on the old mill begins to show dashes of scarlet; the blue and vermilion chairs on numberless stately piazzas invite to repose and gorgeous dreams. nye wedding-day has come—her true wed- ding . She thinks of those two mockeries of the past with shame and horror, silently won- dering how she could, first, have plotted so open and public a punishment of a bad man— second, have made up her mind to marry such aman only to show another that she had not quite broken her heart. She is wonderful- ly happy. Only one little cloud in the whole heaven of her life—the cloud of her dear fa- ther’s displeasure. Anthony Ward is bitterly disappointed at the persistent choice of hs beautiful child, and annoyed to think that she will not wait, at least until her two years of mourning are over. He is angry with Gray for insisting on a speedy marriage—“ Tf they must make such fools of themselves, why not wait, and have, when the proper time came, a suitable font ity , instead of hurrying up mat- ters as if they something to be gotten out of the way, and doing it so secretly as if ashamed of themselves?” ‘You are neither of \ PURSUED TO THE ALTAR. you so old but you might wait two or three yas without detriment to your future,” he as told them, impatiently. But Beryl now is completely under her lover’s influence. He does the love-making, as she once laughingly assured him he would have to, and does it with a ven- ance! She is almost afraid of him at times. here is something intense to the verge of tragedy in his demonstrations of feeling. One moment he is gay and playful, the next, plunged fathoms deep in gloomy reverie. When Beryl wishes for an explanation of his changeful ca- pba he snatches her to his bosom and tells er, in hoarse whispers, that when she is once his he will be steady and cheerful as a summer day—that itis the haunting fear of something even yet coming between them, which makes him miserable— : ‘*Ah, Beryl, you believe that you love me, but you cannot measure my feeling for you. It would be worse than death to lose you now!” Again: “I am quite certain that I should go mad, Beryl, if you were taken from me, now, after all I have suffered!” ‘¢‘ Lovers talk a great deal about going mad,” was the mischievous response: ‘‘but they sel- dom do it, I observe. hy should you dwell so much on soremote a possibility, dear Fennel? It seems to be morbid. Only death can part us, and I don’t feel a bit as if I were going to die.” * Ay, only death can part us,” he repeated, earnestly. ‘‘ And the sooner we are united, the better for my peace of mind.” It was this feeling of his which gave Beryl courage to bear her father’s displeasure. She believed that the trials they had undergone had made Fennel nervously distrustful of his ood fortune, and that the sooner she became is wife, the sooner he would recover the usual tone of his spirits. She had sent quietly to her New York dress- maker for twe or three dresses, such as would be required in traveling, and a simple white robe of India mull. The wedding was to be at five in the afternoon—was to take place in church—and was to be strictly private. Her father, Nora, her maid, and Mrs. Gray, were to be the only witnesses. The sexton of the church was bribed to hold his ce and not to open the church doors until the very moment before the arrival of the little party. After the cere- mony they were to return to the hotel, the bride would change her dress and come down to tea asif nothing had happened; and that evening an pra take the steamer for New York, em- ia g the next day on their voyage to Eng: And now the day was here—a cloudless Sep- tember day, flawless in its golden glory—and the very afternoon. Nora, seemingly much more in a flutter than her young mistress, dress- es the bride in the exceedingly simple toilet pre- pared for the occasion. Lovely as an angel—nay, lovelier, with that sweet earthly charm of a willing and beautiful woman—smiled Beryl, when the last touch was given, and she stood ready to go down to the carriage with her frowning but silent parent. Very youthful she seemed in thé soft white dress, with the little white bonnet and muslin scarf trimmed with richest lace; very lovely, with the dreamy smile in her blue eyes and the sik Sra color coming and going in her fair cheeks. Anthony Ward’s hard heart melted as he met her wistful look; he held out his arms and she nestled gladly to his breast. “Oh, papa, you forgive me! I shall not go away from you without your blessing? Ab papa, if you knew how happy Iam you would ask no more for me. I’m quite sure there never was in the world a girl quite so happy as I am to-day !—except for the parting from you for a little while.” They kissed each other, and she felt that eace was partially made. Then Anthony ard drew out his thick gold watch and said it was high time they were off; coughed, to ac- count for the tears in his eyes, wiped them on his cambric handkerchief and gave his daugh- ter his arm. : As they,descended the stairs and went out in the face of a hundred loungers, male and fe- male, Beryl was followed by admiring glances, but no one did or could suspect what was go- ing on. There were plenty of ladies in white toilets those warm afternoons. It was only no ticed how much prettier and younger she look- ed without that stuffy mourning, the gentle- men hoping she would not return to it. ‘How shabby, to go in a hired barouche!” | muttered the ““T never roken millionaire. was at a watering-place before without my own | establishment. I cannot get used to it!” Beryl had heard such complaints all summer , 23 and did not heed them. They had had one of the finest of the livery teams, with a competent coachman, entirely at their service, which had satisfied her. To-day she gave not a thought to the mode of their conveyance; it was ten minutes of five and she did not wish to keep Fennel bes an The comely Nora, whose bright eyes sparkled with excitement, climbed to her place, and the carriage turned into the gorgeous procession which at five o’clock on a pleasant afternoon in the season makes Bellevue avenue one of the “shows ” of the world. It nettled Anthony Ward to be there without his own carriage with its coat-of-arms, and his_ own coachman and footman wearing his colors; it nettled him to think his proud daughter was throwing herself away on a ‘‘nobody;” it net- tled him to recall how obstinate she had been about touching the great fortune which, as the widow of a wealthy man, was hers by right, Her income had accumulated at the bank, and the partners had politely begged her to make use of it, but she had refused to have gah to do with it. It nettled him to reflect how dif-_ ferent every circumstance would have been but — for the great fire which murdered his son-in-law and lapped up his warehouses as if they had been crumbs. His discontent was visible in his face again as they drew up in front of the fine church. Another carriage had just drawn up; the sexton was opening the doors of the building; Fennel had helped his mother out, and now hastened to offer his assistance, but her father took Beryl out, just touched his hat to Mrs. Gray, and walked hastily into the vesti- bule with his daughter on his arm. The coach- man began to grin; he had not, until that minute, suspected a wedding; he nudged Nora as she was getting down. " ‘¢Oho! is that the trick?” he asked. « ** As true as you live,” answered she. ““Tts all right,” the sexton was saying in the vestibule; “‘he has just gone in,” referring to the clergyman. f Beryl stole one timid glance at Fennel—their eyes met—she blinked as if she had looked up at the sun! She had not dreamed that mortal eyes could be so bright! How handsome and happy he appeared! ‘The lines were gone from his forehead, the shadow from his face. ‘The merest stranger could understand that here was a contented bridegroom; love and a glow- : ing rapture burned in his countenance, . Gray was sweet and ladylike in her Quakerish drab suit: she gave Beryl a motherly kiss and told her how lovely she looked; then her son gave her his arm, Beryl took her fa-. ther’s, and they all walked up the dim aisle, where the glorious afternoon sunshine was transmuted into rainbow flecks of P gehen light as it fell through the long, arched windows of rich stained glass. A calm and holy tranquillity fell i Beryl’s mind. The cool, dim atmosphere, the absence of a fashionable throng, the sweet wore that she was giving herself to him who loved her so _ truly, and whom she so truly loved, filled her with unutterable peace. Even the clergyman, | who was so often a eet to the important cere- mony, noticed the PDY, tranquil expression of the young couple, who stood side by side, while he exchanged a few low words with Mr. Ward, and examined the license, not having had the opportunity of doing so before. A knot of white violets at her throat sent their faint perfume to the lover’s nostrils as he gazed down edoringly at the face of his bride; will he ever be able to breathe their delicate fragrance again without that sacred, that en- chanted moment coming him? Half a dozen spectators did intrude into the church before the ceremony began—idle people passing by, who, at sight of the open door and the two carriages, conjectured a wed ‘‘ were there to see.” And now, the man of God was ready, and the young couple stood be- fore him. CHAPTER XXII. THE PHENIX. Brryt had put far from her all troubling memories of the time when she had been a party to that sad surprise in the sacred edifice when Helen Bristow had made her unexpected ding, and | response to that solemn charge on the part of the minister: “ Tf any man know just cause or impediment why these two should not be united in the holy . bonds of matri y I charge him to speak or forever hold his peace.” gh When these words were now again spoken how could she help her thoughts going back with a rush tothat other unpleasant hour? She — \

Page 24

? her, nou | e@ past. 1y should her _. lover tremble at that grave adjuration? She felt that he was trembling, and her eyes, seek- - ing his face, found him ghastly pale. — -.... But, hark!. What is that? she dreaming? Is the spell of the past so strong upon her that ___ her senses are being self-deceived? Does some f Sie co Does the clergyman pause and ’ look about him, startled? Is her brain swim- - Ining—her heart on fire? Was it ages ago or _ ‘was it Now that she heard a smooth, cold, too-. _ well-known voice say: ‘' I forbid the marriage. The woman is my lawful, wedded wife.” She struggles as with the fetters of a hideous dream; she slowly forces herself to turn—with ashen face and anguished eyes that shrink from be- holding what still they are fascinated by—and there, not five paces away-—standing where a broad bar of crimson light falls red as blood on his id, smiling face—is Norman Bristow. ~ “Oh, but that man is dead and buried ages ago,” thinks Beryl. “That proves that I ust be dreaming. Fennel, dear Fennel—” she turns instinctively to the bridegroom as for | protection against some frightful danger; her te eyes are so blinded she can hardly see him; she f ki catches at the altar-railing for fear she may - fall one “What is this? Who is this?’ speaks the SH} ereyinan, sternl Bristow, this is iim) @ J eve! ellow ac i, “TT meant to. It has been at very great in- convenience to myself that I have accomplish- d this little surprise. But, I have done it—to y satisfaction. » thor is it,” he remarked, easily, to the clergyman, ‘“‘to find one’s wife ready to marry It is not very flattering a in six weeks less than a year? minister made him no reply but looked the young couple standing stricken before . with anxious pity. Beryl stood, clasping the railing, white as eath, her blue eyes wide open but blank as the eyes of a somnambulist;; she heard every word poken, but far off as if apesnle in another world ’ » talking’; she looked blasted. ‘Fennel had turned fiercely at the first sound ‘of that uuiexpected voice—turned, with glarin ieegt ‘in his eyes, his lips drawn back teen h hite teeth, looking like an animal about to g. He had not the mly desperate the ii ie tn > ok 5 F e little time it aluen 1 say whet. had been said he had nued to glare at the enemy who had ig were out of the grave, between him and b / Noe, gece ee threw out this his wife’s constancy Fennel sprung at hands were about the sleek white throat sneerer. The attack was so sudden that the FeO did not at first defend himself; but, presently, ; gan to strugele for his life, and there in “ the dim us light’ of one of God’s sacred temples ned a scene such as does not often violate the all that Anthony Ward, the clergyman and men could do, to tear bien from his ; ; but they did so after a time, and hi m into a vs te P - or shame, sir!—in the house of God!’ panted urmured poo: bef » think of that. es than giving tt | ed . | low. Nora, drowned in tears, took her ec ta oh es RSUED . 23=% am play is.over now; we will go home, and n Fennel, ran to him, and flun; “Kill me, kill me, Fennel,’ she pleaded. ‘I can- not, will not live! Ah,if you and I could die to- gether, dear! Let us go down to the water and rown ourselves! I will not live to become that man’s wife,” she repeated, looking piteously at those around her. “I never cared forhim! Papa was de- termined I should marry him. Fennel and I have always loved each other—he saved my life once!”’— | here Mr. Ward took her out of Gray’s arms. “Remember,” he whispered in her ear, ‘‘ you are a@ married woman, Beryl! Do nothing indiscreet. Make the best of things, now that they have turned out as they have. For my sake, Beryl!” “Oh, papa, what shall do?’ Take me away from Mr. Bristow! I will promise never to see again, if you will keep me safe from that man.” The clergyman was evidently unhappy at havin such a drama enacted in his church; still, he coul hardly order these very respectable people out; and he was more interested in the scraps of their history which they were betraying than he cared to show; he felt very sorry for the gone couple who had come to him so serenely radiant a little while ago, and yet—Mr. Norman Bristow he had heard of as a bright ornament in Western society. Oh, despicable spirit, that truckles to the rich and powerful! ‘How can I promise you, my dear?” murmured the father. ‘Your husband has rights superior to mine. I know he will be considerate; he will not re- fuse you time to reconcile yourself to the effort to make a good wife.” “Oh, I will be very considerate,” sneered the in- truder. ‘Now that my little jest at your expense is successfully played out, Mrs. Bristow, I can patiently wait for advances from your side. am not so ar- dent a lover asl once was. Still, I think I may say that I have more real respect for you than this very honorable gentleman, who was on the verge of wiling ou into an illegal companionship, knowing perfect- hy that your legal husband was alive and well.”’ Every eye turned on Fennel Gray, over whose whité face rushed a furious flood of scarlet shame. “That is another of his falsehoods! Tell him’ so, Fennel!” cried Beryl, seeking his averted eyes. For a moment there was dead silence; then his enemy said: “He dare notdeny it. He remembers a certain evening, when he met me in Florida, too well to dis- claim it now!” ““Wennel! Fennel! is that true? Look at me—an- swer me!” With acrushing sense of fear and pain she was recalling the strange, variable moods which . had tormented her lover since his return. At last he slowly raised his miserable eyes and looked her in the face. “As Godis my witness, Beryl, I was not St oh the manI met on the Florida sands was Norman Bristow. I hoped it was not. I said to myself—‘ How cun it be, when he is dead and buried? It is true,’ I thought, ‘his body was never so identified as to leave no room for doubt; yet, if he were alive, why should he, of all men on earth, be in hiding? If he had sur- vived the disasters of that terrible py he would have sought out the beautiful girl he had just mar- ried, and of whom he was madly enamored. There is no 7¢ason why heshould be alive, yet keeping that fact from his friends and business partners. I only i- ajined that strong likeness between him and the man I met on the beach, and saw only by moonlight. My brain is touched, with all Ihave suffered, and I have fancied this-striking resemblance.’ That was the way oy lg it, Beryl. There were hours when I had other convictions—when I could not doubt whom I had seen—but I set, that down to my nervous state; I honestly believed that it was a delusion which haunt- ed me—that I was becoming a monomaniac. Bery. ou will not believe me so base as to think I coul have known this! Why do you look away from me? Why do you moan and tremble so? I would have died of grief before I would have harmed you, Beryl Speak tome! Say that you see how itall might have been!”’ But Beryl only turned to her father, saying in a low voice; “*Take me away from everybody, papa. aide wa? ; ; ** Yes, take her home, Mr. Ward,” in the minister. ‘I would counsel moderation and—and patience, to all parties. The young lady is certainly very unhappily situated at present. But time works won ete tena cures every ill. Give her time, Mr, w. And I wish you all good-afternoon.”’ CHAPTER XXIII. A STRANGE VISITOR. ANTHONY Warp led his daughter out of the church. The sun, near setting, threw a flood of gold over, everything. A bird was singing in the ivy creeping up the church tower; the long procession of glitter- ing carriages was still rolling by; the flag on the villa opposite waved I idly but brilliantly; young ladies and graceful cavaliers swept by on handsome horses; the snowy sails of distant yachts caught a | rosy flush; a single glimpse of deep blue water show- ed between the houses; in the despairing glance which the girl cast about her she saw it all—but saw it more as we imagine disembodied spirits see things —her earthly interest in them had perished; it seem- ears since she had entered the sacred building of hope and bliss—she must be an old, withered woman now, she fancied. Her father placed her in the carriage and got in beside her, making a motion to Bristow not to fol- they returned to,the hotel, the coachman not bein; able entirely to. repress the eloquent whistle wit Teas) = te Bh aati ‘ennel | { ! and fell. ; Mrs. Gray had to send for help to get him to bed, and a physician, who bled him, for his face was purple and his veins swollen. It wasa week before they could get away from Newport to the more wel- come privacy of their own home, In that time Mrs. Gray had inquired and learned that Anthony Ward, his daughter and Mr. Bristow, had left for the West. Weeks dragged wearily on. The bracing autumn weather had no effect to benefit Fennel’s health or spirits, both of which had failed him. Sallow, melkancholy, without aca or interest in any living thing, he haunted his mother’s house like some ill-conditioned ghost. Mrs. Gray was seriously alarm- ed. She could see but one way to save her son—to ee to arouse him to pity for some one besides himself. One dull, rainy October day, as he sat moodily staring into the cheerful wood fire which enlivened their back drawing-room, she drew her chair facing his, picked up. his lean, limp hand, which she gently stroked, and began: “My dear boy, do you know that you are breaking your mother’s heart?’ ** Why, no, I hope not,” he answered, gloomily, ‘that would be hard on you, dear mother.’ “Do you suppose I can see you always so despond- ent without feeling so myself? Fennel, be a man! Rise above your disappointment. The girl you loveis another man’s wife—it is your duty to pray that she may become reconciled to her lot and graduall learn to accept such happiness as comes to her. It is your duty and you must face it] Beryl is very sweet, lovelier than one in ten thousand, but not the only pretty and lovable girl of the nineteenth cen- tury! You, who have felt the bitterness of a fond- ness for one you thought did not return it, ought to feel for others suffering the same pangs. There is Claire—so bright, and pretty, and spirited, and so foolish about you! She would make you a dear lit- tle devoted wife, my boy. I should 8 glad to see you marry Claire. The poor little thing is actually losing her damask roses—and all for you. Fennel groaned, snatched his hand away, got up and walked the floor. As chance would have it, there was a ring at the door, and the servant showed Miss Claire into the sitting-room. “You did not t to see me this rainy day, did you, dear aunt? May I take off my waterproof and stay to tea? Harry said he would come after me this hon D How do you do, Fennel?’ The soft brown ib were full of unspoken pain and pity, as she laid her little palm in her cousin’s. Yet it was not natural for Claire to be sad. She was a merry soul, gay as a biyd; and despite her un- returned love and the sorer pang of feeling that her misconduct had brought unlimited trouble on the: man she adored, she could not be altogether mourn- ful. She sat down by the fire, having filled her lap with rainbow-colored flosses for some wonderful. needlework she was doing. Fennel, silent in the corner of the comfortable sofa, could but notice how pretty she looked, with the ruddy firelight play- ing over her chestnut hair and blooming face and little dimpled hands, ; Patter, patter, patter, went the rain outside—the room was cert Bisa more homelike for having Claire init—and he allowed his glance to linger on her longer than it had ever done before. Perhaps she felt it; or perape it was the warmth. of the fire brought a richer hue to her cheeks. In and out through silken meshes went the bright- | colored floss, the white hand fluttering like a dove the merry voice chattering to his poor depressed mother until she actually began to look cheerful. “Oh, auntie, I have a new song. I brought it with me to sing to you, for I knew you like singing,” and the embroidery was flung aside, the long closed. piano opened, and the music placed on the rack, It was vot a sentimental song—Claire was not sing- ing her sorrows at the man who rejected her affec- tion—but_a gay little thing out of the last opera- bouffe. Fennel noticed how his mother brightened up and looked kindly at the young girl. “It would please both of them,” he thought, “ and what does it matter to me? I have no love to give Claire—she knows that. If she is satisfied to take me ‘with my heart gone out of my body, I don’t stg Pu igor refuse her the miserable privi- ege.’ Then, again, every sensibility recoiled from the idea; it was impossible. _ The early darkness came down while Claire stil lingered at the piano, softly singing and .playi in the delightful Gwilight hails by the five, A’ servant came in and put on a few more sticks of the fragrant maple wood; they blazed up, ing the room as bright as day, betraying two diamond tears hanging on the curved lashes of Claire’s brown eyes. Her cousin saw-them flash and fall. They were summoned to a cosey tea. Mrs. Gray looked smilingly at her young visitor, urging her te partake of everything. _ “We eat so little, it spoils our appetite to watch each other. I am convinced that we should have company at every meal. Fenne] has actually eaten three oysters! ire, come and spend a month. with me; I know there is nothing to prevent.” _‘‘Mother’s bound to have her way,’‘ was her son’s. silent comment. He felt too weak and indifferent é be? i i) ‘ 4 (xe ‘ ¥ Mo Ry

Page 25

ee oy . aad hf oF. ay Ro RR Sd Pe Oe PEER spubnabe Se 3 ; e . © ry to make any resistance to the siege he saw she was | was going on, kept himself informed of the affairs about to lay. : While still at table, the door-bell again rung. ‘That must be Harry, come for me,” said Claire. However, it was not Harry—it was a lady who Called to see Mr. Gray on business, the servant said, **Did she not give you her card?’ “*No, sir. But she looks like a lady, sir.’ ‘* Where is she?” “*T showed her into the little reception-room,” “Is she young?” asks Fennel, rising to his feet he sudden thought has set his pulses to racing (through his veins. ) “* A middle-aged lady, I should say.” _At that his color died out as quickly as it had risen; he turned cold and irritable, saying, impa- tiently: ‘‘ Well, I’ll soon see who it is.” He was gone a long time. More than an hour See and still the interview with the nameless ady continued in the little reception-room, Claire lost some of her brilliant color; Mrs. Gray fidgeted. Harry came for his sister, and being impatient to et back to his Latin, she had to go with him, her een curiosity about the stranger unsatisfied. Shortly after, the front door again closed and Fennel came in to his anxious parent, who saw, im- mediately, that something of importance had. oc- eurred—his eyes sparkled, his countenance and manner betrayed intense excitement. “Has Claire gone?” he asked. “I’m sorry. [ wanted. to ask her to stay with you for a week or two. Mother, I start for Chicago to-night!” She stared at him in amazement, ‘* Who was your visitor, then?” ‘*] am not at liberty to tell even you, dear mother, at present. It was a person I was glad to see— though I may have cause to be very sorry.” ** Not—Beryl?” “No, no, indeed. But, I must pack my bag, in- stantly. I haveless than an hour to get the nine o’clock train. Mother, something very strange has happened! It may be for good—I fear it is for evil. if I can, I will write to you the particulars after I reach Chicago; but that will depend upon what I learn after I have seen-parties there.” CHAPTER XXIV. . A MAN’S RAGE TURNED AGAINST HIMSELF, Ir was true that Norman Bristow had deliberately plotted to marry Beryland leave her as soon as the ceremony was over. t1€ was one who never forgot or forgave an injury; and he had convinced himself thet Ber 1 mae in the plot with Helen to confound im publicly. While he was abroad he brooded over it with black resentment; and on his return set about to win a revenge which he considered would be satisfactory. He would again woo the proud, malicious beauty; if he succeeded in winning her, he would turn the tables yy laughing at her in church when he got her there. The great fire, however, changed his plan, at the lasthour. Instead of marrying her—to pre- vent her ever getting another husband—and then leaving her at the very altar, he would enjoy a still more complicated revenge; he would leave her in fear and suspense, He, too, had seen the hated face of Gray as the came to the altar. Oh, how rich a revenge, to al- low this fellow to hope again, only finally to baffle him! It was a sudden inspiration of the Evil One— no time to arrange the details—but he had the money for along tour in his pocket, and so could absent himself from his friends and his bankers for some time without great inconvenience to himself, The frightful fire spread and raged, while his bad thoughts grew as hot and fierce. Such a joke! Here was the chance given to play it to his heart’s content! He made his way to the water. He had picked up @ rough overcoat from the stock of some store; enveloped in this, his hat drawn over his eyes, there was little danger of recognition from any of the excited, frightened refugees who had sought the shores of the lake, Getting possession of a small boat he had rowed out into the lake and there finally decided what aourse to pursue. If he took any one of the trains out of Chicago he could hardly fail of being seen by some acquaintance, Better to begin his journey from some strange sta- tion, Why not spend a few weeks hunting in the north woods? it was just the season. He resolved to doso. He paddled slowly for some hours; then rested, in the boat ane after daylight; went ashore, and soon obtain <a breakfast of coffee and ham and eggs at a farm rye: rowed a few miles fur- ther, until weary} on 80 On, for several days, until he found himself Sd enough from home for hig purposes. He bought a rifle and hunter's costume at a lumbering e, Aired a scout to go with him, he having taken an assumed name, and did have some fine spr reveling deer, fishing, etc. until late in November. “at ut, to show how difficul it is for a man to success tt hide himself when he wants to, a lumberman, WhO had once been a ’long- shoreman in Chicago, in 3 ed him, and reading ina pepe weeks old some ie about his marriage and disappearance. wrote as ayer we have seen to Beryl, knowing Miss and her father well, by reputation. iring of solitude, he came down to Detroit: went 4 t being too well known in New Cities, ey § a rmudas, ering on the moonlit beach, the old city confronted ; a dering and meditating. He believed that eognized him—thoug. ; the quiet indifference of a, soumer And, time to hasten the close ° re oe apap he ; } re, by a course of espionage and masauerading. he discovered what of the unconscious lovers, and brought abow the dramatic finale in the Newport church. ‘ And now, how had life fared with Beryl since that sunny September afternoon when her sun of joy set suddenly in darkest clouds? So frantic was she—so perfectly desperate—whenever Mr, Bristow attempt- ed even to speak with her, that, bold as he was, he was obliged to check his audacity for the present. To prevent her committing suicide her father was obliged to give her his solemn promise to protect her against her husband. ‘ , “T will not live with him, papa!—I certainly will kill myself if you join with him and trap me into be- ing left alone with him one single hour!” and he had not dared to venture on a bolder plan. No sooner had they arrived in Chicago than Mr. Ward saw he had committed a blunder in taking his daughter where the history of her heart affairs was so well known, and where the rumor of Mr. Bris- tow’s return upon the stage of this world was creat- ing an immense excitement. It was so decidedly un- leasant that three or four days of it disgusted him. Busi ness required that he should remain some time; es Beryl must be gotten out of it as quickly as pos- sible. ‘* What shall I do with you, Beryl?’’ he asked. “Let me go with Thalia, papa. She is willing to take me with her to Paris. Monsieur Ardenne has seconded ber invitation warmly; and, indeed, since you took such good care of her, and were the means of her meeting M. Ardenne, I feel quite at liberty to accept. I shall feel like another creature, when I get out of this country,” ri ea Anthony Ward felt greatly relieved hy this propo- sition. Thalia was to be married in less than a week. Beryl would not appear at the wedding; but busied herself preparing for her trip abroad. Though not so well able to afford it as once, Mr. Ward came | down handsomely with the money for her outfit; for his daughter would be in the way of meeting the best society in Paris. “Gurse it!” said the irascible father to himself, “ Bristow will get tired of her obstinacy and seek a divorce; it will not be too late for her to makea splendid marriage over there—a count or a duc— who knows? By Jove, she’s handsome enough! And she'll be out of the way of that detestable Gray. Matters don’t look so dark as they did yesterday. I must give Madame Ardenne instructions to throw some fine milord in her way ’—and with this pros- pect in view, the sorely-tried gentleman plucked up some spirit to face his old acquaintances. Fennel Gray need not have rushed off to Chicago in such hot haste, since he found, after arriving there, one bleak autumn evening, that the young lady after whom he had come to inquire had been gone across the blue water for more than a month. Oh, how his pulse leaped when he heard that! For the first time since he walked out of the Newport church, he held up his head like aman. She was not living with the dastard who had played her so foul a trick! That was what put heart into him. True, she was bound to him by the solemn bonds of the marriage ceremony, but she was not pcg A his wife!—she had fought against that degradation. True, she could not be his—but, neither was she that scoundrel’s! He had not expected, in coming to Chicago, to see Beryl personally—he came to ascer- tain whether or not she was living with her husband. If she were, then his new-made discovery was of lit- tle worth—was, indeed, of actual harm; but, if she were not, it remained to be seen what next could be done. To him it ap eared right to seek Mr. Ward for positive information, although rumor had placed him in possession of the facts. He was received with chilling coldness; Anthony Ward had never, never could favor Fennel; he look- ed upon him as the marplot who had spoiled every- thing—that, had it not been for him, Beryl would long ago have been Bristow's contented wife. How- ever, he answered his La eke when they were such that he could not avoid it. “No, his daughter had not become reconciled to Mr. Bristow.” ‘Yes, she was in Paris under Madame Ardenne’s charge.” “ Why, yes, he thought and hoped they would make it up, some time—that was far the best way.” “Yes, Mrs. Bristow expected to remain abroad all winter.’ “And now, let me give you a piece of advice, Mr, Gray—never speak of my daughter again—never think of her. She never can be yours. You are quite young enough to form another attachment. I hear you have a beautiful cousin. The quicker you choose some one else to fill Beryl’s place the wiser re _will be. The less you see of any of us, the etter, I wish you good-morning.” rey ty As Fennel turned to leave the room, after this dis- | missal, some one tapped lightly at the door, im- mediately opened.it and stepped in. Fennel turned | rather pale when he found himself face to face with Norman Bristow. “What is this fellow doing here, friend Ward?" he asked, insolently, “JT am attending Fennel, before Ward could reply, “‘ whichis more than you are doing when you venture to interfere with me,” and he returned the stare of the black | eyes with one as haughty. “Do you insult me, purposely ?” He had not dreamed how he hated the man whom Beryl loved, until this moment revealed to him the dark depths of his own passions. Had he been | triumphant—had his wife been living with him—had | not her dread and horror of him overpowered even his purpose to compel her to a wife’s duty—he could have laughed maliciously at the other lover; but de- | feat had not improved his temper. To see Fennel | there aroused the lurking devil in his blood. Quick | as a flash, when he asked the question, “*Do you in- sult me?” his revolver was in his hand, and pointed ‘ | might be; and it had proven not tobe the lady who to my own affairs,” answered | te | love him, which sounded very funny and very , t Gray. *"«Dont shoot!” screamed Ward: “you'll only _by x) See: TS. be make a row!” while Fonnel] sprung at his f0e, to dis- arm him, if possible. . ‘ \ The weapon was fired before he could prevent it; but Fennel’s dash at him had weakened his aim; the next instant there was a struggle, and soon the re- volver was in possession of the other man; and Bris- tow. Quivering with rage, saw that he had lost his weapon, missed his aim, and wounded his friend. Anthony Ward was groaning with a shattered hand. ‘His face grew even a darker purple; his eyes had murder in them; he made a panther-spring at Gray, at who remained cool enough to act only on the defen- ; sive, but he never touched him; suddenly his hand went up to his head, he staggered, and fell. - “You have killed him!’ cried Anthony Ward. “T did not fire. I did not touch him,” said Fennel. ‘ The sound of the shot had, by this time, drawn a : few people, passing in the hotel corridors, to open the door and crowd in. One man was bleeding— another on the floor. They took hold of the man with the weapon in his hand, and who was startled and white, not knowing what had happened to his . enemy. A physician among the spectators stooped over Mr. Bristow. After a moment’s surprised ex- amination and feeling of his pulse, he said: “Why! this is a fit of.apoplexy!” It was true, Norman Bristow had too much blood, and was not of the temperament to make it safe for | him to indulge in unbridled rage. That terrible rush. of purple to his face betrayed the congested state of his brain. He had punished himself, “. “Tet go of me,’’ said Fennel, to those who. hel him, ‘‘Ihave done nothing but take his revolve from him,’’ and Mr, Ward confirming this, and stat- ing that his friend had wounded him by accident, the young man was allowed to go free. “You see, you never bring me anything but bad luck,” remarked Ward, bitterly, as Fennel hoped he sie was not seriously ah ee ‘“*Never mind how much = Iam hurt! If poor Bristow goes off the hooks, now, ” Isuppose you will get your will, after all,” with a 7 savage look. # Bristow did not, however, ‘‘ go off the hooks.” For days. he remained in a critical condition. When he was finally out of danger, and began to fet around it was with the frightful consciousness that he was no longer a man of magnificent hedlth, but one whom indiscretion in diet, or a burst of .passio: % might fling helpless atany moment. Then he ha Rh Fennel Gray more than ever. To him b2 set down ; his loss of health, as well as his wife’s dislike. A deep, sullen resentment took the place of hisformer ~ — haughty contempt; but the doctors had forbidden him to excite himself; if he was to have revenge on his rival, it must bein some subtle, quiet way that would necessitate no personal meeting. oe How could he strike the lover so surely as through the loved? He had been far too yielding to the girl who bore his name. She was his. Those blue eyes ~ might flash dislike—those soft lips might tremble £ with scorn—they would be the sweeter to him, for ? their loathing would make his revenge completer! His mind was fully made up as to the course he would pursue, About Christmas, as soon ashe felt _ sufficiently restored—he quietly made his prepara- tions, and quitted Chicago, without telling any one, even Ward, where he was going. care Mr. Ward had quite a serious time with his hand, 2 and it had not improved his temper; however,itwas © by this time restored to usefulness, and he was’ in Washington, solacing himself for his domestic complications with his political triumphs. a) _ Fennel had, in the meantime, been at home—leav- ing Chicago as soon as Bristow was out of danger— hard at work, for his uncle, who was engaged on a case in court in which he took a great deal of inter-. est, and in which the nephew took still more. Claire made herself very charming to Mrs. Gray, at least, at whose house she spent more time than at _ her own; and one evening in mid-winter when she __ was again there to tea,a lady again sent in a message to her cousin, without a, card, and he again went to the reception-room to see who it — ae | e het, ene ie Or ¢ - sae en i 3, Gv eee had come the first time. Who it was and why she’ came will be known in due time. tp CHAPTER XXV. on IN THE SNARE AT LAST, oe Monsreur and Madame Ardenne and theirlovely guest are at dinner in one of the ie salons of their * suit of error They are ressed for the * — evening, Madame Ardenne very richly, and husband Dine sa va all her diamonds, for, after the opera, her husban intends taking her fora couple of hours to a gran ball given by a fashionable. friend of his in hig fe They are endeavoring to persuade Beryl to go: ‘a them to this ball, who realizes her equivocal position + too keenly to have mingled in society with ats, Loire all, except to go to such public places as inolvednO social duties. She had reveled in the picture galle- ries, enjoyed the promenades, the drives, the thea~ rs—had been a constant attendant at the Operates. 5 but had steadily refused invitations to private fees. Half the Parisian fine world was raving abouther, = nevertheless, Her youth, her soft, fair, flower-like beauty—the romance attached to her story—for M. Ardenne had not concealed that she was a wife who would not live with her husband because she did not ét. ‘ charming to the French—had made people eager to. see la belle Americaine. a be The duchess who gave the ball had sent a request ~_ that she would attend it, and her friends were still, at the last moment, doing their best to persuade her who would not be persuaded. As ‘No—no—no, indeed, dear Thalia! I should feel dreadfully out of place. Besides, it is toolate! I» am dressed well enough for the opera, but notfor such a grand ball. I couldn’t consent to be eclipsed Ee “may chaperen, and vou look magnificently t ' aS .

Page 26

Mie shh te eek a On. ee 4 ' , ‘ oe ee ge re . ‘Night. Pale blue velvet of the right shade—is the finest ,color.in the world for a _brunette—except _ white. You surpass yourself, Thalia. , ¥ _. Yet Beryl—though perhaps not in the fullest of __ toilets—was looking particularly lovely. She had been out all the afternoon in the fresh air, until her ‘eyes sparkled and her cheeks were the most delicate ‘ pink. She wore the splendid diamonds which her father had given her for a wedding-present, with oy pale blush roses in hair and bosom, and her dress Was a sufficiently becoming one, She had “banged” mo her hair, and it glittered in little feathery golden Hg 4 across her white forehead, giving a piquan _ to her gle tot well calculated to drive an ad- n) mirer wild. She looked sweet as a sweet child; yet '. there was a touching sadness under her gayer ex- pression which. are made her deepest charm. “T think you ought to go, to please ws,” said _ -Thalia, a little impatiently, for she really desired it, ‘0 “Then I must go,” answered Beryl, but her eyes , filled with tears, and her friend was sorry. : “No, Beryl, you shall have your way about it. If _ |. it will make you unhappy you shall not go. Come, * + love, it is time we were putting on our cloaks— ' + Antoinette will bring them down to us in the _ parlor. _ Louis, we will allow you but one more Oe _ glass of wine. We must be off in ten minutes.” . . Madame set down the dainty little Sevres cup of cafe oir which she had taken at table, smiled at her hus- -_ band, rose and went into the blue salon, followed by g Beryl, where, the maid brought. them thelr white cloaks, their bouquets, gloves, fans; and by the time ___ these were arranged monsieur had finished his wine \ and come after them; the Ardenne carriage, with its . \ . eoronet and its two liveried servants and its spirited z We 1) aay was at the door, and the little party set out for > ‘the Grand Opera House. - As usual, a hundred lorgnettes were leveled at the Jadies as soon as they were seated in their box. _ Thalia had the triumph of knowing that wo many . her dark, superb beauty seemed finer than her friend’s fair loveliness; as she lived for admiration this was pleasant. But Beryl felt always somewhat _. annoyed at the attention she drew. She would will- fe. ly have worn a vail, had such a thing been ad- _ missible. She looked about her very little, giving her undivided attention to the stage. This evenin % EA was as usual; everybody looked at her and she a one. NY rest tg ig she missed seeing a pair of black eyes fixed on her from the opposite side of the house—a pair of ’ yeti eye smiling look would have smote her like - death had she met it. 7s “was over, there was a moment’s discussion about ryl’s’ getting home. They offered to take her 1 lared, was not necessary, as they would be late he best—the night was not cold, let the coachman ; ive first to the fete and afterward home, So it was arranged; anda Bicol of ears playing eavesdropper be them, in the crowd, heard every word. joc OF eur and his bride said good-night to their _ companion under the porte-cochere of the grand man- sion where the ball was taking place, and then she ' was driven rapidly along the smooth boulevard to- ward her own hotel. ether the drive were lon or short she did not note, she was lost in dreams o _ the past, and was still in a dream, when the carriage c ed in front of their residence, and the footman, t down from his perch beside the coachman, opened the door and handed her to the pavement. _ Then he ran up the steps and rung the bell. It was - etre precise moment, when he was at the door ow Antoinette was coming to open, and the _ eoachman on the box was nets his impatient - ~ horses, and Beryl had her little slippered foot on the ‘ first. step that a powerful man—who had sprung es froma cab which came up and stopped behind the _ earriage, and at which the a had not even glanced or there were other occupants of the apartments of the hotel besides her friends—seized her suddenly _ about the waist from behind, clapped his ,hand over _ her mouth, carried her to the cab, thrust her in and climbed in after her. Beryl was so astounded that she could not scream. The footman ran and clutch- . ed at the cab door as it was closing. _. “Fall back!” said a stern voice, in broken French; s iS at your peril—this lady is my wife !” ; ‘ gic name, whieh gave him unlimited power over «his victim! The servant. stood away, the driver lash- _ 8 ed the horse, and the vehicle dashed down the boule- : pene ntil it came to the first turn, which it rounded _ and: opeared . The Coenen tried to gather his dull wits together ~ and decide whether or not his master would wish to give pursuit. — ; a She is his wife,” murmured his con/rere. - . “Tt will not do to interfere between husband and wife,” said the man. ~~ $0 he drove away to take his place in the long line * ae vehicles awaiting the breaking up of the ball, while the footman went in the house to discuss the extraordinary mishap with the maid. _ . Antoinette foreboded that her mistress would not _ like it; in fact, she was so troubled in her mind that she resolved to go to the house where madame was visiting to inform her of what had happened. The footman gallantly escorted her: b pn hs od before the Ardennes were communicated with. They came home—Thalia in a great siate of excitement and distress; yet, after they got home, what was there to do? . Thalia sat up all night and cried; her husband sat ae I lice they will refuse to interfere. , must se oe sel before proceeding to the ball; this, she. ut two hours. my darling. Itis folly of you to dim your bright eyes with weeping—and with sitting here till the sun comes up.”? And about daybreak Thalia retired, drying her tears, to a few hours’ slumber, resigning her friend to her fate. ‘To return to Beryl. When the cab rattled away over the smooth street and she, thrilled to terror by that voice, looked, and saw by the passing flashes of the lamps, that it was indeed Norman Bristow sitting opposite her, with a smile on his flushed face, a feeling of absolute de- spair came over her. “Why I declare!”” he observed, maliciously, ‘‘my wife looks as if she did not be hie tie my devotion in’ coming so far for her! expected a warmer welcome. Nay, my love, it will do you no good, though you split that pretty white throat shrieking to the police; they will not divide man and wife. At last you are completely in my power. I have forborne to exercise my rights with most unexam- pled patience, Mrs. Bristow. Wow I am come, in earnest.” She looked across the small space between them with a stony gaze. ‘Where are you taking me?” she asked. “To Boulogne—to England—home.” The carriage whirled rapidly along; he sat study- ing her face with that evil smile; not a word more was spoken for some time; finally the horse slack ened his pace; Mr. Bristow looked out the window. ‘*Here we are, at the railroad station,” ha said. “You may make a fuss and outery if vi: choose It will do you'no good. The instant I utter the cab- alistic sentence—‘The lady is my wife—she is a little deranged,’ you will see people and officials shrink back. ‘You had better take things quietly.” . She answered this mild advice with no word; but the moment he had helped her out of the carriage and she found herself in a little crowd of waiting passengers, with a couple or gens d’armes not far pyar: she ran toward them with uplifted arms, cry- ing esperately, in French: ‘Save me! I do not want to go with him! I will not! Heshallnot compelme! Protect me, until I can gend for my friends and I will give you a thou- sand francs.”’ At sight of the lovely face and mention of the money and friends the two guardians of the peace seemed disposed to assist her, until l’ Amercain com- ing up cool and smiling, informed them that “ the lady was his wife and a little out of her head,” touching his own forehead significantly. q “T am taking her to England, to an ana the physicians here can do nothing for her. Pardon the. opera toilet—I had to induce her to come with m by a pretense of going to the theater. 4 The look of blank horror at his falsehood which Beryl turned on him might easily have been mis- taken by a prejudiced eye for the excitement of in- sanity. The gens darmes shook their heads and looked rather compassionately at one so young, so beautiful, yet so afflicted, drawing back, however, with the air of giving up any interference. Bristow took her by the arm, and pushed her through the crowd to the platform by which the cars were stand- ing. fiad she attempted escape, dozens of hands would have been outstretched to arrest her, for the story of her madness had run through the little throng, universal attention having been attracted to her by her strange movements and singular dress. Ladies in white opera cloaks, diamonds and peach-colored silk robes did not appear at a station eve), day! And this one was so young and fair, so graceful and refined, it was sad—ah, it was a pity! It seemed that Mr. Bristow must have already got- ten his tickets and selected the compartment into which he now forced his companion. “Well, my dearest, here we are, snug and com- fortable and as solitary in this place as if we were in the desert of Sahara. I have seen to it that we shall not be disturbed until we arrive at Boulogne.” A bell chimed midnight faintly, from many parts of the great city came the striking of the clocks; the guards cleared the platforms; the train moved out—faster, faster—but under the cold eyes of the wintry stars looking down on her despair. CHAPTER XXVI. A NIGHT RIDE. Tur starry night had changed to a dull and misty wintry morning. On the pier at Boulogne stood two. persons, looking about them while the officials were overhauling their baggage—a tall, fine-looking oung man and a pale, dark-eyed woman, They had erossed the Channel in the night and were just leaving the little steamer, to take the train for aris. The lady looked ill, but her features wore an ex- pression of indomitable will and resolution. Her companion’s manner to her was exceedingly kind _and attentive—nothing more. “T am afraid the roughness of the Channel has been too much for you,” observed he, remarking her paleness. “Tt is SaaS meat SY A few hours more and we will be in Paris! That thought sustains me.” He gave her a curious, searching look. ‘You do not care for him, do you?” he asked. “ Oarefor him! I love him as I love the serpent which has stung me. for years, long years, after he ceased to treat me with anything but cruelty, I did love him better than my own life. That love is a out—not a root remains. But—you know my fears! He has three days the start of us. In those three days he may have wrought a lifetime’s wretchedness for another. I think only of her. eae you must feel a more terrible anxiety than I do. Mr. Gray?” His clear ht met hers with a hopeful took. “I do not feel as troubled as | should think I would * figure emerging a mstances. It seemsto me that we under the ci \ : cannot fail, after. having EY over so much— — as if the angels wouid protect her I love for still an- other little while. Iam weighed down by suspense and dread, and yet I feel nothing like despair.” Their very light luggage having been permitted to pass they Seago to the railway station. Their train would not start for nearly an hour. Hearing that the train from Paris wasin, they had the curi- osity to watch the passengers disembark. ; “You get whiter and whiter—I fear you will give out, after all, Mrs. Bristow.” Shelooked up at him with a sad smile in her still beautiful eyes. “T have endured too much to give out now.” “How astonished Beryl will be to know that you are in the land of the living! She will refuse to be- lieve you other than a phantom! Jdid, you know, for some little time.” £ The lady shivered and caught at his arm. “Heaven grant thatIam never buried alive! I came near enough to it, that time! Ah, it was hor- rible, lying there in that trance of the body while my mind was as acutely active as ever! Lheard all that was said—knew all that was being done, yet I could not force an eyelash to quiver to save my life. The nightmare horrors of that ride in my coffin— all night in the cars, think of it!—are to be hardly thought of, much less described. Then the moment of agony, of suspense, when they opened the coffin- lid at home to pace on the poor, pale features of their lost eet t was 8 oe for yeaa? nope ance—the spell snap and gave way—lI sighe opened my eyes— Mr. Gray, Mr. Gray!” suddenty efianigtnie her tone to one of startling eagerness, “who is that?” “Where?” : Helen pointed, with a hasty motion, to the last from the train—that of a woman descending from the platform of the middle first- class car. Others also had noticed her, and quite a crowd was gathering about her—and no wonder! Tosee a young lady of the most extraordinary beauty, Jovely as a Peri, in full evening dress, her » dazzling with diamonds, only white slippers on her pretty feet, get out of a railroad train be surprising enough to excite the liveliest est. Add to that her deing alone—and to that the fact that her face was white as snow, her blue eyes wide open, with a wild, fixed expression, her rich dress more or less disordered, her whole appearance that of a person to whom some terrible thing had happened—or who was mad—and it can be faintly imagined what a sensation there was. The guard immediately stepped up to her, mo- tioning k the crowd; he knew what her husband had said about her not being ht in her head, and he indicated as much to the on-lookers. ** But, where is your husband?” he asked her. It was at this moment Helen drew the attention of her companion to the scene. “Ts not that—that is—”’ ‘My God, yes! Beryl!’ ‘What can have happened? What is she doing here? In ria dress?” He ennel did not stop to ask or answer questions; he hastened forward, and, in a moment, ban clasped Beryl’s cold hands in hissown. ; “Dear Bery!, 1am here! What is it?” She gave a low scream as she fell into his arms, “Take me away! take me away!”’ ** What is it, my poor darling? Has that scoundrel dared—” his voice choked. “Take me away! take me away!” she kept on moaning. “*My dear child, you have your friends here,” spoke Helen, too. ‘Tell us what we shall do,” Beryl Blaneed at her blankly. ‘It is you, Helen?’ she said, dully, too dead to everything about her to evince surprise that one she had thought to be moldering in her coffin, should thus appear before her in a far. Ri So city. “Yes, it is L heer up, dear girl; I have good news for you! I have succeeded in getting my di- voree annulled; Mr. Gray’s uncle took the case, and now, lam Norman Bristow’s wife once more, and you—are free.” ; The guard had pase the young lady for a mo- ment to examine the compartment of the car she had left. The crowd was still staring with un- quenched curiosity, at the group, wondering what strange, romantic episode was transpiring. A See officer or two stood looking on, 'The guard came runuing out of the compartment look- ing very much disturbed. He pointed to the young lady and said to the officers: , - ‘Arrest her! She ismad. She has murdered her husband!” There was a stir among the spectators; the cry ran from lip to lip. The police stepped forward and laid their hands on those Jovely shoulders covered only by the white opera-cloak. “Tt did not murder him,” said Beryl, with a look of horror, “he died. He has been dead two hours. Yes, for two_hours I have been shut up there with his corpse. Do you wonder that 1 am almost mad? Fennel, dear Fennel, save me from these men! Qh, this is a dreadful dream—a hideous dream! To have him by my side_dead—struck dead while he was tormenting me! It seemed to me I, too, should die, or lose my reason before these dreadful cars would stop. Fennel, these people must not touch would inter- e. “Tam afraid you will have to remain under arrest a short time, my darling; but they shall not molest you more than is necessary. A physician will be able to tell, immediately, what Mr. Bristow died of.” A low ge near him called his attention to Helen, who had sunk to her knees on the floor and buried her face in her hands, ‘‘ Poor Mrs, Bristow? it isa shock to her, after all!—she loved him once!

Page 27

1 hed ba aa a) pao? : ‘ aN _ ae” sa nate Pigs, o) - Ait ie me ey - } ; ’ 15 to 25 Dialogues and Dramas in each book. Laas Dramas and Readings. : ez 164 12mo Pages. 2 Cents. 3 oe For Schools, Parlors, Entertainments and the Am- ateur Stage, COREE Original Minor Doe * = Comedy, Farce, Dvess ces, Humorous 1 and Burlesque, by roted writers; and Recitations. and ings, new ;nd standard, of the : celebrity and interest. Edited by Prof, A. M. DIME HAND-BOOKS. Young Péople’s Series. | ors BeAvLe’s Dive Hanp-Booxs ror Youne PEOPLR cover a wide range of subjects, and are aspecially adapted to their end. Nf Ladies’ Letter-Writer, Book of Games, Gents’ Letter-Writer. Fortune-Teller. Book of Etiquette, Lovers’ Casket. oes: Book of Verses. Ball-room Companion, | Book of Dreams. Book of Beauty, = Hand-Books of Games. Handbook ef Summer Sports,. Book of Crequet. Yachting and Rowing, = Chess Instructor. Riding and Driving, Cricket and Football. Book of Ped Guide to Swimming. Paget aa Handbook of Winter Sports—Skating, ete = ’ Manuals for Housewives. = i Wee pet : one riba | wa ¥ s ecipe Book, . Dressmaking ani wey 3. Housekeeper’s Guide, linery. Poi ‘7p Be Lives of Great Americans ae ‘ee I.—George Washington. | VII.—David Crockett, ' Ly 1J.--John Paul Jones. VII.—Israel Putnam. TH,—Mad Anthony Wayne X.—-Tecumseh, = > TV.—Ethan Allen. XI.—Abraham Lincoln, — V.—Marquis de Tafay- | XI.—Pontiac. Se: ette, ViI.—Daniel Boone. ~* XUI.—Ulysses 8. Grant. Song Books, i Braptr’s Dare Sone Boors, Nos. 1 to 83, containing eee the only popular collection cf copyright songs. ae Paddy Whack Joke Book, 4 The above publications fo: b ; ‘sdeal bp p us for sale by 2 nome sN. Wily

Page 28

» ° 1 Adventures of Buffalo Bill. From Boyhood to Man _. hood. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. +» * 2 The Ocean Hunters; or, The Chase of the Leviathan. By . Captain Mayne Reid. An extra large number. 8% Adventures of Wild Bill, the Pistol Prince. Remarkable eareer of J. B. Hikok. By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham, 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. 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. The Flyaway Afloat; or, Yankee Boys ’Round the World. By C. Dunning Clark. Bruin Adams, Old Grizzly Adams’ Boy Pard. Col. Prentiss Ingraham. The Snow Trail; or, The Boy Hunters of Fur-Land. A Narra- tive of Sport and Life around Lake Winnipeg. By T. C. Harbaugh. Old Grizzly Adams, the Bear Tamer; or, The Monarch of the Mountain. By Dr. Frank Powell. By ‘ Club. By Capt. Frederick Whittaker. ‘ A Rolling Stone: Incidents in the Career on Sea and Land as Boy and Man, of Col. Prentiss Ingraham. By Prof.Wm. R. Eyster. Buffalo Range. By Ol] Coomes, wis Kit Carson, King of Guides; or, Mountain Paths and ee Prairie Trails. By Albert W. Aiken. 16 Red River Rovers; or, Life and Adventures in the Northwest. By ©. Dunning Clark. 17 Piaza and Plain; or, Wild Adventures of ‘‘ Buckskin Sam,” (Major Sam 8. Hall.) By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. » 18 Rifie and Revolver; or, The Littleton Gun Club on the Buffalo Range. By Capt. Frederick Whittaker. 19 Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. By Ed. Willett. _ 20 The Dashing Dragoon; or, The Story of General George A. : Custer, from West Point to the Big Horn. te 21 Deadwood Dick as a Boy ; or, Why Wild Ned Harris, the New I England Farm-lad, became the Western Prince of the Road. By Bat Edward L, Wheeler, re 22 The Boy Exiles cf Siberia. By T. C. Harbaugh. -- 23 Paul De Lacy, the French Beast Charmer; or, New Brice York Boysin the Jungles. By C. Dunning Clark. 24 The Sword Prince: The Romantic Life of Colonel Monstery, (American Champion-at-arms.) By Captain Fred. Whittaker. 25 Round the Camp Fire ; or, Snow-Bound at “Freeze-out Camp.” ; A Tale of Roving Joe and his Hunter Pards. By Jos. E, Badger, Jr. 26 Snow-Shoe Tom; or; New York Boys in the Wilderness. A - Narrative of Sport and Peril in Maino, By '. C. Harbaugh. sh . 27 Yellow Hair, the Boy Chief of the Pawnees. The Ad- Bg venturous Caréer of Eddie Burgess of Nebraska. By Col. Ingraham. - 28 The Chase of the Great White Stag and Camp and Se Canoe. By C. Dunning Clark. 29 The Fortune-Hunter; or, Roving Joe as Miner, Cow-Boy, an Trapper and Hunter. By A. H. Post. ¥ 30 Walt Ferguson’s Cruise. A Tale of the Antarctic Sea. By ¥ C. Dunning Clark. $1 The Boy Crusader; or, How a Page and a Fool Saved a King. ie By Captain Frederick Whittaker. BZ te Beaver, the Indian Medicine Chief: or, The Ro- mantic and Adventurous Life of Dr. D, Frank Powell, known on the Border as “ Fancy Frank,” ‘‘ Iron Face,” ete. By Col. P. Ingraham, Captain Ralph, the Young Explorer ; or, The Centipede 4 Among the Floes. By C. Dunning Clark. The Young Bear Hunters. A Story of the Haps and Mishaps of a Party of Boys in the Wilds of Michigan. By Morris Redwing. The Lost Boy Whalers ; or, In the Shadow of the North Pole. By T. C. Harbaugh. Sart Sim, the Lad with a Level Head. By Ed. Willett, Old Tar Knuckle and His Boy Chums; or, The Monsters _ of the Esquimaux Border. By Roger Starbuck. - The Settler’s Son; or, Adventures in. Wilderness and Clear- ing. By Edward 8, Ellis. 89 Night-Hawk George, and His Daring Deeds and Adventures i) the Wilds of the South and West. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. a0. The Ice Elephant; or, The Castaways of the Lone Coast. By ee Frederick Whittaker. Pampas Hunters; or, New York Boys in Buenos Ayres, By T.C. Harbaugh. Bron Young Land-Lubber. By C. Dunning Clark. - ronco Billy, the Saddle Prince. By Col P, Ingraham, a ; Ye Woods and Waters; or, The Exploits of the Littleton Gun | Adrift on the Prairie, and Amateur Hunters on the | By Capt. F. Whittaker. | By Barry’ 44 The Snow Hunters; or, Winter in the Woods. De Forrest, Jack, Harry and Tom, the Three Champion Brothers: or, Adventures of Three Brave Boys with the Tattooed Pirate. By Captain Frederick Whittaker. 45 46 The Condor Killers; or, Wild Adventures at the Equator. By T. C. Harbaugh. 47 The Boy Coral Fishers; or, The Sea-Cavern Scourge. By _- Roger Starbuck. ) 48 Dick, the Stowaway: or, A Yankee Boy’s Strange Cruise. By Charles Morris. Tip Tressell, the Floater; or, Fortunes and Misfortunes on the Mississippi. By Edward Willett. The Adventurous Life of Nebraska Charlie, (Chas. E. Burgess.) By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham, 51 The Colorado Boys; or, Life on an Indigo Plantation. Joseph E. Badger, Jr. 52 Honest Harry; Charles Morris. 53 The Boy Detectives; or, The Young Californians in Shanghai. By T. C. Harbaugh. 54 California Joe, the Mysterious Plainsman. By Col. Ingraham. 55 Harry Somers, the Sailor-Boy Magician. By 8. W. Pearce. 56 Nobody’s Boys; or, Life Among the Gipsies. By J. M. Hoff man. 57 The Menagerie Tlunter; or, Fanny Hobart, the Animal Queen. By Major H. Grenville, ‘‘Sea Gull.” 58 Lame Tim, the Mule Boy of the Mines. By Charles Morris. 59 Lud Lionheels, the Young Tiger Fighter. By Roger Starbuck. 60 The Young Trail Hunters; or, New York Boys in Grizzly Land, By T. C. Harbaugh. 61 The Young Mustangers. By C. Dunning Clark. 62 The Tiger Hunters; or, The Colorado Boys in Tiger-Land. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr. 63 The Adventurous Life of Captain Jack, the Border Boy. (John W. Crawford, the Poet Scout.) By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 64 The Young Mddseiunters ; or, Trail and Camp-fire in the New Brunswick Woods. By Wm. H. Manning. 65 Black Horse Bill, the Bandit Wrecker; or, Two Brave Boys to the Rescue. By Roger Starbuck, 49 50 By or, The Country Boy Adrift in the City. By @6 Little Dan Rocks; or, The Mountain Kid’s Mission, By Morris Redwing. 67 "Longshore Lije; or, How a Rough Boy Won His Way. By C. Dunning Clark. 68 Flatboat Fred; or, The Voyage of the “Experiment.” By Edward Willett. 69 The Deer-Hunters;. or, Life in the Ottawa Country. By John J. Marshall. 70 Kentucky Ben, the Long Rifle of the Plains; or, The Boy Trappers of Oregon, By Roger Starbuck. 71 The Boy Pilot; or, The Island Wreckers. By Col. Ingraham. 72 Young Dick Talbot. By Albert W. Aiken. — 73 Pat Mulloney’s Adventures; or, Silver Tongue, the Dacotah Queen. By C. L. Edwards. 94 The Desert Rover; or, Stowaway Dick Among the Arabs. By Charles Morris. "5 The Border Gunmaker; or, The Hunted Maiden. L. Bowen. "6 The Kit Carson Club; west. By T. C. Harbaugh. YY Left-Handed Pete, the Double-Knife. By James or, Young Hawkeyes in the North- By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. %8 The Boy Prospector ; or, The Scout of the Gold Ravine. By Roger Starbuck. "9 Minonee, the Wood Witch; or, The Squatter’s Secret. By Edwin Emerson, 80 The Boy Cruisers; or, Joe and Jap’s Big Find. Ey Edward Willett. A New Issue Every Week. Brapie’s Boy’s Lisrary is for sale by all Newsdealers, five cents. per copy, or sent by mail on receipt of six cents each. BEADLE AND ADAMS, PusLisHERs, 98 William Street, New York. .

Page 29

f “ Ses, b to 28 inclusive. 15 to 25 Popular Dialogues and Pramas in each boek. Each volume 100 12me pages, sem post-paid, on receipt of price, TEN CENTS, = BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William St., N. Y. These volumes have been prepared with especial reference to their availability for Exhibitions, being adapted to schools and parlors with : er without the furniture of a stage, and suited to SCHOLARS AND YOUNG PEOPLE of every age, both male and female. It is fair to assume £ that no other books in the market, at any price, contain so many useful and available dialogues and dramas of wit, pathos, humor and sentiment, Dime Dialogues, No. 1, ‘Young America. For three males and two females, | The Golden Rule, For two males and two females, Josephine’s Destiny. For four females, one male, The Gift of the F. Queen. For several femaies, Meeting of the Muses. For nine young ladies, The Folly of the Duel. For three male speakers, Taken in and Donefor. For two characters. Baiting a Live Englishman. For three boys. Dogmatism. For three male speakers. Country Aunt’s Visit to thé City. Several characters, Tasso’s Coronation. For male and female. The Ignorant Confounded. For two boys. The Two Romans. For two males. Fashion. For two ladies, The Fast Young Man. Fortwo males. Trying the Characters. For three males, The rehee For six pave. The Year’s Reckoning, Twelve females, one male, | The appy Family. For several ‘! animals,” Mes wae will you Choose? For two boys. The Village with One Gentleman, Foreight females | The Rainbow. For several characters. = The Queen of Rak For two little girls, and one male, How to write “‘ Popular ’,Stories. For twe males. : reas Hstaa Wasciie Tie 5 cease and tpn i Gonention at Lage "Por bee eagle e Scenes in ne e. For male and female, i A Sensation at Last. For two males, ; ‘ Mrs. Sniffies’s Confession. For male and female. Dime Dialogues, No. 2. The Greenhorn, For two males. . The Mission of the Spirits. For five young ladies. The Genius of Liberty. Two males and one female, | The Three Men of Science. For four maies, Hobnobbing. For five speakers. Cinderella, or, the Little Glass Slipper. The Old Lady’s Will. For four males. ; Tee Secret of Success. For three speakers. Doing Good and Saying Bad, For savers characters, ; The Little peg ie For two little girls, | How to Find an Heir, For five males, ‘ nf The Virtues. For six young ladies. “ A Connubial Eclogue. j The Public Méeting. For five males and onefemak, — ; The English Traveler. For two males, ORe Dime Dialogues, No. 3. . The May Queen, For an entire school. ae Dress Reform Convention. For ten females, “a Keeping Bad Company, A Farce. For five ‘ Courting Under Difficulties, Two males, one female, The Battle Call. A Recitative. For one male, in . : cf i f . ~" re ¥ The Frost ee For.ten or more versons. a oes 3 ‘ Starting in Life, For three males and twofemales ; Faith, Hope and Charity. For three little girls, <3 Darby and Joan. For two males and one female. + eg The May. A Floral Fancy. For Six little giris. The Enchanted Princess. 2 males, se | females, wh Honor to Whom Honor is Due: 7 males and i female a? The Gentle Client. Several males and one female. FR Phrenology. A Discussion. For twenty males, ‘i The Stubbletown Volunteer. 2males and 4 female, — A Scene from “‘ Paul Pry.” Forfourmales, — ~~ The Charms. For three males and one female. eee Bee, Clock and‘Broom__ For three little caehoy : “) The Right way. A Colloquy. For two e wa What the er Says. For two : oe The Crimes of Dress. A Co y- For ae boys. aa The Reward of Benevolence. For four : The Letter. For two males, Dime Dialogues, No. 5. BEADLE ASD ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST NY. The Three Guesses. For school eee. lL. General Dime Book Publishers. | | Rebels gr ceena The Schoolboys’ T

Page 30

ey, ‘our males, ‘or three females, Dime Dialegues, No. 22. . on Dark . _ For 8 Gentlemen and 2 ladies. Ghat Never ell. Two males and two females. : Art, For two girls. St Adventures, For two boys. F we ’'s Supper. For four — eal Hxemplification. For two boys. * Mitana’ # Banquet. For a number of girls. Monsiear Thiers in America. For four boys. iD ot cin For three females and a num- | her o ciden A man. For two ladies and one gentleman. Gras | Be Bo For two boys ee one girl. erty Day. For three 4 | ve, Fora num te: Rese el Ayer Eo ay He Managed. For tyro males, two females. ‘Fandango. Yor various characters, white and other- ittle Doctor, For two tiny girls. Hp "Sweat Revenge. For four pg A May Day. Yor three little ; . From The oa a The Ri me For 14 males. Heart Not Face. For five boys. Dime Dialogues, No. 23. Rhoda Hunt’s Remedy. For three females, one male, J ae Schmidt’s Recommend. For two males. and Grumble. For two little boys. The Phantom Doughnuts. For six females. Does it Pay? For six males. Company Manners and Home Impoliteness. For two mm at two females and two dren, The Glad Da For two little boys. ; : Unfortunate Mr. Brown. For one male, six females. +h e¢ Real cost. For two girls. ; A Bear Garden. For ren males and two females, ' ‘The Busy Bees. For four little girls. _. Checkmate. For numerous characters. chool-Time. ¥or two little girls. th Scene. Two principal characters and adjuncts, ross and Gold. Several characters, male and female. nfound Miller. nore “Ignorance vs. Justice. For eleven males. ees nis All, For four males. and one male. For three males and two females. | D Ae TEE STANDARD. DIME DIALOGUES. —Continued. Breage. Dime Walsgact No. 24. The Goddess of Liberty. For nine young ladies The Three Graces. For three little girls. The Music Director. Wor seven te A Strange Secret. For three An Unjust Man. For four males. The Shop Girl’s Victory. For 1 male and 3 females. The Psychometiser. For 2 gentlemen and 2 ladies. Mean Is No Word For It. For four ladies. Whimsical. A number of characters of both sexes. Blessed Are the Peace-makers. Seven young girls. The Six Brave Men. For six boys. Have You Heard the News? A gossip’s catastrophe. The True Queen. A colloquy in verse. 2 young girls. A Slight Mistake. 4 males, 1 female, and several auxiliaries. Lazy and Busy. A dialogue in rh a 10 little fellows. The Old and the F pang. 1 gentleman and 1 little girl. That Postal Card. For 3 ladies and 1 gentleman. Mother Goose and Her Household. A whole — fancy dress dialogue and travestie. Dime Dialogues, No. 25. The Societies of the Delectables and Les Miserables. For two ladies and two gentlemen. What — Would Have. For six little boys and Sunshine Through the Clouds. For four ladies. The Friendin Need, For four males. The Hours. For twelve little girls. | In Doors and Out. For five little boys. Dingbats. For one female and three males, The Pound of Flesh. For three boys. Beware of the Peddlers. For seven mixed characters, Good Words. For a number of boys. A Friend. _For a number of little Pirie The True Use of Wealth. For a whole school. Gamester. For numerous characters. Put Yourself In His Place. For two boys. Little Wise Heads. For four little girls. The Regenerators. For five boys. Crabtree’s Wooing. For several characters. Integrity the Basis of All Suecess. For two males. A Crooked Way Made Straight. Gentleman and lady. How to ‘‘Break In” Young Hearts. For two ladies and one gentleman, Dime Dialogues, No. 26. Poor Cousins. For three ladies and two gentlemen. pte and Mole-hills. For six ladies and several spec A Test That Did Not ets For six boys. Two Ways of Seeing T nes. For two VTittle girls. on’t Count Your Chickens Before They Are Hatched. For four ladies and a boy. ; oi 4 a Allis Fair,in Love and War. 3 ladies « 2 sepileman. How Uncle Jesh Got Rid of the Le; acy ‘or two males, with severalitransformatio The Lesson of Mercy. For two very Practice What You'Preach. *For four he. Politician. For numerous characters. The Canvassing Agent. For 2 males eatd 2 females, Grub. For two males. A Pee Seare. For 3 females and 1 male. Embodied Sunshine. For three young ladies. How Jim Peters Died. For two males. Dime Dialogues, No. 27. and 1 femate, Patsey O’Dowd’s Campaign. 3 males umerous boys Hasty Inferences Not Always Just. Discontented Annie. For several girls A Double Surprise. For four males and one female. What Was It? For five ladies. What Will Cure Them. For a lady and two boys, Independent. For numerous characters. Each Season the Best. For four boys. Tried and Found Wanting. For several m The Street Girl’s Good Angel. 2 ladies & 2 hte ehads, A Boy’s Plot. For several characters. bp That Woeratecol Little Nigger.” For two males. If I Had the Money. For three little girls. Appearances Are Deceitful. Several ladies & 1 gent, Leve’s Protest. For two little girls. An Enforced Cure. For severa characters, Those Who Preach and those Who Perform,’ 3 males, A Gentle Conquest. For two young girls. Dime Dialogues, No. 28. A Test that Told. For six ladies and two gents. \ Organizing a Debating Society. For four boys. The Awakening. For four little girls. — Rebuke Proper. For three gentlemen gnd two adies. Exorcising an Evil Spirit. For six ladies. Both Sides of the Fence. For four males. The Spirits of the Wood. For two troupes of girls. No Room forthe Drone. For three Tittle } boys. Arm-chair. For numerous characters. F Measure for Measure. For four girls. Saved mee Dream, For two males and two females, An Infallible Sign. For four boys A good Use for money. For six Miittle girls. An Agreeable Profession. For several characters. For sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent, post- paid, to any addreas, on receipt of price, ten cents, BEADLE AND ADAMS, Pustisuers, 98 William Street, New York. ee THE DIME SPEAKERS, u Bet SS PO ech <7 Mh. Numbers 1 to 23, inclusive. Each | deans 100 pages eg ve containing from 50 to 75 pieces, pre Dime ie a a, No. A. a s Jeboom’s Oration, A Dutch gat ‘ay Rights Enjoys, “Ina Just C sion. A Tale of a Mouse, ( A Th iving Sermon, reat, The Cost of Riches, Yi SOA and Ris’g, | Great Lives Imperishable A, Ward’s Oration, The Prophecy forthe Y’r ' Prue Nationality, Ui ed Problems, ane - Solte hss “te Honor to the ge Kare Immortality of Patriots, AS Percitine the “gist o Webster’s lit 1 System, e War, A. Ae te in the Forum, Ne Site = eS ot ea Wi aseasts ights, " Y eens, Railroad “| Bist of the Governed, Case of Mr, Macbeth, My Ladder, bapa <3 na Phreno ee Lee, one, : Re Bee 's Sites The Rebellion of 1861, __,_ he Sailor Boy’s Syren, | Disunion. Dime National Speaker, No. 2. and its ts, Tecumseh’s Speech, Country’s Future, Territorial Expansion, e Statesman’s Labors, bd Ho Immortality, c) Bashftl Man Man’s Story, | Lot the Childless Weep, | The Matter-of-FactYMau, Our Oountry’s Glory. Rich yoke on. Poor, : Seeing the Ech lane! Git of a an, The Rais-of oe Poe ne Sie of U.S., Three Fools, ed ty, | SES ora Sm Wise, Pound Hook No Peace with ‘Oppres- Ohio, | Murder Will Out, Oliver Hazard Perry, | Strive for the Best, Our Domain Karly Rising, lage of Belief, D of Kindness, Indian Chief, eae of Sleep, The Independent’ Farmer le, Mrs. Grammar’s. Ball, A A ttep : Gem. How the poey Comes, Purity of the Struggle, Future of the Fashions, | Old Age, ; Loyalty to Liberty, Beautiful and True, Our Céuntry First, Last, | The Worn of the Still, Brush Tea nar i bert 2 ot th Wag uence, € e e, Defense of J efferson, Womnneton, National Hatreds, The Deluge.’ ‘Dime Patriotic Speaker, No. 3. America to the World, be he Love of Country, T Weashors dress, Right of Self-Preserva- We Owe to the Union, Our Cause, {tion, | Lincoin’s M pmene A Kentuekian’s appeal, ~~ ho oe Stephen Kentucky Steadfast, th gs Timidity is Treason, Great Be Roland, The Alarum, The New Year and the April 15, 1861, Cotton, [Union, The Spirit of 61, Battle Anthem, The Precious Heritage, |The Ends of Peace, The Irish oe phe taper | the Watehword Train’s Re Crisis of Our Nation, Christy’s peech, D of Christian Pa- Let Me Alone, ots, Brigand-ier-General, Turkey Dan’s Oration, Union Squ one he Onus of Sis nion Square nus very. e Union, ” | A Foreigner’s Tribute, Our ne gs Rt The Little Zouave, The Story of an Oak Tree, | Catholic Cathe L-e-g On My Leg, e ‘‘ Speculators.” * Dime Comic Speaker, No. 4. ate , ee uiterek ' Romeo and Juliet, © Blun’ nside pepyinces, Early Rising, _ The Wasp and the Bee Comic Grammar, No. t, A ee Eul I’m Not a fb A How to be a agium, A. War : e United States, Puft's Ace’t of ‘of Hiaelt, SRC. V. Onsnnvata oF GOD APEHOn, Se Practical Piri Brian O’Linn, Beautif Crockett to Office-seekers Cabbag' Who Is M nl! me Political Stazmp ’S eiahie Peoplh Comic Grammar. Whatis a epee ? Woe wanny Folk Farewell to the Bottle,’ f Woe, e Cork Leg, Weeds Trip to Richm’d, The Smack in Schoo Parody, Slick's Definition of t Wife, The Mountebank, — of a Hat, po ng Inte The Debating Club, Mey eg he af the Feet, A Dutch Sermon, Lecture on Locomotion, The Opies Toilet, Mrs. Caudle on Umbr'lla, Dime Hisduttonist, No. 5. SEC. I. Priucretes or Tror Envuncration,—Faults in Enunciation; How to Avoid Them. Special Rules and Observations. SEC. I. Tae Arr or OrArory. Sheridan’s List of Loan Seng Tranquillity, Cheerfulness, Mirth, Raillery, B ipa, EAN Joy, Delight, Gravity. In- uiry, a age 0 Pe med Pity, Grie’ flelaricho A fear, sha fg dea Courage, patnaey, atin. Commani roading, OP panna g, Denyi Difference, Gog. Jods ng, Approv- ing, ogkdtie “Coidemning, Ee tens Pardon: | gg Bo . Refusing, Granting, =. posers, anern ope, Desire, Love, Re : Pig. Wonder’ Admiration, Gratitude, Cu Sertealin Tempting, rages iad a- tion? Hoty er Intoxication, Anger, etc. SEC. HI. Tam Component Bremenns ow AN ORA- foe ulen, of Lia: er reggtiond as applied to Words ; ed Phrases, viz ty, Propriety, Precision, As applied te Sentences, viz. : ieugle of Sentence, Clearness, Unity, Stren s of hi; ‘the ixprdénrn the Narration, the Proposition,’ the Sete: ers and Refatation » the Peroration, SEC. IV. ES IN PROSE AND pee in ee VERSE. ation: on? A. A Plea for the Ox; Falstaff’s Soliloquy on Leong Mig Buria’ of Lincoln; the . and Reseonse C) onet Charge; Histo of a Life le; th eels; Byro nh: Macbeth end fhe bageor Hale's Soll ay: Old nes WwW wy Essa Outo Musil; Discoveries of Galiteo.

Page 31

NO? oo J a 7 * ‘ age ee ee eee ee - fetes yin See . t ' RSA OE s ‘THE DIME SPEAKERS.—Continued. eee ee ee ee eee . Dime Humorous eaker, No. 6. The Neck, The Blarney Stone, The Cold-water Man, John Thompson’s Daw Sp m Foggy Thoughts, The Student-of men Permanency of States,’ | House ae, Ree . 4 Sad Story, Poetry Run Mad, The Ladies’ Man, The Broken Household, | Liberty of Speech, . It Is Not Your ess, A String of Onions, Right Names, Life, The Bible, . A Tragic Story, Scientific Lectures, The Idler, 'The Purse and the Sword Dime Juvenile Speaker, No. 9. Cats, The Ager, The Unbeliever, My Country, A. Boy's’ Philosoph H SY haan The Cockney, | The Two Lives, ‘True Moral Courage, ing Bak aly ow the Raven Became =: Di The Codfish, The True Scholar, What is War? Hoe Out Your Row, SS) yi Devi Sy } Fate of Sergeant Thin, Judges not Infallible, Butter, Six-Year-Old’s Protest, | A Mother’s Work, _ Dow, Jr.'s Lectures, The Features’ Quarrel, Fanaticism, My Deborah Lee, The Suicidal Cat, The Same, : igo and Echo, Hamerican Voodchuck, | Instability of Successful | The Race, A. Valediction, Who Rules, v - Jashionable Women, The Harp of a Thousand | Agriculture, [Crime, | he Pin and Needle, Popping Corn, A Sheep Story, ern Thisties, Strings, Ireland, | The Modern Puritan, .» > | Le Editor,. A Little Correspondent, é pod-Nature, The Last of the Sarpints, | The People Always Con- / Immortality of the Soul, The Same, in rhyme, One Good Turn Deserves | otilich Klebeyergoss The March to Moscow, Music of Labor, © [quer, | Occupation, The Fairy Shoemaker, |My Dream, Another, Schlackenlichter's snake, | The Mysterious Guest, Prussia and Austria, Heroism and Daring, What Was Learned, LN, osea. Biglow's Opinions, | The Pump, Wishing. A Shot at the Decanter, | Press On, Uil Never Use Tobacco, How the Money Goes, The Sage eer if The Horse, A Mosaic, , Hun-ki-do-ri’s Fourth of | The Secret, : ea The Snake in the Grass, | The Old Bachelor, ire July Oration The Shoemaker, Dime Stump Speaker, No. 8. Tale of the Tropics, —— to Light, ny If you Mean No, Say No, | The Useful Doctor, Hon. J. M. Stubbs’ Views | New England and Union, | Bromley’s Speech, Little Jim, i Jo Bows on Leap Year, || The Waterfa on the Situation, The Unseen Battlefield, The Same, second extract | Angelina’s Lament, Lay of the Henpecked, | To the Bachelors’ Union | Hans Schwackheimer on | Plea for the Republic, The Fisher’s Child, Johnny Shrimps on Boots Lot Skinner’s Elegy, League, Woman's Suffrage, America, (Fallacy, Shaks ian Scholar, Mercy, Matrimony, United States Presidents, | All for a Nomination “Right of Secession” a A Maiden’s Psalm of Life, | Choice of Hours, Nothing to Do ‘| Vagaries of Popping the | Old Ocean, Sea, | Life’s Sunset, A Mixture, Poor Richard’s Sayings, Old Caudle 's Umbrella, Question, The Sea,the Sea, the open | Human Nature, Plea for Skates, Who Killed Tom Roper, Old Grimes’s Son, What I Wouldn’t Be, Star Bangled Spanner, | Lawyers, Playing Ball, Nothing to wee - Eee Your Own Canoe, | Yankee Doodle Aladin, | Stay Where You Belong, | Wrongs of the Indians, a; do ; Honesty Best Policy, arady on “ Araby’s | Ze Moskeetare, Life’s What You Make It, | Appeal in behalf of Am; | Live for ee paps i foes Daughter, 1933. Where’s My Money, ries of War,{Liberty, | Lay of the Hen-Pecked, | Ho for the Fields; _ y Speech from Conscience, | A Lay Sermon, The Outside Dog, Fashion on the Brain. os Dime Standard Speaker, No. 7. an’s Relation to Society | A Dream, Wolf and Lamb, On Shanghais, ae The W . The Limits to Happiness, | Astronomical, -- Lion in Love, A Smile, 1 ae Wo, orld We Live In, | John Burns, Gettysburg, | Good-nature a Blessing, | The Moon, {zens, | Frogs Asking for a King, | Casabianca. | Aan Aenea 8 Claims, No Sect in Heaven, Sermon from Hard-shell | Duties of American Citi- | Sick Lion, : powcr Soup, 5 Tees of our Liberty, | Miss Prude’s Tea-Party, | Tail-enders, [Baptist, | The Man, Country and Town Mice, | Nose and Eyes, The Real Con ueror, The Power of an Idea, The Value of Money, Temptations of Cities, Man and Woman, — , ren [Come, €Citizen’s Heritage, . | The Beneficence of the | Meteoric Disquisition, Broken Resolutions, Home, A Hundred Years to ; taly, * . : D The Lotus-Planter, The Madman and his («| | it r _ | Suffrage, Sea, | Be Sure You are Right, There is no Death, 5 ; ‘The Mechanic D £ the Revel B {ood C Little Things. Little Sermons, [Razor, N : ream of the elers, e of Good Cheer. Races, : 4 Priure and Nature's God | HowCyrus Laid the Cable | Crabbed Folks, (Shrew, | A Fruitful Discourse, A Baby’s Soliloquy, Snuffles on Electricity, | ae Modern Good, [Sun, | The Prettiest Hand, Taming a Masculine| A Frenchman’s Dinner, | Re ee The Two.Cradles, Ks - = howe S Address to the | Paradoxical, Farmers, [Our Country, | Unjust National Aequi’n, | 4 Plea for Eggs The Ocean Storm, Wee. ependence Bell—1777, | Little Jerry, the Miller, The True Greatness of | The Amateur Coachman, | Humbug Patriotism, Do Thy Little—Do itWell v Night After Christmas, Little Puss, i Tee Short Legs, Base-Ball, '' [Rever: 9% etaitemenaneemence rere Shrimps on Amusements, | Prescription for Spring. ‘ oie Dime Spread-Eagle Speaker, No.10. Ben Buster’s Oration, Drum-head Sermons, | Hans Von Spiegel’s 4th, Schnitzerl’s Philosopede, Lan teat ’ Josh Billings’s Advice, ““Woman’s Rights,’ Se A Hard-shell Sermon, Luke Lather, nt eg The Boots, The Hog, ; “a Nob tnd the Devil, Now Roland testsohe. Om oah and the De ew Englan i ae ‘ A Lover’s Luc The ereclout Bachelor, _ Hifalutin Adolphus Jacob. Whittle’s Speec aS ao" Digestion and aradise, Jerks Prognosticates, —% Distinction’s Disadvant- | A Word with Snooks, eee mith. {ages, | Sut rN do P Ay Gushalina Bendibus, A Mule Ride, 1 i A Stock of Notions, Josh Billings on Buzzers, a Speaking for the Sheriff, | Il Trovatore, at ue Daking a Shweat, Kissing in the Street, vee Then and Now. Scandalous, : pee Josh Billings's Lecturing, | Slightly Mixed, og eg Doctor De Blister’s Ann’t, | The Office-seeker, == WwW Cone ents, ie Bachelors, a Aa faves, oman, ; Ng Dan Bryant’s Speech, The Niam Niams, voy A Colored View, People Will Talk, . f Original Maud Muller, Swackhamer’sBal | Nobody. Who Wouldn’t be Viren, Train of Circumstances, | Don’t Depend on Dadda,’ +4 _ | Good raceme Music of bor, | 2 eee The liching Palm, The American Ensign, JUST PUBLISHED, CONTAINING 17 NEW DIALOGUES. Its Offi d Usefuln Permanent O ae ce and Use Formation of, °SSs | ‘The Order of . Constitution of, — Considering Re : Their Powers,. eaten oe ee Renmaed) 0 Prerequisites to Oratori- | When NottoSit, 9 4 , cal Success. R les of Order and Pro- mia 4¥ The Logic of Debate, Hoe enw 3 a: The Rhetoric of Debate, The Gommittes of ike Bes > Maxims to Observe, Whole eae oe The Preliminary Premise, Miscellan j eS ee Order of Argument, Treatinent of Sot ee Summary. ‘ aes Date, wr . The Decorum of Debate, — r1.—CHAmRMAN’s GUIDE. | Hints to a Chairman, Kn Cie as Iv.—DEparms. art Ee The Organization, Debate in full: — _ ‘ Order of Business and | Which is the Benefit_to his C Howit|—the Warrior, or Poet? ? : Racal : fit or a. e to Be ciety? ea QGonvyen-| v.- _ | DIALOGUES No. 29. , BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM STREET, N. Y. ‘ | General Dime Book Publishers, |

Page 32

wore 8 i erley Library. “, J ra | American Copyright Novels and the Cream of Foreign Novelists, Unabridged, FOR FIVE CENTS! The Cheapest Library Ever Published!. # i Fhe Masked B ide; or, Will She Marry Him? By Mrs. Mary Reed: Crowell. 2 Was It Love? or, Collegians and Sweet- hearts. By Wna. Mason Turner, M. D. 3 The Girl Wife. By Bartley T. Campbell. 4 A Brave Mearty; or, Startlingly Strange, 5 Al se Age Southworth. essie Raynor, the Work Girl. B “William Mason Turner, M. D. oy 6 The Secret Marriage. By Sara Claxton. 7A Daughter of Eve; or, Blinded by Love. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 8 Heart to Meart. By Arabella Southworth. 9 Alone in the Worlds; or, The Young Man’s i Ward. By the author of “Clifton,” etc. 10 A Pair of Gray Eyes. By Rose Kennedy. 11 Entangled; or, A Dangerous Game. y Henrietta Thackeray. ; 12 His Lawful Wife; or, Myra, the Child of Adoption. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens. ‘13 Madcap, the Little Quakeress; or, The Naval Cadet’s Wooing. By Corinne Cushman. 14 Why I Married Him, By Sara Claxton. 15 A Fair Face3 or, Out in the World. By Bartley T. Campbell. 16 Trust Her Not; or, A True Knight. By | Margaret Leicester. 17 A Loyal Lover, 18 His idol Mrs. Mary By Arabella Southworth. 3 or, The Ill-Starred Marriage. By Reed Crowell. 19 The Broken Betrothals or, Love versus | Hate. By Mary Grace Halpine. 20 Orphan Nell, the Orange Girl}s or, The ‘ Lost Heir. By Agile Penne. 21 Now and Worever3 or, Why Did She Mar- iy Him? By Henrietta Thackeray. 22 The Bride of am Actor. By the author of “ Alone in the World,” *‘ Clifton,” etc. 23 Leap Wear; or, Why She Proposed. By Sara | ‘Claxton. : 24 Her Face Was Her Fortune. By Elea- nor Blaine. 25 Only a Schoolmistress; or, Her Untold Secret. By Arabella Southworth. 26 Without a Heart. By Col. P. Ingraham. 27 Was She a Coquette? or, A Strange By Henrietta Thackeray. Courtship. 28 Sybil Chase; or, The Gambler’s Wife. By | rs. Ann. §. Stephens. 29 For Her Dear Sake, 30 The eens Girl, 31 A Mad Marriage. ByMary A. Denison 32 Mariana, the Prima Donna; or, Roses and Lilies. By Arabella Southworth. . 33 Whe Three Sisters. By Alice Fleming. id 34 A Marriage of Convenience; or, Was : He a Count? By Sara Claxton. All Against Her. By Clara Augusta. Sir Archer’s Bride; or, The Queen of His Heart. By Arabella Southworth, The Country Cousin. Rose Kennedy. 8 His Own Again 5 or, Trust Her Not. B ‘ Arabella Southworth. 4 39 Flirtation; or, A Young Girl’s Good Name. “ By Jacob Abarbanell, (Ralph Royal.) 40 Pledged to Marry. By Sara Claxton. 41 Blind Devotion. By Alice Fleming. 42 Beatrice, the Beautiful; or, His Second , Love. By Arabella Southworth. 43 The Baronet’s Secret; or, The Rival Half- Sisters. By Sara Claxton. By Sara Claxton, By Agile Penne. 5 6 7 44 The Only Daughter 3 or, Brother against ‘ Lover. . By Alice Fleming. 45 Wer Hidden Foe; or, Love At All Odds. By Arabella Southworth. 46 The Little Heiress; or, Under a Cloud. By Mrs. Mary A. Denison. 47 Because She Loved Him; or, How Will ; It End? By Alice Fleming. 48 In Spite of Herself; or, Jeannette’s Repa- ration. By S. R. Sherwood. 49 His Heart’s Mistress; or, Love at First Sight. By Arabella Southworth. 60 The Cuban Heiress; or, The Prisoner of La Vintresse. By Mrs. Mary A, Denison, 561 Ywo Woung Girls; or, The Bride of an : Earl. By Alice Fleming. 52 The Winged Messenger; or, Risking All for a gre By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 53 Agmes ope, the Actress. By William ason Turner, M, D 64 One Woman’s Meart; or, Saved from the Street. By George 8S. Kaime. 55 She Did Not Love Him; or, Stooping to Ke Conquer. By Arabella Southworth. Love-Mad 5 —. and —. 67 A Brave 58 The Ebon. Mask; or, The Mysterious Guardian. By Mis. Mary Reed Crowell. 59 A Widow’s Wiles; or, A Bitter Vengeance. . _. By Rachel Bernhardt. 60 Cecils Deceit; or, The Diamond Legacy. 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 E. Porter. os 64 What Jealousy Did. By Alice Fleming, 65 The Wife’s Secret. By Col. Juan Lewis. iy omy My x Wine - s or, Betrothed, Married, Divorced Wm. Mason Turner, M. D irl, By Alice Fleming. b y; ¥ ~ Mei Z, 1 al * ¢ ' OP OE ee ee AT a A ae eee Vd Pg eee Pe MERE PRE en Oe 66 A Brother’s Sin; or, Flora’s Forgiveness. By Rachel Bernhardt. 67 Forbidden Bans. By Arabella Southworth. 68 Weavers and Wett. By M.E. Braddon. 69 Camille; or, The Fate of a Coquette. By Alexandre Dumas, 70 The Two Orphans. By D’Enery. 71 my Young Wife. By My Young Wife’s usband. 72 The Two Widows. By Annie Thomas. 73 Kose Michel; or, The Trials of a Factory Girl. By Maud Hilton. 74 Cecil Castlemaine’s Gage; or, The Story of a Broidered Shield. By Ouida. 75 — Black Lady of Duna. By J.S. Le anu. 76 Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. Rowson. %7 Christian Oakley’s Mistake. By the author of ‘‘ John Halifax, Gentleman,” ete. 78 My Young Husband; or, A Confusion in the Family. By Myself. TOA ueen Amongst Women. By the author of ‘‘ Dora Thorne,” etc., ete. SO Her Lord and Master. By Florence Marryat. 81 Lucy Kemple, Sister of Charlotte. 82 A Long Time Ago. By Meta Orred. 83 Playing for High Stakes. Thomas. By the author of By Annie 84 The Laurel Bush, “John Halifax, Gentleman.” 85 Led Astray. By Octave Feuillet. 86 Janet’s Repentance. By George Eliot. | $7 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 The Authors Daughter. Howitt. 91 Whe Jilt. By Charles Reade. . 92 Bileen Alanna; or, the Dawning of the Day. By Dennis O’Sullivan. 93 Love’s Victory. By B. L. nie? oh 94 The Quiet Heart. -By Mrs. Oliphant. 95 Lettice Arnold. By Mrs. Marsh. 96 Haunted Hearts. By Rachel Bernhardt. 97 Wugh Melton, By Katharine King. 98 Alice Learmont. By Miss Mulock. By Mary 99 ie tg Bruee’s Lovers. By Mary atric. 100 Through Fire and Water. By Fred- erick Talbot. 101 Hannah. 102 Pee Woffington. By Charles Reade. 103 A Desperate Deed. By Erskine Boyd. 104 Shadows on the Snow. By B. L. Far- By Mss Mullock. eon. 105 Phe Great Hoggarty Diamond. By W. M. Thackeray. Waking. By E. 136 Was She His Wife? By Mrs. Mary Reed _ 106 From Dreams to Lynn Linton. 107 Poor Zeph! By F. W. Robinson. 108 he Sad Fortunes of the Rev. Amos Barton. By George Eliot. 109 Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses. By B. L, Farjeon. 110 The Wandering Heir. By Charles Reade. 111 The Brother’s Bet; or, Within Six Weeks. By Emilie Flygare Carlen. 112 A Hiero. By Miss Mulock. 113 Paul and Virginia, From the French of Bernardin De St. Pierre. 114 °Ewas In Trafalgar’s Bay. By Wal- ter Besant and James Rice. i. 115 The Maid of Killeena. By Wm. Black.’ 116 Hetty. By Henry Kingsley. : 1 17 The ayside Cross; or, The Raid of Gomez. By Captain E. A. ‘Milman. By Oliver By Annie Thomas. By Miss Jane The Wicar of Wakefield. Goldsmith. Maud Mohan. 120 Thaddeus of Warsaw. Porter. 121 The King of No-Land. By B. L. Far- jeon. 122 Lovel, the Widower. By W. M. Thack- eray. ‘ 128 Am Island Pearl. By B. L. Farjeon. 124 Cousin Phillis, 125 Leila; or, The Siege of Grenada. By Ed- ward Bulwer (Lord Lytton). 126 When the Ship Comes Home. By Walter Besant and James Rice. 127 One of the Family. By James Payn. 128 Whe Birthright, By Mrs. Gore. 129 Motherless 3 or, The Farmer’s Sweetheart, By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. A ‘ 130 Homeless; or, Two Orphan Girls in New | York. By Albert W. Aiken. ; 131 Sister against Sister; or, The Rivalry c? Hearts. By Mrs, Mary Reed Crowell. 132 Sold for Gold, By Mrs, M. V. Victor. 133 Lord Roth’s Sin. By, Georgiana Dickens. 134 eae He Love Her? By Bartley T. Camp- ell. 118 119 135 Sinned Against. By Lillian Lovejoy. - <9 ue 1 7 ~ ’ * : Ay p Crowell. The Village on the Cliff. By Miss Thackeray. / or, The Broken Troth. Poor Valeria! By Margaret Blount. Margaret Graham. By G. P. RK. James. Without Mercy. By Bartley T.Campbell. Honor Bound. By Lillian Lovejoy. Fleeing from Love. By Mrs. Harriet Irving. Abducted; or, A Wicked Woman’s Work. By Rett Winwood. : ; A Strange Marriage. By Lillian Lovejoy. 5 Two Girl’s Lives. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. A Desperate Venture}; or, For Love’s Own Sake. By Arabella Southworth. The War of Hearts. By Corinne Cush- man. 148 Which Was the Woman ? or, Strangely Misjudged. By Sara Claxton. 149 An Ambitious Girl; or, She Would Be An Actress. By Frances Helen Davenport. 150 Love Lord of All. By Alice May Fleming. 151 A Wild Girl. By Corinne Cushman, 152 A Man’s Sacrifice. By Harriet Irving. 153 Did She Sin. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 154 Mle 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 Girl’s Heart. By Rett Winwood. 158 A Bitter Mistake; or, A Young Girl's Folly. By Agnes Mary Shelton. 159 Lady Helen’s Vow; or, The Mother’s Secret. By the Late Mrs. &. F. Ellet.- 160 Buying a Heart, By Lillian Lovejoy. 161 Pearl of Pearls. By A. P. Morris, Jr. 162 A Fateful Games or, Wedded and Parted. By Sara Claxton. 163 Whe Creole Cousins; or, False as Fair. By Philip 8. Warne. 164 A Seathing Ordeal; or, May Langley’s 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 of Two Lives. By Arabella Southworth. 168 Two Fair Women. 137 M7 By Wm. M. Turner. 169 Tempted Throng Loves or, One Woman’s Error. By ian Lovejoy. 170 Blind Barbara’s Secret. By Mary Grace Halpine. 171 A Woman’s Witchery; or, Through Much Tribulation. By Sara Claxton, 172 Black Eyes and Blue. By Corinne Cushman. 173 The Cost of a Folly. By Georgiana Dickens, 174 The Pretty Puritan. By A Parson’s Daughter. 175 Is Love a Mockery? or, Revenge is. Sweet. By Arabella Southwortiz 176 Adria, the Adopted. By Jennie Davis Burton. 177 Kor the Woman He Loved; or, Fate- ful Links. By Agnes Mary Shelton. 178 Whe Locked Heart, By Corinne Cushman. 179 Parted by Treachery. By Harriet Irving. 180 Was She a Wife? or, The Proof of Love. By Rett Winwood, 181 Under a Clouds or, A Daughter's Sus- picion. By Sara Claxton. § 182 An American Queen; or, The Heart of Gold. By Grace Mortimer. 183 A Point of Honor}; or, Diamond Cut Diamond. By Lillian Lovejoy. 184 Pursued to the Altar. Cushman. 4 185 Put to a Test; or, A Fortune Hunter’s Fate. By Georgiana Dickens. 186 The Terrible Truth; or, The Thornhurst : Mystery, By Jennie Davis Burton. 187 Outwitted by Herself; or, A Mother's Scheme, By Arabella Southworth. 188 Florette, Child of the Street; or, A Pearl Beyond Price. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. A new tssue every week. By Corinne Tue Wavertey Liprary is for sale by all News- dealers, five cents per copy, or sent by mail on re- ceipt of six cents each. BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William street,.New York. ; Vxdicse y f $s eri. yee ciety Pe ee a. Ebi pate Fi *