Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 192) (1883 07 17)
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Whe Cheapest and Best Library! ThS Cream of American and Foreign Novels for Five ar oe July 17, 1883. aS » Cae « Lisa | 2 © Bettie tees 7 ifr 4. as. Pein $2.50 a year. Entered at the Post O®ice at New York, N. Y., at Second Class Mail Rates. Copyright, 1883, by BEADLE AND ADAMS, No192. VoL. VIII. PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST, N.Y. PRICE, 5 CENTS THE BUTTER FEUD; « te pareron Legacy, BY MRS. JENNIE DAVIS BURTON, AUTHOR OF ‘“‘ ADRIA, THE ADOPTED,” “THE TERRIBLE TRUTH,” ETC., ETC. SS SSS BA “OH, SHE IS DEAD! SHE IS DEAD!” SHRIEKED FAY, AND STRAIGHTWAY RELAPSED INTO HYSTERIA.
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2 The Bitter Feud; THE FATEFUL LEGACY. BY MRS. JENNIE DAVIS BURTON, AUTHOR OF ‘‘ ADRIA THE ADOPTED,” ‘‘ THE TER- RIBLE TRUTH,” ‘DOUBLY DIVORCED,” ETC. CHAPTER IL MADAME, A DESOLATE wilderness of a place, closed in ‘around b Pennsylvania hills, which mocked | its title of Fairview Glen. The village was long | and narrow, the hights precipitous, broken and dangerous. The hillsides were covered with thick growths of somber, scrubby pines, with silver birches, oaks, and chestnuts, mingling sparsely in the heavy foliage. Fairview village straggled in irregular line, ptt THE BITTER FEUD. inclosed court. ‘his was approached by a half- dozen granite steps, and was paved with alter- nate squares of black and gray. Three or four great entrance-doors opened upon a piazza which encircled this court. row with you—who would add pleasure to your happiness, and comfort you in grief?” ‘*My own, perhaps,” returned madame, com- placently. ‘* You don’t suppose that I would | submit to that much interference from another Madame Durand had divested the whole . front of a grim, formidable aspect by filling the open square with growing plants. Oleander trees in immense boxes, prickly cacti, and glos- sy-leaved orange trees, well protected from searching winds; geraniums and running vines in huge porphyry vases; vivid mosses and feathery ferns springing from the crevices of two | miniature pyramids composed of unique speci- mens of the native rocks, With scarcely a glance about him, the lawyer walked briskly up to one of the entrance-doors, /and plied the knocker on the heavy oaken its squat houses clinging fast in notches and de- | clines, with a couple of tolerably accurate streets lying in the level stretch which bordered the deep, rock-bound, noisy creek, that gur- gled complainingly through unseen crevices, dwelt Madame Durand, whose sterile yet with- al profitable possessions extended for miles on | every side. A pedestrian was clambering up the footpath which led by a more direct route than the wind- ing road to the manse. A little wiry man, well past middle age, with grizzled hair sleekly combed, and a cadaverous countenance, which would have worn a decidedly dyspeptic look but for the glimmer of cheery good-humor expressed in the bright blue eyes which time had in no wise dimmed. He had a quick, nerv- ous motion which betrayed the working of a restless mind, and accompanied the soliloquy | he was indulging in by gesticulating, and check- — lean forefinger on the palm of the opposite hand. **One—two—three,” he counted. ‘“ Yes, pos- itively three times that Madame Durand _ has sent for mein hot haste within a week. First to make an extension of Winston’s lease, as though my time were of no value that I should employ it in trotting up this mountain-side for merely that! Then, to have me go quietly over the books of that young agent she has taken to the manse of late, and right glad I am to be rid of the charge of rents and taxes she has saddled on him. No use of my trouble, either; the young fellow is open and honest as the day. Not a flaw in his accounts and the books perfect; couldn’t keep them better myself. the other prvutege—the one she has planted in my office against my wish and will, Pll confess —had something like his method and applica- ion. “Mighty queer woman is the madame! A bed. of quicksand, a deceitful sea, a cat’s claw in a velvet case, when she’s smiling; a small tornado, a fire-spitting volcano, when her ire’s roused. I’m the only man in the village that’s not afraid of her, I believe, always excepting my young law-student, and he would face St. Michael himself. A reckless lad that, and not bound for much good, I doubt me.” The wiry little lawyer and to shake his head ominously, but continued his soliloquy when he pursued his walk again. ‘And now what the madame may want is beyond my guess. say. The woman will take no advice, so there’s scarcely a hope she will attend to the one mat- ter that, if I had my way, should be a night- | mare to her till it is done. Does she expect to | live as long as Methuselah, I wonder?” He passed through a side gate into the gran belonging woe, -aarrenigy to the manse. A couple of flats in the form of terraces, which occupied the space in front of the build- ing, were crowded with flower-beds of fantastic shape, with white-pebbled walks twisting like shiny-scaled nts between. It was one of the madame’s whims to dis- mse with right-angles; so beds and walks | ‘ormed a complication of curves curious to wit- ness, A stretch of turfy lawn on one side was separated by a low, well-trimmed hedge from the: decline of’ the mountain-side; on the ot ards of various fruits deepened into »ve of the native forest trees, house was built of solid granite blocks, with a round tower rising on the northern side. Two square facades, facing the west, were separa by a smaller square, like an un- ing off the points he mentally decided with a | | of plate-glass, were and twisted like a snake through the dark ra- | panel. He was ushered in by a dignified, white-haired | servant-man, who boasted of having spent the greater part of his life in the service of the Durands. He was shown into an octagonal room, furnished with solid antique wood and brocatel, darkened and worn by the usage of half a century. Square casements, where the tiny panes had been replaced by double sheets partially obscured by paint- ed shades. Pots of rose-geranium filled a re- vines. | cess, pervading the room with their fragrance. At the top of the glen, a mile or more from | Fairview, was_a granite-built manse where | The lawyer was standing still in the center of the room when the sharp ring of a cane in an uncarpeted side corridor made itself heard, and a door swung open to admit Madame Du- rand, A grotesque little figure, straight and lithe, thou oh the weight of seventy years rested upon The door ge behind her, it. and the | madame stood with her hands clasped over the | madame’s I only wish | paused to take breath | Some fool’s errand, I dare | top of her ebony stick, her face turned scruti- nizingly toward her visitor. A remarkable face it was, too. Oval and rounded as a girl’s, with a skin rich in texture as the leaf of a calla lily, but yellowed and wrinkled; a mouth that was firm to obstinacy, with a satirical expression lurking in the cor- ners that betrayed Tittle of philanthropic views; and jet-black, twinkling eyes, piercing as a hawk’s. Madame’s wrinkled little hands sparkled with brilliants, and long, glittering pendants drooped from her ears, Her dress was a purple brocade, cut after the fashion of a half-century ago; the square bodice was filled with lace, yeuoe as the own. mellowed complexion. A slender chain of gold and jet encircled her neck, eee a cross composed of the same mate- rials, The lawyer stared at her stupidly, evidently unaccustomed to such magnificence. Madame laughed; hers had been a musical laugh once, ears agone, but it was shrill and disjointed in its triumphant cadence now. “A very good day to you, Mr, Thancroft,” she cried, in a hig -pitched, vivacious tone. “Good gracious, man, what has come over you? you are speechless as a mute and staring as an owl. Fortunate that I’m not easily disconcert- ed, now, isn’t it?” The lawyer bowed low, and muttered an apology as he placed her a chair. “ Ah, say nothing, say nothing,” interrupted madame, graciously, waving him to a seat near her. “I see exactly how it is. You are sur- prised to see such a butterfl tell, I doubted it, too, and decked myself sparingly, lest I might appear like a death’s head arrayed for the banquet. I am gratified; I am back in my old element again. I say to myself: ‘ Bien, madame! your old power has not yet gone from you.’ Almost like the great Alexander, I sigh that there are no more fields to win, no more foes to conquer. First, I quell- ed those who opposed me; then I conquerea my- self; and now, is it not pitiful? I have no one to sympathize with me in my new taste of the old familiar grandeur.” She sprea glittering stones. The pride of the Durands was like a great spreading tree, and Ad yk ticular branches, which. madame delighted in, were her pride of her own well-preserved come- liness, and of the Durand jewels, which were 7 pai their m ee ith © lawyer met her -mocking glance w one of quiet research. Madame’s moods were so chameleon-like he puzzled often to know how much sincerity her words contained, ““Whose fault is it that you have not one closely allied, who would joy with you or sor- emerge from the | chrysalis of my old black velvet and close cap. | You didn’t’ know I could grace the Durand | jewels still with any sort of dignity. Truth to | out her hands, with their load of quarter, Mr. Thancroft?” ‘*Madame,” burst forth the lawyer, impetu- ously, ‘you have warned me to silence on this subject more than once, but I will speak now; I will follow out my own view of duty by urg- ing you todo justice to your own kin, at risk of all the friendship and interest that are between us. Our own claims are quits! You are a good friend tome; Iama good ally to you—neither is holden beyond individual inclination. Heav- en knows, if I have any influence with you I have striven faithfully to throw it into the bal- ance in behalf of the boy who comes of your blood, and who isa floating waif somewhere, on the cold charity of the world for all I know, or any one else but you. You, madame, are un- justly holding him out of his own; you admitted once that you have kept him in ignorance of his own origin, his true sphere, his rightful inherit- ance. Have you no natural affection that your vindictiveness must reach beyond the grave to the innocent offspring, whose sole offense was, after all, a slight one? ‘*Madame, let me implore you, do not disre- gard the duty which devolves upon you. Do justice to your son’s son if you would escape the rackings of remorse when it is too late.” Twice madame had essayed to check his tu- multuovus flow of words, and now she raised her ebony stick, stamping it angrily upon the floor. ‘“‘Ah, presumption!” she cried, sibilantly. “ Another word and I will have you turned away from my door. I will disgrace you; I will take from you my patronage; I will unmake you as I have made you. Oh, ingratitude! you —you dictate to me. No more—no more!” She half-rose in her chair, gesticulating vio- lently, and quivering with indignation. “yp can say nothing more, madame. What can 1 hope to gain by it if no impulse of your heart responds to my appeal?” ‘*Heart!” cried madame, “ You speak of hearts! What do you expect me to care for hearts when I glory in having none? Bah! I suffered enough before I rid myself of the troub- lesome incumbrance. I havean organ answer- ing to the demands of actual life and perfect health. I have a brain and a will not to be blunted by any pettifogger. Ihave a digesti a very good — and so keep in cheer tone. But of heart, as you define it, I have none, thank Heaven!” ‘**T trust you deceive yourself, madame,” * What! would 7 have me racked by tor- tures, torn by grief, consumed by inward fires? The remembrance of what I endured sets me aflame, but having no heart, I have no pain, and dismiss it, so!’ She extended her hands, palms outward, and sunk back into her seat, suddenly calm. ‘You should not provoke me to anger,” she said. ‘‘I can’t afford to quarrel with you, and you know it. There, there! I sent for you in the way of business.” “To make your will, madame?” ‘My will!” shrieked Madame Durand, shiver- ing and shaking her stick at him menacingly. “Do you want me to die, man? Ah, you wou'd like to be appointed sole executor; you would like a mourning-ring, and a well-stocked farm, and a set of silver plate, as kind remembrances. My will! People always die after they make their wills.” ‘Sometimes they die before,” suggested the agit 3. maliciously. “What a pity!” retorted madame, ‘‘The hen- est lawyers lose their fees.” ‘ ‘‘A truce to quibbling,” said Mr. Thancroft. ‘Come to your point, madame, Let us not waste time to no purpose.” “Truly, a man’s way of covering a retreat,” scoffed madame. ‘‘ Cowards—traitors, all of them. I wonder von are not ashamed of your sex, Mr. Thancroft.” ‘* Business, madame, business!” “Very well, then.” Madame metamorphosed ina moment. She caressed her jeweled hands, . looking placidly before her. ““You wondered at seeing me without my somber attire. Do so no longer; I have deter- mined to inaugurate a new state of affairs here at the manse. I shall turn another leaf in m book of life, Mr, Thancroft. \ ‘“‘T want more vitality in the house, What would Pon say to introducing a younger gen- eration He regarded her with inquiring interest, but | silently inclining his head, awaited her explanation. further
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endowments this young — “J have laertiod that there are two young girls of the Durand blood, coming of anotber distinct branch but distantly allied to me, both signs and obscure. I want them looked up and rought here to be provided for at my expense. Who knows but I may conclude to make one of them my heiress?’ “Madame!” ejaculated the lawyer, aghast. “Hold your peace then, and let me alone to follow my own course. What I want of you is to find those girls and bring them here to me. Erne will give you my written instructions. Good-morning to you, Mr. Thancroft.” Madame Durand dismissed bim abruptly with a peremptory wave of her jeweled hand. And the lawyer, going slowly out through the little court, shook his head and mutte ed to himself in a very dissatisfied way. CHAPTER II. MADAME’S PROTEGES. A YouNG man set gt on the bank of the noisy little creek, with fishing-tackle lying idle ide him, Inert and listiess as he seemed, with half-closed eyes and lazy attitude, he did not look like a vapid dreamer. His features were straight and regular, with the low, broad brow and the short curving up- r lip seldom seen except in statuary. His col- ar was thrown open, exposing bis neck like a white, strong column. His hair was brown, glinted with bronze, and lay in short waves about a head which, in its perfect classic out- lines, might have served as a model of some Greek god. Nature is neither stint nor mercenary in her good gifts; she does not bestow lavishly on any one class or station. Judged by his personal man, handsome as Apollo Belvidere, might have been taken for a rince of the blood; yet he was only Lucian are, Mr. Thancroft’s law student. He half turned his head as a step came down the rocky pathway and was jedtinga on the thick turf of the bank where he lay, but seeing the new-comer made no further change of his position. “You, Valere?’ he said with a yawn, “I — ht 1¢ might be old Thancroft’s shadow— anh, you know. Such a spooney, so devoted ‘ ree intevests of the office as he has it. Unne- esssarily honest and deucedly vexatious to toe the mark after his style, Jsay. I gave him the slip to-day, after the boss was off, and got here for a little Tha enjoyment,” Which I have interrupted, I suppose. Did you hear we in your dreams, or weren’t you asleep?” ‘*] was thinking how blank North will look when he finds his old musty documents uncop- fed. Madame deserves my grateful thanks no doubt, but I wish she had found me a more agreeable berth than Thancroft’s snuggery.” “It was your own choice, if I remember.” Hobsou’s choice, you mean. There was no alternative presented.” ‘The professions were all open to you.’ ** One is good as another,” returned Ware. ‘1 hate drudgery, and the professions are made of it. Look at the boss, for instance; he is nothing more than an animated machine to carry out the whims of other people. What pleasure does he find in such a narrow existence, think you?” * crn consciousness of being of use to his fel- Jow-man, perha Weare beyond the age of Quixotic enterprises, my dear fellow, and just as far ahead of such philanthropic actuations as you — ascribe, Of course Thancroft don’t re- lize his own littleness, but a man witha soul above trifles could never content himself while 80 prescribed.” ee Meaning the illustration to apply to your- se “Exactly. Think of me writing out cases or easing, attendance to the madame’s will. a not that an unfortunate view to take of it How do ae reconcile the application of your life and labor with such discontent?” ‘I don’t pretend to,” returned Ware. The other, a young man of apparently about Ware’s own age, which scarcely exceeded two-and-twenty, leaned against the trunk of a neighboring birch tree, gazing Mbowass greiroih down into the stream below. He was taller, heavier and darker than his handsome corspa.- ion, but his countenance was pre sing, and appearance that of a well-bred gentleman, His name was Erne Valere, and he was the 7° outhful agent whom Madame Durand had tterly employed to the relief of Mr. Than- croft, who hitherto been burdened by the HE AE Eee ee ee FEUD. man’s office was onerous without accruing much of honor; he kept the accounts of a half-dozen farms scattered at some distance further up the mountain; of the cattle and produce each yield- ed, for they were sterile lands fit for little ex- cept pasturage. Madame had grown rich from them, however, so steady had been the success of her speculations in stock raising. These two young men were ‘her proteges! Madame was eccentric even in her charities, and while it was supposed that she had some deeper } reason than mere beneficence in seeing them | educated and provided for, her real motive—if sole charge of all the business. The young i D she had a concealed one—had not been unvailed from obscurity. Erne Valere had apartments at the mansa ince his entrance upon his new duties, and re- ‘eived his instructions generally from madame herself. But, apart from these business inter- views, he received neither courtesy nor obser- vation from madame except on stated occasions, when the two young men were invited together to dine with ‘their patroness. Each had re- ceived the customary notification upon the morning of the day, some two weeks subsequent to the interview ‘chronicled between the ma- dame and her lawyer Lucian Ware lay upon the turfy bank pluck- ing idly at the blades of grass, but as his com- panion displayed no inclination to break the si- lence which had fallen between them, he ad- dressed him again petulantly. ** Are you taking \ your turn at dreaming now, Valere?” A pretty one to preach morality of ac- tion—you !” ‘**T have not yet done so, but I would assured- ly if I thought my words would have effect.” ** Spare yourself; I have been following the hent of your mind. It is a very transparent mask that you wear.” “You are acute at reading human nature.” **T don’t find much good in it then to reward rae for the study; though if I did I would scarcely follow it. "I detest your men of ear- ‘aest minds if they have no deviltry in them.” Ware was cynical, toan extent painful in one so youn Selfishness and egotism were his leading c 1aracteristics, but w =. toned not un- pleasantly to the general sight by a fastidious- ness of taste which covered the glaring conspic- uity of his faults. I wish you were not so skeptical, Lucian,” said Erne, concernedly. ‘‘ You rob your life of much that would be pleasant in it but for that distrust of mankind—y ourself inclusive—you so persistently cling to.” “You mistake,” interrupted Ware. “I do not distrust myself. I have the utmost confi- dence in my own capacity for either good or evil. I wonder if it isa perversion of nature thatI incline to the latter. { think I could take a kind of supreme satisfaction in knowing myself bad to the very core, not oneof your coarse blood- thirsty ruffians, but a gentlemanly scoundrel who could ‘smile and smile and a villain still.’ There, don’t look so shocked, Valere; I haven’t compassed my ambition yet, whatever I may do in time.” “You speak recklessly, Lucian. Life is too full of glorious possibilities for such a satire on it as you picture, and should not be viewed in the way you seeit. The indulgence of these vague dreams is a profitless way of spending idle time.” ‘Stolen time, my good Erne; stolen to indulge this very pr ofitless amusement. Doubtless you think I am wasting the precious dust of time to my own irremediable loss, but you should remember that striking instances of genius have developed from unexpected sources, 1 will make a bold stroke some day which shall leave me lord of the caste recognized in even our re- publican land,” “Take care, my lord, that your castle does not tumble about your ears, provided any thing so unsubstantial as air can be demolished.” “Tmight have known you would have no sympathy with my aspirations.” ‘ “ All worthy aspirations claim my sy er | 2 ‘Pair in m change the subject, you have been bidden to the feast Mabey Yr suppose,” Yes; madame has extended the customary invitation.” ‘“Not quite, for this is an extra occasion, Have you never learned the art of putting two and two together?” “*T fail to comprehend.” ‘Have you been made acquainted with madame’s latest whim? She is not content with sheltering you and I beneath her motherly wing but has hunted up a couple of poverty- stricRen female relatives to share our favor. they may be gushing girls of the sight, foul in yours, perhaps. To | ‘ 3 itioah abcr alae Sadek | perkbt whee eoutoul pacarivtlaet wn whose boisterous proclivities shall make the madame rue her assumed responsibility? Old Thancroft was in high dudgeon, and be- je ed more of the matter than he was author- to do, I imagine.” me Then do not repeat the information you chanced to gain, Lucian. You should respect the wishes of our patroness, even though her commands do not weigh upon you.” “You are too conscientious by half, Erne. There is nothing secret in what I have heard— nothing but you might have known had you un- bent from your dignity far enough to have uestioned the servants at the manse. There, don’t look so thunderous, brave champion of morality! No one would suspect you of yield- ing to such inexcusable curiosity. In your ylace, IT should have sought the madame, and gczed to be admitted her confidence: bus then, 1 am not troubled with your ridiculous scru ples. hese young ladies madame has unearthed come from some far-away branch of the Du- rands, yet it is received as a fact aiready set- tled, that she intends leaving her wealth to cne of them, provided always that she does not veer off on some other tack before deciding which. And that brings me back to my starting-point. Our invitation to dinner to-day will include a presentation to the new acquisitions.” “Tf you are correct, there will be a marked distinction between Madame Durand’s prospec- tive heiress and Lucian Ware, the penniless law student, or Erne Valere, madame’s salaried agent.” “Yes; but only one of the young ladies is to become the heiress, Madame has repeatedly declared that the property shall not be separaf- ed. They are both equally allied to her, and she will feel bound to provide in scme manrer for the least fortunate of thetwo. What easier than to marry her to one of the dependent young men and pension the pair, thus comfori- ably ridding herself of them? Madame is a deep one in her way, though she isn’t apt to consicer all the consequences.’ ‘* Well, madame has a right to engineer ber own pleasure ” remarked Erne. ‘1 must be moving, for I am not quite through for the y. * Do as I do—slip the traces.” Valere shook his head smilingly. “That is not my way of doing business, Lu- cian. Better reconsider and go backin time to redeem yourself in Mr. Thancroft’s opin- ion. *“T’ve anotion to astonish North for this one time, not from any ideas of duty, but because T’ll have your company on the way Valere waited while the other gathered up his unused fishing rod, ved adjusted his collar with a hasty twitc Ware was not lacking in agility and nimble- ness of motion when once roused from his list- less attitude. He sprung lightly up the rock path, and kept easy pace with is campanion’s one steps when they reached the winding roa ‘‘Tf it were not for the trouble, I would be in- clined to circumvent madame at her own game,” he said carelessly, but with a keen side-glance at the other. “Tn what manner, pray?’ “By marrying the heiress. Our patroness has ns taken that possibility into considera- tion.” ** And you, Lucian, had better drop the con- templation, at least unt. il you have something more than idle surmise to work upon,’ They walked on for a little space in utter si- lence, yf then the roll of an approaching car- sage drew their cape ae It passed them pres- ently, an open phaeton containing two female figures in traveling wraps and close yails, and Mr. Thancroft on the seat with the coachman. Lucian Ware took off his hat with a flourish, and executed a low bow of mock obeisance after the receding vehicle. “Welcome to the heiress of all Fairview. | May she be subtle enough to propitiate the madame, and ss discrimination to appreci- ate the worth of your humble servant.” CHAPTER III MADAME’S NEW CHARGES. THe phaeton paused before the outer gates, for geogeine would have no carriageway lead- gn the grounds to the entrance. e lawyer clambered down and in his -_ ‘old-fashioned way, assisted the two girls ht. They glanced about them, gaivin their im on of their new ag whic Mr. Thancroft’s customary had not Sees him to describe.
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A She was seated in an arm-chair, which for un- gainliness aud discomfort was a fair type of the furniture in vogue three gencrations back. The faded brocatel, and quaint carving of its design, were concealed by a cloth of striped purple and gold finished at the edges by a fringe of gold tullion, which had been thrown completely | over it, The gorgeousness of effect was hight- ened by the immense proportions of the chair, rendering a footstool indispensable. Altogether, it would require no extravagant flight of fancy to imagine madame a queen enthroned. She rose as they entered, descending nimbly from her elevated station, and clasping her wrinkled, jeweled hands over the top of her ebony stick, she stood silently regarding them. The erect little figure in its old-style dress, with head turned to one sid), and bright black eyes peering at them with a glance bird-like in its unwavering intensity, presentud a picture far as possible from the expect ‘ions of the | P P | What have you done all your life?” two young girls. In the mental speculations they had indulged regarding the manse and its mistress, each had unconscicusly imagined a stately, dignified dame, a litt] stern in demean- or and inclined to appear graciously condescend- ing to the new dependants. The disparity between the vision and the real- ity disconcerted them for a moment. “Yeung ladies—well, young ladies!” spoke the madame’s sharp, quick tones. ‘‘ Where did vcu take your lessons in civility and etiquette? What do you take me to be—a gnome, or a drag- cress, cr a creature of ordinary flesh and blood? Mr. Thancroft, in my day the ceremony of in- troduction was not considered dispensable be- tween parties for the first time met.” Mr. Thancroft apologized, and presented the young ladies in due form as Fay &f. Orme and Mirabel Durand. “Fay? Bah! A babyfied name, but it matches your face,” said madame, to the for- mer. ‘“ And you”—turning to the other girl— **vou area Durand. You should be proud as Lucifer, passionate, inconsidcrate, foolhardy BITTER FEUD. | **Madame!” interrupted the girl again, with | burning cheeks and Weaning eyes. “It is my _ misfortune to be poor. If poverty has subjected me to such humiliating trials, at least it has never degraded me. It was at your bidding, | and not of my seeking, that I am here. I will not endure the insult of the taunts you heap hon me for all the favor you can show, Madame Durand.” | “Yet my favor may be well worth keeping,” said madame dryly. ‘‘I like you, Mirabel Du- rand, and I admire the spirit you have displayed. There are plenty that would go far to win that much appreciation from me.” Mirabel Durand shot a half-defiant glance at the imperious old woman, but she had wheeled | about to face the other young girl, who, with | the lawyer, had been a silent witness of the scene. “You, Fay St. Orme—a ridiculous name— you come of the blood with as straight a lineage as she. Let me see; your father was some cavulry officer.” “Colonel St. Orme,” “By brevet; Iremember. Unfortunate that he should have died of a vulgar malaria instead of meeting death gloriously on the battle-field. There, I’ve no reminiscences regarding you. ‘“‘T remained at school untila year ago. Since that, 1 have been with mamma at uncle St. Orme’s.” ‘“Humph,” said madame, peering at her in her odd, bird-like fashion. ‘ You have all the modern accomplishments, I suppose. You can dance and play, paint, draw, make feather flow- ers, and work Chinese puzzles in silk floss? That about comprises a fashioneble education, doesn’t it? Fay, scarcely knowing how to take the mad- ame, admitted that she knew something of these accomplishments. “And you can flirt, too—dance on men’s hearts, which doesn’t hurt them much, for hearts, nowadays, have plenty of elastic quali- ties. You're not hard to read, Miss Fay St. Orme. You are shallow and selfish; good-na- tured, I hope; vain, I know. They are not car- dinal sins, and I’ve a word of warning for you. Vl not have you flirting here at the manse, I'll not be troubled having the young jackdaws of ‘nd dering, to do justice to your descent. There! | Isee—I see! You carry evidence of your ex- traction in your face. The Durand pride is flaming there now, and you bear yourself haughtily as though you never toiled fourteen | bours in the day asnursery-governess to a pork- merchant’s children. It wasn’t pleasant, was it, for you, gently born and gitigerly reared, though knowing enough of poverty always, to earn your meager bit and sup by suwpressing your own inclinations to suit their vulgar exac- tions? “Tt was intolerable, madame,” replied the irl, briefly, ‘ al Ha! hal? laughed madame, as though infi- nitely amused. ‘And you hoped to better yourself by throwing up the situation and going as subordinate teacher into a day school. Y« pride rebelled there again when the principal made love to you, though receiving no more en- couragement than a disdainful princess would record to a presuming subject. Unhappily there was a fussy Miss Jones who coveted both vour truly enviable position in the school and the attentions of the principal. She succeeded in snag erect, hag ““T should have resigned at the end of the term had she not done so. I was bound in all honor to stay so long.” ““ Honor?’ cried Madame Durand, gibingly. “Oh, exacting Honor! what crosses it lays up- on us! And the Durands are always honora- ble!” “Madame!” interrupted Mirabel Durand, with an angry sparkle in her eyes, ‘‘No imputations against your own motives, our | young lady; but my seventy years may com- | prise truer knowledge of these Durands than vour single score. ou left the school. You fell back upon that general resource—that miserable slave whighseducated women fly to when left to their éfforts. You gave music lessons, trudging your rounds as regular- ly ard almost as often as the postman him- | sclf, y “ But persecution had not tired of you yet. You Woe ancien admirer, a married man this _ time, and one as much worse than your peda- fogue as the venomous centipede is worse than the repulsive but harmless worm. You fled the neighborhood flocking here, and I'll see if those wonderful attainments of yours can be put to any account. “Mr, Thancroft, you'll stay tq dinner to oblige me. You, young ladies, can re- tire fora time. We dine precisely at six, and I have a decided aversion to be kept waiting. Milly, Milly Ross—here!” Madame rapped sharply on the black marble hearth with her ebony stick. The door opened almost ad and a quaint figure appeared on the threshold. So small, that at the first glance it seemed the figure of a child; the short, scant skirt exposing a pair of small prim feet made the stature appear less than it really was. The face wasolder, belonging to twenty years or more, and was oddly striking in its quiet contour. The skin was transparent and color- less, the lips thin and pale, the eyes of that light- blue which reminds one of the thinnest of well- skimmed milk, the hair of a neutral tint, very fine, and arranged in the smoothest of tiny close braids, matched by the knot of gray ribbon wit which they were tied. ‘Show the young ladies to their rooms, Milly, and wait upon them, if they require it.” Madame waved them away, and turned her attention to Mr. Thancroft. She erfectly un- derstood the stiff constraint he hac imposed up- on himself, but having carried her point, she was sublimely indifferent to the evident dissat- isfaction of her friend and adviser. ““ Now, how go your own affairs, Mr. Than- croft? How does our young student progress, and will his acumen serve to grace the profes- sion under your admirable teaching and exam- ple?” ‘ . “The young man is naturally quick enough, but I doubt if he will ever make a good lawyer. He is too indolent to accomplish any thing, with too little application to carr : through the simplest tasks. e passed him with a fishing-rod in bis hands just beyond the village, and I’m sure North has need of bis assis- tance in the office. I wouldn’t undertake such a charge except to favor you, madame.’” Madame laughed. nds Sas ant heedless, he will come out «6, said she, lightly. ‘Think of.the charge J °\ sve undertaken—two flighty young crea n- stead of one!” | fare. Now, honestly, what particular good is ed. ‘I shall expect nothing better than to break miy neck in that dark pit one of these days. What could the builder have meant by setting such a man-trap, I wonder? Isn’t there ANB any other way of going up and down, you— Be Milly? Tkat’s what madame called you, I PS lawyer, hotly. ‘“‘It’s not so easy, madame, ea | think.” **There’s the servants’ stairway at the back,” ¢ answered Milly, slowly. ‘I don’t think ma- e dame would like you to use that.” "ig 4 “T don’t think I should like it myself,” said ; Fay, with a toss of her head. Q “You will soon grow accustomed to this one, v Miss St. Orme,” said Mirabel Durand. “It is , the strangeness of if impresses you now; there _ can be no actual danger with these solid balus-+ trades.” “This way, if you please,” said Milly Ross, " leading on again. 3 She threw open the door of a moderate-sized ; room, having an outlook toward the orchards and deepening wood which skirted the south side of the narrow lawn. ie ¥ “This is your sitting-room, meant for the use © of both,” she explained, and throwing open a second door—‘‘this one is the dressing-room; , the bedchambers are separate, but both open in- Oa: to this. The one to the right for Miss Durand, ¢ the other for Miss St. Orme.” ry } The bedrooms were tiny apartments, almost filled by huge old-fashioned bedsteads, chair and 1; washstand. Fay glanced discontentedly at the piety great pk pep with ee of dingy yg en ask, and only a square of d et coverin tS) ia center of ee loot: meet . ‘*T had a French bed at uncle St. Orme’s,” she Beh Se said, poutingly, “with cashmere counterpanes and real lace-ruffled pillows. Our dormitory at oy ae school was better furnished than these rooms.” yy ‘Madame has left the rooms exactly as they = =| i were when she first married,” said Ross. ‘* Only. a te some of them were newly-furnished then,I be = = lieve. Madame is very fond of the old things.” oe “I don’t admire her taste then,” declared wart) i Fay. ‘If I were mistress here I’d make a bon- cm) firy of the old rubbish.” wu" ‘‘ Better not tell the madame that,” remark aR a dryly. ee ‘‘T don’t propose spoiling my chance of figur- § fF | ing in madame’s will, if that is what youmeam,. == § § But the place is detestable for allthat.” ‘It is quaint and old-styled to a degree,” said BO Na
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a $$$ + _ THE BITTER FEUD. Mirabel. ‘‘T like the solid masonry and the queer corners.” ** It’s like one of the haunted houses one finds in old story-books, I’m just unromantic enough to prefer modern elegance to remote antiquities. I hope madame is amenable to sweet persuasion, there’s such lots of things I’ll want to make life i \ endurable here.” 1 favor. **T wonder that you should come at all when it was so much nicer at your uncle’s,” said Milly Ross, pew “T wouldn’t throw away the chance of one i ah day becoming the Durand heiress,” said Fay, with an air of charming naivete. ‘That is, if Miss Durand don’t forestal] me in the madame’s You see, I happen to know that she means to pitch upon one of us two, It’s not “ff time to dress yet, is it?” iN ““Not yet. I'll come back in half an hour to unpack for you.” So seying, Milly Ross led the way back to the sitting-roon, and left the girls there together. | It was furnished in the same solid, dingy , ~ which marked every portion of the manse. i There were great round-backed chairs of heavy y oak, grooved and beveled. There was a square table with a squat center-standard and sprawl- ing claw feet. The carpet was green, faded | almost to a yellow tint, and there were green \ blinds with a border of gaudy, painted flowers, at the windows. ®. loom. Love of flowers was madame’s grand pas- sion, and she placed the spray of heliotrope ten- derly in the lace of her bodice. ‘* Cypress I’ll have none of,” she said, passing her wrinkled hands over the tangled mass of tendrils. ‘‘ Cypress is the type of death, and I shudder at the thought of death. Bah! I know well that all superstition is folly; it is silly this fancy of mine that the shadow of the dark val- ley menaces me. ‘Tt was that meddlesome Thancroft put the notion in my brain through so persistent urging on the subject of my will. What can it be to him—is it not more vital tome, I wonder? But there’s plenty of time for that—plenty of time. ‘My lawyer friend grows troublesome when hea becomes importunate; he is insolent when he openly reproaches me for what he calls neglect of duty, forgetfulness of natural ties. t is ecnvenient, this utter absence of heart-feeling; it is well that I tore wounded affection out when it was bleeding from its fresh hurt. Some peo- ple petrify their hearts and carry a stone in- stead, but not Madame Durand, oh, no! “T turn my attention to my digestion; I get ri¢ of my bile, and am bappy. Melancholy, moerbidness, unhappiness, all a disease; I won- de’ that people don’t discover the philosophy of healthy existence and be dune with cistressing passions. ‘That Thancroft, now! What right has he to let his conscience trouble him for other peo- pe’s faults? The idea of a lawyer having a con- science is ridiculous, and his application of it still more so. And yet he does not anger me as another would by his unwarranted interference, I wonder what he would say if he knew that the new whim he is so indignant over chances to be my way of effecting the justice he is so urgent to enforce upon me?” Madame chuckled softly, and went her way up the piazza steps. A glass door from the drawing-room opened upon the piazza, but madame saw fit to take a roundabout way through a little anteroom at the side. She came in so softly, too, despite the high heels and the stick that could make such « clatter at times, that Milly Ross, in the act of rescuing some small article from the stained and polished oaken floor, looked up, with a visible start. “Nervous, Milly?’ asked madame, in her quick, domineering way. ‘‘ Take care; take valerian. I’m opposed to nerves; there’s no sense in being troubled with them, and I'l not have people with weak nerves about me. What’s that?’ “Only a glove that was dropped; it belong to one of the young gentlemen, I think.” ““Humph, humph! Primrose kid, with the scent of violets. Jiucian Ware’s, of course, Problem: how many pairs of the same sort can he sport, on an allowance of a hundred a year and the trifle over he may earn at clerk’s copy- ing?#—and he’s not partial to that either, ac- cording to Mr. Thancroft’s account. ‘ What brand, Milly—Alexandre?” ** Louvre, madame.” **Good taste, but expensive.” Madame chuckled and raised her stick, as though she would have twirled the primrose kid oe its end, but, changing her mind, low- ered it again. ““The young ladies, Milly—have they come down?” “They are dressed, and waiting for your summons,” ‘““Ts Erne here?” “ Yes, madame.” “Then call down Miss Durand and Miss St. Orme.” Madame went briskly on into the room where the gentlemen were waiting. Milly Ross fum- bied the glove she still helt and glanced doubt- fully after her odd old mistress. “Such a turn as she gave me coming sudden like that,” she whispered. ‘I’m all a-tremble from it. Seemed as though her eyes saw straight | through me, and the glove, too; I certainly thought she knew.” Milly’s thin fingers groping in the recesses of | the glove drew outa slip of rustling white paper. with a few words scrawled upon ft. It seemed | that the glove had been dropped with a purpose | which this pale maid of madame’s fully u: ler- | stood. She went slowly back to the circular hall and | up the winding stair to announce madame’s de- | sire to the two young girls, Mirs' stood by the sitting-room window, | watchti tethe shadows as ther stole darkly be- | tween 2's rows of the orchards. Fay twisted her ri\piets and admired herself before the short. , je mirror inclined above the mantle- piece * | “T began to despair of madame’s ever want- ing us,” she said, with a half-pout, ‘‘ and I never look so well when I’m kept waiting in toilette. How do I appear, Ross? [I’ve been waiting for acompliment from Miss Durand for half an hour, and I know I merit one, for I made it a study to look my sweetest. Now, tell me, did you ever see any one half so pretty in this hor- rible wilderness?” ‘“We have some that claim to be beauties even here, miss,” returned Ross. ‘ None pret- tier than you, though, I’m bound to say.” “Oh, then we’re not quite shut away from all the world? I’m glad to know that. Now, Miss Durand, it’s your turn to tell what you think of me!” Mirabel looked at her with a grave, critical face, but with an amused gleam in her great dusky eyes. ‘Tt doesn’t always answer to be candid,” she said, with an air of half-doubt. ‘**But I want you to be. I love to have peo- ple admire me.” ‘That is just it, Miss St. Orme. I can’t truth- fully declare that I admire you to any positive degree. Ihave a very discriminating taste, and you are by no means perfect according to my judgment. At first glance you appear to be a very pretty little boy, but an attempt to an- alyze your style brings out numberless defects. “In the first place, your hair is too yellow, and has too.many kinks and crinkles in it to please my taste.” ‘*Golden—everybody says it is the truo gold- en shade,” interrupted Fay. ‘‘And it curls beautifully.” ‘You have a very tolerable figure to be so tiny,” Mirabel went on, composedly. ‘‘ Your features are scarcely regular, your noso is ac- tually a little retrousse, your mouth is a trifle too small, and it’s so crooked—” ‘**Crooked! It’s a perfect curve,” cried Fay, | indignantly. ‘Then your complexion is so vividly red and white. You are decidedly plump; you have creases in your shoulders, and your eyes are green where they should have been gray.” ‘** Beryl, Miss Durand; and a very unusual shade, lL assure you. I should say that you are ill-natured and envious, but I see you are only trying to quiz me by finding fault. Think of having my dimples called creases, or to slur over the ‘lily and rose’ ef my complexion as you have done! I’m quite sure none of my admirers would recognize me by your ee tion. Now, I’m going to return good for evil, Miss Durand. You are splendid—superb! You do well to affe-t entir. simplicity of dress, for it seems to enhance your natural attractions. L believe that shabby black silk would look ab- solutely dowdyish oy any one else, but you conldn’t be anything but = if you tried. Still I should have thought you would wear something better, considering that it is om first appearance, and Ross hinted that there are to be gentlemen, too.” ‘It is my best,” said Mirabel, smiling at the little malice of the transparent ce. ““You don’t say! Why, I have any number as good as this one. You see, uncle St. Orme was very particular that I should be well- , and when I wanted anything new I had only to spill wine or get a grease-spot on my latest. I was careful, too, that the soiled spot shouldn’t interfere with making over, so I have a plentiful wardrobe. You see what a little good management does.” Teen ring little hypocrit d thought you were a little e, an now: [ know it,” said she. “You are so horridly outspoken,” pouted Fay; ‘‘ but then I suppose you know it becomes ou. Now I can say disagreeable things, but 1 ave to make believe I don’t mean them when I want to be charming.” “Beg pardon!” interrupted Milly Ross, sto- ically. “I’m afraid Madame will think you Fry cage. “What a bugbear madame must be,” said Fay, shrugging her bare shoulders, then wheel- ed suddenly around upon the maid. ‘You, Milly Ross, madame hasn’t ordered you to re- port our conversations to her, has she? You're not to tell her all you hapren to hear, [ hope?’ * Not if I care to kcep my ears cool,” return- ed Ross, dryly, ‘‘Madame is too wise to have tattlers about her.” ‘*Very considerate of madame,TI ssy. Just lead the way then, and you, Miss Durand, give me your arm down that horrid stair.” They entered the drawing-room, still arm in arm, for Fay had so maneuvered, knowing that their differing styles would act asa foil one to the other. The two young men bowed low as they were
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6 presented, and remained standing fora mo- Iment, passin commonplaces, until the gong sounded, Lucian War. senped quickly forward and tendered his arm to Madame Durand. Madame liked attention, and Lucian v «s never too much absorbed to remember self-interest. ““Age before beauty, and ata sacrifice,” said she, tapping him lig] tly with her fan and nod- diug her head toward the two beautiful girls. “It is nosacrifice when they both go together, madame,” returned the young man gallantly. No hostess could be more charming than the madame when she was so disposed. This night she was the embodiment of amiability, and her sprightly bon mots seemed to verify her pet iciosynerasy that cheerfulness and a good diges- tion are inseparable. Mr. Thancroft, won over by the stuffed goose, relaxed the constrained official manner which always made its appearance with any thing causing him ig mage Erne Valere, with Fay at his side, said little; but his glance rested upon her, expressing ad- miration, and he listened to her light chatter in amaze that did not let him dip beneath the sparkling surface of the moment’s enjoy- ment so vividly real to him just then. He seemed to have been transported into a brighter atmosphere since the door had opened to admit the two girls side by side, But it was Fay’s iorm that delighted his eye, and Fay’s voice | made music in his ear even when he addressed | himself in ordinary way to others about him. He bad been thrown but little into the society of women; he bad known nothing of their gen- Uer influence. Madume’s capricious patronage came nearest to womanly tenderness that he had felt in all his life, and dazzling Fay St. Orme came like a bewildering vision, taking him at the disadvantage of total inexperience and a romantic belief in all the womanly vir- tues with which poets have endowed the sex. She was, as she expressed it, looking her “* sweetest.” tint that took the light with a wondrous sheen. Her pearl-white shoulders were bare, and her glittering hair fell in a bright cascade, with no other adornment than a cluster of rose-geranium leaves of new, tender growth. Mirabel had been allotted to the lawyer’s charge, and was calmly indifferent to the fact that the goose held preeedence in his mind. They went back to the parlor when dinner was over. Lights were brought in as daylight faded, and the curtains dropped as the moon climbed slowly up. ‘**T don’t like moonshine,” said madame, “and night-dews are unhealthy. Moonshine and ro- mance, dew-distilled and sore throats, aren’t according to my programme, I hope you young people aren’t foolish enough to prefer them.” “Certainly not the consequences,” laughed Ware. Aig | always doted on moonlight,” said Fay, sweetly. ‘‘ But of course madame is the wisest.” “That’s right, young lady,” nodded madame, approvingly. ‘ You’ll do well if you never as- sert your will ahead of the judgment of wiser its: e.” ‘Tm such an inexperienced . little thing,” cooed Fay, crossing the room to drop on an ottoman at madame’s feet. ‘‘I do hope you'll advise me. I want to please you, Madame Durand, and I’m so apt to do foolish things of myself.” ‘That’s all very well, Miss St. Orme,” said madame, with a chuckle. ‘‘ You wouldn’t- be here, let me assure you, if I didn’t mean to give you the benefit of my individual views.” “It’s so kind of you!” **Oh, very kind!” Madame’s sarcastic inflex conveyed little appreciation of either Fay’s gratitude or her own generous action. ‘ I sup- pose, Miss Durand, you are quite overcome by grateful emotions—too much overpowered to express your feelings, eh?” ‘T have returned no thanks, because I do not yet understand the position Iam expected to maintain here,” answered Mirabel. Madame’s imperious manner clashed sadly with the Durand pride as represented in Mirabel. ‘*Oh, then you haven’t every confidence in the kindness of my intentions? But you shall not remain in ignorance!” cried madame, vi- vaciously. ‘Listen, Miss St. Orme; for you, too, will be included in my exactions, **T shall receive you in the capacity of my youthful companions. You shall read to me in the | ) mornings, play or sing, or embroider, just as I ere ‘ hy | come unexpectedly home one day, and to enter | may feel disposed. You shall take joint charge of my laces and such portion of my wardrobe as I may choose to trust to you. Ross is m She wore a glace silk of a rose | | mirror and making comparisons for five min- | ’ THE BITTER FEUD. /laces, Then there’s the gardening, and the | household affairs, which I must have a rigid ac- | count of, and you shall see that the rouse- keeper’s book is rightly balanced. In the after- | noon you shall dress to — me, and you can | walk within prescribed limits or drive with me. You shall make calls with me once a week, and share the honors on my day for receiving. We'll find plenty to occupy your time, young ladies.” ** And what return shall we have for the per- formance of these various duties?’ asked Mira- bel, gravely, while Fay turned away her head | to make a distressful moue in the direction of the two young men. “Return!” cried madame. ‘Did I not say | you shall be my companions? Have I not sig- nifi_d my intention of giving you a home at the manse? Ofcourse I shall find your wardrobes; if you were strangers, now, I would arrange some stipulated salary, but being relatives—” ‘* Dependent relatives,” suggested Mirabel. ‘* Dependent relatives,” amended madame, a shall see that you are properly provided or.” Mirabel inclined her head in silent acknowl- edgment, and Fay, not relishing the subject of conversation; broke the thread in her artless way. With heat drooping a little asite, she atten- tively regarded a portrait upon the wall. ‘Tf that is a Durand, madame, you can never disclaim me, Ive been studying myself in the utes, and if it were not for the quaint old style of dress and hairdressing, I could almost be- lieve it to be my own portrait.” The painting represented a young blonde beauty with cast cf features and bright yellow hair very much like Fay’s indeed. The hair was dressed ina mass of heavy curls on the top cf the head, looped there by a high comb and confined with an azure band. The dress was a bright azure silk with point- ed bodice and short puffed sleeves; a necklace of pearls and amethyst encircled the throat de- pending a locket of medallion shape, with a vaguely-traced monogram in crusted gems. “16 is a Durand,” said madame grimly. ‘You shall hear her history if you like. I don’t think you'll envy her much, or care to boast of any resemblance, though she was a beauty, as you may see, anda belle in her day. “To begin: it seems a fatality that the Durand estate shall descend through female heirs. The name would have been extinct ages ago, except that the daughters of the house have clung to it, making it a provision always that their husbands shall assume the family name. To Madame Rosalie there we owe this branch of the house. Her husband was one M. Valliers who transformed himself into Valliers Durand when he married the heiress of a chateau and vineyard in the south of France, some two cen- turies ago. ‘*M. Valliers was both young and handsome, but nevertheless he soon was violently jealous | of the gay and giddy young Madame Rosalie. There were a dozen dashing cavaliers, any of | whom he was ready to believe was his stic- | cessful rival in madame’s affections, but he was | not disposed to gratify her secret wish by rush- ing into a duel and getting killed on her account. He was miserly of her charms, and thought to | run away from his trouble by coming to Amer- ica, which was enough of a wilderness then. ‘Husbands had greater control over their wives in that day than at the present time, and it was very much against her will that Madame Rosalie sold out her chateau and her vineyard | to follow her master to the new home. ‘Tt would seem that Monsieur’s distrust was not AJl set at rest. He brought workmen from his own land, and, when they had completed | their task, sent them back again. They built here upon this very spot, but the tower is | all that remains complete of their handicraft, the manse being partially torn down and re- built in my father’s time, a hundred years ago. “ After they were setiled fairly, M. Valliers Durand grew exceedingly negligent of his young wife. He went on long expeditions through the almost trackless wilds, and it was reported that | he found some reckless associates in the thicker settlements on the Virginia soil. ‘“Madame Rosalie must have found it dreary, | left with the little girl who was her only child, the servants, and the friendly savages that wan- dered her way; but she endured her seclusion wonderfully well. ‘“So well, indeed, that M. Durand saw fit to by a secret way, of which madame herself was not aware. They say that he succeeded in sur- dressing-maid, but she is apt to bungle tho prising the infatuated lover who had followed | sion of itonly for short intervals. | ture with no more feelin his beautiful mistress. If there was a sceneit ~ was not a violent one, but the unfortunate lover was never seen after he left the place. “They say that Monsieur became immediate- ly very solicitous in his manner to his wife, and among other evidences of his awakenin regard was the fact of his presenting her wit an amethyst and pear! necklace which she had long coveted. He had let her wear it on the oc- casion of having her portrait painted by one of the great masters, soon after their marriage, but be was careful that she should have posses- Now he in- sisted that she should wear it constantly. But | Madame Rosalie had no need of jewels soon | after that; one tradition says that she died of | remorse, another that the necklace was poison- ed. The latter version would seem to have truth in it, for after her death M. Durand broke the links composing it, and destroyed every one of the alternating pearls.” Fay drew a regretful s.gh, as the madame paused. ‘“‘Whata pity! But then if it had been saved no one would have dared. to wear it, I suppose.” ‘‘The necklace? Whatever the missing gems may have been, the amethysts were perfectly harmless. They were reset as at first, alterna- | ting with pearls, and I wore them on my wed- ding-day.’ ‘*Oh, mayn’t we see them? that’s a dear madame,” coaxed Fay, entreatingly. ‘‘Humph!” said madame, turning away ab- ruptly. ‘‘ Why, where is Lucian Ware?” CHAPTER V. SOME FAMILY HISTORY. Tury looked about them in some surprise, for no one had observed Lucian quit the apart- ment, ‘‘ Gone out to enjoy the moonlight, I’dare say,” observed Erne, crossing the room to swing open the door which just stood ajar, and disclosing the piazza flooded with white, brilliant light. ‘*People to their tastes, but Lucian Ware might more respectful without overdoin common civility,” cried madame. ‘I don admire this spirit of the age. Young people are quite too independent, too inconsiderate and ungracious in their deportment to their elders, Fifty years ago, if a youngster was bored by a prosy tale, he felt in duty bound to sit it out all the same.” “Oh, I wonder that Mr. Ware could slip away voluntarily when all the rest of us were so much interested in your story, dear Madame Durand,” said Fay. “I don’t see the good of making an ado over his delinquency hough, since the loss is all on his side, ou were quite right in saying I would not envy that richly- dressed beauty up there on the wall when’ I should know her history, Poor thing! one can almost pity her with the monster of a hus- band she had, but of course she deserved to be Paniaen, What became of him, Madame Du- rand? We ay ‘Killed by savages when pursuing one of his journeys, and served him right, too,” answered madame, sententiously. ‘She deseryed her fate, and he earned his,” ‘““How strange it seems,” said Mirabel thoughtfully. “Every crime is followed by an _ atonement. Natural laws warn one against the committal of sin, since consequent punishment of some kind is inevitable.” “Stuff!” ejaculated the little lawyer, who seemed to have grown indignant and fidgety, More criminals go unhung who dearly deserve hanging, than rogues are brought to justice,” ‘T did not, mean that the atonement is always evident,” said Mirabel. “Bitter, unavailing remorse, is a powerful weapon in the cause of just retribution.” Stuff!” ejaculated the lawyer again, ‘ Peo- ple who are bothered: with extreme sensitive- . ness will suffer acutely for a simple fault; while others who are phlegmatic, unimagina- tive and hard-hearted, can commit almost any crime in the catalogue and never suffer a pang for it. The family history of the Durands can show more evidences of cruelty than this one with which we have been regaled, and not balanced by any atonement, either.” ‘* According to your own deductions, Mr. Thancroft,” cried madame, wheeling about to cast a displeased glance at him. ‘ Don’t you know you ought to be a legal anatomy, a crea- than your own law tomes, and no more blood than your shriveled parchments? And yet you rave about sensitive- ness, and cruelty, and what not, that has no business to exist at all—or, existing, you have no concern in suspecting. You are taught to judge by facts, Mr. Thancroft, but vou let your. a ~S"
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x a i 2 Pa st ‘ gt tee own opinions get the better of your judgment sometimes, ‘“** And there’s nothing so perverse in nature, As a profound opinionator.” Don’t you know that, my good legal friend?” “Tf I don’t it’s not for Sack of illustration,” retorted the lawyer. * You are excitable, Mr. Thancroft. I think you must suffer from indigestion; ee is more apt to make a person irritable. you should see to it; you don’t know what a string ofills may arise from indigestion.” Madame’s suddenly assumed solicitude was more than the lawyer could endure with equa- nimity. eh sn ven preserve me from heartilessness,” he cried. ‘‘I am coming to almost believe in your boest, Madame Durand. I think you must have turned your heart into a gizzard. Talk of common humanity, and you preach indigestion; counsel a forgiving spirit ora just act,and I | presume you would prescribe liver pills. Oh, hee madame! I am ready to believe at last hat you are heartless.” “See the curiosity you have excited in the minds of these young people, Mr. Thancroft,” madame exclaimed, “and curiosity isa a emotion. They are agape for more of the Du rand history and they shall be gratified, this once. These young ladies shall learn the sort of obedience I shall exact from them. “My good lawyer here has indirectly re- proached me with cruelty; he has thrown out an insinuation that I ought to be walking with peas in my shoes to some distant Mecca, instead of living on fowl and game, and taking my ease here at the manse. “That is his way of looking atthe matter, but 1 am justified in my own sight, fully. “You heard me say the Durand inheritance has come down through aline of females, so you will not be surprised to know that I am a true Durand. “There is a little sequel to the history of Madame Rosalie there that is woven in with my own story. She wedded one M. Valliers, and— a point which I purposely omitted before—the unfortunate lover who paid dearly enough for his constancy was the husband’s own brother. “ Now, some old tradition brings down a jingle which translated and modernized, runs some- thing like this: “When brother's life for brother's wife Is shed by brother's hand, en curses flock—a ghastly crop— To lot of the Durand; Males be born but to die; Earth and fire, water, sky, Wildest fury shall expend On the race to make arsend; While the curse shall still abide, Violent deaths—their Fate—betide! A hundred years shall pass away, male Durand shall see the day Of granted life For child and wife, When brother’s life for brother's wife ‘Shall ooze in crimson stain, The fatal brand on the Durand Shall be dispelled again.’ “Tt was true that for a hundred years nc male Durand lived tomarry. One was buried by the sinking of a mine; another was con- sumed in a large conflagration; a third was drowned at sea, and a fourth was struck dead by a flash of lightning. Thus the conditions of the rophecy so far would seem to have been fulfilled. While the female Durands deplored the curse, not one but shuddered with dread at the possibility of becoming mother of more than one son, “Brother's life for brother’s wife’ must be given to expiate that long-ago fratri- cide, and avert the Fate—which was violent deaths to all the males—from our house. ““The hundred years passed away before the birth of my son, and be was the first male of our direct line who lived to marry. By asin- r coincidence his father was a descendant of e Valliers. “There had been a feud between the two houses, so deadly that it was like a vendetta es- tablished between them, and in joining his for- tune to mine my husband drew the bitterest animosity of his family upon him. _ ‘He had not shared in the bitter feeling ex- isting, but hatred of the Valliers had been in- stilled in me from my earliest childhood. It was only on condition that he would identify himself with our side b assuming our name and joining our cause that I consented to wed 1m, “He did it, but the concession was fatal t him. In less than three months afterward ed _ shared the Fate which had befallen tlie malé Durands. | ‘He was brought home dead from a hunting | obeyed me. % THE BITTER FEUD. excursion, shot through the side, by accidenf, they said. ‘But J was sure he had fallen victim to the hatred of the Valliers, and I vowed an addition- al vow to majntain the feud which existed. “When my boy was born some months later Irenewed the vow, and consecrated him to the task of wreaking vengeance upon his father’s murderer. “Time passed on until Jules became of age. I had been anxious—fearful that the Fate might overtake him, but I dismissed the fear then and urged him tomarry. While I had little faith in the rhyming prophecy, I wanted to see our house strengthened by brave lads, who, in time would avenge the injuries we had received at the hands of our enemies, “*T selected a fitting wife for Jules, the daugh- ter of a wealthy Virginia planter, whose fam- ily was old and honorable as our own. “For the first time in his life my son dis- He would marry, he said, only the woman his heart had chosen. ‘‘Tmagine “pe horror when [ discovered he had fallen in love with a penniless girl, and worse still—a Valliers! “I exhorted him to renounce the traitress— in blood she was a traitress—and to consum- mate the revenge which his father’s death de- manded. “He refused utterly. He married the girl in defiance of my will, and from that day he was tome as one of the bated family he had openly espoused. ‘I never saw him again in life. But two years later the woman who had enticed him away from me came to beg at my gates. Her husband, she said, lay dying at a little village twenty miles away. He had come that far on his way to the manse to implore my forgive- ness, and to beg my care for his wife and child. “* He should have known that I never forgive. “But twenty miles away he had succumbed— to what, think you? Simply, starvation ! “She implored me in my son’s name, and I answered her that I had noson. I learned then what I had not known before—that she was the last of the Valliers as he was the last of our branch of the Durands; but there was the child in her arms, a puny, tiny infant, but it had the detested blood in its veins. “T let her rave, but I would not listen to her, and I sent her away with no word of consola- tion for the man who was reaping the fruits of his error. Three days after that I heard that Jules Durand had died—a suicide! He had brought the Fate upon himself, ** And now, Mr. Thancroft there would re- —_ me for my part in that little drama of ife and death. Ma foi! what a world it is when another’s follies are transformed into our faults. ‘‘T have nothing with which to reproach my- self, and I regret nothing.” Madame paused, but seemed to reiterate her last words in the light, measured tap of her stick upon the floor. The young people ventured upon no remark, and the pitiless old woman who sat there tellin her tale with as much composure asif it ha been an idle day’s gossip, passed her wrinkled jeweled hands one over the other and chuckled softly to herself as she peered in her round-eyed bird-like fashion alternately into the faces of each to read the expressions there. ““Ah, madame!” cried the lawyer, ‘‘ you com- . me to take up the tale in your own defense. eaven knows that you were hard enough, and Thave always ween a your course, but you were not so remorselessly cruel as you leave these young people to infer. “Tt was but natural you should feel anger at your son’s waywardness, but you forget that it was your own spirit reproduced in him, en- couraged moreover by your own example, which prompted him. TI declare that you were barsh—cruelly harsh!—to the young woman, Jules’s wife, when she pleaded your forgiveness for her husband. But i do not think you actual- ly comprehended the sore strait to which they were reduced, ‘““The poor child—she was nothing but'a child —was half-crazed by sorrow and want. You did not realize that until afterward, Iam sure. Relentless as you were, you wonld not willing- ly have consigned your son to such a death. “You thought it an artifice—a deceit prac- ticed to influence you to receive his wife and child. always found that much excuse for you. ‘* T think when you had considered alittle you would have gone insearch of them, but for the discovery of a rash act which Jules’s wife had committed. You were wrong, you know; but I have | ‘The necklace of pearls and amethysts, which lay in its case upon your dressing-table, was missing, and you knew that she alone could have taken it. You said, wrathfully, ‘ Let ‘it go; it is the only portion they shall ever have.’ ‘* But, when you heard that Jules was dead— so awfully dead—you went at once to that little village, twenty miles from here. "You were not subdued, or merciful, or chap sito even then. If you felt sorrow no one ever knew it. He was a suicide, and his body could not be laid in consecrated ground, but you caused it to be pri- vately buried ina spot which had been a fa- vorite haunt of hisin his wayward, boisterous boyhood. “Ah, madame, madame!” cried the lawyer, brokenly, raising his clasped hands toward her, as if he were appealing mercy for himself. ‘““How you conquered remorse aid despair, then, [know not. How you could see the bright young life—such a happy life as it had been once, and you so proud of it—blotted out ‘so. foully, ended so sorrowfully, with not a curse hurled back at you from the border of eternal space, but a muttered prayer that you might be forgiven—how you could know that the out- stretching of your hand would have saved him, and not go mad with self-horror and reproach, I can not know.” Madame’s bright black eyes, fixed upon the lawyer’s face, had never wavered nor dimmed. Her hands, lying in her lap, had been quies- cent, but now she caught up the stick by her side and rapped sharply upon the floor. “Enough, Mr. Thancroft. Quite enough of such rhapsodizing. I don’t like it—I detest it. A man of your age and a lawyer! you should be ashamed of your weakness, sir!” “Ah, madame, Heaven alone knows from whence you derive your inflexible strength. But to continue: ““You gave money to relieve the wants of Jules’s loved ones. The poor young wife was stricken down very near to the gates of death, but you made no attempt to console her in her wild grief. “You made provision for her wants and stipulated that the child should be well cared for, but when she rallied she would ac- cept nothing at your hands. ‘What became of her or the boy I never knew oe that you afterward told me she was dead, but the lad was alive and well. You know how I begged and prayed you to bring him here, your own son’s son; at least he was innocent of all wrong against you. But you would not, nor would you let me know his whereabouts; bad you done so, I would have sought him out and provided for him as if he had been of my own blood.” Slowly madame rose up from her chair. So quick was she in her ordinary movements, so surprisingly quick for one of her age, that this deliberate action had something awfully por- tentous in it. She spoke, and her tone was’ dis- tinct but heavy, as if some weight was upon her tongue, yet her words were only common- place in themselves. ‘** Bah! you'tire me, sir, and you have redeem- ed me no more than I would have wished by your unbased re We have dwelt up- on the dead full long enough, suppose we’ re- turn ‘to the interest of the hour. ‘*T want to know what is Lucian Ware about all this time? You, Mirabel, play me something on the harmonium there, while you other two find Lucian and bring him here.’ She waved her hand and sunk back into her chair, with her face in the shadow. Erne, with Fay at his side, went out upon the moonlit piazza; while Mirabel seated herself at the quaint old harmonium to draw out baal ing strains, which, in their cracked melody, had the same reminder of old-time sweetness that still marked the abrupt tone of Madame Du- rand, And not one of them all had a suspicion of the | iey chill which was stealing up the madame’s side, chaining her limbs in a dead numbness, stealing away the powers of motion and speech, but never dimming the brightness of the un- wavering glance fixed straight on the empty space before her, CHAPTER VI. A SUDDEN SHOCK, ERNE VALERE, with Fay upon his arm, went out into the moonlit court with a fee as though he had been suddenly transpo to Paradise. This fair-haired, tiny creature, this dainty bit of flesh and blood, this silver voiced siren, had fairly bewitched bim in the few brief hours they were thrown together. ; , o i.
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She dazzled his eyes like an angelic vision, and entranced his senses by her naivete, her child-like candor and seeming innocence, bag had he but known it, were all deceptive wiles. They. paused for a moment in the moonlit ce, with thessweet odors of the blooming ants about thém, and the stillness of the night rooding down. “T don’t much wonder Mr. Lucian preferred so much henmiy to that dingy, goapeet tp room,” said Fay, with a shrug of the bare dimpled shoulders, which gleamed above the shawl she had drawn loosely about her. ‘I admire his liking for the open night, but not his taste for solitude, I don’t like to be left alone, ever.” ‘‘ITam sure there must be plenty who wish ou never need be,” said Erne, timidly. So lit- tie accustomed to ladies’ society was he that the compliment implied fell trippingly from his tongue. But if his expression was awkward, the eloquent light in his dark eyes made atone- ment for the fault. ** Delightful!” thought Fay, ‘I’m sure I’d have died if I hadn’t found somebody to flirt with.” “There,” she said,in her pretty, child-like manner, ‘*I suppose you inean something, but I’m sure I don’t know, | hope you're not in the habit of flattering people, Mr. Valere,” “ Not 1,” he replied, smiling. ** That sounded like a compliment, you know, and I don’t like people to say pretty things to me just for politeness’ sake.” “T am not an adept in the art of saying retty things’” he returned quietly. ‘In all os Isay be sure I am always sincere.” **Oh, then I'll be sure that I have one friend here in my new home. It seemed like leaving every thing that was bright in the world to come away from all who loved me to this wil- derness. of a place. To tell you the truth, I couldn’t reconcile myself at first. But then mamma was so dreadfully poor, and though uncle St. Orme is rich, he has a half-dozen girls of his own to provide for. They were all hor- ridly plain, too; and the gentlemen would al- ways send up their cards to me—though I didn’t want them to, and— Well, it used to make the girls disagreeable and cross,” She glanced up into his face deprecatingly, as if she feared he too might disapprove, but he only ressed her hand silently in sympathy. . ma had a proposal to travel as com- panion to an invalid lady friend just at the time madame’s invitation was forwarded to me through Mr. Thancroft. I knew it would be so much pleasanter for her than remaining depen- dent upon my uncle, so I assured her that I was ‘ t uite willing to be forwarded to madame’s care. | m afraid you would think me a dreadfully selfish thing if I should tell you how hard my own struggie was.” “Tt was nature)” said Erne. “ You knew nothing of the new friends to whom you were coming, and the separation from your mother would be very hard to bear. But harder, I am sure, for her to lose so considerate a daughter.” “Just what I thought,” said Fay, sweetly, ‘and I would not grieve her where I could help. So I pretended that the summer passed up here in the mountains would be delightful pastime, and when that was over, I would be quite re- conciled to the drearier aspect of the place so long as I could know that she was happy and comfortable. It wasn’t so very wicked to fib a ‘little in such a case, do you think?” “Very pardonable,” smiled Erne. ‘ The more so that I hope and believe you will prove it all true yet.” ossed and enraptured as he was, he would have forgotten their mission utterly but Fay re- minded him of it. ‘Now, Mr. Valere, if you’ve any idea of the crooks and corners into which that inconsider- ate but sensible young man may have strayed, suprose we endeavor to find him out. Madarr> will think we are tardy, and I don’t want her to be vexed with me. What a funny old woman she is!” “Funny?” interrogated Zrne. : “Yes. So tiny, and she flies about in the queerest and most unexpected way. She dresses so oddly, too, and says such horrid things just as though she really meant them.” **She does mean them,” he replied, gravely. §*T believe she is just as hard, untorgiving, and unwerciful, as she claims herself to be. turned against her own son, as she told us to- night, though he only followed in her own steps" by marrying a “ Valliers.” He tty h back her head with an eager look. : _ “[ didn’t think before.” she cried. “ but isn’t She | ave continued, but Fay threw | ‘“‘ No, my name is Valere. There is a similar- a the sound, but they are differently spell- ed. “Oh!” said Fay, with a disappointed intona- tion. “It would be so nice if you were one of them. Who knows what sort of a relationsbi we might patch up between us, the Darends and Valliers so intermixed, according to ma- dame’s story ?” ** But in that case, madame would never have | ly unfastening the dog.” “Bruno should not be unchained when any except members of the ordinary family are around,” said Erne, gravely. ‘‘ He has a surly temper, and a more serious consequence might result. It is by madame’s express order that | he is kept close, you know.” interested herself in me, and I would not have | met you. It seems strange that two families so bound by ties of blood should have been so bit- als f hostile; it would be hard to tell where the feud should end and clanship begin,” “I can’t help wishing you were a Valliers,” persisted Fay. “* And then, if madame should take the notion to marry you to one of the Du- rands, to bury the feud and leave you ail ber property, it would be such a charming romance in real life. Don’t you think the changes time is sure to make might account for the change in your name?” Erne laughed. ‘*Even romance does not weave itself out so easily, Miss Fay. You forget all the di-tresses the hero and the heroine are sure to endure.” ‘What a splendid place for a compliment,” thought Fay. ‘“ Why don’t he willing to brave all sorts of danger if / were the heroine? Stupid! I’m sure the other one wouldn’t let such an opportunity slip.” The other one meant Lucian Ware. Fay, sunerficial as she was, had rightly divined the different natures of the two young men. Erne Valere was too aironahty honest and true to utter light assurances, even though bis | heart might prompt them. ** No,” he went on replying to her question. *‘T do not think the name I bear is corrupted from that of madame’s enemies. If it were, it would bring me no nearer the Durands, for my right toitisonly nominal. Il was a nameless waif, and my earliest remembrance isof a harsh woman whose name I can not remember, except that it was different from the one she bestowed on me, and that she impressed upon my child- ish understanding was not rightfully mine, “Tt comes back to me sometimes, like an al- most forgotten dream, hazy, indistinct—the vision of my early childhood’s days. ‘* In all the time since, I have never bad any one to care for me until madame chose to take an interest in my welfare. ‘* And although she is eccentric to an extreme, whimsical and oftentimes overbearing, seeming- ly without natural affection, cynical, and to a certain extent misanthropic, yet I am drawn toward her by something more, than a mere feeling of gratitude. I think it must be that I realize true womanly nobility beneath the | crust she has encouraged to overgrow her gener- ous impulses.” Fay put up her little dimpled hand to con- ceal a yawn, then raised it, warning him to si- lence. ‘“*T thought I heard voices.” ‘It is scarcely probable. There is the tower, and the servants are not fond of lurking herea- bouts after nightfall. I think we must seek Lu- cian in some other direction.” As he spoke, a muttered grow] and snarl sa- luted their ears. A tawny body with sponning red eyes made a rush at them from the dark shadow of the tow- ve ai ' ; 7 i ; Oh! what is that?” screamed Fay, in wild | texture of the shriveled skin changed a clutching Erne’s arm, ** Down, Bruno, down!” he commanded, “Do not be alarmed, Miss St. Orme. It is only the watchdog, but he is a savage brute and should not be unchained at this early hour. Bruno; quiet, sir! How did you come from your ken- nel, I should like to know?” “Oh,” cried Fay, trembling and clinging to him still, as the dog fell back, yet eyed them viciously. ‘‘ The great horrid brute. “Do come away; lam fairly sick with fright.” Erne’s heart gave a great throb ag he glanced down at her. The temptation was strong to clasp her close in his arms where she might find | livs a refuge always on his real, true heart. But while the intoxicating thought wavered like a flash through his brain, Ware came out from the shadow of the tower, speaking angrily to the dog. é “Away with you, Bruno! What do you mean by such disgraceful conduct? Begone to your kennel, sir?’ an air of mock humility. ‘What shall my penance be? I have been the say he’d be | | Then approaching them he doffed his cap with | “Oh, madame is full of quips,” retorted Ware, carelessly. ‘‘I am only sorry that Miss St. Orme has been alarmed. What were you doing—watching the moon? I envy you, Val- ere! I did not plead for the pleasure of the ladies’ companionshi through respect of the madame’s expressed disfavor.” ‘She sent us in search of you, half an hour 0.” ‘* A’ man’s soul wouldn’t be his own, if ma- dame could command it,” grumbled Lucian Ware. ‘‘ What did she suppose I would do— desecrate her floral geometry, or steal through the secret passage they say is somewhere in the manse, to make off with her valuables? Let as go back to set ber mind at rest. Don’t let this preposterous madame intimidate you, Miss St. Orme, A pretty time you'll have of it if she once gets you under her thumb.” *‘T should use my counter-charm,” said Fay. “T believe in conquering by love.” “YT wish you would fight a battle with me,” declared Lucian, gallantly. ‘‘Ishould take such pleasure in being defeated.” They turned to go indoors, and a dim form that had been lurking in the densest shadow un- seen by either Erne or Fay, sped silently away toward another portion of the house. It was only the confidential maid, Milly Ross. But two bits of evidence—that scrap of rust- ling paper drawn from the glove, anc this tryst kept beneath the tower-walls—might fit sigunifi- cantly together. Mirabel was at the harmonium still, but arose as they entered. She glanced smilingly toward Mr. Thancroft nodding in his chair, and turned toward the, figure sitting half in shadow. ‘*Have | soothed madame to sleep also?’ she asked, softly. ‘‘ My music exerted greater in- fluence than I thought.” Fay danced across the room and dropped on the stool by the old lady’s side. “Such a fright as I’ve had,” she began, reach- ing her soft fingers to caress the shriveled hand on which diamonds gleamed brightly. She sprung up with a_ horrified ery—her touch had met another, cold, clammy, death- like. ‘“Oh, she is dead! She is dead!” shrieked Fay, and straightway relapsed into hysteria. CHAPTER VII MADAME’S WARNING. THry gathered, an awe-stricken group, about the great arm-chair and its silent occupant. Fay, groveling on the floor in an excess of terror, shrieked and tore her fair hair unheeded, until Lucian Ware, with a face that, in its dis- torted, pallid intensity, was like the face of some unholy spirit, beautiful still, but baleful in its stamp of baffled rage, lifted her in his arms and placed her on a couch, Then Erne put his hand on the great chair, wheeling it about to face the light. The slight, erect figure in its rich brocade, with jeweled hands clasped loosely in the lap, was rigid and motionless as death itself. The lips were blue, and drawn apart, the soft, rich to a death- like hue, but the eyes were wells of glittering light. Even in that awful hour Madame Durand’s lance never softened to implore those about er, The expression of the gleaming black orbs | was one of impatience and command—hitter, hard, unwavering, as in all the undeviating course she had travers, It would seem that no afflicting power could bend or break the madame’s indomitable spirit. “Oh, not dead!” cried the lawyer, in ten sharp tones. ‘‘ Thank Heaven! not dead!” A sigh of ineffable relief broke over Mirabel’s She dropped her soft palms on the wrin- kled brow, clammy as with the dews of death, Then she began to unloose the priceless lace at madame’s throat, but a flash of those gleaming eyes arrested her movement. The pale lips quivered slightly, but no articu-. Mira late sound passed them, irabel interpreted the unuttered word with intuitive quickness, ‘*Ross?—I will find her for you. Mr. Than- croft, for Heaven’s sake, do something quick- » ly. Y She sped away with almost incredible swift- ~
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cw he Soe 2 Ee Scie See. Riess, and Mr. Thancroft turned his face toward / Erne, with big, cold drops, wrung by intense emotion, standing on his brow. “Ttisa porelyse stroke,” he said, ‘and not the first. nd some one for Doctor Gaines, in all haste.” “T will go myself,” returned Erne, hurriedly quitting the apartment. After the first confusion of the shock, every thing was done with system and dispatch. Lucian Ware came forward with quiet ad- dress, and lifting the palsied figure, tenderly bore madame to her own chamber. oss came and waited on her helpless mistress, who was rallying already from the first severity of the stroke, and all waited with painful anxiety the coming of the physician. Mirabel, meantime, busied herself in attempt- ing to relieve the distress of Fay St. Orme. But the latter screamed and sobbed and shud- dered under the appliamce of ice to her temples, the laving of her Seow with perfumed water, and chafing of the hands and wrists, which Mirabel adopted. Tee housekeeper prescribed soothing drops, but Fay clenched her little white teeth and refused to swallow them. “ Will you stop that intolerable noise?’ cried the lawyer, pausingin his nervous strides back and forth across the apartment. ‘‘It may be life or death to Madame Durand ‘that all excite- ment be kept from her.” “She is quite wild with affright,’’ explained Mirabel. ‘‘ When.she understands that madame is not really dead, she will grow quieter, I think.” **Puss and fol-de-rol!” ejaculated Mr. Than- croft. ‘She is sensible as you or I; I’m sure she has no more:cause for fright. Here, bring me a pail of water, some one, and I'll bring her to her senses.” Without waitin rushed away, .an heard yg oer Fay’s convulsive starts grew less apparent; she no longer screamed, but moaned faintly as she lay upon the cushions, *“Oh, oh, oh!” she breathed faintly and shud- deringly as the lawyer drew near. He raised the water pitcher he carried, threat- eningly, above her, as her eyelids trembled and slightly unclosed, See here, young lady,” he said, grimly, ‘you'll oblige all concerned by keeping perfect- ly quiet. I’ve seen people have hysteria before to-day, and know something about their man- agement. Nothing so good as pure, cold water; so if you scream or struggle again, you'll receive the benefit of two quarts or more, and I’m ofraidit might ruin your dress, That will do, Miss Durand; I'll keep watch for a time.” “Oh!” screamed Miss St. Orme, faintly, with symptoms of op into another paroxysm; but a few drops of the ice-cold water flipped in- to her face quieted her again. Had not Mirabel been possessed of grave fears for Madame Durand, she would have smiled at the ludicrousness of the scene—the lawyer, grim and threatening, holding his pitcher aloft, Fay furtively watching him and endeavoring to suppress her shuddering sighs, for she had really worked herself into state of a high nervius ex- an answer t6 his order, he in two minutes’ time was . citement which even the se]fishness which form- ed the chief element in her character could scarcely command. The measure was harsh but salutary, and Miss St. Orme was soon recovered sufliciently to retire to her own.apartment, where one of _ the housemaids was deputed to attend her. In half an hour’s time Erne clattered back to the door, accompanied by Doctor Gaines, who devoted all his skill to the relief of Madame Du- rand, with partial success. The generous stimulants he applied brought an appearance of life back into the numbed, stritken y. The power of speech came — it, though the utterance was labored and OW, \ Madame was in no further immediate danger, the ete said; she might recover the use of her limbs—he thought it most pogo she so much of strong animal life; but for he time she must exercise patience and remain wholly unexcited. Patience, in the manner of his meaning, was something new to the experience of Madame Durand, She had put an iron curb upon her affections, and literally ground out the tender sympathies which belong to the unperverted feminine nature, but'she had never put check to - her fancied desires nor controlled her impulses. She had covered by the garb of eccentricity the intense restlessness of a life barren of the satisfactory results which might have turned it into a smooth, pleasant, useful channel. How much of the great. sorrowful mistake an ¥ und THE BITTER FEUD. could be properly visited upon herself, how much ascri to the force of early training, an intensity of natural passions, and the course of attendant events, it were a bootless effort to at- tempt determining. é; But to this pass had madame come, and for this night at least she was willing to swallow the opiate which the physician prepared, and with Ross watching by her side, drift through an obscurity of painful. apathy which was neither consciousness of her own strait nor the tense influence of unbased visions. It may have been an undefined regret for the distorted | past, it may have been a dim prescience of time -and events to come. When Doctor Gaines left the madame’s room | and was let out into the court, dark except for the light of the dying moon and the star-gleams, he was scarcely surprised to find the impulsive little old lawyer waiting him there. ‘““Have you a vacant place in your gig, doc- tor?’ asked the latter, familiarly. ‘‘I know you'd be willing to go out of your way any day or night to accommodate me.” “Tf you don’t object to crowding and don’t attempt to interview me,” returned the other. linking arms with his old friend as they walked down through the grounds to the avenue gates, ** But the ted is just what I propose doing.” **Waylaid me for the purpose, eh?’ ‘Exactly. At least I started my clerk ahead with that view. Lwant the truth of the ma- dame’s case.” “Well, didn’t you hear it?” ‘‘T heard your report at the house.” “What more do you want, my friend?’ ‘*T want a plain statement, Isay. See here, Gaines, haven’t you enough confidence in my discretion to break through professional reserve this once? I’ve got reason enough for pressing you, be assured.” 4 Well, then, I. gave them truth straight enough up there, but not all of it. Madame’s chance for ultimate recovery isn’t one out of a thousand, She'll be better, she'll improve very rapidly, until some passion or excitement brings on the final fatal attack. So long as she’s kept calm and quiet, she is tolerably safe; but you know she’s no more to be ruled than the elements are.” The lawyer groaned audibly. “There, don’t be so disheartened,” said the doctor, encouragingly. ‘ You’ll find lost pick- ings neatly summed up in a bequest without doubt; for my part, I don’towe much tothe prime old gentlewoman. Her superior digestion left little room for the exercise of my profession, you see,” It was less lack of all feeling on the doctor’s part which prompted his remark than a desire to divert his friend from the saddest aspect such a case must present. ‘IT wish I was sure of others faring as well as I shall, which means only that T’ll get my just dues—neither more nor less, ‘*Here’s the trouble, Gaines. Madame can’t be induced to make her will or to discover to Jules’s son his own rights. ‘Tf she dies without revealing his personali- ty, he may never know his true name or sta- tion, and rd only knows to what winds the Durand estates will be scattered. ‘“The madame should be apprised of her own danger, doctor, believe me.” “The knowledge of it would send her into the very passion we wish to avoid,” ‘No; madame is too sensible when rightly approached. She must see the necessity for quiet action, and yield to it.” * Nevertheless, Ill not take the risk,” de- clared the doctor; and Mr. Thancroft, in a perturbation of spirit, | isda the livelong night without deciding the exact letter of his uty. Neither did all sleep at the manse that night; but to trace out the thread, we must go back for an hour or two. The maid who waited upon Fay St. Orme had none of the discreet silence which pertained to Milly Ross. She was the housekeeper’s niece, and all her life passed here gave her a | madame seen an ill-omen that night. knowiedge of the Durand history without put- | ting the seal of silent caution upon her lips. *Tt’s awful, to sure,” said the gossipy maid, ‘‘ but folks always said the madame wera a-tempting of retribution onto her. It’s not? -r me to say, and she’s been kind enough to us >">, aside from putting that mealy-faced Ross ver us all, but the madame has flew in the fuce of. Providence from first to last. Those as go back on their own flesh and blood isn’t like to have many to mourn ’em when it comes to such a visitation.” “T’ve heard the sto not averse to gleaning ,” said Fay, who was nowlecge by even this | | even for the sake of ae reprehensible method. ‘‘Don’t you suppose that madame will send for the little boy, her grandson, now that she is so ill?” “Ter, he’s a grown man afore this time,” re- plied the girl. Fay had assumed this ignorance simply for the sake of drawing her out, with- out direct questioning. ‘‘He’s older than I by full two years. My aunt was here then, and she’s told me many a time how the poor young, thing looked—fair, famished as she was—anc the baby in her arms, that was just its father’ born image, but the madame was never move. no way at all. 5 ‘ Aunt says that she believes to this day that , She went. into ber room, and found her white and shiver- ing as a ghost, but the madame pretended it was only because her nocklace was lost. That. wes enough to bring bad luck, she said.” ‘Madame believes in omens?” Fay inquired, carelessly. ‘She’s reason to,” returned the girl, solemn- ly. “ She’s brought Te sorrow onto herself’ by disregarding of ’em. You saw the picter in the parior, miss!” Fay nodded. , “Well, it’s cotinted a tempting of Providence’ to follow after the track of tuat one in any way whatsoever. But no sOoncr was oF MS? dame married and settled down, than she goes and orders a dress precisely like the one Madame Rosalie is painted in. She had it made all in secret they say, and dressed in it till she looked like the very picter stepped from its frame. She meant to surprise her husband, she said, when he’d come home from the hunting where he’d gone that day. “And, miss, he was brought home stark dead.” “Ugh!” shuddered Fay. ‘“Madame took off the dress and the other things, and put them away with her own hands in the very bottom of a great cedar-wood chest, where they’ve laid ever since, never see- ing the light of day, except onc’t a year, when she takes em out to brush and air.” “Haye you seen them?” asked Fay, with awakened interest. “‘T wouldn’t durst let the madame know,” said the girl, with a frightened look, ‘You see, since aunt has got rheumatic 1: keep the lumber-room key, and do the dusting and sort- ing there. I just took a into that chest one day, and the gown and all are there, kept fresher’n you'd think from being always in t dark. rit let you see it some day if you like, miss. The maid slept on an impromptu couch, in Fay’s room that night. The young lady de- clared herself too nervous and unstrung to be left quite alone, and made this suggestion when Mirabel offered to share her apartment. The housekeeper’s niece slept soundly, never Suepeceng the train of consequences her gossip had set in motion, It was the dark hour before the dawn, and Milly Ross drowsed in her watch by madame’s bedside. A faint rustle in the room did not arouse her, but madame, with wide-open, gazing eyes, saw a figure float past her perspective view. A fig- ure wearing the dress of azure silk, the mass of golden hair looped high by tke old-style comb, and the cold, proud face of Madame Rosalie Durand as pictured on the canvas i below. Milly Ross woke suddenly to meet the intense gaze of her mistress, ‘“*IT have been warned, Ross,” said madame, with slow, calm utterance. ‘1 have seen Rosa- lie Durand.” Milly shuddered, knowing that other Durand superstition which the apparition foretold— that the person seeing it should meet death as did fair, false ].osalie—by poison | CHAPTER VIII. A FORTUNE REJECTED, ELEVEN next day saw Mr. Thancroft toiling up the steep, rocky footpath, which led to the manse, The true-hearted little lawyer had taken his resolution at last, and was on his way to face madame, gently as might be, with the hopeless- ness of her case, and, in his unwavering fideli- ty, beseech her once more to relent toward the outcast scion of the house. ‘I wouldn’t shake her hold on life by so much as a breath,” he muttered, as he stamped ex- citedly on up the rocky athway. “T wouldn’t ules Durand’s boy, but her span of years is so near the end, and hip ia all before him.
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hoa — ** Not one chance in a thousand, Gaines said, but if it were the nine hundred and ninety-nine she had, madame would throw them all away ‘before she'd bend that haughty spirit, “There must be some way to reach her— ‘some way to soften her—if I could but find it. She has no feeling on any subject except the subject of death, and she always shrunk from it as a horror that stands aloof in the far future, “*Heaven grant the knowledge that it threat- ens her so closely may awaken the better promptings which she must experience, or stain the blank of her eternal future by letting a de- liberate wrong go unrighted. Ah, madame, it’s not so foul a neglect while “vyowre here to rule your own, as it will be if ve ’ strangers succeed. you, and your son’s boy be Tost to all the noble chances of life as to his an- cestral rights. ** Ah, madame, madame! I alone of them all know how you have walked over thorns without flinching. I have seen the agony when it rose up too intolerable for calmly bearing, and you rode over it in one of the tempestuous passions that people called demoniacal, and feared you for possessing. But you never adimitted the truth to even yourself, and I can’t hope that you'll do it now.” With sorrowful face bent toward the ground, he pursued the remainder of his way, dejected- iy musing. The staid old man-servant answered his muf- fled rap, and ushered him into the silent room, where madame had been wont to receive bim. Her great chair, with the cloth of purple and gold draping it like a vacant throne, and the richly-wrought, time-dimmed footstool, were in their accustomed places; but the queer, erect little figure would never sit there in state, and announce her whimsical mandates to this faith- ful servitor of hers—never again. : With a deep sigh, the little lawyer turned his back upon the familiar appointments of the room, and stared through the open window into the little court where every tree and plant breathed an odorous message of madame’s care of it. ‘‘ How bright the sunshine re he murmured, passing his hand across bis imming eyes im- tiontly. ‘““What a mocking world it is to ook so serene, he to lay so many pitfalls for our steps through it, and to watch us fade like late blossoms without a passing cloud of pity. ‘“ Ah, nonsense! What has come over me inki h sentimental | that I should be thinking such sentimenta Sogtia'ta this latryans ptat. school-girl twaddle. Indigestion, madame would say, if she could know it.” ; The softly opened door put a stop to his re- verie. Mirabel came in with the subdued air which pervaded all the place. *¢ Madame will see you at once in her own chamber,” said Mirabel. *‘ How is she?” asked the lawyer, lingering. Of the two young dependent relatives of the madame, Mr. Thancroft was impressed much in !wbrupt, vehement manner, but her utterance | ment. Rosalie Durand, in her azure robe, her \ THE BITTER FEUD. | was painfully slow. ‘My appetite is good— | rood. I had an omelet and a | | reads that, but has | | burden of-it. xigeon’s breast or breakfast, Mr. Thancroft, atid ay toast and French coffee, and I relished them all. What do you think of that?’ ‘*Good,” said the lawyer, mechanically. There was a striking disparity between ma- dame’s labored speech and the commonplace | Her peering bird-glance read his expression of shocked surprise, and she chuck- led audibly. “Do you think because ’m afflicted I should make a martyr of myself also?’ she asked. **No, no, Mr. Thancroft! With an appetite, a clear conscience and a good digestion, ‘en keep | in cheerful tone to the end of my days.” favor of Miss Durand, as he was impatient and | distrustful of Fay St. Orme. : ‘* Wonderfully improved, Ross reports,” Mir- abel replied. ‘“T have not seen her since mid- night.’ . he did not consider it necessary to add that this was owing wholly to the madame’s caprice. Mirabel had volunteered to share Ross's watch through the night, but had been unequivocally refused; again, this mornlng she had rapped early at madame’s door and proffered her ser- vices, but with the same result. Madame Durand had not succumbed to the helplessness which had fallen upon her. The lawyer found her with her silver hair smoothly dressed, beneath the tiny cap of delicate lace which she alwuys wore; a loose silk dressing- robe was drawn about her shoulders, and she was propped to a reclining posture in the great | living while it lasts, | much to regret, Mr. Thancroft. j | the tyrannical old task-mistress, think you?” canopied bed which bad been wheeled close to the open windows. Her hands lay upon the light coverlet, and a little of the lost power had come back to the right. She could move it painfully, and the fingers were growing more flexible with each passing | y ae : , ~ | to my death by no fair means. hour. : Ross had been chafing the deadened limbs with from her mistress, she withdrew to the opposite side of the large apartment. “Welcome,” said madame, turning her keen Sright eyes upon the lawyer. ‘‘I expected you, | or - should have sent.” \ ‘ “You wanted mé?’ asked. he, brightening. ‘‘How do you find yourself this morning, dear Madame Durand?” “Bah! fiddlesticks! better, you see,” madame replied. She spoke clearly. and in her old. werful liniment, but now, at a glance) | but you will. ‘** Which I pray Heaven may be long yet,” ut- tered the lawyer, solemnly. “Pray if you like, but I don’t believe in prayers,” asserted madame, with her old cynical emphasis, despite her slow utterance. ‘Prayer never kept the pot boiling without some hard work to aid it. Prayer will not lengthen our life when the extremity is reached; but ordina- ry care and no dyspepsia will make it worth the Tye passed three score pee ten, my friend, and I’m very near to the end. “You look grave, though you'll not have Will you miss “Madame,” cried the lawyer, in much dis- tress, ‘‘ you overwhelm me with grief when you speak so.” ‘* There,” T’ll not be contradicted,” interrupt- ed the madame. ‘‘And you shall not agree with me, either, for Pll not have any one cringe to please me because I’m near death.” “And Tl not cringe to you,” declared Mr. Thancroft. ‘‘ But, ah, madame! will it not be well to make your peace here as a preparation for the great hereafter?” Madame was powerless to turn her head, but her right hand wavered slightly up, and her keen eyes flashed brilHantly upon him, ‘**Don’t begin by angering me, Mr. Thancroft. Neither you nor any one else shall influence me from my own set course. Give me my own time, my own way, and J may take you into my confidence; but provoke me, and you'll only defeat your own wishes.” Madame lay back upon the pillow, panting from her vehemence. Her labored respiration, and the slight purplish flush which had risen to her face, brought the physician’s warning in full He bowed his head, and remained silent, lest some hasty expression of his might tend to in- crease her agitation. Madame’s wide eyes gleamed upon him, searching his sobetua. sorrowful countenance. ‘Old friend,” she resumed, more softly, ‘‘ let us pass by all the quibbles we have been in the habit of striking against. Let the old troubles rest forever after this. “T see that you wonder at my unconcern in | the face of my dire dread of death. It’s because I know it to be inevitable, and I’d scorn to shrink or struggle before my fate.” “Gaines may be mistaken,” began the law- yer, in the natural desire which people seem al- ways to possess to raise up hope where none ex- ists.” ‘Has he given up my case?” queried madame, sharply. “Oh no! I thought he must have told you. He only realizes attendant danger.” ** Tell me exactly.” “You must keep yourself very calm, ma- | dame. Any sudden passion or strong excite- ment might prove fatal.” Madame’s suppressed chuckle was expressive of such ill-timed, ghastly mirth, that the lawyer started nervously, and stared at her in uncon- cealed wonderment. ‘Oh, wonderful prescience,” cried she, in bit- ter mockery. ‘Oh, cultivated foreknowledge! And when the test comes—because he predicted it—our obtuse Doctor Gaines will declare that I have died from natural causes. “Listen to me, Mr. Thancroft. I shall come My life shall be foully wrested away, for all that my span of years is so nearly run, Will you see that I do not go unavenged? You don’t believe me now, I tell you that I shall die unfair- ly—a Durand death. I have been warned. I Have seen the specter of Rosalie Durand.” The lawyer stared at her dumbly. ‘“‘T lay helpless in my bed with Ross by me but she had fallen into a momentary doze. could see through the windows that the stars were blotted out in the inky blackness just be- fore day. I was wide awake asI am at this mo- | asked, incredulous. face fair in its winning loveliness, as it is paint- ed, floated slowly across my sight. It was neither a vision nor an optical delusion. It was a warning, my friend—a warning that I shall be betrayed to death as she was. Promise me that you will look for traces of poison when all is over.” ‘“ Ah, madame! whom could you suspect?’ he “You are not apt to yield to superstition. You were certainly dreaming, madame.” ‘No, no!” said madame, slowly, impressively. *““T do not suspect you, though you mean to leave me an unavenged victim.” ‘* If you are not the victim of a mere delusion, you shall not go unavenged!” cried the lawyer, with emotion. “Thanks, my friend,” uttered madame. ‘I can trust you.’ She relapsed into sudden silence, and Mr. Than- croft waited in grave anxiety for the revela- tion he thought she must make now and the commission he hoped she might put upon him, Madame perceived his expectant look, and divined its origin. “Don’t wait,” she said, imperatively. ‘‘ That's all I want of you now, but I may give you work before long.” ‘*Oh, madame; see that you do not defer it too long,” urged he. “Come to-morrow then—to-morrow at this hour. Come prepared to draw up my will in due form. There, my friend; no comments, and noadvice. Call Ross here, please.” Ross came, and the lawyer took his departure, not half satisfied by that much concession from the madame, but not daring to urge his plea fur- ther from fear of arousing the wapward opposi- tion which it was so useless to combat. *“T want to rest for an hour,” said madame to her maid. ‘‘ Then bring me luncheon, and when it is over below, send Erne Valere and Miss Du- rand here together.” Ross smoothed the pillows and turned the screens before the windows, then withdrew quietly. “Can it mean any thing—calling the two to- gether?” asked Ross of herself. ‘‘ Madame will be sure to send me away if it does, though she’s so free at times. I must provide for the chance—I don’t like to play such a part, but I must this once.” She passed with a noiseless, gliding step, into . the room adjoining madame’s. It was simply an antechamber of exceedingly singular shape, being a corner cut off by the circular stairway, leaving the third side of what would otherwise have been a triangle, a convex curve of wall, blank except for a door opening upon a stair- case landing. Another door led into madame’s chamber, and a swinging casement opened upon a long, narrow balcony which ran above like Gontts The strange appearance of this anteroom was hightexed by a paved floor of red and black. It was paneled with black walnut, and the one window was draped with dingy red damask, which lent a lurid glow to the light that fell through. There were many dim nooks in the old manse, but none more suggestive of myster than this one communicating with madame’s apartment. » Milly Ross swung the casement wide, and dropped the curtain before the opened space. The balcony was filled with greenery—tall flowering shrubs in stone vases of fantastic shapes, and great urns with vines trained trom them over the windows. And the balcony was inaccessible except from these two rooms. ~ Madame slept a short, refreshing sleep, and awoke to partake of her luncheon with her usual zest. Then Erne Valere and Mirabel Durand came up the spiral stairway and were admitted into madame’s presence for the first time that day. . “Don’t trouble yourselves about my state of health, young people,” said madame, when Erne would have expressed his solicitude. ‘It’s a waste of breath, and my breath is precious, if ours is not; besides, Ross can tell you all that. Vhere is Ross?” Milly advanced to the bedside. ‘You can go now, Ross. ring when you’re wanted again.” ‘“Come nearer,” said madame, when Ross had gone, ‘‘Here, Miss Durand, let me look you squarely in the face again.” ‘ Mirabel turned her face squarely to the light and patiently awaited madame’s pleasure. - “Prue Durand—true to the core!” the latter muttered. ‘I’ve not mistaken her.” “How would you like to be my heiress, Mira- bel Durand?’ asked she, still scanning the girl's Miss Durand will
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B ib “1 Yat ws sy i “a t ¥ . tions. vA ~~ features. ‘ How would you like to own ‘ll of Fairview Glen, and wealth enough besides to buy the souls of half the more in it, and not sell them cheap at that, either? “It would be a great change for the perse- euted assistant in a daily school, would it not? Preferable to the role of music-teacher as you found it? : “ve really a mind to do it, Miss Durand. I’ve a mind to leave it all to you.” Madame paused, peering alternately at them both. Mirabel, taken utterly by surprise, re- mained silent; while Erne listened in respectful attendance to the madame’s will. “You've nothing to say to it, eh? Just as well, just as well, till you've heard my condi- You couldn't expect such a patrimony without them, could you?” Madame never paused for a reply to any of her queries. “You, Erne Valere,” she proceeded, ‘how would you like to share all the grandeur of such high estate? How would you like to com- mand the rent-rolls it has been your business to collect for me? ‘You make a fine couple standing there together, you two. Both poor and proud, haughty as becomes the heirs of my line, and as honorable, I hope.” “Madame!” ejaculated Erne, a hot flush mantling his cheek. ‘Be silent!” commanded madame. “It will be time enough to k when I am through. ‘*T have not much longer to live, as perhaps you may have guessed, and I want to leave worthy successors behind me. I don’t want you to disappoint my intentions by any foolish scruples. ) “7 want you, young man, to wed my heiress and assume my name. ‘Jt is in the straight course of nature for every young girl to marry, and I want to put it out of Mirabel Durand’s Pine a to throw her- self away on a scheming adventurer some day. “ What do you say to my proposition, Erne Valere?” 5 “Madame, I can only decline it,” returned Valere with decision. ‘Even your wealth could not make amend for the self-respect I would forfeit by such a mercenary marriage, ad I would not wrong the lady by entering to such an unloving compact.” Mirabel turned to him, with an eloquent smile illumining her countenance, softening the roud curve of her scarlet lips. She put out ber hand to him with an impulsive, graceful motion. “J thank you from my heart, Mr. Valere. I could no more comply with madame’s proposi- tion than could you, and you have released re from the first embarrassment of the re- fusal.” He inclined his head over the white, delicate hand, and felt a thrill of pleasurable delight in hearing her approbation. Mite Had not Fay St. Orme woven her fascinations about him he might have defined that thrill as an awakening sensation of something more than simple admiration. And Mirabel, recognizing the nobility of soul which the young man possessed, and with a woman’s appreciation of manly strength and comeliness noting his perfect proportions, and open, handsome face, did not fail to do honor to madame’s judgment. A link of sympathy was welded in that mo- ment which was the first link of the chain which was hereafter to draw them closer than they could now imagine. “Ah!” cried madame, ‘‘and you would both throw away such a prospect? ‘You are mad— mad, both of you. ) “TY will not change my conditions, though; think again before the chance is lost.” ‘*T have chosen, madame,” said Valere. “And I,” spoke Mirabel, ‘‘could never rest as the inheritor of your wealth. Oh, madame, leave it all to the one who has a rightful claim upon it—to the son of Jules Durand.” Madame’s eyes flashed a lightning ray, and her right hand clenched itself. Her lips parted as though an angry torrent would rush forth, but she uttered only a single word. Gol” Mirabel sprung to her side in affright. * You are ill, madame! The exertion has been too great for you.” \ *Go!” repeated madame, shrilly. _ A rustle like the stirring of the wind among the leaves on the balcony, and Milly Ross slip- ped away from her hidden position beneath the -open window. WNoiselessly she glided back to that swinging casement of the anteroom, and stopped with a gasp face to face with Fay St. THE BITTER: FEUD. Orme, who had shrouded herself behind the damask curtain. At the same moment the bell in madame’s room rung a summons. CHAPTER IX. MADAME’S DISCOVERY. THE two eavesdroppers stared silently into each other’s faces for a second. Ross flushed and paled and trembled guiltily; but Miss St. Orme, afte? her first start of sur- prise, seemed in no way disconcerted. ‘‘Hush!” she whispered, with her finger on her lips. Mirabel and Erne were passing out through the anteroom, and the listeners fairly held their breath, lest some slight sound should betray them. Fay turned toward the maid the mo- ment the closing door shut them out, her fair face stamped with a charming expression of in- nocent wonder. ‘Did madame send you out there?’ she asked, being careful to modulate her voice that no tone might penetrate to madame’s ears. ‘‘ Why, I thought she had called Miss Durand and Mr. Valere for some secret conference, so I tiptoed through carefully as though it had been a pow- der-magazine in there. I suppose I was mis- taken, or madame would have sent you away out of hearing. ‘‘T didn’t want those others to see me, for they might have misconstrued my presence. People are so uncharitable, you know, and so apt to be suspicious without the slightest grounds in the world. That stately Miss Durand might suppose I was trying to overhear what the madame wanted of her, when I was just simply stealing through to get a close view of that ex- quisite tuberose, which I could see bursting into blossom over the edge of the balcony. Do you think madame would let me have just one little oy of those half-opened buds? They’re so lovely, and would be perfectly sweet to loop back my curls when I dress for dinner. What do you think, Ross? I’m sure you have good taste in such things.” ‘‘They’d look very nice, I’m sure, miss,” re- turned Ross. ‘‘ Madame’s very particular about her flowers, though, and 1 couldn’t say what her mind might be. Please let me pass, miss; she'll be awful if I keep her waiting.’ ‘Oh, well, don’t disturb her with my request, and I’ll come myself to see her after I’m Gressed. I wish Ihad you to wait on me instead of that blundering Jean.” Jean was the housekeeper’s niece, and quite a rivalry was extant between her and madame’s favorite maid. Ross, gratified but nervous, pushed past with a flurried ‘‘ Thank you, miss,” and hastened to the presence of her waiting mistress. Fay | erp after the prim little figure, and laughed silently. ‘“A word of flattery fitly spoken,” she whis- pered, in a soliloquy, as she dered lightly out upon the stairway landing, and back through the passage to her own apartment. “That simple-minded maid is blind to the straight intent of my object, though, at first thought, she was convinced of the fact that I was listening, as lam of her purpose in hiding among the shrubs. ‘“What has she in view by it, I wonder? Is she planning to make money out of madame’s heiress, or does she only wish to discover what legacy is left to herself? I'll keep an eye to your proceedings, you melancholy Ross, and trust me to find if you’ve any particular pur- pose at hand. ‘Oh, Miss Durand! what an idiotic being you are to throw away the chance madame offered you. Why, I think I would be willing to marry anybody’s grandfather, if he were coming into such an inheritance. Of course, you weren’t to blame that tks young man re- | fused you, and I rather imagine that ‘I am the | hideous as the fabled beast, for the sake of | cause of it,’ if you go to the root of his reasons. | Very good taste you have displayed, Mr. | Valere, in preferring little me to the queenl Mirabel, but your worldly judgment is decided- ly at fault. ‘Tm infinitely obliged to you both, though, for your generous self-denial, and your Quixotie views of honor. “Tf lve rightly judged the madame, she’ll never give you an opportunity for another re- fusal. What a blessing that she’s such an un- forgiving old wretch; there’s no shadow of fear she'll retract in favor of that cast-off grandson they are all so busy pleading for. “Tt will be my time next, for ’m near to the old cat as is Mirabel Durand, but I expect- ed that the matter of the name would give | her the preference, Oh, fortune is on my side, ass surely. Heaven knows to what means I might have had recourse, but now my way simplifies wonderfully. “Catch me refuse any conditions the ma- dame may impose. Ifshe’d but couple me with that handsome Lucian Ware, and submit the same proposition she gave those other two, she’d never be disappointed by either of us. ‘‘T always did prefer sinners to saints and if Lucian Ware doesn’t belong to the first class, I never saw deviltry stamped on a perfect | face. ““T can imagine what a glorious face it would be, if softened by the pleading of the great, tender passion. Butah! Lucie a—Lucian Ware! you are the man to comma.id love, not to im- plore it. I don’t think I could quite give up my ambitious dreams for you, even— “ Ah, bah! where am [ running to? Not to any idle sentiment, be sure. There’s too much at stake for that, just yet. “Now, Fay, you innocent dove, make your hay while the sun shines. Ah! Mirabel Durand! what complicaticns those conscientious scruples of yours have saved me. “It’s as good as settled now that Iam ma- dame’s heiress, just as I intended to be when 1 consented to come to this dreary Fairview Glen with its horrid old manse and its capricious old mistress, its miles upon miles of mountainous lands, and its piles upon piles of golden doilars that madame harvests from it.” And with this reflection prompting her, Fay made a bewitching toilet, and tripped away to the madame’s presence with a pale blue silken robe trailing its lengths in midst of the dingy surroundings which fitted the grim old manse. Only a plain band of narrow black velvet en- circled her throat, and the white arms were bare of ornament. All her life Fay had longed for costly jewels to fetter those rounded arms, to circle the pearly neck, and the spark of her strange green gray eyes rivaled the bright gleam of madame’s dia- monds, as she thought of those priceless gems one day becoming her own. She stopped on the threshold of madame’s room, startled, and staring as though she saw some uncanny sight. There sat madame in a great arm-chair, with a dress of crimson-and-gold brocade falling in stiff voluminous folds to the floor. She wore a glittering stomacher, and the rare yellow lace at her throat was clasped by a single immense ruby, which burned likea concentrated flame in the light of the declining sun. A little stand drawn to her elbow, held a aa 8 of jeweled caskets, one of them open, with a portion of its contents strewn nbc ut. Milly Ross and the housekeeper, Briggs, were in close attendance upon madame, their faces reflecting dire dismay. Madame’s passion of the afternoon had re- sulted in this—a very opposite effect fm that predicted by Doctor Gaines. Madanic’s incon:- itable will seemed slowly to ke overcomirg tke resistance of the stricken powers. By dint of threat and command, she had merce herself obeyed. . Through the conmibired efferts of Ross and the housekeeper, she had been liitca from her couch and arrayed in full Gress, a: d sat now in the great arm-chair, as has been seen. Her restless. black eyes caught sight of Fay, as the latter pausr d in the doorway. “There, Babyfece, go away before you fall into a hysteria from fright again. You're a victim tonerves. Idetest nerves; Pl not beve ee yple that are troubled with them about me. ‘ll not have an exhibition of them; do you hear, Miss St. Orme?” ‘“*Oh, madame dear! please do let me corre in,” cried Fay, coaxingly. ‘* Indeed—ir er’, I'll-be very careful not to disturb you: I’m so glad to find you so wonderfully better: itis a Me Fa joyful surprise. Oh, please let me stay. “Oh, but you'll be going into Ifyeteria from excessive joy next,” cried the madame, grimly. ‘“‘ No, no, indeed! I never have *hysteria, ex- cept from some very great shock or terror. Yon shall tell me if Tannoy you in any way.” ‘“‘ Well, come in then,” said madame, growin gracious. ‘*Turn about, Miss Vanity, until view that becoming toilet you’ve been'spendi ¢ hours upon, I daresay. It’s not complete, Miss St. Orme; where are your ornaments?” “‘T was meaning to beg some of those lovely tuberoses of yours. I have no jewels, madame; . not even of the simplest kind. Mamma and i were so dreadfully poor, you know.” “Oh, y poor, no’ doubt nted madame. ‘Pray, how many silk may your wardrobe contain??? ‘* Let me think,” murmured Fay, reflectively.
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42. _———— **T have a lovely sea-green satin and a puffed white lace over-dress with it, that’s my best; then, I’ve a white moire shot -*=h gold, from fast season; my rose glace and this blue; a gray foulard made from one of mamma’s; and some common blacks and browns, but they are horri- bly shabby.” ‘* You're to be pitied, Miss St. Qrme,” said madame, gravely. ‘‘I really don’t see how you contrived to exist with that meager supply. I suppose you have some other dresses?” ‘Oh, yes; India muslin, and cambrics and organdies, a silk tissue I’ve a tarletan that I once wore over maize satin—that might do here, though I never could have worn it again at my uncle’s. I’ve some of Japanese goods, too, and summer silks—” ‘ Piti- * And no jewels!” broke in madame, hope your uncle never put you on able case! short rations?” ‘What?’ asked Fay, opening her eyes with a sudden comprehension that madame’s grave sympathy was covert sarcasm. Xo snough to eat?” “Of course. You're laughing at me, Ma- dame Durand; but, indeed, my wardrobe is no- thing, compared with my cousins’, I’m glad I have all those dresses, madame, for they will last me a Jong time here.” ae A ‘S Of course,” assented the madame. “Now, my dear madame,” coaxed Fay, ‘‘ may Ross bring me the flowers I asked for, and may I look at your jewels? Oh, what beauties!” ‘No, Ross may not break so much as a single stem,” said madame, positively. ‘I can’t pre- vent you looking at those gewgaws if you wish to, since sper are plainly in view. Here, Milly Ross, open the other casket for me; empty it in my ee With a cry of delight Fay went down upon her knees before the madame, ‘‘They’ve not seen the light for twenty-five years,” said madame, in croaking monotone, ‘Not for twenty-five years, until to-day. And they are bright and mocking now as when I shut them away. and two common prints. | ‘‘No, Pll not despoil my rose-tree to set off your babyface beauty, Miss St. Orme. Here's something that will please you better, and the Durand jewels will never miss it.” Madame lifted a slender gold chain with an emerald clasp, in her feeble hand. Fay’s eyes had contracted to narrow green points, whose | gleam was concentrated on the glittering heap which shone against the background of ma- dame’s rich brocade, She drew her gaze away with a wistful sigh, as she accepted the old woman’s gift. ‘*So very, very kind of you, dear Madame Durand. Oh, it’s lovely; but see, it does not | match my dress. I can’t wear an @nerald with blue, you know.” “* Put it on,” said madame, peremptorily, ‘it | matches your eyes. ‘They’re green—green as | were Rosalie Durend’s, ‘There's a bracelet, too —ah! here. Clasp it on Miss St. Orme’s wrist, | Ross.” Fay egtended her hand, and Milly Ross snap- ped a glittering coil upon the smooth, white arm. It was a serpent with quivering, golden ecnleg, and emerald eyes that caught a baleful liz*+ trom the late sunshine streaming into the room “Gh, how deliciously horrid,” cried Fay, as | she delightfully surveyed her new acquisition. | “Oh, you dear Madame Durand! how can [ ever thank you enough?” A grim smile settled down upon the madame’s face. “Fit to be a descendant of Rwsalie Durand,’ she muttered, sotto voce. ‘‘ Cold-blooded, I per- ecive; treacherous, I know.” “I'm tired of you, Miss St. Orme,” said she, changing her mood abruptly. ‘‘ You can go contentedly, for T’ll give you nothing more now. Put the jewels all away, Ross. Ah! what’s that?” Madame was passing her hand slowly through the glittering heap, and had lifted a gold ring, which seemed solid, but barbaric in its heavy breadth. Her wavering touch must have come into contact with some hidden spring, for the apparently solid band fell suddenly apart, dis- closing an inner ring, the existence of which she had never known. The concealed ring was a band of delicate gold tracery, studded closely all the way around with tiny alternate amethysts and pearls. ‘Odd!’ said madame, ‘Of all the Durand Tos many as they are, this is the only piece have neyer worn. Put it on my finger, Ross: I've takugt'a fancy to this mysterious ring.” And obediently sipped the circlet on madame’s finger, then replaced the jewels, and hocixod them fast in the strong-bound caskets, ' do, Mr. Lucian. | thou THE BITTER FEUD. A COMPACT. A MAN whose figure was ill-defined in the dee shadow, leaned against the wall of the old roun tower. It was ten o’clock at night, and the moon was up in full silvery radiance; but there was cum- brous foliage at the foot of the tower, deep abutments too, and the moss-grown remnant of a crumbling wall, that shut the flood of light completely away from the spot where the man stood waiting. Not patiently waiting, it would seem, though his head was drooping, and his mind intently at work. He changed his position with irritable frequency, or paced back and forth by the side of the ruined wall. He advanced a few steps to listen, and a ray of moonlight revealed the face of the young law-student, Lucian Ware. At the same instant the prim little figure of madame’s maid came to view from the corner of the mansion, and approached noiselessly to his side, ‘ tine last,” said Lucian Ware, holding out his and. I’ve been waiting half-an-hour, Milly.” He spoke in a tone of plaintive reproach, and held her thin little hand close in his grasp. Ah, Milly Ross! Then this is the secret of your spying upon the madame—the eavesdrop- ping beneath the window. That was a part which your own simple honesty of itself would | never haye assumed, but the subtle power of ; handsome Lucian Ware has blinded you to the fact that you are only a cat’s-paw in his hands, and you are lending yourself a tool to his machinations, fancying that you are to be re- warded by his love. Ah, simple Milly Ross! you have yet to learn that the love of Lucian Ware is a bane that is to cast a blight on more than you alone. ‘Tt is just ten,” replied the maid. ‘“ But, oh Mr. Lucian, I had given up the hope of coming to-night. I feared I should have to disappoint ou. “i ‘Disappoint me!” he echoed. slept a wink this night. “Td not have But now tell me, have | you found out anything?” “T almost despaired of your coming. | aoe alee a val should know that ’'d never ask any thing posi- her way!” cried Ross, and odd, and hard to please sometimes, but wouldn’t for the world that any harm should happen her. I'd be glad to see her up strong and well again.” “Oh, you're a forgiving little mortal,” re- torted Ware, lightly. ‘Now I hate the ma- dame for her arrogance, and for her supercilioug pcp enin In any one else I’d rather admire er-invincible will, and her total lack of senti- mental feeling; but in her it always rouseo my aggressive spirit. What, going, little one?” “Yes, I must go,” answered Ross, but still lingered. “Oh, not for a moment,” said Lucian, drop- ping bis hand caressingly upon her shoulder. “Y’ve more work for you still, faithful little mouse. Must I ask if you are willing?’ “T hope it’s not to play the spy again,” hesi- tated Ross, timidly deprecating. ‘Any thing else—oh! you know I must do any thing that’s not a sin that you might ask of me, Lucian.” “But, anticipating the knowledge which I must have in a short time all the same is not a sin, you conscientious little Puritan; you ‘“She’s full of whims. tively wrong of you. Yes, I do want you to spy upon madame, but for only this one time. I want you to watch when the lawyer comes: to draw up her will to-morrow, and discover, if you can, who she makes her heir, There’l be legacies, of course; you will have one, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t be remembered, i , You'll be sure to find it all out for me,, illy ?” With a half-regretful sigh, Ross promised, for she could refuse him nothing. ‘I knew you would,” he said, taking her hands in his strong pressure, ‘‘ One kiss, sweet}, there, good-night!” So much tenderness was more than he had. often given her; the young law-student was. fastidious to an extreme, and the pak grave: little face of Milly Ross had no single charm for him, hypocrite and dissembler that he was.. But she, thrilling with the delight/of his caress, and ready now to do his bidding without ques- | tioning, gliding silently back by the way she: “I’ve done precisely as you wished me to | y y I’ve kept a watch on them all, and now you shall hear every thing which I have learned.” Thereupon Ross entered into the minutest de- tails of all that had occurred at the manse after his departure,on the preceding evening. The relation embraced madame’s conviction that she | had been warned of her inevitable fate by the specter of hapless Rosalie Durand; all that transpired during her interview with the law- yer; the private audience with Miss Durand and the young agent, Valere, with every circum- stance pertaining to it; and at last, madame’s freak of the afternoon for which her passion had given ber strength, and the favor into which she had suddenly taken Fay St. Orme. “The doctor came at six,” said Ross, nearing her conclusion, ‘‘and you never saw a man so took aback. e says he can’t understand at all how madame escaped her death, in con- sequence of her imprudence; and wheu she told him of her warning, blustered out of her sight to declare that she couldn’t have an enemy de- termined to take her life with greater chance to succeed than her own rashness promised now. “He ordered her to bed, but madame refused to go, and laughed in his face at his fears for her. I believe she would have made him help ca her in her gzeat chair down to dinner, but he got in such a rage about her not obeying his orders that she was afraid he might put arsenic in her tea. “She satin state till after the clock passed the stroke of nine before ever she would con- sent to be undressed again. Briggs staid to sit with her then, after she’d been put to bed while I came out to get rid of the headache Vd = from the fright whepv I supposed Miss St. rme had found me out. it's lucky she didn’t suspect but the madame tad sent me there. lilly Ross, naturally shrewd in many ways, was unsophisticated with ail, and Fay’s sem- blance of perfect innocence had misled her completely, as the young lady intended it should. The mind of Lucian Ware had com- passed a truer understanding, but be had no t of undeceiving his companion. ‘*T must hurry back or the madame will be vexed again, though all her anger now seems to do her a world of good. She'll be wellina week, if she keeps going in such rages and mends as fast as she’s done to-day.” **Tt’ll not be much of a blessing to you—the capricious old termagant!” said Ware. had come. Ware folded his arms and still remained: standing in the shadow of the tewer, lost in deep reflection. ‘It’s plain enough that madame will leave every thing to Miss St. Orme,” he thought, in. soliloquy. ‘She declared it her intention te. make one of these young girls her heiress, and. beautiful Mirabel has angered her beyond all hopes of future favor. “The little St. Orme is on the look-out for her own prospects, too. No such innocent pre+ text as satisfied Ross drew her into hiding be- hind that dingy curtain. ‘* And the warning which has frightened the madame so, I think, if truly solved, would re- veal the little schemer en costume according to the portrait of Rosalie Durand. She must have ot hold of tho superstition and madame’s ief in the verity of the apparition, and is working out some plan of her own without a doubt. ‘“‘ All very well, clever little Fay, but I wish it had been the queenly Mirabel instead. It is madame’s heiress I have it in my mind to win, andif you are destined to bear that distinc- tion you are the full worthy mate for Lucian Ware!” He broke from his reverie, and turned away from the neighborhood of the old tower, Unbesitatingly he trod the curving path which led away from the north facade to the side- gate opening on the rugged footpath which was the shortest route to the village. At. this late bour he had little fear of eyes: any of madame’s retainers, or in that case coul readily account for his presence. Before he reached the last turn in the path, the gate clanged, and some one advancing ata rapid swinging gait faced Lucian in another moment, “North!” said the latter in recognition. “What's the row now—anything new in the crotchets of the boss?” “You'd do well to stay at hand to study his mind yourself, Mr. Lucian,” answered Mr. Than- croft’s clerk. ‘‘ I’ve enough to busy me at my desk without meddling where I’m in no wa concerned. By the way, there’sScranton’s writ to be made out yet to-night; Mr. Thancroft_or- dered it and the copying that’s back to be taken to your room wi ready when we open to-morrow. be peeeerse with the writ, for it’s im t. ‘ en I won't, if it’s any satisfaction for you "Oh, but the. madame’s been kind to mein > instructions to have them _ I hope youl, * 4 ‘oe years
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to know it. I wouldn’t do drudgery to-night if it was for the Governor of the State. I say, where are you going so late?” “To the manse with a packet of instructions for Mr. Valere. I’ve been detained.” ~ See here, North,” said Lucian yg eke “Tll promise to do your errand faithfully enough, if you'll attend to those law-papers in- stead.” North hesitated. { “You're so uncertain, Mr. Lucian.” ‘Oh, then, maybe I’ll mend,” returned Waro, that he had carried his point. -' ‘gayly, knowin t Ri 4) orth!” f The packet, ; Rather reluctantly North & hands, and turned on his soli i the village. > hon *-A good enough fellow,” muttered Lucian, ayy ** but too straight-laced by far, and with a pri- ' vate pick at me since he fancies I am making pei love to his sweetheart. Potience, patienca, good ad North! You'll be welcome to your pale-taced ' Ross after her worl: of to-morrow ” i With quick stcps he retraced his way up the ‘e graveled walk to the front of the manse. k t laced it in his ry way back to , Tho great entrance-door stood wide, and the gray-haired butler sat in a hall-chair just within it. To him Lucian celivered the packet. ‘You're late,” said he, lounging against the piazza-railing. “T feared I’d find you all shut ’ } “T'm only waiting for it, sir,” replied the but- Jer, grumblingly. “It’s from bringing giddy oung misses here that’ll upset us all. It’s clear m he madame wasn’t sound when she did it; this iz awful thing has been working with her for a long time, I misdoubt.” i “The young ladies have not retired?” interro- gated Ware. \ ‘One of them has but just come in from Lord _ knows where—moon-gazing, I reckon. She’s there yet, and it’s her I’m waiting for.” As ie The old man nodded his head in the direction ke of the glass door opening into the She. and 2, Lucian perceived a glimmer of light through & ¢ the curtain which shrouded it within. L Crossing the piazza, he tapped lightly, and strnightway entered the presence of Fay St. Orme. . A “Mr. Ware,” she said, with a start, and a & percepUble hightening of color, Xs Lacian bowed, and his keen glance made note that her slippers were soaked and her silken robe draggled with the summer-night’s dew. | He was sure, then, that she had been a wit- ness to his meeting with Ross. a" “You make a good spy, Miss St. Orme,” said re he, smilingly; “but I am a better General. : What do you say to winning the day bya union of forces _ “ Agreed,” said Fay, unhesitatingly, extend- ing her hand as a seal to the compact. or a second these two plotters dropped their habitual masks, and read through each other’s eyes the reckless depravity of moral natures repared to brave any consequence in gratify- dog. the ambitious vanity which swayed them CHAPTER XI. A SUBTLE SUGGESTION. MaApAME was closeted with her lawyer at the time appointed on the following morning. There were writing materials on the little table, and beside it Mr. Thancroft occupied a straight-backed chair awaiting madame’s plea- sure to begin his task. “What would you think, my friend,” she ucried, “‘of a penniless girl who as good as re- ses to pty the position of my heiress? Who would have believed such foolhardy self-sacri- ice could exist in our age? What do you say Ff _o the course which Mirabel Durand has taken, See my good friend?” — Be *«] honor her for it,” cried the lawyer, warm- a lv. ‘*Ah, madame, she has the true nobility of you Durands, and if it were not for the true heir there is not another one I would as gladly | _.\ gee come into possession of Fairview Glen.” mal ts “ Ah!” aspirated madame. ‘No one asks for ‘your wish, you exasperating man, I'll not : ve you force your opinions on me, I say. rr “There are but two of all those who can pre- a sent the shadow of a claim upon me to whom I would willingly leave the estate of the Durands: and of these, one has put away the chance. No | no, Mr. Thancroft; Mirabel Durand shall no | inberit it now.” _ The lawyer bowed with an anxious air, but | + geontrolled the impatience he was beginning to - , feel.” . | “The pride of Mirabel Durand does not re- |‘ ‘quire these wide acres to back it,” contiriued madame, with her odd, chuckling laugh. ‘‘ Her Te... independence shall not be hampered by the io? hee THE BITTER FEUD. farms and goods and chattels I shall leave be- hind me. Hist! What is that?” The vine which trained over the window near her was agitated, and the leaves rustled though there was no breeze upon that sultry morning. Milly Ross, fancying herself secure in her hiding-place, upon the balcony, had moved in- cautiously in her intense eagerness to catch every one of the madame’s words. | Moving stealthily, Mr. Thancroft approached the open casement and leaned suddenly out, with one hand brushing back the screen of leaves which impeded his view. There was no chance of escape for the offend- ing maid. Ross crouched low in the midst of the greenery, shrinking in a horror of mortifi- cation and dismay, and burying her face, which was stained crimson with the shame of this dis- covery, in her thin, trembling hands. “You?” cried the lawyer, in accents of sur- prise. ‘‘I would never have thought it.” ‘* Who, who, who?” demanded madame, in the excitation of impatience and anger. “Come,” said Mr. Thancroft, stepping over the low sill to Milly’s side, and clutching her | not very gently by the shoulder. ‘‘Come and answer to your mistress for the motive of your eavesdropping. Come, I say.” “Oh, no, no!” cried Milly, in an agony of shame and remorse. ‘Oh, please, no!” “Who is it?” called madame, sharply. ‘ Who is # that would play the spy about me? Not Ross” But Ross it was, almost sinking with the mortification of her detection, whom the lawyer arraigned before the eye of her mistress. ‘Ts there not one faithful?’ asked madame, a, ‘“*You, Milly Ross, to turn against me! ou unable to wait the little time which | must elapse, that you must listen to discover if | you are mentioned in my will? **T tell you now that I'll leave not a penny to | you,” continued madame, her first reproach | waxing into rage. ‘‘There should have been | five hundred dollars each to you, and Briggs, and Jean, but not a penny to you now, 1 say. “There, go, and let Fonsi answer when I ring.” Ross slunk away with a sullen look upon her | face. Madame could have put no greater slight or punishment upon her than by thus readily giving Jean the preference. To make matters worse, Mr. Thancroft who followed her to the door of the outer room, called to the housemaid who chanced to be loitering on the nega! 6 “Stay within call, Jean; madame will have you wait upon her for the present.” He disappeared, and the girl turned to Ross with impertinent curiosity. ‘* Why, what’s up? Has the madame got of- fended with her favorite? I’d ha’ thought you’d have managed better just now.” ‘Madame ’ll not be any the better for the change, mark that!” said , with her pale eyes gleaming in her e face. She only meant that ne other could satisfactorily super- sede her in attendance upon her mistress, but Jean interpreted her in another way. “Oh, if it’s making threats that you are, maybe I’d better be telling her at once. They do say the madame has seen her warning.” But Ross passed on without deigning a re- ly. oie in the room where she had received her sentence of disgrace, the lawyer sat at the lit- tle table driving his quill over the parchment spread before him as he followed madame’s dictation. More than once the flexible nib hesitated or came to a full stop, and the warm-hearted lit- tle man would raise his head in deprecation and entreaty. “Oh, not everything, madame,” he cried, as | she proclaimed one of her sentences. ‘ Oh, surely you must have some single tithe of na- tural affection. Is there not one single im- pulse will plead with me for Jules’s boy?” Something like a smile flitted over madame’s face, but left it gray and hard as before. “Write,” she commanded, not heeding his interruption, and word for word repeated the | clause as she had given it at first. So the will was drawn in due form and signed by madame’s feeble hand in presence of the butler and the housekeeper, whose signatures as witnesses were afterward affixed, It was folded, sealed, and taken in charge by the lawyer, who afterward stalked away from the manse with a gloomy dissatisfaction plainly | evinced in his manner. / He encountered the two young ladies strolling together in the maze of twisting paths which intersected madame’s parterre; and Miss Durand stopped him with a gracious yet withal im- perious nod of greeting. | | mentally. | to see vou so anxious to resume 43 **1 was hoping to see you, Mr. Thancroft,” said she, extending her hand frankly. ‘I want you to take my version of the wretched business which has so bitterly angered madame.” “T have heard it all,” he replied, taking the little hand as though it were some fragile thing which he feared would break. ‘You were nobly unselfish, Miss Durand; but madame is hard as steel, and pitiless as the sphinx.” “TI hope she has not made her will in my favor,” said Mirabel, gravely—‘‘I hope she has not committed that grave injustice against her own true heir.” ‘* She has not made you heiress of her wealth, Miss Durand,” said the lawyer, gloomily. ‘ Ah, Heaven! it were better if she had.” He turned away with a hasty gesture of leave- taking. ‘‘How provoking!” cried Fay, with a little pout. ‘ Why couldn’t he tell us who does come in for it all?’ “That would be to violate madame’s confi- dence,” eee Mirabel, calmly. ‘I trust the renewal of her health may leave us in igno- rance for a long time to come.” In her own mind Fay was convinced that she was the fortunate legatee, Near sunset that evening, Lncian Ware strolled by a roundabout course up from the village through the mountainous forest land, to the verge where it met with the orchards, and there he met Miss St. Orme. She stood apparently wrapped in contempla- ting the beauties of the rugged scenery, which stretched before her downward to the brawling little creek with ragged pine clumps edging it. Her head, surrounded by the soled halo of | floating tresses, was serenely po%sed, and her at- titude was that of unconscious forgetfulness and charming abandon. Ware paused with an appreciative eye for the effect, but a scornful smile just meved the curva of his lip, and brought a shadow hurks:sz at the corner of his mouth. “Very good, Miss St. Orme,’®2e anplauded, “The pose is excellent, that uncon scious expression natural to the life, and as a whole you form a charming addition to the scene. But for all of your seeming absorption, I'd be willing to wager one of the precious years of my life that you have been perfectly cognizant of my approach. I have read you too clearly, Miss St. Orme, to be blinded by your clever little arts.” Nevertheless, he advanced and accosted her according to the spirit she had shown, ‘‘ Am I an intruder unawares, Miss St. Orme? Now, don’t tell me that — had forgotten our tryst, and that this is but a chance meeting after all. I was tempted to think it, by your utter unconcern.” “Only forgotten for the moment, Mr. Ware. I’m so heedless, though, it would not be stran if I did forget. Thank me for keeping it mind through the pleasant nature of my news. I couldn’t forbear coming to receive your con- gratulations.” ‘“Madame has been gracious enough to leave be her ag FA ap re her sole heiress, then, take it. You’) be the richest lady in the State at that rate.” ‘* Ah, and won’t I loose the strings of the musty old money-bags madame has hoarded so long! First, I'll astonish the natives of this primitive Fairview Glen, and then I'll go back to the world where I properly belong, and reign it royally enough over all my devotees; revenge myself, too, on those that have had the countenance to snub me on account of my poverty agd dependence, It’s a very pleasing rospect to me, I assure you, Mr. Lucid¢n are.’ Lucian sighed, and met her glance with a, de- jected, sorrowful smile, *] congratulate you on your certain fortune, with all my heart,” said he; “‘ but it grieves me our broken sway out in the heartless world. wish some | tie could bind your anticipations to the Glen, | unpromising as it must have seemed at first.” “ What tie?” asked Fay, softly, with drooping lids, and yes flushes wavering over her cheeks, ‘Dare I tell you, sweet Fay? Dare I speak to madame’s heiress the words with which I would gladly woo penniless Miss St. Orme? It would be too great presumption on the. part of the impecunious law-student.” You a our compact,” said Fay. ‘‘We were to work in unison, you know.” “And does that mean the reward shall be mutually shared? I did not dare to make that a provision then, and now it must appear to you in the worst of taste to declare the mad thoughts that are possessing me. Ah, Fay, bewildering
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i A Gita ce Resta fo ie eu a "te, Shes “| . 7 Ba \ Rc: i, ad "Se { = i ¢ = 7 ag A Ye. f : 4 a we _* \ Bish! $d + Rit > « “began to pace back anc rio sprite, it is afl due to your wondrous love- Bsc5S That was the manner in which Lucian Ware’s specious tongue uttered it; but the truth was that he had been too cautious to commit himself until quite sure of the golden prize he was planning to possess, ‘* Have my hopes misled me, Fay, or is it true I may even win you, peerless one?” Coquette that she was, she had no thought of resorting to her accustomed tantalizing devices now, 1e first genuine heart-emotion she had ever felt had come to her through Lucian Weve: by any means ennoble her, or seek to Jead bar selfish, perverted nature toward a better chan- nel. But the sway was powerful over ber, sweet beyond mere word expression; and now her eagerness to secure this handsome lover would not permit ber to dally idly, as she had done before this, with the hearts of honest, true | men, ‘No hope of yours need lack fulfillment,” she answered, softly, and for the space of a moment | there was silence between them, Then Lucian Ware uttered vows and pro- testations, until he had forged and riveted the chain of sworn betrothal between thera two. And all the time—dissembler that he was—his heart was thrilling with intense longing with the remembrance of beautiful Miratel, while his lips were dropping utterances of love for this fair Circe. Fay, chameleon-like in her changes, went sud- denly back to the subject of the will. “Now that it is made,” said she, ‘‘madame may insist on living her century out.” Lucian Ware bent his head until the shadow obscured his face, and his eyes furtively studied his companion’s expression. ‘* Why should not madame’s warning be fol- lowed by the result?’ he asked. ‘‘ She wovld not be the first Durand who has died from poi- son, if traditions are true!” CHAPTER XII. WAS IT MADAME’S FATE? “Why should not madame meet with the Fate?” said Lucian, with slow significance. ‘Ah, you frighten ma, spéerking of such a terrible hapnening.” Fay exclaimed, shudder- ingly. But Ware, with his eyes steadily read- ing hey face, saw that she had not misunder- sod him, and that under her shivering aver- sion, not at all feigned, was all of tho settle gece and hardihood he had expected to find ere. * Come, let us Le candid with each other,” said be, drawing her hand within his arm, and speaking in cautious, supposed tones, as the forth slowly beneath the shadow of the orchard trees. ‘‘ Confess that if you were driven now to choose between madame’s wealth and me, you would never hesitate in wrecking these sweet dreams we have been reveling in. I have no mind to chide you for it, sweet! for while I should have loved you just the same as the dependent relative, I am more rejoiced to win the heiress of all Fair- view as my future bride. “This longing for wealth and power has been born and bred in both of us, and it is that mu- tual sympathy which has drawn us together. Do you think now you could bear to be disap- pointed in the hopes you have reared?” Fay’s eyes flashed back his glance with a hard and greenish gleam, It was a peculiarity of those strange, beryl-tinted orbs, to narrow and scintillate with a cruel green glitter when any selfish passion swayed her, “T hate death and I fear it,” she said, in tones so tense they seemed almost choking her, ‘‘I Pein on ais | She dropped his arm, and, flitting a few paces | TER FEUD. away, turned herself deliberately that he might view every point of her attire, then making him | ' a courtesy of mock -humiliation, awaited his comments. She wore the sea-green satin this afternoon. Its trained skirt was looped with waved gold cable-cord, and her over-dress, very much puffed, was of sheer-white lawn, with elaborately em- broidered edge. She wore the ornaments ma- dame had given her upon her throat and arms, and she had chosen this toilet because it suited | them so admirably. and, alas! it was not an influence which ie0/At | | rupted him. | you for a week now. ‘dread the awful solemnity of it and the fright- | ful mystery; but, rather than give up these hopes I have cherished, I could watch madame struggle at its approach, suffer tortures—tor- ments—agonies, and never quiver or feel any- thing but joy over the change that should leave everything to me.” ‘‘Madame has lived her allotted time in the natura] course of events, but she has vitality enough to stand her for a score of years yet. She is so full of whimsical caprices, too, that she may alter her will ary day, and on the very slightest provocation.” « Ah!” aspirated Fay Go on, Lucian Ware! I from whatever you ma Instead of replying, study, from which Fay “she shall not, I say. am not guing to shrink have to suggest.” Jare went into a somber roused him resent] iy Saie oe how the shadows are lengthening,” she _ paid, ““T must go back and pay court to ma- dame before dinner is served. I have been romans for her benefit, if it pleases you to per- ve. ‘** And madame is sufficiently a connoisseur in matter of dress to admit your perfect taste,” said Lucian. ‘‘ You could not fail to please me, little sprite, whatever you might wear.” Fay Senehatl in pretty, triumphant glee. Ah, the deception of appearance! terior of that lovely face, nor lay concealed under the naive, child-like manner. Yet she had not even dismissed the prompting which was stirring in her heart. She turned to Ware and dropped her voice to a cadence less piercing than an ordinary whis- er. ‘*Oh, I hope the madame will die,” she ut- tered in that suppressed tone and in a rapid, breathless way. ‘‘I wish that she may not live through another night. I wish that the Fate may smite her down, rather than she should waren me in my inheritance. ‘Have you nothing to say to me, Lucian?” In her eagerness she was anticipating him, and he hesitated in his reply. “‘T have formed no plans—my thought and my speech were instantaneous, indeed. We must make ourselves secure, whatever may transpire, you know.” ‘‘Tam burning with imputience,” Fay inter- ‘Tam fearful; I seem to have a wrescience of ill hovering near us—you and me. f can’t bear the idea of the time dragging on in this uncertain way.” ‘““You are nervously fanciful,” said Lucian, with an extenuating smile. ‘‘ No ill shall come tous, my Fay, I must have time to think first, and then I shall come to see you at the manse. You may look for me before the evening is quite over.” Then followed the little endearments peculiar to the partings of acknowledged lovers, forced on his part but earnestly meant by her. Then dark One would | think no guile coulc lurk beneath the fair ex- | turned back to ruminate darkly as he | nae trod the forest path, where the shadows had gathered in unbroken density. Another scene where love pleaded honestly | and truly was transpiring meanwhi:e in another section of the manse grounds. “T1] get you a plain one for a weding ring be ore long. Let me see if it’s right, my darling; you know they say: *<*When love will fit without a measure, llappy hearts make household treasure,’*”’ But Ross drew away from him with an im- patient jerk. “I’m sure I don’t want your ring, Henry North. I don’t see why you should pester me with your plans when l|’m not caring for your affairs. Goodnéss knows, I’ve got trouble enough without being tagged after by you.” The honest fellow’s face clouded over, ‘*T didn’t mean to trouble you, Milly. LIhoped you would be glad with me at the prospect of the little home we’ve talked of before now, You haven’t been so anxious to see me of late, but I knew the reason of it and kept thinking your own good judgment would show you the right way. ‘*A handsome young gentleman like Lucian Ware isn’t apt to mean much by his love- making, lass. It’s natural you should be flatter- ed, though certainly you couldn’t help seeing that it’s only his way of amusing himself.” ‘¢ That’s all yon know, I suppose,” said Ross, angrily. ‘That’s your way of judging your betters, Henry North. You’d like me to coop myself up in your narrow martin-box, and be- cause I don’t fly at your cffer, you must rail out against them that maybe are earnest as you.” “ You're being blinaed if you’re trusting any- thing to Mr. Lucian,” persisted North. “ He'll not bring you any happiness, Milly; I wish you would believe me.” “Tt’s no concern of yours, then. I’m willing to abide by my own sense, I’m sure.” Toes returned the ring to his pocket with a sigh. , **1¢ll wait for you, Milly,” he said, gently. ‘‘-You’ll know which is the honest love by-and- by. I’d like to save you from the pain of being cast off by Mr. Lucian, though; it’s sure to come to that at last.” ‘“‘Maybe I have better evidence,” said Ross, boastfully, won to complete faith by that caress which Lucian had bestowed upon her. ‘You don’t understand the ways of handsome young men like him,” said North, moodily. ‘Tf I thought he meant any harm to you, by pes ait I'd never pyro illy sto him with an aa gesture. ‘What ive take me for!” Sha tical “Tn not have you casting slurs at either him or me. You'll be good enough to keep out of the way of meddling, after this.” “Tl not vex you, at least,” he replied, sor- rowfully. ‘Only mind this, Milly: Pll be work- | ing ahead all the same, getting ready for you Milly Ross loitered out near the side-gate, | enerally used by pedestrian comers, watching in the vain expectation of encountering Lucian | Ware. She knew that Valere was waiting a response to some message he had forwarded to the law- office, and she believed that Ware would seize | the opportunity to visit the manse. But, instead, came North to transact the busi- ness, whateyer it might have been. Breaking through the gate in the burried manner which was habitual with him, he came suddenly upon the disgraced maid and then gave her no chance to retreat, as she gladly would have done, With a couple of long, swinging strides he reached her side, and dropped his arn down about the prim little figure. You Wall not run away from me, Milly. I’ve not seen the chance to have a word with You weren’t used to be so shy, lass.” some day.” ‘“The more fool you, then!” cried Ross, an- grily. “It'll be a long wait youll have, I’m thinking.” She sped away from him then, before he could auswer, had he so wished; and North, recalled to his duty, went forward to the manse. Madame Durand was less alert as the evening | drew on than she had been through the day. ‘“‘ Well, you’ve grown bold to make gocd the | difference,” said Ross, pertly; but she nervous- | ly fingered the hem of her snowy kerchief. ‘‘Haven’t you some wish or cheer for me, | Milly? I’ve been somehow downhearted miss- ing the sight of you, and I’ve been hard-worked, too, for a time, though I don’t say it in the way to complain.” ‘Well, what do you do it for?’ queried the maid, almost sharply. ‘*There’s no sense in it as I can see, drudging as you do, and none but yourself in the world to be cared for.” “Don’t say that, lass; you know why I’m working so to get a start ahead, now. I’m do- ing well, too, Milly; full well as I've any rea- son to expect. I’ve been lookiug at a little martin-box down in the village, and I’m hoping to have the nest feathered by Christmas-time. “T’ve brought you this, dear. I wouldn’t get it till lsaw some certainty of coming through all right.” r He drew a slender little ring from his vest pocket, like’ a twisted thread of gold, with a | cornelian heart set in the tov. A feeling of oppressive languor was settling down over her which she struggled vainly to resist. Fay tripped into her presence, all soft solicitude, pouring out an effusion of anxious inquiries. “ You charming old madame, it’s so naughty of you to excite yourself as you’ve been doing. Of course you’re quite tired out now. Don’t I know what it is to be wound up to such a pitch, and then to go down all at once? ‘‘T do wish you’d let me do a It’s too late to read to you, I suppose, and I can’t. sing any more than an owl. J1’m a useless little mortal, I know; but I do want you to care for me, dear Madame Durand. ; “ Mayn’t I stay up here to have my dinner‘ with you, instead of dining in state with the, others below?” Madame was grimly gracious, but excused herself positively enough from attendance. So Fay went away again with many softly-uttered wishes for madame’s bet- tered condition on the morrow. Out in the queer little anteroom the setting sun was sending his last rays through the dingy red curtain. Fay half paused with a sudden shiver as she caught es of her hand, which was a vivid crimson where the reflected light fell upon it. “Tt looked like blood,” she murmured to her- self. ‘I wonder if 1 should feel remorse if it really were? I have thought sometimes that, if a life stood in my way, it would never cause me either a qualm or a pang to remove it.” She moved on as she heard a slight rustle without, and passed Mirabel on the landing. — Miss St. Orme’s — 4 Se ce
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Sais + ake et ake Meah Ring the bell for na moment, madame. Let me wait upon i this once, will you not? I would like to eel that you are not seriously vexed on ac- count of our interview yesterday.” Mirabel spoke wistfully, with a yearning of ity and tenderness in her young heart for this oor orn old woman, who had bereft herself of all close ties which might have been comfort and solace to her now. But madame seemed impervious to softer feeling. “Tt was your privilege,” said she, grimly. ‘Must I repeat that I want to be left undis- turbed? I'll take a nap, I think.” ‘Let me watch by you, then,” pleaded Mir- abel, with gentle persistency. ‘No, ing for Jean. Durand!” ‘*Good-night, then,” and as she passed by madame chair, Mirabel stooped to — her lips lightly upon the wrinkled forehead. As it chanced, Jean was not at hand, and Ross, who was within hearing, went—not with- out an apprehensive tremor—to answer the summons, She need not have trembled, for madame had fallen into an apathy which was unobservant of her surroundings. ‘‘Hand me the liniment, Jean,” said she, drowsily, not observing that it was Ross beside her. “That's all now.” Milly Ross poured the liniment into a little china basin and placed it within her mistress’s reach, and, after a moment, retired softly that she might not be disturbed, Madame = her right hand into the little basin, and with it, weneis: chafed the left. “ How dead and numb they feel,” she said to herself, ‘‘ and how strangely [am feeling. Chill- ing and burning—how strange! “Oh, the will? Yes, yes!’ She was wander- ing vaguely. ‘Was it right, I wonder? I wouldn’t repent at the last, yeu see, and they'll never know— Don’t wait, Miss “It’s my digestion that’s wrong, that’s it. ‘A digestion, and no heart ’—a good motto, ha! ha! I'll take blue mass; that'll right me.” And madame muttered on that she was being consumed with raging thirst, but the water was all ice—all ice. It was freezing in her parched mouth; ah, now she was growing chill and cold. So was she, poor, self-deluded madame. This was no counterfeit of deatb, this stark and rigid form sitting erect in the great arm- chair. There was no bright spark of light in the wide-open, glazing eyes, now. Was this madame’s Fate? CHAPTER XIII. A MYSTERIOUS CONSULTATION. Drap! ; ; Gone on the dark, mysterious journey, with- out any kindred love to smooth the dim pass which leads from time into eternity. There were shadows in the room, but the light from the open west window was lingering about the figure so awfully rigid and motion- less, invested now with a terror which was greater than the awe madame had been wont to command in those about her. Briggs came in presently with a lighted taper in her hand, and an humble apology for the slight Fong, 3 of madame’s dinner service, with which the butler was at that moment follow- She advanced to the branching candelabrum with its supply of fresh waxen tapers, cnd lifted her hand to set them aflame. But, with a howl of affright, she staggered back, and then, gaining breath, uttered shriek after shriek of mortal terror, She had met the open stare of those glazing eyes, faced the pallid, set features with the awe some seal upon them, reflected down from a small inclined mirror upon the wall. oat She flung her black silk apron over her head to shut out the sight, stifling her screams in its close folds as she rushed Repciyiasely out, and astonished the staid old butler by fairly throw- in her arms about him in the dim anteroom, while she screamed and shrieked inarticulately: “Oh, it’s the madame !—oh! it’s the madame! gone clean dead!” she shrieked, distinguishably at last. The butler shook off her clinging arms at that, and hurried forward, only assertion verify the ws . “ ~ ‘ THE BITTER FEUD. And in two minutes more the manse rung with the dread proclamation: ‘* Madame is dead!” The effect ran like an electric current through the household. . The scene of confusion which would otherwise inevitably have ensued was speedily checked by the young land-agent, who was happily at hand. Messengers were dispatched in all haste to the village; the objectiess excitement which prevailed among the servants was quelled by a few explanatory sentences; the housekeeper was brought to her senses by a sharp rebuke and a hastily administered dose of strong brandy and water, and then Valere sprung up the spiral stairway and stood within madame’s room. Mirabel was already there, very pale, but quite calm, and Ross, in an ague of terror, was on her knees, chafing the climmy hands that would never again be wcrmed by the pulsing life-blood. “She is quite dead, I think,” said Miss Du- rand. ‘It is her third attack, they say.” Erne took a little hand-mirror from a stand close by and held it to the pallid lips. The pol- ished surface remained undimmed. ‘¢ All is over,” he said, with sorrowful quiet- ness. ‘‘Ah, poor Madame Durand!” They stood silently by the still form. These two generous young hearts sincerely mourned the eccentric old woman, whose arid life had been so suddenly blotted out. Erne spoke presently, ‘*Come away, Miss Durand, for you now.” Even then Briggs appeared in the doorway, accompanied by an elderly woman from the village, whose duty it was to prepare the dead for burial. Doctor Gaines came in at almost the same moment, but after the briefest exami- nation turned away from madame’s chair with a sorrowful shake of the head. Mirabel took Erne’s arm, and they passed out together. Shrinking in the outer doorway, with eyes This is no place widely distended and cheeks flushed with hectic , flame, stood Fay. ‘““ What is it?’ she asked, in an excited whis- er. ‘ What does it all mean? Has any thing 1appened the madame?’ Take explained gently as he could, but half- recoiled—appalled by the green flame which japon into those great intense eyes. It seemed to him like a fire of exultation, and a thrill of revulsed feeling chilled him. She held something concealed in her clenched hand, and, as she turned away without a word, slipped it with a stealthy motion into her bo- som. It looked like a tiny gold tube with a glittering star attached. Mirabel had seen neither that nor the swift flash of those intense green eyes. She followed on in the direction Fay had taken, fearful that the latter might be overtaken again by a hys- terical attack. Valere went below, and out into the fragrant twilight of the court, It was still and cool there, but above he could see the shadows as they came and went on the blinds of that upper room which held the dread visitant of death. Even with these reminders before him his thoughts were not with departed madame. He leaned against the trunk of a sturdy oleander tree, baring his head that: the cool summer breeze might play about his throbbing temples. A mystic train of thonght was aroused with- ‘tn him, and every nerve was strained to a uiver as he concentrated his mind to follow its dim course. Point by point it all came out before him like the growing picture from a magic lens, He saw himself a little ragged) neglected child in a squalid room, which was dark and forbidding to his baby sense. He sat upon a rude settee, with a little, dark stained-wood casket beside him. ‘The casket had grown fa- miliar enough to him since, but to the child in card aamineg scene it was a new, wonderful de- i he busy little fingers were fumbling with the lock, and the lid flew open under their ma- nipulations. There was a cushioned crimson satin lining, and on this lay a tiny dark vial, closed partially in by a gold tube, which had a sparkling crystal stopper. Was it that he had seen in its swift transition from Fay’s hand to-night? The pictured remembrance was too vivid yet | to let him dwell upon the possibility. Still following that strange mental tracery, he seemed to see a child seize upon the pretty toy with a delighted cry, and fondle it in the little claw-like hands, all unused to such gleam- ing objects v3 2; Zz s 15 Then he saw a harsh face—the face of a wo- man—appear above the boy, wearing an ex- pression which was demoniacal while she watch- ed him for a moment without offering to de- spoil him of the treasure. But, suddenly her face changed as though a storm was convulsin it. With a sudden cry, she snatched the vi in its golden casing violently away, but tossed him the empty casket to quiet the grieved cry of the little disappointed heart. | There the vivid gleam of remembrance was | suddenly blotted into utter darkness. If that one scene from his early childhood possessed any significance, or any resulting connection with the occurrences of this night, Erne was powerless to follow the thread. On the morrow early came Mr. Thancroft. He explained that he had been absent from the village on the preceding evening, not returning till past midnigbt.. He spoke a few words to Valere, and.the young man conducted bim into the library, where madame’s business papers and accounts were kept. Gravely and quietly he examined them, put- ting his seal upon such documents as potion of importance. “T am to wait for Gaines,” Mr. Thancroft ex- plained, as they came togetber out of the libra- ry, and he paused to lock the door. ‘ He had sorely to attend, but it’s quite time he was Madame was quite alone at the last, he ; itis all very sad.” * Ah, ah!” sizbed the lawyer. Something seemed weighing upon his mind, he was so nervously abstracted, but it might have been grief for his eccentric old friend. Doctor Gaines soon afterward appeared, and together the lawyer and pbysician went into the quiet chamber where the still form was lying. ‘‘Now,” said Mr. Thancroft, in that subdued | tone which the presence of death always com- mands, “of what did madame die?” The doctor looked at him wonderingly. ‘“What should she die of but the e ted trouble? It was her third stroke, you know, and I always said she wouldn’t survive it. Brought on by overexertion and excitement as I predicted.” ‘** You're sure it’s not poison ?” ‘Good Lord, no! You don’t put any faith in that superstitious fancy, I hope?” “Scarcely that; but I gave Madame Durand my promise to make the closest investigations after her death.” “She went naturally enough,” said the doc- tor, Sarg tit “But that doesn’t release me, Gaines. You’ve not made any examination since?” “Tt didn’t seem necessary.’ , re : want you to do it now—very closely, in- eed.” ‘T]] do it to oblige you, Thancroft,” answer- i! the doctor. ‘ But I’m confident of the re- t.” He crossed the room to turn the key in the door, then returned to stoop over the corpse. The examination lasted not longer than ten minutes. ““There are no outward traces of ——— of a poisonous nature,” he announced. ‘ e death was purely natural.” Mr. Thancroft fidgeted. ““T wish you’d make a post-mortem,” said he. “There’s no certainty without.” “Yes, push ourselves forward into publicity, and be both laughed at and censured for our oains. I wash my hands of it entirely, You've” eard my opinion, and I’m quite willing to take out a certificate to that effect, but I would not go further if I were even less firmly convinced of its being a clear case.” ' Mr. Thancroft did not urge the matter then, but straightway rode down the mountain- side and senta telegram to the learned professor of a medical college in Philadelphia. is same professor had once been an inseparable chum of bis own, and a warm regard existed between tucm, now that they were on the sere side of life. The wording of the dispatch was urgent, and brought the professor on the first outward- bound train. : The days were creeping by heavy-win at the manse. There was the solemn stillness, broken by the muffled tread of those who came and wen weighing oppressively upon the spir- its of the household. The fourth day was at hand—the one which had been set a for thefuneral. And during the morning there was another mysterious con- sultation in the death-cbamber. The learned L aeweel was shut in there with the lawyer and Doctor Gaines, the latter with | some difficulty being persuaded to join them The watchers and underlings were banished ‘to 7 a - See ar rn Te ee Le UAT. Saar SES
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_ ~ ae AS hours no sourd was heard from the closed room. Then the three came out together, and had an acute observer been at hand, he might have noted in their faces: First, the learned professor was perplexed and a little disconcerted. Secondly, Doctor Gaines was dumfounded, wide of any reckoning, but obstinately deter- mined to maintain his asserted grounds. Thirdly, Mr. Trancroft was grim, and deter- panes, and stern, as he had never been seen be- ore. Then soon the hour came when the mourning yrocession formed—when Madame Durand, in er sealed lead coffin, inclosed in its ebony casket, was bornereverently out and laid to rest in the deep vault beneath the tower, where those of her family from the time of fair Rosa- lie Durand were reposing. And the third day after the funeral a little assembly was collected in the reception-room at the manse, summoned there to hear the reading of madame’s will. o CHAPTER XIV. MADAME’S WILL. THE two young ladies, Miss Durand and Miss St. Orme, occupied chairs near the open frout windows, Lucian Ware had taken his place by the side of Fay, while Valere stood a little apart, with his arm resting upon the back of | the vacant great chair, which had not been re- | moved from its accustomed place. The servants in their new mourning attire, were grouped at the opposite end of the room. Mr. Thancroft sat by a little baize-covered table which had been brought from the library, | and North stood at bis back, ready to accom- | modate himself to the bidding of his employer. The lawyer consulted his watch and pushed back his chair. At the same moment Donte Gaines appeared in the doorway, and, with a low bow of general recognition, seated himself in the chair North placed for him. Then Mr. Thancroft, placing his hand upon | the sealed document on the table, looked about m. “This,” said he, ‘is the hour appointed for the reading of the will, and all legatees being now present, I proceed to break the seals.” He unfolded the rustlin rchment and pass- ig it | North, who clanted. is throat and began read, oF LUCILLE DURAND. Fairview Manse, 1869, “T, Lucille Durand, considering the uncertainty of t mortal existence, moreover, having been warned by Providence that the time of my Disaotu- tion is near, and being of sound mind and memory, declare this to be my last Will and Testament. “To Abel Johnston, the aged butler, who has been in m ompley for upward of forty years, in consid- eration of his faithful services and in token of my kind regard, I bequeath the sum of one thousand dollars, to be paid to him in due time by the execu- tors of this, my Will. “To my housekeeper, Elizabeth Briggs, and like- “THE SOLE WILL AND TESTAMENT wise to Jean Brigey her niece, 1 bequeath the sum | of five hundred dollars each, to be paid in manner aforesaid. “The sum of five hundred dollars which I had intended for my waiting-maid, Mildred Ross—but withheld from her for reasons she will fully under- stand—I bequeath instead to Henry North, whom I regard as a highly reputable, deserving and trust- worthy young man,”’ This bequest was a complete surprise to the | clerk, who had not expected the remembrance, and his voice wavered sli htly in_ sympathy with the chagrin of Milly Rom . He went on | amid the decorous silence which was main- | tained. “To Lucian Ware, I bequeath the moiety of five hundred dollars per annum, to be paid to him for five years succeeding my demise, on condition that he concludes his course of study under the super- vision of my friend and lawyer, Albert Thancroft, | It is my hope that by the expiration of this time, he may have attained such proficiency in the profession as to work his way unaided in the world. “To my young relative, Fay St. Orme, I bequeath five hundred dollars per annum, for such time as she may remain unmarried. “The whole of my personal property, estate, houses and moneys, as held by me and in my name (except as otherwise vg ee of), I bequeath to the young man known as Erne Valere, and who now occupies the humble position of my collecting agent and private secretary, on the following conditions: Hirst, That he shall within a year and a day take to be his wife, my young relative, Mirabel urand. “Secondly Durand, or otherwise until the full ex- That until the day of his marriage another portion of the building, and for four | | golden on the strip of lawn | it for this [ smotherec with Mirabel aa of the year and day hereby designated, he faithfully perform all the duties of his present situation. “Thirdly, That he shall, upon taking’possession THE BITTER FEUD. “Should Erne Valere fail to marry Mirabel Du- rand within the time stipulated, all my property, lands, houses and moneys, as before mentioned, I direct to be devoted to the cause of charity, as here- inafter specified.” Here followed explicit directions for such ap- pliance. “T bequeath to Mirabel Durand, in token of my approbation of her unselfish conduct, without con- dition or limit whatever, the sum of thirty thousand | dollars; and also all of the Durand jewels contained in the two large, steel-bound caskets in my posses- sion; all of which to be enjoyed by her, and her natural heirs, forever. “T impose no restriction, but earnestly remind her that it is my dearest wish for her to wed with Erne Valere, the more especially as he will be left penniless if he consents and she refuses to comply with these conditions, **1 appoint and declare Albert Thancroft, who has always proved a sincere and devoted friend, and, at ae of the inheritance, assume and be thereafter known | ing of his clenched teeth, he was immovable | by the name of Valliers Durand. his suggestion, Calvin Gaines, M. D., as joint execu- ; tors of this; my Will. I adjure them to see the con- ditions I have named faithfully complied with, be- queathing to them, as an earnest of ee. and good-will, the sum of five thousand dollars each. “Tn witness whereof, I set my hand and seal, this twenty-third day of June, in the year of our Lord Kighteen Hundred and Sixty-nine. * Signed, LvucILLE DURAND, ALBERT THANCROFT, “ Witnessed by ~ ABEL JOHNSTON, {Euiasetuy Lriaas.’ The clerk laid down the will upon the little baize-colored table again, and with a bow re- tired to a less prominent position in the room. Mr. Thancroft rose and addressed those pres- ent. ‘It was the wish of Madame Durand that Miss Durand should not be formally considered within three months of this date. She refrain- ed from making that a condition of the will in view of such immediate contingency as possibly might arise. ‘** hat is all, T believe.” The stillness which had prevailed among the listeners was broken now. Fay St. Orme broke into a succession of hysterical sobs and shrieks, and threw herself prone upon the floor in a par- oxysm of disappointed rage which was terrrible to behold. She gnashed her small teeth and tore her | beautiful fair hair with savage hands. She glared at those about her with baleful glance and screamed and struggled in a manner that promised violent injury to herself. There was no affectation about her hysteria on this occasion. It required the combined efforts of Dr. Gaines and Valere to raise her from the floor and bear her to a couch. Erne turned away then with a sickening sen- sation at heart, but thankful that the scales had | fallen from his eyes. He saw Fay St. Orme clearly now, in all the moral deformity of her selfish, scheming and mercenary nature. A feeling of disgust rose within him, that he should have loved, ever so slightly, any thing so contemptibly frail. Never again could the fair-faced siren, in her most en- chanting guise, wring more than pity from his honest soul, Ware had never stirred to offer his assistance, but as the assembled party broke up, he took his hat and went out alone. Down over the twisting walks trod he, over the stream of sunshine which lay brightly and passing the gateway strode away down the rock y declivity in an opposite direction from the village. On and on and on, keeping within the darkest shadows of the pine woods, until he had ex- hausted the inward fever which had impelled him to rapid motion. Then he threw himself down in the very depths of the darkest nook and held gloomy self-communion. His face, which in the perfect outline and symmetry of beauty might have been godlike, was devlish in its malignity of expression. The tempest of an evil soul racked to its depths was raging within him. ‘ \ * Oh, fool, fool, fool!” he hissed, between his clenched teeth. ‘‘ Was it for this that I have lotted and waited? Was it for this that I have rne insult and exasperating patronage? Was my promptings of hate and retaliation, and smiled and cringed to the old she devil’s pleasure? ; “Oh, curse you—curse you in your grave, Madame Durand!” The wild fury of the man was something and silent, as if carved from stone. His wrath was like the deep smoldering of a volcanic fire, which if broken loose would sw all things before it, and leave a waste of black desolation in its track. Hours passed, and he never moved. The sion-stained lines of his face never quivered nor softened. The surge of his tempest-tossed soul upheaved with continuous force. Then all at once came the revulsion of feelin which must always follow such an extreme o mental excitation. The tense muscles relaxed; the steely gleam of the bright blue eyes was uenched out from the darkening, shadow depths, the entire form drooped suddenly, as if divested of its strength. He buried his face in the sy sod of the secluded spot where he lay, L still not a cry nor a tremor escaped him. ‘The great secret of this man’s powerful influence over other minds, might have found one explanation in the fact that even when most distraught, he was still master of himself, The sun was creeping slowly on its declin- ing course. A ray penetrated the leafy covert and fell in a ruddy gleam upon the prostrate man. He stirred and muttered impatiently. Was it the thread of sunshine so affecting him? A second later he sprurg to his feet with flushing cheeks, and defiant rearing of his statue-like head. He had heard no sound, but the subtle magnetism of another presence had impressed itself on his senses. A woman was standing within a few paces, quite motionless, impassively regarding him, A woman of strange aspect, of commanding the marriage proposed between Mr. Valere and | mien, but with a weird, mysterious seeming which would at once fascinate and repel. She was tall beyond the average hight of wo- men; her head was firmly poised, and was crowned by an immense coil of soft, bright hair, roped with the silvered frost of ad- vancing years; her gray dress, both coarse and scant, hung in folds about an attenuated figure. which in proud bearing could have match with that of any sceptered queen. Her face was worn and furrowed as much by the contest of intense and bitter passion as by speeding years. It was a harsh, unyieldin face, with pride stamped upon it, and the col severity of despotic conviction. Her eyes were blue, steely, glittering. To look into their depths, and note the accu- rate, firmly-poised head, brought an indefinite but nevertheless recognized similarity to mind between this woman and Lucian Ware. It might have been that some strong personal re- semblance had marked them once, but if so, time had ravaged from her all the beauty which was so pre-eminently distinct with him. They gazed at each other silently for a mio- ment. ‘“What have you come for—to mock me?” he asked, angrily. ‘This was a glorious aim for my ambition. Ah! worthy is the end for the sacrifice. I was a fool ever to have listened to your prating.” “I’ve been waiting to hear the end,” said the woman, with an upspringing flame changing her cold eyes into lurid caverns. ‘‘ What is the end—tell me?’ Ware’s laugh rung out in mocking cadence. ‘‘Bah! A confession 1 never thought to make. I’ve wakened to a sense that I can feel something more than longing for power, station, wealth! That is the end!” “But the will—the will. What was the nature of the will?’ It was some moments before she could elicit any statement from Ware, who seemed 2 amin ed with a purposely wayward mood. hen at | last she gathered the drift of it, she clasped awful to contemplate, all the more so for the | firm curb he held over the intense strength of his passions. Except for that hissing whisper, for his labored respiration, and the dull grind- | you believe it, I would willingly scatter every” ' her gaunt white hands tightly upon her heart, and fixing him with her scared eyes, she mutter- ed inarticulately to herself. Ware shook off the incubus of her blank gaze, and waxed angrily vehement. “Ay, stare and mutter; you’ll not mend mat- ters now. You fostered my ambition and nourished it with false hopes; you instilled the seeds of bitterness and unbelief into me, and nursed them to their rankest growth; they found congenial soil, no doubt; you led me on from the bad that was in me by nature to the worse that I know myself now to be. I never blamed you for it—I never wished it otherwise —until now. I took akind of supreme delight in knowing my own exaggerated traits. “But now—now I have awakened to the knowledge that I am a man with a man’s heart, swayed by a man’s passion. ! ‘“Not such an end as I dreamed of.. Would \ B 4 , FE mee yi ade. - 35
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J, ¥ . « ; é - vs * at ‘wild dream of coming state and ower, for potty oad of winning peerless Mirabel Du- rand!” “‘Oh, miserere, miserere!” the woman uttered, in wailing monotone. “Ay, chant over’ your defeat—bury your hopes, whatever they were,” mocked Ware. “‘My misery isn’t courting companionship.” He turned abruptly away, strode over a lit- was lost to view. The woman stood still, with her gaunt white hands locked close together. The last sound of his receding footsteps died away, and then a ‘great tenderness, you would never have imag- ined it capable of, stole down upon the woman's face, and tears that seemed wrung from the very endurance of suffering, welled into her cavernous eyes. CHAPTER XV. A TERRIBLE ACCUSATION, Tue night express from Philadelphia dropped two passengers at Fairview stasion, which was situated a full mile and a half from the village 4 tle space of fleckered light and shade, and then “ | ; ie ) 4 fe ¥ CY 4¢ Prrher \ ‘ There was a mail-wagon morning and even- ing driven out to meet the appropriate trains, but at nine P. M. no conveyance was at hand in the vicinity of the little isolated station-house. This much the two passengers ascertained, and consulting together, determined to walk the dis- tance up the rugged road to the village. *“Deuced awkward to leave our luggage be- hind,” said one, in a drawling, indolent tone. *‘One never finds accommodatin’s in these country taverns, and I don’t fancy being jum- bled up indiscriminately with all sorts of people we're likely to meet. ou’ll be sure to send the trunks ahead in the morning?” “Sure,” promised the station-agént. .The entlemen should find them at the Fairview ouse by ten at the latest. Were they intend- ing to stay long in the village? ‘ That depends,” answered the one who seem- ed to have constituted himself spokesman, “ Any trout in the streams?” “Plenty of "em. Good accommodations, too, considering the difficulties of the situation. Young gentlemen from the city often come out here tor a few weeks in the summer-time: but the place isn’t stylish enough for the young ladies, bless their hearts! Not but we have some of our own in the section round about, though,” added the voluble station-agent, “We'll not trouble them, then,” answered ‘the nger, with a laugh. “Truth to tell we dropped down into these wilds to get out of the way of crinoline, for atime, Come, Drake, let’s be moving, or we'll have to knock up the establishment, and I’m ravenous now. Sup- we carry our valises.” Taking the light leather traveling-bags, and arbi two trunks to be sent after them, the ate mgers took the road to the village. The dea wat young, and clad in a style rather ounced, such as might pertain to a city clerk determined to create a sensation during the holidays. The man called Drake was of middle , quieter in dress and of a manner reserved if not taciturn. He had the Jook of a | bee Wr eceane ih or bank employe. he t bended. While they were still at table, 4 ih ,the landlord, coming u landlord of the Fairview House chanced to be entertaining some late guests, and a sup- r was served the newly-arrived travelers with less delay than might have been appre- orth dropped in and stood conversing with the clerk bobind the bar. — ‘Have something?” asked the latter. “A glass of your home brewed. I’m not in the habit of indulging in stimulants, you know.” i “Not to celebrate your good fortune?” asked at that moment and slapping bim on the back familiarly, * Come, come, North! It’s seldom enough Wwe see you here; stand treat for the oceasion, I say.” By this time the two men had quit the supper- table and joined the group in the outer room. orth turned toward the bartender. “Take the orders of the party,” said he, (j- gars, for me, please.” ‘ _ Drake also chose cigars when his turn came - around. North only waited to pay the reckon- ing, and was passing down the steps of the hotel | porch when he was accosted by the elder tray- *) > eler. Aggy 4 v - ‘ B41 A i % / ek stop just beyond here,” e ‘ < im ~ a Fi * il ie <2 eo .s he age +“ _ ay THE -BITTER-FEUD. **Been coming into a fortune?” stranger. **Only a legacy—not large—five hundred dol- lars,” explained the clerk, briefly. He was not 8o gratified with the bequest as he might have been had not the amount come to him over the head of the woman he loved, and was chary of alluding to the matter. Drake made no further remark, however, He puffed contemplatively at his cigar until his companion paused with his hand upon the gate before Mr. Thancroft’s dwelling. “We part company here, I suy pose?” said the clerk, ‘Good-night to you, sir!” ‘Not quite,” the other answered, with quiet assurance, ‘‘Show me in to Mr. Thancroft. It’s not necessary te announce me,” North stared. **Can’t you wait until office hours?” he asked. “T don’t like to disturb my employer,” “He'll not count it a disturbance,” answered Drake. ‘Besides, he’s expecting me. Which way, and I'l] not trouble you,” North swung open the house door, and struck a light in the long, narrow hall. ‘The second door to the left, straight ahead,” he said, holding the candle aloft to throw its flickering gleam upon the way. At the same moment the door opened from queried the within, and framed the lawyer in the glow from | the large astral lamp which put to shame the wavering candle rays, “You are punctual,” said he, standing aside to let his late visitor pass; and theu nodded his dismissal to North. The door closed egain, and the clerk took his way up a narrow flight of stairs in the rear of the hall to his single apartment above. He had grown singularly grave in the last moment or two. That long consultation over the dead body of Madame Durand, had not been kept private as the participators in it could have wished, and the surmises freely bandied about assisted him to arrive at the true nature of the business Seo eae which had brought a visitor at this unusual hour, in this apparently preconcerted manner. “Heaven grant nothing may come of it,” he muttered, to himself, uneasily. ‘‘I don’t know why I should fear any thing even at the worst but if there’s been foul play there’ll be foul work before it’s unmasked. “I can’t help wish- ing that some one but me had brought that man ere, One who had not fathomed his thoughts might have fancied North grown suddenly no- tional. Tho stay of the visitor below was lim- ited; and in the days that succeeded, he and his companion strictly followed the programme that was expected of them—trouting and gun- ning with indifferent success; making some casual acquaintances about the village, smoking, drinking pale ale, and discussing neighborhood gossip with the landlord of the Fairview House, who was favorably inclined toward these well- ordered lodgers. And at the manse there had been little change since the gloom attendant upon the late sorrow» ful occasion had settled over the household, The badges of mourning were worn by all its mem- bers; but further than that, and the void left by the absence of the familiar mistress—a void which to those who had long been accustomed to the grotesque little figure; the sharp sound of the ebony stick ringing at intervals through the paved corridors; the keen eyes that kept close surveillance over the whole domain, and the imperious will of the madame, could not readily be filled. A maiden sister of Dr, Gaines had taken up her abode at the manse, in the capacity of com- panion to the young ladies, and as a concilia- tion to Mrs. Grundy, who is ever on the look-out for any breach of social etiquette, A week had passed since the reading of the will, and Lucian Ware had not since made his | appearance at the manse. Fay, recovered now from the first bitterness of her disappointment, though by no means reconciled to her meager apportionment, felt his absence with a growing sense of indignation and resentment. She was impatient for the sympathy which she econsid- ered was her just claim from ‘him, and ner- vously restless until she should receive assur- ance of his faith, which she had too much belief in her own witching fascinations to doubt —although she was not madame’s heiress, __ / But a week after the reading of the will, Ware came up from the office, ostensibly to carry some message to Valere; to take observa- tions, and gain certain information regarding facts that were of vital import to him. ; This week, during which he had held himself | aloof from them all, had been one of bitter strife, wearing desires, maddening, passion-in- | {| so foul a crime as—poisoning?” spired impulses, held this far in che¢k by that tense will which had never yielded to any mas- tering power until Mirabel Durand all uncon- sciously filled his intense—albeit cruelly selfish —capacity for idolatrous worship. Now his spirit was panting within him for a glimpse of her; he would have sacrificed much of worldly interest to only touch her hand and hear words of passing kindness fall from her lips; he would have risked his chances for this world and the next, to have poured out the strong fervor of his love, and os as only his specious tongue could plead, for a meet re- turn, with but the slightest hope of success, But, he could quell the wild tumult which rose within him; he could come up through the grounds to the manse. treading where she might recently have ®alked, drinking in the fragrance of the flowers which, now that the madame was no more, she had made her espe- cial care, occupy the room where she might recently have sat, and yet command the im- pulse which would have urged him to seek her presence and wreck his fondest hopes by a pre- mature burst of passionate appeal. He could be patient, crafty, calculating. So he sent op no message to Mirabel Durand except as included in his respects to “the ladies,” but seribbked a few words upon a card to be delivered to Miss St. Orme, He went alone into the silent parlor to await her coming, and a moment later she glided in, with a soft radiance touching her face. Ware stood before a window, passive and cold, looking worn and haggard, ** Ah, dilatory lover!” she said, reproachfully, crossing to his side, He let her hand rest passively then bowed and relinquished it. “ Whatever else Miss St. Orme may number in the catalogue of hor faults, dilatory action isnot one of them. You were prompt—very prompt, Miss St. Orme; and how little you were profited, after all.” Fay regarded him strangely, but with a soft smile gradually dimpling about. her pouting lips, beaming even in its burden of tender solici- tude. ‘‘My poor Lucian! My dear boy, how wretch- edly you are looking. How that miserable business has told upon you—how you must have worried over it all. See how like a Spartan heroine I have borne the test, though I nearly died of disappointment just at first. We can afford to wait, Lucian.” He dropped his face over her with bitter, sneering scrutiny, but Fay smiled back at him with apparent frank innocence. Ware broke into a discordant laugh. ‘‘Ha, ha! what an innocent dove you are, fair Fay! How sweetly you coo, and how un- flinchingly you have passed the ordeal! Who pe nee ever suspect you of possessing venomous claws? She pouted her pretty lips like a snoiled child, ‘*Now, you are trying to be provoking. Tl not have you picking a quarrel with me, do you hear, Mr. Lucian?” Ware stood up with folded arms and darkened face. : ‘ ‘*Pray, drop the mask, Miss St. Orme, This by-play might be made amusing, but time is limttec with me. You did your work well, I repeat.” Then it’s something new in my experience,” Fay retorted, airily. ‘‘ Explain yourself if it is of sufficient consequence. I’m sure I don’t know what you’re aiming at. First, place mea mat upon his palm, | please; no, not that horrid concern; it wo crush all the flounces of my new crape mourn- ing dress,” ‘ Ware saw her seated, and withdrew a couple of paces. as confess to being outdone,” he said. “J could not carry myself so bravely.” ‘“Do be agreeable, Lucian. You've not ut- tered a single pretty sentiment since I came down, If you’re wondering why I’m not in tears and pale with sorrow on account of the madame, candidly, between you and 4 it’s sim- ply because she failed being munificent enough to pay me for the trouble.” pies looked at her rape in doubt. “Bah!” cried Lucian Ware, in mocking disbe- lief. ‘‘Deceive all the world as you see fit, but don’t try to blind me. It was a sort rd. wasn’t it, for staining that fair little: with
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CHAPTER XVI. THE COMPACT BROKEN, “You are wrong,” cried Fay, with angry im- patience. ‘‘I never did it, I say—there was no need. If there had been—if madame had been sure of living a score of years without—I never could have done it. I knew that when I was put to the test.” ‘'Téll it to the winds,” mocked Ware. ‘Tt is the truth, Lucian, believe me. When the woman you sent came out of the shrubbery that night and beckoned to me as I stood alone by my sitting-room window, I crept out stealth- ily to meet her as she seemed to wish. I had no idea of what her object might be, and never thought that she had come from you until her own words told me so. ‘She drew the vial from her bosom, saying as she did so, ina hurried whispering way: ‘“ «There, take that! One drop from the vial filtered through the tube will bring madame’s Fate upon her. Don’t be afraid—l come from Lucian, and it is his will has given you this to 0. ** She thrust the vial into my hand; and moved away silently as if she had been a ghost. I was taken by surprise, and had no time to ques- tion her, had I been disposed. I loitered out there in the shrubbery for a little while, facing the temptation which you had put before me, I was reckless and daring enough, but with the means to accomplish such a deed, I felt that I never could take away madame’s life. “Tf I had hated her, I might have continued to feel all that I said to you when I was ex- cited end angered at the thought that our plans might be baffled as they have been since. But I had no canse to hate Madame Durand. [ did hope that she might die, for I thought then I would be mistress of cli Fairview, but I could not do her harm, even for that. “It had grown quite dusk when I went in, and—and I found the confusion which stunned and rejoiced me at once when they told me that she was dead. Dead without any aid of mine, I swear to you, Lucian.” He looked down upon her sneeringly, unbe- lieving still. Himself an adept in deceptive arts, unhesitating, remorseless, and reading her more shallow selfish nature by his own, he thought this ied a cleverly-acted subterfuge to cover the hideousness o ilt, which will strike some horror to even those who do not shrink from the stain of it. ‘What a tragedienne you would make!” said he. ‘Do you stay on here at the manse, Miss St. Orme? “Yes, of course, for a year and a day; and even then I fancy the proud mistress of the place will scarcely turn me away. ‘* Lucian |” ) He had ground out an oath between his set tress of Fairview, the sweet bride of his rival. | “What is it, Lucian? You frighten me.” Fay put up her hands to clasp his arm timid- | r& Oh, the power of love, that could so trans- orm the coquette who ‘had never known a generous emotion, or felt a thrill of sympathy for the victims of her pretty wiles! as this | retribution coming home to her? Ware shook her clinging hands roughly off. “ Wor Heaven’s sake, be done with such fool- | ery! You and | played our part together— and lost, We are dou.e with each other—you | aud I.” “Lucian, Lucian! ‘You never mean that. | You could not be so heartlessly cruel, The “ knowledge of your love makes me bear my own disappointment more calmly, and enables me to look ahead over our probationary term to a humbler state than I could before this have contemplated. Wemust wait for a time, you know, for m — pittance will stop when I | marry; but sf nave planned out the future in a | very different way since I saw you last. “When Valere has once fulfilled the condi- tions of madame’s will, P 6G can easily secure | the position he now holds. 1 am sure that he ard Mirabel will prove generous enough to give “Aly handsome salary which shall be adequate | our wants.” hed fairly shrunk under the burning fire of ' is ance, “You are slow to eee, he said, with | scornful contempt, “The marriage of con- | madame’s choosing of the inheritance, and with THE “BITTER FEUD. | derisive, cutting, cruel in its undisguised dis- in “I might have married you had it all turned | outas we expected, although Iam not evensure | of that now. If it had come so, my only allure- | ment would have been Fairview and its host of | outlying farms. My heart and soul could have owed allegiance then as now to only one—and that one never you, Miss St. Orme.” ‘‘ Who? she demanded, so quietly that he was deceived by her assumed calmness. ‘“Who should it be but incomparable Mirabel Durand?” **Oh, happy Mirabel!” said Fay, in that same quiet way. ‘‘ And will she for the second time | renounce the Durand estates, cheat the heir of | her thirty thousand dollars, her casket of price- less jewels and her proud beauty, condescend to bless the r student of a miserable little country lawyer? Will Valere and Fairview | have no influence with her, think you?” ‘She shall never marry him, never, never!” said Ware, turning pale with the strength of his suppressed passion. ‘‘I shall not fail to win her yet, peerless Mirabel!” ‘*Oh, peerless Mirabel!” cried Fay, in panting mockery, unable longer to repress her pent-up a ‘*But the other day it was—‘ Lovely ‘ay! Irresistible Fay!” You see, your words were sweet enough to make me cherish them. How you loved me—in protest! What sacrifices you would make were I ‘ only penniless Miss St. rme;’ no condition could alter you or, cause you to waverin truth tome! But alittle more than a week ago, and now— ‘Oh, man, man! what stuff do you suppose we are made of that you could treat any woman sof “Pray do not indulge in heroics, Miss St. Orme; scenes are always detestable,” observed Lucian, coldly. Fey turned to face him, her small, graceful figure quivering with angry agitation, her face colorless, her eyes scintillating their baneful | green glitter. She raised her little white hand, clenched un- til the blood seemed ready to burst from the delicate finger-nails, and her voice came hoarse and strange beyond recognition, * Hear me, Lucian Ware! You shall never wed with Mirabel Durand. I swearit, surely as there is a Heaven above us. You have sub- jected me to the bitterest humiliation a woman can know. You raised in me the power of a jassion, which can be strong, alike in love or iate. You have treated me with contempt; you have scorned the love that would have in- duced me to face a life of poverty with you: you | have put another voman before me, and pic- tured her as immaculate, throwing the darker shade of contrast over me, And yet love you, I Jove you still, Lucian Ware; but I hate Mira- bel Durand with all the intensity of my soul. “You put power in my hands when you caused me to receive that little gold-tubed vial with its deadly contents. I would never have used it on poor old Madame Durand, but I warn you, if you care for the safety of lovely Mirabel, mpt me no further than you have done this y. “* Sooner than see you wed with her, my hand should send you both down to perdition.” He laughed with incredulous disdain. “Ah, that would be too perilous. I never doubt that you would strike in the dark if you could, but never where the consequence would inevitably recoil upon your own fair head. ‘“‘ And now that you remind me of it, you may find it safest to return that vial. It may prove a tell-tale thing some day.” “Give it to you+—oh, no! I must have some weayon to combat those schemes of yours, and none more effective than the pretty toy you were free enough to intrust with me.’ And with that Miss St. Orme flashed out of his sight, to speed away to her private cham- ber, and double-locking the door, threw herself upon the bed and gave scope to the overpower- ing passion which possessed her, in her usual un- controllable way. Left alone, Lucian Ware leaned over the back of a heavy old chair, lost in gloomy medi- tation. ‘* Would she dare?” he asked himself. ‘‘ What will not a woman dare in a frenzy of love, and fierce, vindictive hate? I must find some means to get the vial away from her; but how?—that venience we contemplated is quite a breath of | is the question. She will not give it up will- the past—there’s no more of it, Affairs have | ingly to any one now.” changed all that, you see.” “Do you mean that it was only madame’s | é wealth you wooed me for, or are you sacrificing , passing out, when heart-promptings to ambition now?” Brea thlessly she awaited his answer. It came, o light came into his moody face as he re- flected. He took i his hat at last and was e@ saw ood Ross in the court, a pair of large scissors in her hand, with which she was trimming the sered leaves from the various shrubs. HeTalled to her as he stood in the open door, and she came at on¢e, a little flush tinging the face which was even thinner and paler than its usual wont. ‘You've been a long time gone, for you, Mr. Lucian,” she said, quietly. ‘ You’re not look- ing well, either, sir. come to all of us through the loss of the ma- dame.” ‘A grievous disappointment to you, Milly.” “T didn’t deserve any thing better, and I’m not grieving over having nothing left to me. But I do regret having lost the confidence of | my mistress just at the last, being unworthy of it, I mean.” She spoke in a dreary way, which told how it had been weighing upon her mind. ‘Well, that’s all past now! I must ask you to do me a favor, Milly.” He paused a moment to concoct some plausi- ble pretext for the part he wished her to per- form. An idea occurred to him almost immedi- ately. ‘“‘T have just permitted myself, through lack of forethought, to part with a very powerful sedative drug, which I must regain in some way, Milly. Miss St. Orme, whom I chanced to meet in here, was complaining of nervous- ness and unrest; I gave her the vial, very thoughtlessly, for I fancy she is not the proper sort of person tu be intrusted with any thing of that nature. I have remembered since tnat Doctor Gaines would not prescribe morphia in her hysterical attack, and this mixture contains a large proportion of opium. I have usei it myself a few times, but not often on that ac- count. “‘ Now, I wish you to watch your chance and secrete the vial without the young lady’s knowl- edge. Doctor Gaines tells me she is t nage | wa some form of monomania, which quie indulgence may avert; so it may be best not to agitate her by page the deleterious na- i ag the drug I so thoughtlessly placed in her ands. ‘““ You can not make any mistake; the vial is very small, fitted into a gold tube with a crystal stopper. If you can get it out of sight, Miss St. Orme may never think of it again.” m7 It is yours, you say?’ questioned Milly OSs. ‘““Yes, 1 will come to meet you, to-night, or to-morrow ge at furthest, at our old trysting- place. You'll bring it to me there, and be very careful, Milly?” ** As you say, Mr. Lucian.” He had not calculated amiss in his supposi- tion of Fay’s careless habits. Ross was wait- ing-maid to the two young ladies now, and that same afternoon, when she went to dress Miss St. Orme for the late dinner, she discovered the xold-tubed vial in one of the young lady’s toilet- OXeS. “She dropped it unobserved into the pocket of her mourning dress, but some subtle fascina- tion it seemed to possess caused her to take it out and study it curiously as she turned it abo in her hand on the first occasion when she foun herself quite alone. She had gone into the reception-room to close it for the day. It had been one of madame’s customs to have this apartment ge gers closed at five in the afternoon, and sti scrupulously performed the duty. A shadow darkened one of the windows, and thrusting the vial nervously back into its con- cealment, she glanced up apprehensively. A man, dressed in common laborer’s clothes, with a florid complexion and flaming red bair, was crossing the piazza toward the entrance-door. With a relieved sigh, Milly turned to the com- pletion of her task. CHAPTER XVII. FOLLOWING A CLEW. Tux man explained that he had been sent in place of the gardener who came two days in every week to keep the grounds in repair, name was Blair, and he had received his in- structions from the gardener, who was suffering from an attack of rheumatism. It was late in the day, but if he could clear the vegetable beds before dusk, he thought to-znorrow would suffice to put the flowers and walks into order. ean conducted him out to the plot of kitchen garden, where she was going with a great china bowl in her hand te gather late strawberries for dessert. : ‘““Tt’s not much that’s to be done,” said the girl. ‘The air is sort of bleak up here, and the old madame generally had the vegetables ‘Ow- ed down at the village. *Peared as though she never could find place enough for her flowering I think there’s trouble — ots
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i _— es : Sea ait s eee THE BITTER FEUD. Jants, let alone cumbering the ground with i:cuen truck. Been along with Cranston much aiore this?” No, he was a stranger in the village and only took up the job for a day or two. Wasn't much used to the work and didn’t know as he would like, but if he was employed there and in such pleasant company, he’d be a’most willin to go into a contract and serve faithfully asJaco dia for seven years, if another seven weren’t to be tacked to the end of ’em and he was sure of the reward he’d be thinking of asking for. “Oh, Lor’,” said Jean, simpering. ‘‘ Seven ear aren’t nothing to stay in a good place. olks often go longer without the promise of more than they honestly earn, at that. There’s Mr. Johnston has lived at the manse for over forty year, andI was brought up in the service as you might say.” Biair had heard the talk down at tho village as how the madame had left a little remem- brance to all of them in her employ; very gen- erous of her, some said, but for his part he didn’t see as she could have put it to any better use. Some folks paid that sort of conscience- money for not being considerate as they might have been while they were alive. “Oh, madame was always good enough, for that matter; she had odd turns and was awful set, but she never put upon us as she did on them as came nearer to being of her own sort. We might be the worse off for her loss, only that Miss Mirabel’s to be the mistress.” Madanie must have been very fond of Mirabel to have left her the estate, Blair suggested. “Oh, it wasn’t left to her but to Mr. Valere, on condition that he should marry Miss Durand. We all thought that it would be left to the other “young lady, to Miss St. Orme, and nc one knew till the will was read how it was to go. Ma- dame had never been fond of any one unless it were that sly Ross, who managed to put herself into the old mistress’s good graces; she was found out at the last, though no one knew ex- actly how. Anyway, there’d been a dreadful scene "—so the kitchen authorities, none of them inclined to be lenient to poor Milly, had sur- mised—‘‘ Ross was sent away from the ma- dame’s room in disgrace, and so angry she were that she went a-threatening of the madame’s “ Only an idle threat, of course,” said Blair. Jean shook her head with mysterious so- ay. “Folks do say as how madame came to her death quite too suddenly; the doctors had their suspicions too, though they kept very quiet over ’em, and let the whole matter drop, which I say isn’t according to the duty of Christian folk. Who’s to know but that the rest of us, what a certain body might get a spite against, sha’n’t go in the same way the madame did? ar het if was known that the mistress wouldn’t have Ross wait on her after finding of her out, witnessing which. I was cajled to take her place. But the very night she died, when I was out of the way, Ross pushed herself into ‘madame’s room, and the next thing that’s known my aunt, who is a housekeeper here, is a-screaming out that the madame is dead. “T know I shouldn’t like to stand in the wait- ing-maid’s shoes. ‘But, lawk-a-me! bell, and all these berries to be hulled yet. If ow'll come to the kitchen when you're throu h, ‘11 see that you have some good strong cider from the cellar, Mr. Blair.” “Td rather take a sip from those beautiful lips,” retorted the gallant swain. And Jean, with a coquettish toss of her head and flirt of her starched skirts, tripped away to- ward the manse. No sooner was she gone than the garderer’s substitute dropped the implement with which he was ieee p and vaulting over the low hedge, pursued his way under the shadow of the orchard rows to the thick growth of pine woods beyond. Once in their depths a wonderful transforma- tion took place. The slouched hat was flung aside, and the flaming red wig came with it. The violent ay plication of a handkerchief satu- rated with the contents of a little flask from his pocket, removed all traces of the florid com- lexion. The rough coat came off, disclosing a louse of light cloth beneath it, and there stood the younger of the two night passengers who come to recruit themselves amid the rural sports of rugged Fairview. He gathered up the articles of gg he had just discarded, and thrusting them into the covered basket which was avowedly a recepta- cle for the ted ils of the finny per- suasion, turned in the direction of the village. It’s a’most time for the visit to the manse, he found Mr. Thancroft wait- ing ay Sean for his appearance. The lawyer had been engaged all the mornin over the private papers of Madame Durand, met] among them he had come upon. sundry receipts for sums of money paid to one Heloise Vaughn, | and in the very bottom of the box was a letter, the paper of which was yellow and the ink pale with age. It was only a few lines, formal and | business-like, acknowledging a favor from ma- dame, and announcing the well-being of ‘the child.” It was dated from Lyle Ridge, seven- | teen years before. Mr, Thancroft’s hand trembled with agitation as he folded the paper which had given him the first clew. ‘‘ The child” he knew could be none other than the disinherited son of Jules Durand His determination was taken in a moment, but he studied long over the best means of pursuing it. Ware stared when his employer met him with a request that he should provide himself with a oe of linen, and proceed direct to Lyle idge. “*] want to learn the present whereabouts of a woman named Heloise Vaughn who resided there seventeen years ago,” he explained. “‘ You may have some difficulty in tracing her after this lapse of time;if necessary go further, and do not stint yourself upon the matter of time if you find any grounds to work up the search. I would go myself, but there is an important reason why I’should not be absent from Fair- | view for even a few hours, and North cannot be spared from his regular duties. How soon can you be ready to start?” ‘**In a couple of hours,” answered Ware. “‘ The sooner the better. I will supply you with the requisite funds, of course.” Ware took his way to bis apartments to pre- pare for his journey. “What does the old fox want of Heloise Vaughn?’ he asked himself, as he set about packing a small valise with such articles as he might need during a limited absence. ‘‘ How would he take it, I wonder, if he knew that I could give him the information he’s after with- out stirring a step on the wild-goose chase he'll find it, taking his plan of action? ““Oh yes, Mr. Thancroft, I could give you surer information of the whereabouts of Heloise Vaughn than you'll be apt to find by following her erratic courses. But I'll not throw away this rare chance for a holiday; I'll take the time to mature the plan which shall aid me in winning beauteous Mirabel; I'll spend your money as pleases me best, you old guy of a lawyer; and meantime I'll make up my mind whether or no to give you that same informa- tion regarding the woman, Heloise Vaughn. ‘* One thing is patent to me, that she has no desire to communicate with you; so now what crochet are you setting about to unravel that must needs have her at the bottom of it?” In the hurry of his preparations for his unex- ected journey, Lucian Ware utterly forgot the ittle gold tubed vial he had commissioned Ross to obtain for him, and two hours later he left Fairview, determined to take at least a week a the irksome duties pertaining to the of- ce, It grew dusk without, and lights were aflame within the manse that same evening. The din- ner had been delayed for some reason, and the party of four were lingering over the dessert, when there came a sharp double knock, followed in a moment by the tramp of men’s feet in the paved hall. Ross was in the housekeeper’s room, trim- ming a mourning-cap for Mrs. Briggs. She started to her feet in nervous alarm as the door fell back and two civil but determined-looking men advanced to confront her. They were the sheriff of the district and a single constable. The butler, uncertain yet of the precise nature | of their mission, hastened with a troubled face to call Valere, And the little party just leaving the dining-hall came upon this ‘scene visible through the open door of the housekeeper’s room: The constable with his strong hand laid firmly upon the shoulder of shrinking, trembling Milly Ross, and the sheriff reading aloud the warrant of her arrest on suspicion of having poisoned Madame Durand. Valere would have remonstrated but protest was quite in vain. The officers of the law were uiet —- when he would have persuaded them to keep guard over the frightened maid at the manse during that day and night. They had received their instructions, which they carried out to the very letter, and never lost ee which was in waiting at the gate, and those who had disliked and envied the maid were left overtaken with affright and dismay at the nature of the calamity which had come upon her. She was searched, and the little vial con- | cealed upon her person was taken witb other ef- fects. And the vial, subjected to the examination of Doctor Gaines and its contents chemically tested, was found to contain a subtle mineral poison of deadliest power. This much North told her in the hope that she might explaip her possession of it in a satisfac- tory way, for when appearances were blackest against her the faithful fellow never doubted. But when she heard that, Ross closed her lips and would not utter the words which might point suspicion at Lucian Ware, CHAPTER XVIIL. A SATISFACTORY SOLUTION OF MR. THAN- CROFT'S PUZZLE. WARE came back at the end of a week, and reported the non-stccess of his search to his em- ployer. The lawyer was disappointed but scarcely surprised at this result, for he expected to encounter difficulties in the way of his ob- ject, which was to discover the sole descendant of this branch of the Durands to whom he was so faithfully devoted. He put on his hat and went straight to the manse, revolving in his mind as he went the srobable results of the caprice to which alone S attributed the perplexing condition of ma- dame’s will. The more he reflected upon the case the more inextricable seemed the tangle involving it. If the two young people married, the rihtful heir could have no claim whatever upon the es- tates which would pass indisputably into their possession; if they refused to marry, Fairvicw and its outlying possessions not only would be lost to the remotest connections of the family that so long had held it, but the Durand name would die out—the proud race be blotted trom the recording annals of the times. Of the two it was infinitely preferable that the conditions of madame’s will should be strictly complied with, but here again rose em- barrassing contingencies. Valere had refused to wed Miss Durand when she was the presump- tive heiress; would he be more likely to woo her now as solely the requisite of a fortune which once before he had not deigned to stretch out his hand to obtain? If so, would Mirabel— roud descendant of a proud race—stoop to ally 1erself to an obscure young man, worthy enough in himself, Mr. Thancroft could not but almit, but destitute of family rank, and doubt- ful even of his right to the name he bore— © would she accept him now through the merce- nary motive she had hitherto avowedly dis- claimed? Mr. Thancroft groaned in spirit at the dis- couraging prospect. He looked for nothing less than for these two proud young ple to turn perverse upon his hands, and refuse utterly to comply with the conditions of the will. One possibility which the lawyer had entirely overlooked might have simplified the state of affairs to a straight, fair course; but it never occurred to him that Valere and Mirabel mizht find some stronger bond to draw them togetner than madame’s imposed desire, He met Valere upon the threshold, and the latter turned back with him to the libary. “JT want a plain talk with you, Erne,” said the lawyer, seating himself. ‘‘ Have you time?’ “Tam at your service, My business is not so important but that it can wait.” ** Where were you going?” “To consult you in the first place. I have hed word from the Winston tract; there hes been a large consignment of cattle from the upper mountain regions, and Winston writes that he is prepared to make the quarterly re- turns. I thought of taking the journey to-mor- row, devoting one entire day to the settlement of all the business, and return upon the follow- ing day—to be absent three days in all.” ‘It will hurry you,” said the lawyer, ‘‘As you like about that, though. “T want to know, Valere, what are your in- tentions regarding this business of the estates, Madame’s wish that the marriage should not be discussed for three months’ time was simply to make sure that Miss Durand and yourself should take ample space to dispassionately consider the pro alliance in all its bearings. : “Tt may seem premature to press the subj home to you before the expiration of the tipo lated time, but you shall have my reasons for —? sight of Ross after the moment of their en- | ry trance. They hurried her away to the conveyance | “TI have begun a search for Jules Durand. a . When Ware returned to the office after his ti! i EFeabted P y 3 ’ ’ vis t ‘ \ ¥ 4 ; : : 4 +2 * Dre @ ; do Wn Dbl. Shanks Se Oi J eee ee
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20 whom I have alwa ly wronged. Lord knows, I try not to judge her too harshly, and in nothing else was she ever cruelly unjust, though often dictatorial and exacting. Ah, poor madame! she might have been happier if she had but beaten down that stern pride of hers and proved forgiving. “There, ’m apt to wander when I come to that point; but, as ve said, ’ve begun a search “or the lad—for Jules’s boy. Poor Jules! I loved Vim dearly, as though he had been my own ‘younger brother. He was handsome and frank, [with plenty of the Durand pride and a touch of madame’s Own waywardness. When she cast him off, he cut loose from all his oid associations, and never knew—poor fellow!—that I held up for him through all. And now I want to show my friendship to the boy as I would have proved it to his father had I been permitted. “TJ shall never rest until I discover him, and if then I could have the assurance that there will be a place open to him in the home of his ancestors, it would seem less like sorry comfort I would be bringing him.” **T understand you, my friend,” said Valere, with quiet gravity. ‘‘ Had I been left, uncon- ditionally, heir to the estates, my first act should have been to prosecute the search which ou have instituted, and to relinquish his right- ul inheritance to madame’s grandson when found. “In my present embarrassing situation I have mo liberty of action.” “Do you mean that you’ve no idea of com- lying with the madame’s wishes?’ asked the Jawyer, bluntly. Valere colored, but answered with ingenuous frankness. “Tf we were both penniless, or both equally portioned, I could aspire to no greater happi- ness than the certainty of the marriage which | madame proposed. “Tve found it quite impossible to be thrown into daily companionship with Miss Durand, to discern with every passing hour more and still more of the beauties of heart and soul which | she possesses, and remain indifferent. But she is an heiress wit her legacy of thirty thousand dollars and the Durand jewels, which are of fabulous worth, while I am merely—what Iam. I cannot help myself from loving Mirabel Durand, and if I should be fortunate enough to waken any responsive feeling in her heart, I shall go out into the world nerved to wring suc- cess from the tough battle of life. I could not ask more of her than that she might wait, for in any case I cannot accept the Durand inherit- ance.” “Then,” cried Mr. Thancroft, springing up to wring the young man’s hand in an ecstasy cf | delight, ‘‘there’s hope that justice may yet be done. If I know Miss Durand, she’ll be sooner won by your sterling honor than all the wealth of all the world. ou are worthy of her, oung man, and that is the highest praise I can tow upon you.” “But, my dear sir,” said Valere, smiling, yet embarrassed, ‘“‘I have no certainty that Miss Durand can ever respond to my love. I have fancied sometimes that she is not quite indiffer- ent, but ee is always illusive. If I can win her heart there must be a long probation before Tshall reach a position to claim her pand. I must work out, at least, enough of fame and wealth as shall not be unworthy to be linked with the pride of the Durands.” ‘““And, meantime, Fairview and madame’s other wealth shall go to strangers, and, for any thing you know, the true heir may starve in a hovel, or rot in a dungeon in expiating crime to which misfortune and necessity might drive ‘im! Great heavens, man! what false pride ve you letting take possession of you? If you .ove Mirabel and Mirabel loves you, why should ‘you put your chance of happiness away from you? You are in duty bound to act in accord- ance with madame’s wishes, and it you violate her trust you deserve to frustrate your own - hopes, too. ‘*T have thought of that,” said Valere, slow- ly. ‘But how can I ask proud, perfect Mir- abel to become party to such a transaction of buying and selling as that would make her ac- on of me appear—if I should have that oy? {Stuer and nonsense!” cried Mr, Thancroft, impatiently. reater nobility than a lifetime spent in the en- eavor to win fame and fortune, as you pro- pose, like a romantic young simpleton. Lord send that Miss Durand exhibits better sense.” Before Valere comprehended his, motive or could prevent it, had he been so disposed, the Jawyer rung the ‘bell and sent a request to Mir- abel to join them there in the library. “ff felt that madame grievous- | “T tell you it will be proof of | Valere felt that he could have knelt before her with the pure devotion he would have of- fered at a holy shrine; but the impulsive little lawyer, who did not see with the eyes of the infatuated lover, passed over his greeting with Miss Durand and broke upon the subject which was uppermost in his thoughts. ‘““There’s a question for your decision, Miss Mirabel, and this selfish, ungenerous young Valere is throwing the worst of imputations upon you. to violate the trust imposed upon him by the madame, and all, forsooth! because you must needs be of too mercenary a disposition to take him poor in all or sworn devotion and ro- | mantic nonsense! He declares that he can never usurp the inheritance of the rightful heir, | | yet he is not generous enough to believe you capable of aiding to restore it. ** What say you, Miss Durand? Are you willing to marry this unworldly youth, who | declares if the Durand estates were possessed by him, his first act would be to consign them | Will you en- | all to the son of Jules Durand? courage him in such preposterous folly, Miss Mirabel Durand?” Mirabel turned her dark, oarnest eyes full upon blushing young Valere, and her glance was eloquent of approval and admiration. ‘*Tt would be a noble deed,” said she, softly. ‘* Ah-ha!” chuckled the lawyer, rubbing his | how | hands together in quiet glee. ‘‘ Why, sultry it has grown all at once! See here, you young people, I’ll just take a turn in the open air for a half-hour while you decide this matter between you.” The door closed after his retreating form, and Valere stood before Mirabel with downcast eyes, mute and embarrassed, For a moment only, and then he met her glance with one of earnest, ‘frank truthfulness. “IT love you, Mirahel,” he said, the accents dropping soft and tender from his lips. ““T am poor, nameless, friendless almost, and alone in all the world; but I love you, and if you will it, I shall turn my back on all Fairview and never seek you nor plead my cause, until I am able to offer you a home of ease and a name which will be henorable in the eyes of the world. ‘“ Madame’s will shall not fetter you, beaute- ous Mirabel, even to right the wrong she would not undo. Iask no answer, I exact no promise. I only assure you that my love is deep, and | | true, and strong enough to struggle against all | odds, and to last through all time,” She took a step nearer to him, with a rare light sweeping over her fair, bigh-bred face. *¢ If I were penniless, you would love me all the same?” she asked, never doubting the truth of what she knew his answer would be. ‘Tf you were penniless, Mirabel, I would of- fer you my etek heart’s love and prove it by a lifetime’s evidence.” She went close to him and laid her small fair hand upon his sleeve. “Then we will follow the line of our duty and be happier for having done so, No tithe shall snail tateieath us, Erne.” There was no mistaking the tender lights of the deep dark eyes, the softeving curves of the rare, proud countenance. You love me? Oh, Mirabel!” His strong arms closed her in, and with heart beating back to heart, lip answering to lip, their betrothal vow was recorded—the register of truth between them until death was yond the power of coming trials to wipe it out, Mirabel released herself from his close em- pee and drew him to a place beside, her, pre- sently. ‘* Let me tell you what my sacrifice must be to leave me worthy of such devotion as yours,” , said she. ‘* Oh, sweet!” interrupted Erne, reproachful- | ly, but she closed his lips, with her dainty hand. ‘‘ Dear heart, I have loved you from the first, but nothing except your unswerving honor and noble resolve could have ever won me. I shall come to you, my love, without one single penny of madame’s bequest. Will you not even yet _ disclaim such a poverty-stricken bride?” “ft is only you 1 want, my Mirabel.” “Then this is what I shall do, true love: long to the Durand inheritance, and they shall be included in the assi | personal property to Jules Durand’s son, | And the thirt legacy to me, I wi _ upon my marriage-day.” | ‘And TI shall love you so faithfully, sweet, He is proposing to leave Fairview, | xed be- | ‘* All those rare priceless jewels properly be- ment of the estate and thousand dollars, madame’s make over to Fay St, Orme F = ————_- —_- — —-—_ - ———__ __— %* Their perfect bliss was alloyed by a reminder 4 the steep path down the mountain. CHAPTER XIX, A NIGHT INTERVIEW. Tue lawyer did not return at once to his business office. He took the Fairview House on | his way, and was admitted to an interview | with the man Drake, who, with his companion, | still occupied apartments there. It had teen whispered, though, since the arrest of Milly Ross, that these two men were detectives, brought here and put upon the trail of the sus- pected criminal by madame’s executors. oi Mr. Thancroft’s mind now was full of an- “ other work. Heloise Vaughn must be found, { | and the task of doing it was intrusted to Drake, | whose professional acumen and acquired knowl- a | edge, would be more certain of success than | Ware’s search, conducted without much sys- tem or diligence. ‘‘ What’s the description?” asked Drake, mak- ing note of the dates of the receipts and letter. “Of the woman?” asked the lawyer, doubt- fully. “ Yes.” “‘T never saw her in my life.” i ‘““'That’s unfortunate. It’s so easy to change aname; and you have no idea of her age or \ condition?” ‘* Not the slightest. You might learn that at Lyle Ridge.” ‘‘ There’s the danger that I’ll get started on different tracks,” said Drake. ‘‘ People’s mem- ories are so apt to vary after any considerable lapse of tis,” ir. Thancroft was sanguine, though he fore- saw difficulties and delay, in the consummation of the object he had at heart. His great joy over the concession made by Valere and Mirabel could not be quite self-con- s tained, and so it came to the ears of Lucian | Ware during the day—tbe news of the betrothal of these two whom madame had been so de- sirous to have joined together, . An agony of mortified rage and despair filled is soul. He had not imagined that any step would be taken, any definite understanding reached un- | til the expiration of a number of months to come. He had thought to forestall Valere and to force Mirabel’s responsive love by the sheer impetuosity of his own passion. 5 “She shall be mine—mine, if all the world stand between!” came the willful cry of his des- perate heart. There were thoughts surging through his soul that day—a bitter, resentful flood—that would not have borne the light of exposition, and which ; threatened the clear horizon of the devoted lovers’ hopes. For once he was thankful for the accumulated tasks which fell to bis share. The necessity which obliged him to concentrate his mind upon the mechanical performance of these enabled him to overcome the first ppeeing of fiendish passion that tempted him to break the bonds of © restraint he so rigidly imposed upon himself. 7 With the evening, and his release from duty, he sought his own apartments, to fall into a, deep, moody reverie, objectless, yet but leading’ him gradually on to the verge of dark contem- plations. In the midst of his abstraction there came a ny rap at his door, timid at first, but repeated with impatient sharpness, He composed his features, © | °~ and after a slight delay, opened to the sum- . | mons, There, shrinking in the shadow, stood Fay St. ot Orme, quite alone. She advanced into the room, shivering, although the night was warm. A large dark cloak shrouded her form, but her glittering yellow hair was uncovered and damp & with dew. A fever of unrest and excitemen’ was pulsing through her veins, staining her lips 7 and cheeks with vivid crimson, and gleaming AF in fitful flames in her ray ag 24 © bright eyes. — a Ware placed a seat for her, but himself ree = |/ mained standing. J a “To what am I indebted for such an honor, Miss St. Orme?’ he asked, coldly. tg a"
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, fed . Fay locked her hands nervously together, with 8 half bysterical sob. ' “Oh, Lucian, Lucian! you will kill me with your cruelty, Ob, for my very life’s sake, don’t ‘speak so coldly now!” He comprehended the pitch of high excite- ment to which she was wrought, and crossing the room to a little sideboard, poured some wine from an open bottle which stood there, and brought it to her. She drank it, and with an effort subdued her rising agitation. *“Control yourself, Fay; and tell me what brings you here at this late hour, and unattend- ed? Why did you not send for me instead?” “IT only learned to-night of your return. Have you not heard‘—they say the ma- dame was really poisoned, and they have ar- rested Ross.” **Good God!” cried Lucian, starting back in horror. It was his first intimation of the occurrence. He had not been away from the office during the day, and Mr. Thancroft was too much oc- cupied with his discovery of the morning and su uent interests to remember that Ware was ignorant of the fact. North was not apt to refer to it. “Tt is true. Oh, Lucian, you never set her to do the deed?” “You should know better than that. You should know who is responsible for madame’s death.” You believe “Not I, as Heaven hears me! me now, Lucian?’ He was forced to do so, witnessing her pas- sionate appeal and her unmasked depths of ter- ror for bim. ‘Then it must be all a mistake,” said be, with arelieved sigh. ‘Whatever led them to sus- pect, I wonder?” ' “Madame’s foreboding, perhaps, and they found the vial of poison upon Ross. I know you must have bribed her to get possession of it. Are we not all in danger, Lucian?’ “Certainly not, if it be as you say—as I be- lieve now. It will be readily proved that madame died a natural death, and though the appearance of the vial may seem suspicious, it can count as nothing. Assure yourself; there can be no absolute danger,” His confidence inspired Fay with a sense of security, and she controlled herself to give him a succinct account of every thing relating to the arrest. He passed it over lightly, unaffect- ed by the meek devotion of the waiting-maid who had refused to implicate big name in an effort to clear herself; and with little sympathy for her present discomfort since he aera him- self it could amount to nothing more serious. “But they are going to hold an inquest,” cried Fay, shudderingly.. “ Why can’t they let madame rest in her grave? The thought of it all has given me the horrors for a week.” Lucian ground his teeth with sudden rage. “y hope to heaven she may find no rest be- yond it,” he cried, sibilantly. He turned away and walked the apart- ment excitedly twice or thrice, then paused again. ‘* What is this I hear,” he asked, in strained, cold tones; “‘this in regard to Valere and— Miss Durand?” It was not without a struggle that he could link her name with that of his rival, but he forced himself to do so calmly. There was a gleam of triumphant light in Fay’s eyes, but she too repressed her intense _ feeling on this subject, so vitally but differently interesting to them all. “They have acknowledged the engagement which was expected of them. That, and de- clare their intention of making some absurd _ sacrifices, I can denounce their folly, though I am to gain by it. I shall be thirty thousand dollars the richer, Lucian. _ Ifshe had entertained any hope of winning him back to her side with that, she was disap- pointed—at least for the time. He was rigid and white as a statue of marble, and his eyes grown pale with steely scintilla- tions. Fay shrunk back appalled before the concentrated white-heat of passion. For the space of a moment, which seemed an age, he stood so. Then he turned to her with the color creeping back to his face, and a smile that had neither warmth nor sincerity forced li ; “Tet me-see you back to the manse, Miss St, rme. Silently she gathered her cloak about her and went with him out into the night. He left her at the gate with a simply uttered © good-night!” and Fay St. Orme threw herself | down on the dew-damp earth, clutching her - hand sin the close-shaven turf. choking down THE BITTER FEUD. her passion to a kind of low, muttered sobbing. This love.of hers had awakened depths in Fay St. Orme’s nature, and stirred up degrees of bitterness which made her truly a subject of vity. , 8 step, by her unheeded, passed over the turf, and a woman’s figure stooped over her in the starlight, bent low, and touched her with cold, passive fingers. ‘Get up; you'll take your death of cold here,” said a voice—the voice of the woman whom Lucian Ware had met in the wood. And Fay lifted herself, draggled with dew, quivering with her suppressed emotion, drooping and mis- erable under the pale gleam of the stars. **T want to know what is doing at the manse,” said the woman. ‘I feel trouble in the air and pressing on my heart, Was that Lucian I heard passing in the wood?” ‘*He has just gone.” “T knew his step, but I did not stop him. I bave done him no good, and I’ve threatened him with harm; it must be that, or the trouble wouldn’t brood so close and heavy.” She was muttering to herself rather than speaking to the girl at her side. “What is Lucian to you?’ asked Fay. ‘‘ And why do you lurk about the manse as I have seen you once or twice? It was you who came to me the night madame died.” “No matter for that,” said the other, with impatience. ‘* Will you tell me what is occur- ring at the manse, or must I take other means to find it out?’ Frightened by her vehemence, and impressed by her manner, Fay related first the suspicions regarding madame’s death, the arrest of Ross, and at last the announced betrothal of Valere and Miss Durand. The woman’s slender, strong fingers closed upon her arm to a painful grip, and her breath | came in short, agonizing gasps. “Tt must not it must not—it must not, I say! They must not marry, those two. Pro- mise me that you will do all in your. power to prevent it. Promise to keep me informed of every step they take up there. Treasure up every word you hear regarding this marriage they propose, and tell it to me if you would avert a terrible Fate. A rig Hoge shot into the mind of Fay—a sus- picion that this woman was employed by Lucian are to forward his own hopes of yet winning Mirabel. “Did ke bribe you to frighten me?’ she ask- ed, with angry scorn. ‘Does Lucian think to blind me to his object so easilytdoes he think to persuade me by such poor strategy to aid him in winning my rival ? I would sooner see Lucian Ware dead than see him wedded to Mirabel, whom I hate because he loves her.” ‘“‘Ifshe marries the other one it will be death to Lucian,” said the woman, in hollow, awe- stricken, earnest tones; and then, without an- other word, she turned to speed away swift and silent as a flitting shadow. “It was done to frighten me,” said Fay to herself. ‘“ rf it could be nothing more, Buta chill of apprehensive dread ran over her frame, _——_ CHAPTER XX, WHAT HAPPENED TO VALERE. VALERE did not go upon his journey on the se day as he had proposed. There was a solemn duty to be performed at the manse which there was now no reason to delay. There had been some hanging back on the part of Dr. Gaines, who was not prepared to declare his convictions, but now he announced himself ready with his ia The lead coffin in its shell of ebony was lifted from its niche inthe family vault, and borne into one of the deserted rooms of the old tower. The coroner and a jury of twelve men, selected from the most intelligent class of the country about, held an inquest on the body of Madame Durand. g The object of the long private consultation upon the day of the funeral was now brought to light. ‘There had been a post-mortem examina- tion, but the results were so obscure and un- satisfactory that it had not been deemed ex dient then to place the matter before the public. The professor had declared that madame’s death was caused by poison, but of what nature he could not determine until he should bring chem- ical analysis to bear in developing the traces left, and substantiating his ——— belief. He returned to the inquest y pre to ‘demonstrate what had been little more than surmise before. Doctor Gaines had been study- ‘ing closely into both the direct and remote ‘overations and results of the subtler poisons, and 2 his researches led him to indorse the statements of the professor. The coffin was opened, and by virtue of the tests applied, and comparisons made with for- mer analysis, the physicians proved beyond a doubt that madame had died of a mineral poi- son. But the current opinion that it was the liquid contained in the little vial found upon the per- son of Ross at the time of her arrest, was ex- ploded by the professor’; testimony, corrobo-. rated by that of the country physician. ’ It contained a poison, subtle and deadly in its” effects, and the gold tube was an ingenious con- trivance by means of which it could be mea- sured out in the minutest quantities, but it had not been administered to Madame Durand, The liquid in the vial would cause death if taken alone or disguised in any preparation of food or drink; death would also result if it was injected directly into the blood; but there were evidences to show that madame’s death had re- sulted from a poison absorbed through the pores of the cuticle. The professor had observed on the occasion of that first examination, some minute crystallized | spangles on the bottom of a small china basin which had been handed him foruse. He had put it aside and subsequently ascertained that this basin had been used to contain the liniment =. for madame’s paralyzed limbs. He ad carefully secured the crystallized atoms, and also the liniment which remained in the bottle. The latter he had found free of any. deleterious ingredient, but the crystals were deadly poison. The servants and members of the household | were afterward separately examined, and the | testimony was all calculated to throw dark sus- | picion ~ Sea poor Ross. Mr. Tha | a subtle and ncroft, under oath, related the fact: that she had been found eavesdropping upom the day he had drawn up madame’s will, and that she had fallen into disgrace with her mistress for that fault. Jean stated that the maid had threatened madame’s life in her hearing. All certified to the fact that madame had banished her from immediate attendance, and it was proved that in defiance of the mandate Ross had answered the bell and waited upon her mistress | shortly before the latter was found dead, The evidence was all taken, and the verdict of the jury returned. It was: “That Madame Durand had come to her death on ‘the twenty- third day of June, 1869, through the agency of werful poison, administered. by the hand of Mildred Ross,” And Milly Ross Wasteniatided to prison to be broagne to trial by the cotirse of law. Madame’s remaitie Were reconveyed to the vault beneath the tree, and the solemn assembly ‘attered from the place. It had been a painful ordeal for the house- hold at the manse; but the necessary duty was performed and the ordinary ayocations taken up again, On the morning following, Valere break fasted alone just as the rosy glows of sun- rise shot across the pale azure of the skies. Most faithfully was he adhering to the letter of that condition requiring the fulfillment of alt duties pertaining to his office. The ordinary household were astir as he passed out through the hall, taking his hat and gloves from the rack. Briggs was opening the rooms, and Jean was\at hand with broom and duster. He passed them with a pleasant word, and paused a moment in the lit- tle court where the dew was hanging in heavy” drops from leaves and blossoms, and the sweet: moist fragrance went out in welcoming to the | early sunrays., He glanced up at the windows of Mirabel’s room, hoping for a glimpse of her, though’ scarcely e ing that she had yet atteon he! had made his adieu to the trio of ladies on the preceding evening, and later claimed a few private words with Mirabel. “Only for three days,” he had said, smilin ly.. Such a little time, and Fam dreading it as: though I should not know this dear presence Fey weeks,” . it was you who would have gone out to wrench fame and wealth from the wieii. without so much as an assurance to shorten the time. Did you expect to win fickle fortune in an hour?” “Is it unreasonable?” smiled Valere, “ Cer= tainty isso much dearer than hope.” Then their leave-taking, and they had parted, Now; as he glanced upward, he’ saw an shutter, and a little hanging-basket of O- trope in the window gently swayed by the morning breeze, but no sight of Mirabel. Even as he there, a light step passed) just getting
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. t \ 22 Ee age oe ea eS _THE BITTER FEUD, the piazza, a soft rustle of sweeping robes, and she stood beside him with the sweet, fair face so tenderly wistful, that he could scarcely resist his passionate desire to clasp her to his heart in a close, fond embrace. He held her hand, and stooped until his bronzed cheek brushed her ‘* Parting sweets,” said he, with the glad sur- ee of seeing her mirrored in his eyes. ‘‘ You ave thrown a rosy glow over my day-path, darling. You looked almost sad, my queen Mirabel.” “Tt must be that all the sorrowful details of yesterday’s revelations are wee upon me; though it seers like some undefined apprehen- sion of a dread tocome. I wish you were not going, Erne.” “What a precious flaw to find in my jewel. I thought you were perfect, Mirabel, and this little touch of superstitious foreboding tells me that you will miss one little link from the joys of the time.” **Don’t linger,” she said. were on your way?” ** Yes, sweet; my horse is waiting at the gates, but it is hard to tear myself away.” She smiled up into his face; and slipping her hand within his arm, walked with him down through the twisting walks. There at the gates they parted, she with dewy, uplifted eyes; he with the proud thrill of rightful claim upon this —— creature, and yearning tenderness too eep for words. A silent, scarcely demonstra- tive, but soulful parting. An unseen spectator from the shadows of the neighboring trees, ground his teeth in silent rage, and flashed a glance of mortal hatred after the unsuspecting steward of the great estates. Lucian had left his chambers at the village with the first peep of dawn. The unhappy promptings of his unreciprocated love led bim up the moun- tain-side, where, at least, he might feel his proximity to Mirabel. And now the selfish depths of his soul were stirred anew as he read aright the mutual, unwavering heart-trust of that simple parting. He saw Mirabel turn back to the manse, with a wild desire to leap the boundaries, and bear her bodily away from the protecting love of the rival who had superseded him. But, withal, he never moved, nor let drop one word of the bit- ter tumult of thoughts which raged in his mind, are, unable to nes sleep or rest, | | to me to hope there’ll be some way out of the | trouble.” “There must be. Surely—surely, the inno- cent will not be permitted to suffer. Hark! what is that?” ‘*T hear nothing.” She held up her hand warningly, and bent forward her head to listen. For a moment the stillness of the night was broken only by the shrill chirp of insects, and then she distinguish- ed the sound again before North’s duller sense had caught it, ‘** A horse’s hoofs thundering up the mountain- side. The break-neck pace of a reckless rider; can it be Mr. Valere?” ““T never knew him to ride like that,” said the clerk, apprehensively. ‘It’s not safe up this rocky way; it’s not him, or—” He broke off the sentence to throw the gate wide, and draw Mirabel from the track. He suspected what she | did not as yet. | “It is time you | | gaze sought them through the dusk, | traced the faint beating of his heart. The three days went by, and Mirabel ner- | vously waited Erne’s return. The dinner hour came and passed, and the lights from the manse shone out through the purpling shadows of the brooding night. Miss Gaines napped in a great chair in the corner, and Fay—for lack of better employment—was stringing a treble strand of pink coral beads, although she could not wear them with her mourning attire. Miss Durand turned her back upon the room and its unheeding inmates to watch the stars come out one by one and chase the blending shadows with their pale gleams. A whippoor- | and pillowed it on her loving breast. | matted with the ebbing tide. | will in the wood sounded its mournful plaint, | and insects in the shrubbery chirped unceasing- ly. Presently she swung back the casement and stepped out into the pleasant night. t was vain to resist that influence which drew her on down through the grounds to the gate where she had parted from him. With her ress gathered up from contact with the grassy borders, and all the nervous anxiety which pos- sessed her applied to the one sense of listening for the faintest sound to herald his approach, she waited. A human step broke the stillness, and a soft sigh of disappoiment wavered over her lips. She turned away, hesitated, and stood still as she recognized the step. It was North who came in through the gate, and a at seeing her. ‘* Miss Durand?” he asked, half in doubt. “Tt is I, North,” she answered, with quick compassion stirring, for, even in that dim light, she could see how dejected and heartsore he had poh “How is poor Milly—have you seen er “To-day, miss! She’s taking it badly; too ae and subdued to bear up, I think. Oh, Miss | whispered Mirabel, over the pallid, unanswering | fear that this silent, ebbing flood was stealing | ing) her face toward the clerk. | her clasp before help should come. irabel! she never is guilty of that terrible | erime—if you only would believe it.” ‘“*T feel sure of it, North. I was with her when we found the madame that night and there was no guilt strug; ag ee her great real grief. don’t know ma" think—I am in a maze of perplexity and dismay. But I can not believe that Ross is in any way implicated, though they bring such dark suspicions to bear against her.’ ‘Oh, bless you for so much as that,” he cried chokingly. ‘'You’re the first one of them all that hasn’t turned against her. It puts heart | him no opportunity. She sped over the rugged Shivering, she stood there, and nearer came the thunderous hoofs. They wavered aside, then sprung forward again; and the horse pass- | ed them like a flash. A riderless horse, with rolling, fiery eyes, and foaming nostrils—that much they could see. Mirabel stood still and mute, while one throe | of fearful anguish convulsed her being. Then, | with the calmness born of desperate necessity, she dropped her hand upon her companion’s | arm. ‘* Come with me; we must find him!” North would have remonstrated, but she gave road, scarcely seeming to touch the ground, and taxing the utmost effort of the clerk to keep pace with her. On at that mad rate for more than a mile. And then, with a sharp cry, Mirabel sprung | ahead to fall by the side of a dark, motionless | heap, in the dusty road. CHAPTER XXI. WHOSE HAND STRUCK THE BLOW? THE stalwart form whose supple strength she had gloried in lying prone and helpless in the dust; the proud head stricken down, the fea- tures set with a pallid gleam as her agonized Oh, the agony of the moment for Mirabel, until her trembling fingers tore open his waistcoat and ‘*Not dead! Oh, dear Lord, I thank Thee,” breathed her grateful heart in silent prayer, as she lifted the dead weight of that helpless head A warm, sluggish stream flowed over her hand, and the short, crisp locks of his hair were ‘* Blood,” said North, who was kneeling now by her side, in answer to Mirabel’s moan of hor- ror. ‘‘He must have been thrown against the jagged edge of some one of these rocks. We must bind up the wound, and get aid here at once,’ “ Oh, cruel rock! Oh, poor, poor love!” face. And then her finger—quickened by her away the chances of a life dearer than her own —fell in softest touches until they found a gap- ing wound. She tore her dainty little hand- kerchief in strips and pressed them firmly on the bleeding cut, then with North’s and Valere’s, strained a thick bandage over it, “Go now, quickly as you can,” she said, turn- “T will stay here with bim.” Without waiting another word, North dashed away, and Mirabel was left to her vigil. Oh, the agonized suspense of the moments as they dragged away: the mute horror of know- ing that the stirless form might grow rigid in Would the unconscious mind wake to the infinite yearning of her spirit over him, or would it waft away through the mystery of space? Would the closed eyes unvail the mirrored depths of strong, ure love, or were they sealed forever from the intensity of mortal strife for both joy and grief? But at last cagne the steady tramp of advanc- | ing feet, the flicker and glare of lights, and the subdued voices of men in awed converse. They used by her side, and put down a rude litter astily constructed and furnished with soft blankets and downy pillows. Valere, unconsci- ous and motionless as the dead, was lifted upon | it, and then willing hands took up the burden, | and the little procession went gently and sol- | emnly back # the manse. Doctor Gaines was there by the time the I | of surprise at Mirabel. | ever, and immediately resumed his task. | movement of t | I judge it is better | | | manse was reached, and at once took the re- sponsibility of all directions. : ‘Take him straight up to the old madame’s room,” he ordered. ‘‘There are the best ar- rangements for an invalid’s comfort in that. No hysteria nor fainting among you women, there, Isay. Get away out of sight and sound if you have no command over yourselves,” This last was addressed to his spinster sister and to Fay, who had hurried out to break into sharp ejaculations of fright and dismay as they saw the deathlike figure. Mirabel, pale and drooping like a blighted flower, and without a word or moan, kept her place by the side of Valere. He was laid on the great ebony bedstead in madame’s room, and at a word of dismissal the bearers went silently away. With one glance at the white, quiet face of Miss Durand, the doctor realized what intolerable suspense would be to her. ‘Have you nerve to help me with an exam- ination, Miss Durand?” he asked. ‘‘I want you to hold his head entirely firm while I probe that ugly wound.” Mirabel was sick at heart, but there was not a tremor in the white hand which smoothed back the gory locks, while the physician stooped above him with the glitter of some minute in- strument under his thumb. As the wound was fairly disclosed, Doctor Gaines opened his lips, and cast a quick glance He did not speak, how- All the while the wound was being probed and dressed, the injured man never moved nor uttered a oe ae moan. Only the fluttering 1¢ heart told that life lingered in the still frame. ‘* He is badly stunned, and no wonder, after that blow,” said the doctor, in quiet tones. “It is a very dangerous hurt, but not necessarily mortal; I tell you this at once, Miss Durand, for ou should know the entire truth. This wound is not the result of an acci- dent.” 0 ho who remained in the room, came for- ward. ‘*T beg pardon,” said he. ‘‘He was thrown from his horse. Was he dragged, do you think? I could find no rock to account for such a clean cut. “No rock made it,” asserted the doctor. ‘‘ At least it is not the result of his fall. He has been assassinated.” ‘¢ Assassinated!” echoed North, while Mirabel strained her hands together over her heart with a shuddering cry. ‘‘ He has been attacked from behind, and only this single blow struck. I should think by a club of tough, hard wood. There is a contusion on his forehead where he struck the ground, which is the effect of his fall. Had this blow fallen upon him fairly it must have crushed in his skull; but somethiog—perhaps.the swerve of his horse—directed it to the side, leaving the clear cut you have seen.” ? An appalled silence had fallen on the two lis- teners, which North broke after a moment. “Has he been robbed?” ‘‘T don’t know yet. 1 left word for Thancroft when I came from the village; he will know what sum of money the young man was ex- pected to carry. I’ve madesure that his pocket- ook is on his person, but its contents may have been tauinered with,” ‘Oh, I do not think that my darling bad an enemy in the world,” spoke Mirabel. ‘“‘ Would prone et iggy tempt to this? Oh, cruel, cruel! It was but a little time until a message was | brought to the door that Mr. Thancroft waited below. Ata word from the doctor be was ush- ered into the room where Valere lay and they were gathered. He was shocked and pained beyond expression at thesad occurrence. He named the sum Va- lere had expected to receive, an aggregate o several thousand dollars, derived from the quar- terly return of rents, and proceeds of the stock raised on the upper mountain farms, It was all found undisturbed on his person. His plain gold watch had not been removed; all the papers he carried were arranged | methodically, by his own hand, it was evi- dent. : The attack had not been made for the purpose of vant L then. The motive must remain a mystery for the time, they decided, and de- prived of any clew, they had nothing to work upon in tracing the assassin, ; ‘* Unless,” said Doctor Gaines, with a keen glance at Mirabel, ‘‘unless Miss Durand can throw some light into the obscurity,
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ers . Valere will not be conscious for hours he — — —— cating ‘ * 5 we tt a “- ; j ? THE BITTER, FEUD. “Pardon me, my dear young lady, for scem- ~ ing officious8—but you understand why I should venture such a question. Is thereany one—any former admirer of yours—who might have fol- lowed ar here, and wreaked his disappointment in this heartrending way?” Mr. Thancroft, who remembered the madame’s allusions to the persecutions Mirabel had borne, when her unprotected position should have commanded respect, waited, with grave anxiety, for her reply. But Miss Durand answered , with decision. “No one. I must admit that I was the re- cipient of undesired attentions more than once, but never the object of such mad passion as would lead to this. Those men—” she named them, with scornful reluctance—‘‘ presumed upon the fact of my utter loneliness—for 1 was friendless, homeless, Judge for yourselves if they would incline to follow me here where I have found the protection of a recognized influ- ence, the shelter of a secure home.” “Then we are left where we began, quite in the dark,” said Mr. Thancroft. “ And permitting that question to stand, we must take every precaution to advance the re- covery of our patient,” said Doctor Gaines, with grave impressiveness. ; “You, Miss Durand, had better retire; and don’t go to the opposite extreme to pay the pen- alty of this strained composure you have so bravely maintained, No, [ll not hear a demur! yet, and the chances are that he’) have a wild delirium by to-morrow. A man’s brain don’tstand such a shock unaffected by it. He'll not need you this night, but afterward he may, and you must re- serve your strength. Shall I give you a sleep- ing- otion, Miss Durand?” ‘Tam not nervous, and I shall not suffer any prostration. But, oh, do not deceive me, or send me away if his danger is imminent.” “T assure you there will be scarcely a percep- tible change for hours. The danger will follow when the fever rises, if he does not rally bodily strength to resist it. I shall sleep at the manse to-night, to be at hand if any change does occur. He needs nothing now but quiet watching.” Convinced, Mirabel dropped her face over the pale, silent one upon the pillow, and with his lips warmed by a touch of hers, glided away to ar such repose as her overwrought faculties would receive. The physician’s hopeful expectations were not eeaitaet speedily. alere lay in that uncon- scious deathlike state during all the following day and night, and it was not until the third day the fever and delirium set in. Doctor Gaines grew unwontedly grave. He telegraphed to a distance for an experi- enced nurse, who was installed in the sick room. Mirabel shared the vigils, bu5 the doctor would not permit her to relinquish _itscr rest oractive exercise. So days went by until two «-eks had gone and the crisis of life or dvath had come and ed, Erne lay, wasted to a sad reminder of is manly strength, with the breath of life just flickering over his lips; but the dark shadow which had threatened him, shrunk away before the dawning of his new lease upon life. Tranquil rest for Mirabel now, since the dear life she prized was spared to her. d meantime Ware had come to the manse daily to make inquiries after the injured man. His passion was wearing upon him like that subtle, deadly essence which no vase could be found to withitand. Mirabel had heard of his constant solicitude, and now that there was joyful news she went - down to impart the cheer to one whom she only knew as the supposed friend of her betrothed. Ware’s face grew radiant at sight of her, and he stooped over her extended hand to conceal the white flame of his eager eyes. “He will live,” breathed’ Mirabel. “The crisis is over, and he will live.” A convulsive clasp of her fair hand was the only answer, the only demonstration of the tide of disappointed rage which swept through his soul, But, when his gaze rested upon Mirabel’s face, so illumined now with joy, though pallid with painful vigils and long suspense, a great surge swept away his forced composure. ‘**Mirabel, oh! peerless, radiant Mirabel! I am dying for you—I can not live without you. To snatch a perishing soul from the very clutch of the fiends of perdition, tell me that there is still a chance to win that precious love [ can not live without.” Her glance rested upon him piteously. “T thought you knew my heart is no longer mine to give,” she said, with such sweet pride thrilling through her tones as served to rouse all the demon in him. He spoke never a word. But there came a flash across his perfectly-modeled face which transformed it from almost angelic beauty to fiendish malignity; and the cruel, cold flame that leaped into those paling eyes came with the shock of a sickening revelation to Miss Durand. That lightning glance which spoke of frenzied love and deadly hate—that, and he had turned from her and strode,with even steps, away. But Mirabel, shrinking, with a numbing hor- ror turning her blood to ice, clasped her hands over her eyes, and whispered, to herself: ‘‘God forgive me if I judge him wrongly, ce I believe his hand struck that murderous ow. CHAPTER XXII. THE MISSING BRIDE. VALERE gained but slowly. Time drew it- self lingeringly through the sweet summer days, but all too fast was it for the hearts— some that were happy, and some that were heavy—in Fairview Glen. Drake prospered but poorly in his search for the woman who should restore the true heir of the Durands, Nevertheless, he did not give up the search, for the very inconsistencies which baffled him challenged him on to the task. And the weeks rolling around brought very close the time when Milly Ross should be brought to trial. North had been at work with all the energywhich desperation will lend, but things were looking darkly for poor Milly Ross, The clerk made his appearance at the manse one day, and asking for Miss Durand, was ushered above to the private sitting-room, where she and Fay were passing the morning together. Mirabel welcomed him most cordial- ly; she liked the open, honest spirit of the ob- scure young man, and her womanly sympathy could reach down to a pitying contemplation of the deep sorrow which oppressed him. “Tye come on a mission from Milly, Miss Du- rand; one that she charged me with that night when Mr. Valere was attacked, and his danger put every other thought out of my head for the time. She says that when she put away the jewels after Madame’s death, the key broke as she turned the lock of the last casket. She left orders down at the village for another one; I was to bring it to you and see that it answered. I hope that my neglect hasn’t been any incon- venience,” ‘*None to me, North. You know my inten- tion to give up possession of the jewels?’ “They'll not find one more fit to wear them,” said North, in respectful admiration. ‘“ If you'll be so kind as to try the key, Pll know whether re alterations will need to be made on it.” Mirabel crossed the room and brought the them on the lit- caskets, one at a time, placin the key, but it tle dark solid table. She too. worked stiffly in the lock. “Tt will need some filing off at the edge,” said North, but with his stronger hand overcame the resistance, and the lids of the jewel-boxes sprung back, one ej one. Fay, with a cry of delight, fluttered above the glittering contents. “Oh, the magnificent darlings! The great, sparkling brilliants; the lustrous pearls; the glowing, fiery rubies; amethysts, turquoises, emeralds, opais, all here. How can you think of giving them up, Miss Durand?’ Mirabel smiled silently as she passed her fair, unjeweled hand through the glittering heap. She took up the ring, which was circled around with alternate amethysts and pearls. “Tt is very unique,” she said, turning it slow- ly. ‘‘Iremember Ross’ saying she could not fnd the spring to replace itin its golden shield.” “Ugh!” shuddered Fay. ‘‘ Madame had it on her hand aftershe was dead. It mages graves and ghouls; I’d never wear that 1 belonged to me. the jewels | Ah, it has just come to me! | That ring is a matchpiece to the necklace about | the painted throat of Madame Rosalie Durand.” “The lost necklace! Yes, it certainly is,” | make over all that money to me? said Mirabel, without attaching any importance | to the fact. : North leaned toward her, and his hand shook as he extended it. 7 “Will you permit me, Miss Durand? Are not the pearls a little discolored+—and look! there is one loose in the setting.” He turned the ring round and round with a grave, disquieted face. ““Loose#—so it is. And the sharp tracery is fretting once, but I do not like to trust it in the hands of the village workmen,” said Mirabel. it. I wish it could be remedied at | | money is freely yours The grave doubt upon North’s face cleared. “Tf you'll trust it to me, Miss Durand; [shall leave for Philadelphia this evening. I’m going on business relating to—to—the trial. Tl be glad to undertake the commission for you.” ““And I am glad of the opportunity,” said Mirabel, handing him the ring. Shortly after North took his leave, but more than once he paused on his way to assure him- self of the safety of the ring. ‘**Tt seems like a wild hope,” he whispered to himself, on one of these occasions. ‘‘A wild, desperate hope. But, God help me! it isthe only one that is left.” And while the clerk pursued his way, Valere awoke from the sleep which had not refreshed him. Mirabel was at his side and remained with him through all the afternoon, but the un- favorable symptoms did not abate. Thoroughly alarmed at last, she dispatched a messenger for Doctor Gaines, and imposed utter quiet in the sick-room. “T could be satisfied to sit here and look at you forever,” said Erne, “ but I must disobey your command, nevertheless, Queen Mirabel. I must speak of the thoughts which are troubling me. Iam not mending fast, my love; and suppose— suppose a relapse should come—suppose I should not get well again?’ “Oh, Erne!” ‘Tt has been troubling me—this thought. We may be neglecting that which is sacredly our duty, Mirabel. We may defer making restitu- tion until it is too late.” No need of him speaking more plainly. There was a little silence between them, broken by the doctor’s entrance. ““ What’s this, I want to know?” he asked, with bustling cheerfulness. ‘‘What are you doing with this patient of ours, Miss Duranu? Haven’t I had enough trouble with him, with- out his falling back upon my hands?” “You can’t regret it more than I do, Doctor.” “You haven’t been crossing his whims, or let- ting him worry?’ ‘“That’s just it, doctor,” put in the invalid. She is letting me worry.” “Well, well; that will never do—it’ll not answer at all, Miss Durand. Sick people must be humored, you know. Now, ve Bn oun, sir, what is it with which you are finding fault? “Well, doctor, I want my wife to take care of me. The doctor pursed his lips, with a comical twinkle in his gray, good-humored eyes, ‘* Ah, poor fellow!” said he gravely. ‘Your case is quite beyond my skill, I’m afraid. I think you had better call in the parson.” Mirabel blushed vividly, but their badinage was over. Erne had fairly exhausted himself in his effort to keep up, but now a sudden faint- ing overtook him. t was only the natural result of having over- taxed his strength, the doctor explained; and Valere, when revived again, was cautioned to remain very quiet, but he was not yet ready to drop the subject he had agitated. Mr. Thancroft came in while the quiet consul- tation was in progress, and added his plea in favor of the young man’s wishes, ‘“You are to marry sooner or later, Miss Du- rand. Let the little time be in favor of your mutual happiness.” So Mirabel, persuaded most by Erne’s plead- ing glance, yielded to the general solicitation that they two—already one in heart—should be quietly married that same evening. There was a little pleasant stir throughout the manse when the fact was made known. Fay heard it with a gush of gratified astonish- ment, She proffered her assistance in dressing the bride-elect, but Mirabel preferred being left quite alone. “But I’m so surprised; so overjoyed since I know you're quite reconciled. It does seem like such an unnecessary sacrifice on your part.” Mirabel’s eyes flashed, but she said, quietly: “T am fully satisfied with my choice.” ‘© Oh, of course, Mr. Valere is fectly splen- did. But, dear Miss Durand, you mean to I really can’t think of permitting it. I can’t think of ac- cepting more than half the money and of the jewel caskets, you darling Mirabel.” And Mirabel, filled with ve, tender thoughts, could not but laugh at the finesse of the little intriguer. ms, The “Not even the least of the Durand Miss St. Orme,” said she, decisively. but the jewels are a part of the Durand estates,” ““ And so with the pittance of thirty thousand dollars Fay was fain to be content. But even this little ortune was not sufficient to account _ >.
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she had been a myth. for the radiant triumph which illumined her “pancy, the room which had been Madame Du- | “The very woman whom Drake is searching fair face when she shut herself alone in her chamber. ‘* Mine,” she whispered, and she did not think - the money now. ‘‘He must be mine after this. The evening hours came, and in the gloam- ing, with the red glare of sunset early supersed- | rest now. | upon you, an out.” ed by mellowed lights from the chandeliers, | Valere and Mirabel were made man and wife. But before the ceremony had taken place, Miss Durand legally transferred her legacy of thirty thousand dollars to Fay St. Orme. She went to Erne, as she had said, a penniless bride; but dearer in her wealth of love and magnifi- cence of charms of both person and mind, than if but one of these attractions had been repre- sented by a princess’s dower. She had changed her mourning robes for a dress of sheer white, fleecy muslin; and as the evening closed in, Doctor Gaines sent her away | ‘ | of hair reverently, ‘‘is all that I for some warmer covering for her thin-clad shoulders. She slipped her hand from the clasp of her husband, and with a lingering, downward glance at him, eloquent of love and trust, left the room. The minutes slipped by; half an hour, an hour assed. The little group in the room of her usband wondered that she came not. A mes- senger was sent for her, but the bride was not in her own room. There was an interval of waiting in which every one chided himself with unfounded fears; then, thoroughly alarmed by her continued ab- sence, they sought for her through house and grounds. But Mirabel, the bride of an hour, had van- ished mysteriously and completely as though CHAPTER XXIII. AN UNEXPECTED DISCOVERY. Nor one of the household at the manse slept that night. The servants who were not en- paged in the active search for the missing bride grouped together, and whispered over the old traditions attaching to the unhappy fate of the Durands, | action would madden me, but depen THE BITTER FEUD. _ rand’s during her lite. ‘“My dear sir,” said Dr. Gaines, who still re- mained at the manse, ‘‘you must take some You must not suffer a relapse. I / | know how sd eave and anxiety are wearing | you must not let them wear you Erne shook his head sadly. “T shall never rest until this mystery is clear- edaway. Don’t ask me to remain quiet—in- { upon. it I will not overtax my powers to endure.” Valere crossed the room to a little plain trunk, and took from it a quaint old casket of some dark-stained wood. The lid flew back at touch of a spring, exposing a lining of faded crimson | silk, its only contents a lock of long, disheveled hair, rippling and bronze glinted. Valere glanc- | ed up to catch the doctor’s eye upon him. ‘But never had such 4 casualty as this befallen one of the house. } Deaths there had been, sudden, appalling, but | never a bride spirited away in the first hours of her wedded joy; never a husband left desolate | Sse the nuptial kiss had ceased to thrill upon is lips. Jobnston had been sitting in his accustomed | place in the hall below; Jean was gossiping with another of the maids at the foot of the | spiral staircase, at the very hour when Mirabel | so strangely disappeared, Not one of them had | seen her. The only other means of exit was | the servants’ stairway at the rear of the manse, | but the door communicating wita this was lock- ed, and the key in the housekeeper’s possession. Yet every corner of the upper portion of the | manse had been searched, every nook capable | of concealing a mouse had been explored, but Mirabel was nowhere there, The acute sense of his sudden affliction sent | new strength into the wasted form of Erne | Valere, e@ rose up from his sick bed, and | tottered through the rooms, white as a ghost, | thin, shadowy, unreal, but with that fevered | uncertaint a | the something weird and horri- | fying which must have befallen Mirabel, he felt neither weakness nor fatigue. Z But daylight came without one straw having | been found on which to base a hope. Then the younger detective, who still remain- ed at the Fairview House enlisted by his princi- pal in the search for Heloise Vaughn, was called to this new work. And by means ef his observation, trained as he was A note the minutest points, it became evident that Mirabel had not returned to her chamber after she had left her husband’s side. He observed the swinging casement that open- ed upon the balcony, to which easy access could be obtained from the court below. A light lad- der easily removed would account for the seem- ingly inexplicable disappearance. fie made a careful inspection of the premises, and so he passed through the little dim ante- room, stooped to secure a knot of snowy ribbon on the red-and-black squares of the paved floor. ‘She wore it,” said Erne, chokingly, extend- ing his hand for the tiny tie which had fluttered at Mir abel’s stately throat. And the little white tie was al) that was found to trace her presence beyond the door which had closed her out from her new-made husband and the of friends, when she left them on the p gevening. Valere held it as he stood in the chamber now devoted to his occu- “This,” said the young man, touching the bit ever knew of my mother. And this little knot of ribbon is all that is left me now of my wife; my beauti- ful, noble Mirabel. The two sacred keepsakes shall rest together.” He put the bit of ribbon tenderly down, and as he did so started violently at sound of the opening door. Every slight noise affected him, seeming to herald news of his lost love. It was Mr, Thancroft who came in, with no glimmer of hope illumining his face. And that nervous action of Valere’s had sent the open casket ringing to the floor. It was shivered to fragments. by the fall, and in the midst of the fragments lay a heap of something—lustrous white and violet and gold- en gleams. Erne picked it up with an i de of in- credulous surprise—a chain of alternate ame- thysts and pearls, suspending a locket of medal- lion shape, with a monogram woven in continu- | ous lines of crusted gems—a V of amethysts and | a D of pearls, “Tt is not possible—it cannot be the lost neck- lace—the necklace which of all the Durand jew- els is the only missing piece?” cried Valere, in breathless amazement. Mr. Thancroft pushed forward. “It must be! Yes, certainly; that is the monogram.” He took the locket from Erne’s. nerveless hand, and fumbling it a moment, succeeded in finding the spring. It opened to disclose a painted miniature, the face of 4 man which Mr. Thancroft recognized from a portrait which hung in the gallery of the manse, but the face was younger, fresher, tinted with the very ex- pression of life by the hand of a master artist. “It is Mr. Valliers Durand,” said the lawyer. ‘* How strongly it reminds me of some one—is it you, Erne? I trace a resemblance, but it is in- | distinet when I look at you.” ‘““Do you not see?” queried Valere, eagerly. “ Tt is the very counterfeit of Lucian Ware!” So it was! The regular, perfectly modeled features, the deep violet eyes, the bronze locks, the firm ‘curve of the lip, which marred an otherwise faultless face with the cruel hardness lurking there—all these were reproduced again in Lucian Ware! ‘Tt must be only a chance likeness—a mere coincidence,” said Mr. Thancroft, hurriedly. “Do not mention this discovery, either of you; but tell me, Valere, where did you get posses- sion of this old casket?” Valere rehearsed that scene from his child- hood, which had come back to impress itself in such startling outlines upon his memory, He ictured the old casket in his baby hands, the ittle gold-tubed vial which lay within it, the woman who had watched him quietly at first, and then had snatched the vial awav with an inarticulate savage cry. “The woman—who was the woman?” de- manded the lawyer. “T do not know. I can see her now when I close my eyes and concentrate my mind to the task of remembering; a tall woman with a harsh face, and a great mass of gold-bright hair, just touched with gray. I would know | her should I ever see her again, but I cannot re- member the name.” ‘Was it Vaughn?” “Vaughni—no! What was it?—if I could but think.” He knit his brows in a strong effort to re- member. “T have a shadowy impression—don’t speak! It is coming to me, I think. Helen—nol Her- moine—Heloise—that is it, Heloise!” ‘Heloise Vaughn!” cried the lawyer. Valere looked surprised, and the other hasten- ed to explain. | { now at the last. for now; the woman who had charge of Jules. Durand’s child.” : ‘What a strange complication,” said Valere,. thoughtfully. ‘*The little vial which I saw first so many years ago, I would be willing to take oath is the one which was found in the possession of Milly Ross, and I thought I saw it. on the night of madame s death in ies hands of Miss St. Orme.” He had no hesitation in making known the fact now, since it had been proved that the poi- son which the vial contained had not been ad- ministered to Madame Durand. ‘*T can’t make head or tail of the affair as it stands,” said the lawyer in utter perplexity. sf A a bad tangle to unravel, but we'll do it yet. And in pursuance of the task, he went straight. to the presence of Miss St. Orme and questioned. her closely. 3ut Fay, before this released from the fear that any suspicion should be cast upon her, dis- claimed all knowledge of the viaf other than. was known to the rest. Valere had been mistaken, she said. It must have been the gleam of her bracelet he had seen —the bracelet madame had given her. She had. worn it that night. It proved useless, too, to press the question upon Ross. She clung te the course she had’ steadily pursued throughout, by refusing to. throw any light upon her possession of the vial. The appearance of Drake on the following day promised something definite at last. He had actual trace of Heloise Vaughn now. She had been flitting from one to another of the lit- tle villages of the mountain, and at Lyle Ridge had been overtaken by a sudden severe illness the resulé of exposure and fatigue. He had taken such precautionary measures as would prevent her eluding them again. And still Mirabel was not found. Her fate was shrouded in the same inexplicable mystery, unpierced by a single ray of light. CHAPTER XXIV. LIFE OR DEATH? THREE days went by and the morning of an- other broke, cloudless, calm and dazzlingly bright. A day, portentous in the duty it her- alded, fraught with interest still and intense to all Fairview ; opening with uncertainty and sus- pense, to close with the boon of liberty or sen- tence of condemnation—which? The day of trial for Milly Ross, The county court-room was crowded to suffo- cation on that sweltering early autumn day, Local curiosity had risen to fever heat. The wide-spread reputation of dead Madame Durand, the respect which her immense possessions com- manded far and near, the mystery of the fatal’ drug which had worked her end, and the subtle- fascination which the details of any crime seem: always to excrt, drew the eager, unsympathiz- ing, breathless crowd, The inmates of the manse were there in their capacity of witnesses. Even the terrible strain of anxiety which bore upon Erne regarding the uncertainty of Mirabel’s fate was crowded back during the hours he was called to participate ins the scene ef the trial. Not a single hopeful face greeted the advent of the prisoner. A few, notwithstanding the gencral opinion, believing her guiltless, despite the dark appearances, wore sad expressions. But the one who had worked for her faithfully from the first, the one who had cheered her when she found no other comfort, was missing North was not there. The evidence was substantially that which had been taken at the inquest, There was scarcely a doubt bee all the vast assembly what the result would be. The case was carried on through the whole day, and at sunset the jury—after the briefest absence from the cours: —returned to the box, “Gentlemen of the jury,” spoke the judge, “ what is your verdict? Do you find the prison- er guilty? ‘“Guiuty, your honor; and we recommend punishment to the full extent of the law.” The dejected, shrinking form of the prisoner drooped yet more, and a low moan of despair- ing horror broke over her lips. A stillness, like the stillness of death itself, fell on the waiting assembly, The judge rose up in his place to pronounce the sentence, But before a word could be uttered came sound of horses’ hoofs, and the roll of a vehicle, coming at a fearful pace along the beaten road. A cloud of dust, a crash as the vehicle was brought to a sudden stand-still, and the jaded, : ae
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har’?-driven beasts backed and ars as they felt the cruel curb; but, never heeding them, a man sprung out and rushed, like one mad, into , the court-room. ee “Stop, for the love of Heaven!” he gasped, pushing his way frantically forward to the side of the counsel for the defense, and breathlessly panting a few words into his ear. The lawyer rose up and addressed the aston- ished judge. ‘*-Your honor, there is further evidence to be taken. The verdict nust be reconsidered after these new proofs have been presented.” After some little demur, the case was carried over to the morrow; and on the earlicst train came the professor who had been instrumental in tracing the cause of madame’s death. ¢ The excitement on the second day was in- fe? tense. xd After a few opening remarks by the counsel, a the professor was called to the stand, and his ' testimony cleared the point at last—the mys- a tery of the subtle poison which had stolen ma- dame’s life, ' After all, it was no human hand which had dispensed the deadly essence, but the quaint old cing: of amethysts and pearls, e pearls were no pearls, but accurate imi- tations, and contained a large percentage of that + subtle mineral poison, the agency of which had effected the fatal end, The crystals which the professor had discovered in the china basin were now accounted for. The strong ingredi- e] ents which composed the liniment had acted as , a dissolvent of the false pearls, and had also precipitated the effect of the poison upon the madame. Otherwise, she would have wasted away gradually, and seemingly died of a de- cline. We pass over the details of the trial, and at its close find Ross—weak, indeed, but never criminal—triumpbantly vindicated. I + A new verdict was rendered, and this time the foreman’s stentorian tones rung through the breathless, waiting people: “Not Guitty!” Cheer after cheer broke from hundreds of throats; and North, whose indefatigable re- Ny searches had brought about this result, sprung forward just in season to receive the fainting form of Ross as she tottered from her chair. | Poor, humbled Milly Ross! She could find ne words to thank her preserver when she r: cover- edfrem the giddy unconsciousness which fol lowed the release she had well-nigh ceased te hope for. he could only cover her pallid, worn fact with her thin little hands, and sob in gratitude and contrition; for, during the weeks of her im- va ‘ ” prisonment, while the clerk engaged his utmost efforts of diligence and purse and ; . mind in her cause, Lucian Ware had never once re visited her cell, nor acknowledged her sacrifice A he and forbearance by so much as a word or token. Blind, indeed, must she have been to remain ere +6 now as to which might be her truest ove, “Don’t cry so, Milly,” exclaimed North, in distress, unconscious that tears were wetting his own honest cheeks. ‘‘ Don’t think that I'll trouble you, either, now that you're free; I Jove . you too well to urge you to any promise against 5 your will, my lass!” Oh, Henry, Henry North!” cried the maid, struggling to check her sobs. ‘I’ve not merit- ed such love from you; but, if it’s true that you care for me yet, I'll never say to you no again.” ** Milly, lass! I’ve not even the hope of the ittle martin-box to offer you now.” wi Ross looked up, to read the explanation in his n averted gaze and reddening countenance. : ‘* You've spent it all in clearing me,” said she, pn jp “Tm all too thankful to be spared or work, and to help you win it back again. bs be faithful to you for all my life after this, ee enry. Sy And that assurance was more precious to the J humble, struggling clerk than would have been ae a mint of gold. reac 5 That there was still something on his mind ‘ was evident, but he soon unburdened himself - +s “ht. \ ‘ — . a 3 pa “T hadn’t enough, lass, to put me through ; without breaking on the sum the madame left. “Tye saved you three hundred of it though, and Til pay you back the etry cent of it. The legacy was meant for you, Milly, and yours it skall be.” , < : (cam In vain did Milly plead; North remained firm see as a rock, ik “We'll ig our fortunes some day, please the -} * Lord,” said he, “‘ when I get enough scraped Ree | ah again. But madame’s legacy must al- _ | ‘Ways be yours for a reserve, or whatever else ve i, you may like. % aa x : AY ane rey f] Bs Ri rs % " Bf aaa s Fe ‘ . : TS ; he ' &- ius Kd soe st Rigs pose De age wen PGs Ket ca ye Sea, Sa THE BITTER FEUD. Fay St. Orme paused on the first landing of the spiral stairway. She had never quite over- come her awe of this place; she never made the descent without hesitating first, and grasping the balustrade firmly as she followed the course of the broad shallow steps. As she stood there looking down into the black depths sbudderingly, she fancied that cau- tious steps were treading the rounds near her; but glancing up no one was to be seen in the lighted space above. Again the indistinct steps sounded seemingly at her very side, She glanced along the corridor at her back but no one was there. While she waited won- deringly, the door from the little anteroom swung ajar, and through the crevice she caught one glimpse of a face—the face of Lucian Ware. Almost instantly the door closed again without | a sound, Fay sprung forward to fling it back. The latch resisted her hand for a second, then the door opened to disclose the little room empty of any presence save now her own. She passed through hastily to the old madame’s chamber— the one now occupied by Valere, It held no one. Erne had gone this afternoon, in company with Mr. Thancroft, to Lyle Ridge. Fay’s first impression had been that Ware, not knowing his absence, had made his way un- announced to the other’s chamber. She stood still trying tosolve the puzzle. She had seen Lucian unmistakably in the glow of the western light; and now, just as cer- tainly, he was nowhere in which bad no door of exit except the one which opened upon the landing. She was not generally acute in drawing de- | ductions, but now-a suspicion flashed through her brain with sudden bewildering force. She went quietly out, and sped back through the corridor to her own room again. She snatched a voluminous, ash-colored cloak from her wardrobe and put it on hastily over her crape evening dress. She tied the broad brim of a gray leghorn hat under her chin that the shacow should conceal her features, and then stole noiselessly out without attracting the at- tention of any one within the manse. Down the mountain path she sped and straight to the lodging of Ware. His door was shut, and no answer came to her repeated summons. The heavy steps of his landlady shuffled through the passage below, and paused at the foot of the stairs which led to his apartments. She held a sputtering tallow candle in her hand, lighted newly, and by its inefficient rays tried to plerce the obscurity which by this time had gathered. ‘*Mr. Ware’s not in yet,” she called. can wait down here if ye like.” With that she receded into her own domain, “ Ye leaving the candle sputtering from a tin socket | pinned against the wall, and throwing a flicker- | ing glare over a couple of rickety chairs ranged in the passageway. “Tl not wait,” Fay said to herself, with a quick compression of her lips not quite pleasant tosee. It suggested the malice which a nature like hers will sometimes entertain. But in the door she met Lucian, and paused. ‘““Dve been calling on you, Mr. Ware; the ‘not at home’ I received was not purely con- ventional, I find.” ‘** I was late leaving the office,” said Ware, by way of explanation. ** Dew on his boots,” was Fay’s quick mental observation. ‘‘ He never got that on the village pavement.” “I had a letter from mamma to-day,” she continued aloud in sweetest accents. ‘ I want toconsult you, Lucian, that is if you will walk with me to the end of the street. you further this time, I promise.” He stepped out to the walk by her side. ‘* Now, what do you suppose this precious mamma of mine has ame about?” pursued Fay, in her honeyed tones. ‘“ Just think! she has ac- tually ‘went and gone and done it,’ which is the little boys’ version of some tiresome Latin proverb or other, She has married again with- out ever consulting me, the sole chick of her care.” * Ah!” said Ware, with languid interest. ‘Yes, married!” reasserted Fay, ‘“‘to an un- pronounceable German name, and hundreds-of- thousands of thalers to such anamount that my mathematical ignorance couldn’t grasp it, ‘‘Mamma hed just got news of the madame’s death and my disappointment, and writes for me to join her in Baden-Baden whenever I am so inclined,” ** You'll go?’ queried Ware. “T’ve not decided quite,” replied Fay slowly, inwarldy raging at bis evident unconcern. i pe . ar) ¥ these two rooms | I'll not take | St. Orme made her was really insufficient for all our needs, ““Then, I was just her style, and being twen- ty years younger always made her appear faded beside me—although I believe she was re- markably well preserved. “It was purely to get me out of her way that mamma sent me here to this dull Fairview; and I don’t suppose she'll be any more anxious for | my rivalry in that charming Baden, where ladies need not necessarily be free from matri- | mony to assert their privilege of flirting. I’ve no idea that sweet mo mere is at all in love with her old money-bags of a German hus- band.” “You might entangle a count or a duke, or something ot that kind, you know,” suggested Ware, so indifferently that Fay’s heart and a hopes sunk together like weights of cold ead, She caught her tongue between her little teeth before she would trust speak. ‘**Perbaps I might,” she said, in a slow, mod- ulated tone of meditation. ‘ That’s an enticing aspect of the case, I admit. Ah, here we are! Good-nighbt, Mr. Ware.” He lingered to ask with assumed indifference: “Is there still no trace found of Miss Du- rand?” ‘*Of Mrs. Valere? They’re searching closely, | but secretly too, so I can’t positively say. ‘** Are you sure that you know nothing of her whereabouts, Mr. Lucian Ware?” | She put the question with startling distinct- | ness, yet with such an air of pretty innocence | and candor, that Ware studied her face doubt- fully through the obscurity of the twilight be- fore he responded. . ‘* I!—zow should I know any thing of her?” | Fay flew up the rugged pathway when he | had left her, breathless, wrenching her delicate | hands in conyulsive clasps, panting cat discon- nected ejaculations of anger, disappointment | and malice. ‘* Ah, to think he could deceive me! He knows —it is surely his work. Lucian, oh, my love! Peste!—you should have known better than to | scorn such love, Oh, but you shall suffer a thousand pangs for every one you’ve sent home to me. at Merona ran riot for a time, but the flame began to flicker, and now you have quenched it out very completely indeed. “The clew?—ah, yes! It is quite enough to | este ge erself to put them on the track, Oh, Lucian, Lucian!” Valere bad accompanied Mr. Thancroft to Lyle Ridge, at the urgent request of the latter. There seemed nothing to be gained by remain- ing at the manse, and he cherished a vague hope that the woman, Heloise Vaughn, threugh her Knoseige of the Durand history, might throw some light upon the mystery of Mirabei’s dis- appearance. rake had gone before by another way. They were within a mile of the village of Lyle Ridge, | when the detective, mounted for his return, | met them with a crestfallen look, | ‘The bird’s flown!” said he, dogged . “She’s | given us the slip again, and I—well, yf acknowl- | edge myself the cussedest fool in all Christen- om. CHAPTER XXV. THROUGH TRIBULATIONS—PEACE! MEANTIME, where was Mirabel? - : She had slipped her hand from the loving _ clasp of her husband, with her dark eyes beam- | ing full of the light of radiant, perfect joy and trust; had moved away, astately, incomparable being in his raptured sight. The anteroom was dimly lighted through a single ground glass globe affixed to the swing- ing chandelier. Scarcely had the door closed between her and the room she had left when a cloud of suffocating blackness descended upon her, through which was perceptible the sweet, | sickish odor of chloroform. She was torn from her feet and crushed through an aperture, something slid into place behind her, and she felt herself borne downward through a space so narrow that her dress of white, crisp muslin swept the walls on either side. So sudden had been the attack, so irresistible the force which bad borne her away—as the bursting tempest will carry a defenseless drift before it—that she could offer no resistance. : And in a moment that sweet, sickish essence had
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turbed. 293 weight in her captor’s arms. When consciousness came back, she found herself in a small room, imperfectly lighted by a single taper burning low initssocket, She was resting on a straw mattress flung upon the bare floor, and a dark cloak which yet exhaled a faint odor of chloroform, was crushed in a heap at a little distance. By her side some one was kneeling, covering her hands with impassioned kisses, and mur- muring her name in fond, triumphant accents. ‘* Mirabel, oh! peerless Mirabel!” With a shudder she wrenched her hands away, and raised herself to a sitting ear hs not able to comprehend for a moment what had befallen her or how she had come there. ‘Lucian Ware!” she murmured, in bewilder- ment, as she traced his features by the dim light. ‘‘ How did you come here? Where is Erne?” The face of the man beside her was cruel in its mocking triumph. ‘* Ah, sweet! We are here together. What does it matter for all the rest of the world? You are mine, fair Mirabel, beyond power of any one snatching you away. Mine for time, or mine for eternity—for we shall either live for each other, or die together.” ‘* Are you mad?” cried Mirabel, thrilling with fear as she saw the frenzy of passion which con- vulsed his face. “What is this place to which you have brought me? Oh, Lucian Ware, what | rash act was this? Do you not know that my friends—that my husband—will never rest un- | til I am found, and you punished? Take me back, I beseech you.” His laughter was a shrill scream which rung | Such discordant | and echoed in the room, accomplished its mission, and she lay @ helpless | | mirth, and such triumphant flames as danced | in his paling eyes! She shrunk away from him, but her eyes were fixed with a fascinated gaze upon his pallid, mocking face. ‘‘Lovely Mirabel! It would be little wonder if I were truly mad with the joy of this moment. Poor, snared bird, why should you tremble so? No greater madness than love for you can ever iw’ through my veins or quicken my heart- throbs. ‘“See how calm I am, and listen while I tell | you how hopelessly you are in my power—how | utterly you are mine. + Do phe remember the tale which the ma- dame rehearsed that first night you were at the manse—the story of fair, false Rosalie Durand and her hapless lover? He was never seen after he leit the tower, according to the ma- dame’s tale. But tradition has sent Sowa another version of the fate which befe)l him. “Tradition whispers that the workmen brought from over the seas and sent back to) their foreign homes again when the task was completed, built a secret chamber, closed in around by the vaults beneath the tower. way leading from it up to every floor of the manse. They say, that when M. Valliers Du- rand returned to discover his rival in company with frail Madame Roealie, the secret chamber found an occupant who died here from starva- tion. ‘*T have brought you, sweet Mirabel, by the way of the secret stair and the underground passage to the secret room, closed in about by the charnel vaults beneath the tower. The manse has been rebuilt in part, but the secret stair which is only a shell around the central spiral sg end the sliding panel which cpens into the lit **Not one of your friends dreams of the ex- istence of this secret room. The loudestscreams | you can utter will fail to penetrate these solid | walls. You are mine, Mirabel, earth can snatch you from me,” er listened breathlessly, never losing a word. and no power on When he was done she faced him, scorn blaz- | determination stamped | ing in her dusky eyes on every lineament of her still, w hite face. “You have done bravely to entomba de- fenseless woman,” said she, with pe he for him ringing in her tones. ‘‘ You would bea worthy descendant of that same M. Valliers Durand of whom tradition treats, “How dare a offer me such insult—how dare you pro wife! Only my husband, brave and true, com- mands my heart. Yours I am not—never will be—though this prison chamber proves my grave.” | ‘Hunger and thirst are powerful agents to quell a haughty spirit,” said Ware grimly. There | was an — passage, and a secret stair- | tle antercom, bave never been dis- | er your love tome, a wedded | THE BITTER FEUD. _. IT offer you love, sweet Mirabel, devotion, idolatry. Scorn me, and I will be your mas- ter; I will compel you to sukmission. That haughty pride of yours shall be bowed to the very earth. ** Mirabel, my queen! don’t drive me to using harsh measures with you. Consent to leave all and go with me, Mirabel. Ob, love! look into my eyes and see how my heart and soul are yearning for you. Oh, sweet, be kind!” Mirabel drew herself away, queen-like in her wrath and scorn. “It would be usless to plead to a craven na- ture like yours,” said she. ‘‘I do not fear you for love is all-powerful. Oh, Lucian Ware! re- tribution will surely be meted out to you for all your dastardly acts. It was you who dealt that cowardly blow upon my unsuspecting lover; you have torn me from him in the first hour of our wedded joy; but I know he will never rest night or day until I am found, and you are fitly punished.” Dark and threatening grew the face of the man she confronted. e bit his pallid lips to command his voice, which was hoarse with sup- yressed passion. ‘We shall see if time and privations may not alter your views, madame, Neither food nor drink shall pass those lovely lips, until they willingly respond to mine in love’s caresses, Those flashing black eyes shall not look upon the light of day until the r meet mine with gen- tle, imploring glance. That stately form shall waste away in its concealed prison until it is glad to be fettered by the clasp of my arms. ‘‘Yes, proud Mirabel! It shall be you who will sue before many days have passed.” She turned away from him with a gesture of repugnance, and Ware, after a moment’s hesi- tation, took the remnant of taper from the sconce, 2 ‘* Farewell, for the time, beauteous Mirabel. I shall hope for a warm reception when I come again.” She made no reply, and he peer out through a low door, artfully concealed in the seemingly blank wall, leaving her alone in utter darkness. Strive as she might to be brave and patient, a thousand horrors would flock to assail her. Oh, it was terrible to be shut up there alone, surrounded by the vaults of the dead, shut off from all human intercourse except when her captor appeared to torment her. She searched the walls of her prison with the touch of her delicate hands. Rough walls that oozed with an exhalation of slimy damp which spoke of the subterranean situation. But everywhere the surface seemed unbroken; she hee find neither door nor aperture of any ind, The air was musty; chill and close, but there was ventilation above as she found by stretch- ing her hands far over her head where an al- most imperceptible draught was stirring. The hours wore on without bringing a gleam of light into the thick darkness of the place. Oh, dreary, dragging hours! Oh, faithful heart above that is tortured by unknown fears, while the search goes vainly on! Oh, breaking heart below that has lost all hope at last. Boor wasting frame, weak from famine, burning in every vein with the fever of unappeased thirst. Oh, cruel heart that is wrung by her suffer- ings, but will not yield—will not even waver from its stern resolve. Four days that are like an eternity of dark- ness, broken thrice by brief visits from her cruel captor, and not one morsel of food nor drop of cooling water has passed her lips. She lies upon the straw mattress, with a con- tinuous moan for ‘‘ water! water! water!” gurg- ling in a gasping way from her parching throat. Oh, for the dewsin Heaven to fall with blessed moisture on her burning brow. Oh, for the drops of a summer rain to plash on the lips that shriveled and cracked with the raging thirst. That consuming thirst is the only agony her failing senses can now understand. She does not heed the approaching step, the opening door, the flash of sudden light. No motion and no sound from her except that con- tinuous babble for ‘‘ water! water!’ Ware stoops over her in affright. A shadow of remorseful fear sweeps like a black cloud over his face, and he speeds away in quest of the water she craves. He is back soon, and he moistens the longing lips, the drops trickle one by one down the scorching throat. The agony is over, and blessed relief has come, Her closed lips tremble, and then are still in blessed slumber. Her hands trail in the vessel 7 of water he has placed by her side, and she stiles in the sweet dreams that visit her. Then with a sigh that is almost a sob, Ware bounds to his feet and hurries away. To save her he knows that he has run the risk of discovery. To obtain the water he has been to the inhabited part of the manse, and he has been seen—as we know. It is night again. Star-gemmed midnight without—the same impenetrable blackness which never changes night or day in that underground prison—never except when the stream of artifi- cial light announces Ware’s coming. Mirabel is awake, but haunted by mystic dreams. She fancies that she is hearing im- probable sounds—footfalls in the space around and above her, spirit voices shrieking her name through echoing voids. She has been like one in a trance since the — and the agony left her. So weak, that to ie there motionless is a luxury; so lost to thought that nothing troubles her. Ware has been there once, and given her some light, refreshing broth, which she swallowed with infinite relish. The door swings back and he comes again, with bright hair massed in di- sheveled locks, hiseyes bloodshot and gleaming with their opal passion-lights. The door sways, and remains ajar. down his burning candle-end and springing for- ward clasps her in his arms. But through the vaults comes an echoing shout, he sees a glimmer of light through the crevice of the swinging door. He clangs it shut, and lays her gently down again. Resolve, like a glow of inspiration, sweeps over his pallid face, He snatches the light again, and kneeling, with his bare hand tears up a fragment of the floor. = made, and when he recedes a red eye gleams there. ° Mirabel watches him with a languid curiosit which does not comprehend his motive. e comes close to her, his face aglow with desperate enthusiasm. ‘*My love, my bride in death! I swore you should never be taken from me, and we will die now together.” As he stoops to enfold her in his arms, she oka and puts up her thin hands, waving him ck. “What's that?’ she asks, in an awe-stricken whisper, watching that lurid glow within the floor. ‘ Who is calling me? Erne—husband!” She tried to rise, but Ware held her back. ‘*What’s that? Your death-warrant and mine,” he answers, with impressive calmness, ‘‘There’s a trench under there filled with pow- der, and that is a slow match you see burning. You scorned my love, sweet Mirabel, but mine you are at last. An incubus of horror weighs upon Mirabel. She would scream out, but her powers of speech seem paralyzed. Breathless, fascinated, motion- less, she watches that sullen coal sink lower in the floor. “Only two minutes to live,” breathes Ware at her ear. Slowly, slowly, sinks the spark of fire. Sud- denly it goes out in utter darkness. Ware moves uneasily. “Has it ceased to burn?’ he mutters, and springing over the little space, stoops to revive’ the vanished spark. In the same instant a voice calls, loudly: *“‘Mirabel! Mirabel!” It wakes her from the spell which has en- thralled her—it sends her sudden strength. With a wild cry, she darts into the further cor- ner of the room. There is a gen | sound, a flash, a burst like all _ thunder of heaven gathered into one al, Walls are riven in twain! They totter—they fall. The earth rocks. Coffins in the charnel vaults start from their niches. Some are shat- tered, and ghastly skeletons start forth. Those who have ome the secret pas- sage, and are searching the vaults, fall upon their knees, powerless from affright. Only one springs forward, when forth from the riven walk creeps a white-clad figure, witha wan, emaciated face, which lights with ineffa- ble joy as his arms open to receive her. She nestles close to the manly breast, where the true heart beats within. Never more shall os s life assail with that brave heart to be her shield. : Let the curtain drop over such a holy scene, then ring it up again to witness the end and hear the explanations, When the disappointed party returned from their fruitless expedition to Lyle Ridge, Fay He dashes He touches the flame to the orifice he .
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tT 3 Thy H mn ‘ : ] ‘ - al » mM 4 eX } a ‘may 4] wy 5 Dh < ) ut into their possession the clew which unray- ted the mystery of Mirabel’s sudden disappear- ance, The anteroom was subjected to minutist examination until the sliding panel was discoy- ered. With the secret stair and the passage be- neath revealed, the mystery was cleared away. Ware, becoming cognizant of this discovery, hastened to effect the tragic end he had pre- pared should his plans fail. Miraculous, indeed, was Mirabel’s escape, Ware was unearthed from the ruins, his body crushed to a shapeless mass, his face fair, serene and perfect in death. As they laid him down upon the earth,under the glare of the torches, a flitting, silent figure came in from the passageway. The woman whom we have seen before, whom the reader has before now rightly conjectured to be Heloise Vaughn, Valere, seeing her face, conyulsed and grief- ‘stricken as it was, recognized her. ‘* Heloise!” She stood above the prostrate, silent form, wrivging her hands in mute anguish, then gazed around upon the waiting group. ** He is dead—he has suffered the Fate of the Durands. He has been sacrificed for an atone- ment. The prophecy is fulfilled, and the curse stops with him,’ er voice was intensely calm and clear as she turned her face upon Valere, who stood a little aside, still clasping his rescued bride. “You have nothing to fear,” she said. ‘I felt the Fate,and I prayed that it might de- scend upon you, but it has fallen on him in- stead. He was your twin brother—you were the twin sons of Jules Durand.” Startling revelation to those who listened, Valere uttered a cry, and Mr, Thancroft started forward, but, with a gesture, the woman com- *manded silence. She continued, steadily: “When the twin boys were born, their mother went nearly wild with grief, knowing the Fate which the prophecy foretold for one of them. I was her aunt, and a Valliers, though she never knew it—she thought I came of her mother’s family. ‘*-You all know of the feud which existed be- tween those of our house and the Durands. I shared it, though the baby-wife had won me over to favor her husband, who was one of them. “But the old madame I hated, and I saw here a chance to strike that o’erweening pride of hers a deadly blow. — _“] persuaded Jules's wife to conceal the birth of one of the children, and I put it out to nurse with a woman who passed it forher own. That one you knew as Luciau Ware. ‘After his mother’s death, madame paid me for the care of the other, and in our bargain I stipulated that she should interest herself in the welfare of the little son of my niece, as | openly recognized Lucian to be. Madame never sus- ted that my niece had been the wife of her son, instead of the woman Ware, who died near the same time. ‘“‘The one I had in charge I called by the name of his grandfather, who was Erne Val- liers until the name was changed to Valliers Durand when he married the madame. The ignorant people of the village called it wrong and I never set them right, so the name came to be Valere.. “ He was like the Durands, and I hated him for the resemblance. Once when he found the little vial of poison, I stuod there, thinking how glad I should be if he would die; but, when I saw the stopper loosen in the tube, I snatched it away, for he was of our blood, too, and I dared not let him bring the Fate upon himself. “When they were old enough to be put to school, madame sent both the boys away; and when they arrived at manhood she brought Valere here tothe manse as you know, while Lucian was put with Thaucroft. ‘* He had grown up like us Valliers, and I was both proud and fond of him. 1 never let him suspect his identity, but I nourished the ambi- tion which would make-him a princely master of all Fairview some day. I waited, hoping the Fate might fall upon the other one, and mean- ing then to produce Lucian as the rightful eir. . “ But madame died and her will baffled my intentions. Sbe was too vindictively proud to openly acknowledge the youth whom she be- lieved to be Jules Durand’s only son—but she was never so bitter as she professed, and made her will to secure the estates to her lawful heir. “T knew how you were searching for me since, but I kept out of your way, for I meant that at last Lucian should have it all. I was THE BITTER. FEUD. waiting—waiting always for the Fate to seize its victim, and be appeased forever. ‘*T knew of the secret passage, and I have re- mained in the secret room sometimes for days together. Lucian often met me here, but of late he warned me to keep away. Alas, alas! I knew not the fatal plans he had in view. **Tt is all over and I am desolate. Ah, miser- ere, miserere!” F Thus all the mystery was cleared away at ast. Lucian was laid to rest in the vault of the Durands. Heloise Vaughn could not be persuaded to re- main at the manse after the funeral was over, and not long after she was found dead at the foot of one of the mountain fastnesses, Fay St. Orme took her portion of thirty- thousand dollars, and straightway sailed for Europe. Whether or no she accomplished her ambitious intent of wedding an earl, remains yet to be seen. The little martin-box in the village was deed- ed to Milly Ross at Mirabel’s request, so North had not long to wait for the pale little wife who learned to appreciate bis noble worth by such a bitter lesson, Their progpects seem dazzling to them, since North has lately come to be sole agent of the great Durand estate. Doctor Gaines and his maiden sister are proud to be on intimate terms with the great people at th» manse;and Mr. Thanecroft is satisfied now that the son of Jules Durand has regained his ancestral rights. Erne Valere is known now as Valliers Du- rana, The fatal ring of amethysts and pearls has been destroyed, but right regally does Mirabel wear the Durand diamonds, and the manse has never known a fairer or statelier mistress. But more precious than priceless gems is the love these two bear each other, THE END, Half-Dime Singer's Library 1 Wuoa, Exota! and 59 other Songs, 2 Captain Curr and 57 other Songs. 8 Tue GainsBoro’ Har and 62 other Songs, 4 Jounny MorGaNn and 60 other Songs. 5 6 I'ut Starke You Wire A FEATHER and 62 others. GEORGE THE CHARMER and 56 other Songs. 7 THe BELLE OF Rockaway and 52 other Songs. 8 Youne FELLAn, You’re Too Fresx and 60 others 9 Say Youne Grew and 65 other Songs. 10 I’m THE GOVERNOR'S ONLY Son and 58 other Songs, 11 My Fan and 65 other Songs. 12 Comin’ THRO’ Tur Rye and 55 other Songs. 13 Tue ROLLICKING IRISHMAN and 59 other Songs, 14 O_p Doa@ Tray and 62 other Songs, 15 Wao, CHARLIZ and 59 other Songs. 16 In THIs WHEAT By AnD By and 62 other Songs. 17 Nancy Lee and 58 other Songs. 18 I'm THE Boy THAT’s BounD To BLazE and 57 others 19 THe Two ORPHANS and 59 other Songs, 20 WHat ARE THE WILD WaAvES Savina, SIsTER? and 59 other Songs. 21 InpIGNANT PoLLty Woe and 59 other Songs, 22 THe U_p Arm-CHaArr and 58 other Songs, 23 On Coney Istanp Beacu and 58 other Songs. 24 Op Simon, THe Hot-Corn MAN and 60 others, 25 I’m rm Love and 56 other Songs. 26 PARADE OF THE GuaRps and 56 other Songs, 27 Yo, Heave, Ho! and 60 other Songs. 28 "T'witt Never po ro Gre rr up So and 60 others, 20 BivuE Bonners Over THE BorpER and 54 others, 30 Tue Merry LAvauine Man and 56 other Songs. 31 Sweer Forarr-me-Nor and 55 other Songs. 82 LerrTLe Basy Mive and 53 other Songs. 33 Dg BANJO AM DE INSTRUMENT FOR ME and 53 others. 34 Tarry and 50 other Songs. 85 Just TO PLEASE THE Boys and 52 other Songs. 86 SKATING ON ONE IN THE GuTTER and 52 others, 87 KoLoreD Kranks and 59 other Songs. 88 Niu DesPERANDUM and 53 other Songs. 89 Tue Giri I Lerr Benryp Me and 50 other Songs 40 "Tis puT A Lirrite Fapep Fuower and 50 others 41 Prerry WaILHe ata and 60 other Songs. 42 DANCING IN THE Barn and 63 other Sengs. 43 H. M.S, Prnarore, compere, and 17 other Songs. Sold everywhere by Newsdealers, at five cents per copy or sent post-peid, to any address, on re- ceipt o Six cents per number, BEADLE AND ADAMS, Pvp.isHers, 98 WitiiaM Street, New York, a7 BEADLE AND ADAMS’ STANDARD DIME PUBLICATIONS. Speakers. Each volume contains 100 large pages, printed from clear, open type, comprising the best collee- tion of Dialogues, Dramas and Recitations. The Dime Speakers for the season of 1853 embrace twenty-four volumes, viz,: 1, American Speaker. 3. School Speaker, 2. National Speaker. ! 14. Tudicrous Speaker. 3. Patriotic Speaker. 15. Komikal Speaker. 4. Comic Speaker. 16. Youth’s Speaker. 5. Elocutionist. 17. Eloquent Speaker. 6. Humorous Speaker. 18. Hail Columbia Speak- 7. Standard Speaker. er. 8. Stump Speaker. 19. Serio-Comic Speaker. 9. Juvenile Speaker. 20. Select Speaker. 10. Spread-Eagle Speaker | 21. Funny Speaker. 11. Dime Debater. 22. Jolly Speaker. 12. Exhibition Speaker. | 23. 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Speaker, Dialogues, Dramas and Readings, Fireside, Singer’s and Sunnyside Libraries. Dime Readings and Recitations, No. 24. = Irishman’s Panora-; When the Cows Come Home, Whe Tightning-r0d Agent | The Donation Party, ae a at Four Ace | Tommy Taft, | * A Michigander i in France, Ruth y Naomi, Not One to Spare, Carey of Corson, Mrs. Breezy’s Pink Lunch Babies, Rock of Ages, John Reed, J. Cwsar Pompey The Brakeman at Church Squash’s Sermon, Passun Mooah’s Sur-| Annie’s Ticket, mount, The Newsboy, Arguin ‘the Question, Pat’s Correspondence, Death of th’ Owd ’Squire, Mein Tog Schneid, At Elberon, The Cry of Womanhood, The Judgment Day, The Burst Bubble, Curfew Must Not Ring To-night. The Swell, Jim Wolfe and the Cats, The Dim Old Forest, Rasher at Home, The Sergeant’s Story, David and Goliah, * dasogmare at Fourscore, Run Why Should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud? 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The Fireside Library. 1 Was Sue His Wire? By Mrs. Mary Keed Crowell. 2 Fieemva From Love. By Harriet Irving. 8 Drip He Love Her? By Bartley T. Campbell. 4 A Srrance Woman. By Rett Winwood. 6 Two Grais’ Lives. By Mrs, Mary Reed Crowell. 9 Toe War or Hearts, By Corinne Cushman, 11 Tue Fatse Wipow. By Mrs. Jennie D. Burton. 12-13 Lost ror Love. By Miss M. E. Braddon, 14-15 Torters or THE Sea. By Victor Hugo. 16 Tue Quaproon. By Catharine A. Warfield. 17-18 Uncie Stuas. By J. 8S. Le Fanu. 19-20 Dmap-SeA Frurr. By Miss M. E. Braddon. 21-22 Lirrue Kare Kirpy. By F. W. Robinson. 23 Sow1na THE Winp. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 24-25 Brrps or Prey. By Mrs. M. E. Braddon. 26 TuHat Boy or Norcort’s. By Charles Lever. 27-28 CHARLOTTE’s InHERITANCE. By Miss Braddon. 29 A Grrw’s Heart. By Rett Winwood. 30-31 Rep As A Rosr 1s Sue. By Rhoda Broughton. 2 Toe Liry or St. Erne. By Mrs. Crow. 83 Srrancety Wep. By Mrs. Jenny Davis Burton. 84 Tue Gipsy Bripe. By M. E, O. Malen. 35 ANNIE TEMPLE. By Rev. J. 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Mason Turner, M.D. 83 THe INHERITANCE OF Hate. By Mrs. Burton. 84 Peart or Pearis. By A. P. Morris, Jr. 85 For Honor’s Sake. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 86 Lance Urqunart’s Loves. By Annie Thomas. By Burton 87 SAFELY Marrrep. By the author of “ Caste.” 88 FLORETTE, CHILD OF THE STREET. By I#®rraham. 89 THREE Tres Deap. By Miss M. E. Braddon. 90 91 92 93 94 Sworp AnD Gown. For A Woman’s Sake. By W atts Phillips. “*He Comern Not,’ Sue Sarp.’’ Annie Thomas. THe New Maapaten. By Wilkie Collins. Aw Open Verpict. By Miss M. E. Braddon. By George A. Lawrence. 95 A BeaGoar on Horsesack. By James Payn. 96 Her Face Was Her Fortune. F. W. Robinson. 97 Jane Eyre. By Charlotte Bronte. 98 99 100 AN AmsBiTious GIRL. 10 3A Woman 8 THe Drap SECRET, 8 Ar His Mercy. ‘ Wrecked m Port. By Edmund Yates, THe CoLLeEzN Bawn. By Gerald Griffin. ‘By A Celebrated Actress. it Foun eg? By Chas. Reade and Dion Boucicault. CarITa. Mrs. Oliphant. ' ATER. by Charles Reade. 4 ArreR DARK. af Wilkie Collins. 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_XWIBITIONS og SS HOME EN?” ‘ Each volume 100 1Sme pages, sex wee, 1 to 28 Imciusive, 18 to 25 Popular Dialogues and Dramas in each book. it post-paid, on receipt of price, TEN CENTS. BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William St., N.Y. These volumes bave 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. \ piemveniinn - 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 Fairy Queen. For several females, ’ meeting of the Muses. For nine young ladies, The Folly of the Duel. For three male speakers. Taken in and Done for. For two characters. Baiting a Live Englishman. For three boys. Dogmatism. For three male speakers. Country Aunt’s Visit to the City. Several characters, Tasso’s Coronation. For male and female, The Ignorant Confounded. For two boys. The Two Romans. For two males. Fashion. Fortwo ladies. The Fast Young Man. Fortwo males. Trying the Characters. For three males. ‘ The rehearsal. For six boys. The Year's Reckoning. Twelve females, one male, The Hap y Family. For several “ animals.” Which will you Choose? For two boys. The Village with One Gentleman, Foreight females | The Rainbow. For several characters. The Queen of May. For two little girls. and one male, How to write “‘ Popular ” Stories. For twe males The on Party 7 oF Sout ladies. The New and the Old wer two ene Three Scenes in Wedded Life. For male and female. ; : A Sensation at Last. or two males. Mrs. Snifties’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 males, Hobvobbing. For five speakers. Cinderella; or, the Little Glass Slipper. The Old Lady’s Will. For four males. The Secret of Success. For three speakers. Doing Good and Saying Bad. For several characters, {| The Little Philosophers. For two little girls, How to Find an Heir. For five males, The Virtues. For six young ladies. A Connubial Eclogue. The Public Meeting. For five males and one female, The English Traveler. For two males, \ Dime Dialogues, No. 3. The May Queen. For an entire school. Dress Reform Convention. For ten females, Keeping Bad Company. A Farce. For five males. Courting Under Difficulties. Two males, one female National Representatives. A Burlesque. Four males, Escaping the Draft. For numerous males, bi The Genteel Cook. For two males. Masterpiece. For two males and two females, The Two Romans. For two males. The Same. Second Scene. For two males, Showing the White Feather. Four males, one femalg, The Battle Call. A Recitative. For one male, Sse The Frost Kjng. For ten or more versons. Starting in Life. For three males and two females, Faith, Hope and Charity. For three little girls, Darby and Joan. For two males and one female, The May. A Floral Fancy. For six little girls. The Enchanted Princess. 2 males, several females. Honor to Whom Honor is Due. 7 males andifemale - The Gentle Client. Several males and one female, Phrenology. A Discussion. For twenty males. The Stubbletown Volunteer. 2 males and 1 female, A Scene from ‘‘ Paul Pry.’’ For four males. The Charms, For three males and one female, -- ( == a ae : Bee, Clock and Broom For three little girls. : ———— A ass The he og way. A Colloguy. For two boys. = : What the iden Says. For two males. i = The Crimes of Dress. A ogee 4 For two boys. : or 4) : i} GX 2 a) i 9 The Letter. For two males, ; - Dime Dialogues, No. 5. The Three Guesses. For school or parlor. f ‘ The Eta Pi Society. For five nd a teacher. ’ General Dime Book Publishers, Examination Day, For several female charaecen@e Trading in ‘ Traps."’ For several males, : The Reward of Benevolence, four males, EE: ADLE AND Sentiment. A “Three Persons’ Farce, Diet BE ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM STREET, N. ¥. Behind the Curtain. For males and femahw. er at ; The Schoolboys’ For ten boys. : ¢ . : , , © Psy rs F ‘ : . ~ : - ¥ “ MN ' bie vh ‘ ; t i 4 : Os Ae . 4 ae hs | aes is . —- y a. ‘ . oe vie . a P ) ‘ ja : : ‘ tk ee : 5 =5 & : ~is te — ~ ee: =. ; : 7 D <4 c ty ath, of) Oe & «do CBR
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SS SS Dime Humorous A Sad gee f A String of Onions, A Tragic Story, Cats, Courtship, Debt, Devils. Dow, Jr.'s Lectures, Ego and Echo, Vashionable Women, ern Thistles, ood-Nature, Sottlieb Klebcyergoss, Schiackenlichter’s snake, Hosea Biglow’s Opinions, How the Money Goes, Hun-ki-do-ri’s Fourth of July Oration, {ff you Mean No, Say No, Jo Bows on Leap Year, Lay of the Henpecked, Lot Skinner’s Elegy, Matrimony, Nothing to Do, Old Caudle’s Umbrella, Old Grimes’s Son, Paddle Your Own Canoe, | Parody on “ Araby’s | Daughter,” { THE DIM E SPEAKERS.—Continued. Speaker, No. 6. Poetry Run Mad, Right Names, Scientific Lectures, The Ager, The Cockney, The Codfish, Fate of Sergeant Thin, The Features’ Quarrel, Hamerican Voodchuck, The Harp of a Thousand | Strings, The Last of the Sarpints, The March to Moscow, The Mysterious Guest, The Pump, The Sea-Serpent, The Secret, The Shoemaker, The Useful Doctor, The Waterfall, To the Bachelors’ Union League, United States Presidents, Vagaries of Popping the Question, What I Wouldn't Be, Yankee Doodle AladJin, Ze Moskeetare, 1933, Dime Standard Speaker, No. 7. The World We Live In, Woman’s Claims, Authors of our Liberty, The Real Conqueror, The Citizen’s Heritage, italy. The Mechanic, ature and Nature’s God © Modern Good, [Sun, Ossian’s Address to the independence Bell—1777, y WELLL) if JUST PUBLISHED, CONTAINING 17 NEW DIALOGUES. og BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WI John Burns, Gettysburg, No Sect in Heaven, Miss Prude’s Tea-Party, The Power of an Idea, The Beneficence of the Suffrage, [Sea, Dream of the Revelers, HowCyrus Laid the Cable | The Prettiest Hand, Paradoxical, Little Jerry, the Miller, ¥ | Taming | Farmers, | Stay Where You Belong, eee oggzy Thoughts, The died Mae, Life, The Idler, The Unbeliever, The Two Lives, The True Scholar, Judges not Infallible, Fanaticism, Instability of Successful Agriculture, [Crime, Ireland, The People Always Con- Music of Labor, (quer, | Prussia and Austria, Wishing, The Blarney Stone, ' The Student of Bonn, The Broken Household, The Bible, The Purse and the Sword My Gd True Moral Courage, What is War? Butter, My Deborah Lee, The Race, The Pin and Needle, The Modern Puritan, Immortality of the Soul, Occupation, | Heroism and Daring, | A Shot at the Decanter. Dime Stump Speaker, No. 8. Hon, J. M. Stubbs’ Views on the Situation, Hans Schwackheimer on Woman’s Suffrage, All for a Nomination, Old Ocean, (Sea, The Sea,the Sea, the open Star Bangled Spanner, Life’s What You Make It, Where's My Money, Speech from Conscience, Man's Relation to Society The Limits to Happiness, Good-nature a Blessing, Sermon from Hard-shell Tail-enders, [Baptist, The Value of Money, Meteoric Disquisition, Be Sure You are Right, Be of Good Cheer, Crabbed Folks, [Shrew, a Masculine {Our Country, Greatness of The True ALOGUES No. 29. LLIAM STREET, N. Y. General Dime Book Publishers. New England and Union, The Unseen Battlefield, Plea for the Republic, America, [Fallacy, “Right of Secession” a Life’s Sunset, Human Nature, Lawyers, Wrongs of the Indians, Appeal in behalf of Am, Miseries of War,[Liberty, A Lay Sermon, A Dream, Astronomical, The Moon, (zens, Duties of American Citi- The Man, Temptations of Cities, Broken Resolutions, There is no Death, Races, A Fruitful Discourse, A Frenchman’s Dinner, Unjust National Acqui’n, The Amateur Coachman, The Cold-water Man, Permanency of States, Liberty of Speech, John Thompson’s Dau’r, House Cleani It Is Not Your Business. Dime Juvenile Speaker, No. 9, A Boy’s Philosophy, Hoe Out Your Row, Six-Year-Old’s Protest, The Suicidal Cat, A Valediction, Popping Corn, The Editor, The Same, in rhyme, The Fairy Shoemaker, What Was Learned, Press On, The Horse, The Snaxe in the Grass, Tale of the Tropics, Bromley’s Speech, The Same, second extract | The Fisher's Child, pee aces Scholar, A Maiden’s Psalm of Life, | A Mixture, Plea for Skates, Playing Ball, Ah, Why, Live for Something, Lay of the Hen-Pecked, The Outside Dog, Wolf and Lamb, Lion in Love, Frogs Asking for a King, Sick Lion, Country and Town Mice, Man and Woman, Home, The Lotus-Planter, Little Things. A Baby’s Soliloquy, Repentance A Plea for Eggs. Humbug Patriotism, Night After Christmas, Short Legs, | Little | Base-Ball, How the Raven Became Black, A Mother’s Work, | The Same, Who Rules, A Sheep Story, A Little Correspondent, One Good Turn Deserves My Dream, [Anotber, in Cll Never Use Tobacco, A Mosaic, The Old Bachelor, Prayer to Light, Little Jim, Angelina’s Lament, Johnny Shrimps on Boots Mercy, Choice of Hours Poor Richard’s Sayings, Who Killed Tom Roeper, Nothing to Do, Honesty Best Policy, Heaven, Ho for the Fic tds, Fashion on tle Brain, On Shanghais, A Smile, Casabianca, pg ee Soup, Nose and Byes, Malt f A Hundred Years fies meme and ittle Sermons, [Razor, Snuffies on Electricity, | The Two Cradles, The Ocean Storm, Do Thy Little—Do it Well uss, [Fever. Shrimps on Amusements, | Prescription for Spring Dime Spread-Eagle Speaker, No, 10, | Ben Buster’s Oration, Hans Von Spiegel’s 4th, Josh ee pe Advice, A Hard-shell Sermon, The Boots, The Squeezer, Noah and the Devil, A Lover’s Luck Hifalutin Adolphus, Digestion and Paradise, Distinction’s Disadvant- Smith, [ages, Gushalina Bendibus, A Stock of Notions. Speaking for the Sheriff, Daking a Shweat, Then and Now Josh Billings’s Lecturing, Doctor De Blister’s Ann’t, Consignments, el Boa . . an Bryant’s Speech, A Colored View, Original Maud Muller, Nobody Train of Circumstances, Good Advice. The Itching Palm, Drum-head Sermons, Schnitzerl’s Philosopede “ Woman’s Rights,’ Luke Lather, The Hog, : 7 SS) sre : sik Yew England Tragedy, The Ancient Bachelor, Jacob Whittle’s Speech, Jerks Prognosticates, A Word with Snooks, Sut rae bees A Mule Ride, Josh Billings on Buzzers, Il Trovatore, | Kissing in the Street, Scandalous, Mixed, ce-seeker, Slightl Old Baehelors, The O | Woman, - The Niam Niams, People Will Talk, Swackhamer’s 5 on Who Wouldn’t mn, Don't Depend on da, Music of Labor. The American Ensign. Debater and Chairman’s Guide No. 11. 1.—DEBATING SOCIETY. Its Office and Usefulness, Formation of, Constitution of, By-Laws of, Rules of Government, Local Rules of Order, Local Rules of Debate, Subjects of Discussion. 11.—How To DEBATE. Why there are few good Debaters, Prerequisites to Oratori- cal Success The Logic of Debate, The Rhetorie of Debate, Maxims to Observe, The Preliminary Premise, Order of Argument, Summary. 11,—CHAIRMAN’s GuIDE. Ordinary Meetings and | Assemblies, The Organization, Order of Business and Proceedings, The “ Question,” How it can be Treated, The “ Question.”” How to be Considered, Rights to the Floor, ney pee of a fog as the Chair, Ca Yeas and Nays, Interrupting a Vote. ) tion of Delibera- tive Bodies, Conven- tions, Annual or Gen- eral Assemblies | Preliminary O Permanent O ization, The Order of peng Considering Reports, Poe etc., 18) Subsidiary Motions, The Due Order of Con- sidering Questions, Committees, Objects of a Committee, Their Powers, How Named, When Not to Sit, Rules of Order and Pro cedure How to Report, The Committee of the Whole, Miscellaneous, Treatment of Petitio The Decorum of Deba' Hints to a Chairman, i Tv.—DEBATES, Debate in full: Which is the Greatest Benefit to his Country —the pasties f States- man, or Poe Debates in Brief: I. Is the of Works of Fiction to be
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\ 1 Adventures of Buffalo Bill. From Boy- 27 Vellow Hair, the Boy Chief of the hood to Manhood. Deeds of Daring and Roman- tic Incidents in the early life of William F. Cody. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 2 The Ocean Hunters; or, The Chase of Leviathan. A Romance of Perilous Adven- ture. By Captain Mayne Reid. ce An BLrtra Large Number. 2s 3 Adventures of Wild Bill, the Pistol Prince. (known to the world as “ Wild Bill,”’) giving the true story of his adventures and acts. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 4.The Prairie Ranch; or, The Young Cattle Herders. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr. 5 Texas Jack, the Mustang King. Thrill- ing Adventures in the Life of J. B. Omohundro, “Texas Jack.’’ By Col. Prentiss Ingraham, 6 Cruise of the Flyaway; or, Yankee Boys in Ceylon. By C. Dunning Clark. Remarkable career of J. B. Hikok, | , 7 Roving Joe: The History of a Young “ Bor- der Ruffian.” Brief Scenes from the Life of Joseph E. Badger, Jr. By A. H. Post. 8 The Flyaway Afloat; or, Yankee Boys *Round the World. By C. Dunning Clark. 9 Bruin Adams, Old Grizzly Adams? Boy Pard. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 10 The Snow-Trail; or, The Boy Hunters of Fur-Land. By T. C. Harbaugh. 11 Old Grizzly Adams, the Bear Tamer ; or, The Monarch of the Mountain. By Dr. ' Frank Powell. 12 Woods and Waters; or, The Exploits of the Littleton Gun Club. By Capt. F. Whittaker. 13 A Rolling Stone: Incidents in the Career on Sea and Land as Boy and Man of Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. By Prof. Wm. R. Eyster. 14 Adrift on the Prairie, and Amateur Hunters on the Buffalo Range. By Oll Coomes. 15 Kit Carson, King of the Guides; or Mountain Paths ard Prairie Trails. By A. W. Aiken. 16 Red River Rovers; or, Life and Adven- | tures in the Northwest. By C. Dunning Clark. 17 Plaza and Plain; or, Wild Adventures of “Buckskin Sam,” (Major Sam S. Hall.) Colonei Prentiss Ingraham. 18 Rifle and Revolver; or, The Littleton Gun Club on the Buffalo Range. By Captain Frederick Whittaker. BY | 45 Jack, Marry and Tom. Pawnees, Burgess of Nebraska. graham. 28 The Chase of the Great White Stag and Camp and Canoe, By C. Dunning Clark. 29 The Fortune-Hunter; or, Roving as Miner, Cowboy, Trapper and Hunter. By A. H. Post. 30 Walt Ferguson's Cruise, A Tale of the Antarctic Sea. By C. Dunning Clark. 31 The Boy Crusader; or, How a Page anda Fool Saved a King. By Capt. Fred. Whittaker. | 382 White Beaver, the Indian Medicine Chief; or, The Romantic and. Adventurous Life of Dr. D. Frank Powell. By Col. Ingraham. 33 Captain Ralph, the Young Explorer; or, The Centipede Among the Floes. By C. Dunning Clark. 34 The Young Bear Hunters. A Story of the Haps and Mishaps of a Party of Boys in | the Wilds of Northern Michigan. Redwing. 35 The Lost Boy Whalers ; or, Inthe Shadow of the North Pole. By T. C. Harbaugh. 36 Smart Sim, the Lad with a Level Head. By Edward Willett. 37 Old Tar Knuckle and His Boy Chums; or, The Monsters of the Esquimaux Border. By Roger Starbuck, : 38 The Settler’s Sony; or, Adventuresin the Wilderness and Clearing. By Edward §. Ellis. 39 Night-Hawk George, and His Daring Deeds and Adventures in the Wilds of the South and West. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. By Morris | 40 The Ice Elephant; or, The Castaways of 19 Wide-Awake George, The Boy Pioneer; | or, Life in a Log Cabin. Incidents and Adven- tures in the Backwoods. By Edward Willett. 20 The Dashing Dragoon; or, The Story of General George A. Custer, from West Point to the Big Horn. By Captain Frederick Whittaker. 21 Deadwood Dick as a Boy; or, Why Wild Ned Harris, the New-England Farm-lad, be- came the Western Prince of the Road. By Ed- ward L. Wheeler, 22 The Boy Exiles of Siberia; or, The . Watch-Dog of Russia. By T. C. Harbaugh. 23 Paul De Lacy, The French Beast Charmer; . ve vig Boys in the Jungles. A Story of venture, Peril and Sport in Africa. By C. Dunning Clark. ex. , 24 The Sword Prince: The Romantic Life of Colonel Monstery, (American Champion-at- arms.) By Captain Frederick Whittaker. 25 Round the Camp Fire; or, Snow-Bound at “Freeze-out Camp.” By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. 26 Snow-Shoe Tom} or, New York Boys in the Wilderness. A Narrative of Sport and Peril in Maine. By T. C. Harbaugh. the Lone Coast. By Capt. Fred. Whittaker. 41 The Pampas Hunters; or, New York Boys in Buenos Ayres. By T. C. Harbaugh. 42 The Young Land-Lubber; or, Prince Porter’s First Cruise. By C. Dunning Clark. 43 Bronco Billy, the Saddle Prince. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. | 44 The Snow Hunters; or, Winter in the Woods. By Barry De Forest. The Three Champion Brothers; or, Adventures of Three Brave Boys with the Tattooed Pirate. By Capt. Frederick Whittaker. 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. 49 Tip Tressell, the Floater; or, Fortunes and Misfortunes on the Mississippi. By Edward Willett. 50 The Adventurous Life of Nebraska Charlie, (Charles E. Burgess.) By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. 51 The Colorado Boys; or, Life on an Indigo Plantation. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr. 52 Honest Harry; or, The Country Boy Adrift in the City, By Charles Morris. 53 The Boy Detectives; or, The Young Cali- fornians in Shanghai. By T. C, Harbaugh. 54 California Joe, The Mysterious Plainsman, By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 55 Marry Somers, The Sailor-Boy Magician. By 8S. W. Pearce. 56 Nobody’s Boys; or, Life Among the Gipsies. By J. M. Hoffman. The Adventurous Career of Eddie | By Colonel Prentiss In- | Joe | liens rs iaiaeninaa 57 The Menagerie Hunter; or, Fanny Ho- bart, the Animal Qneen. By Major H. Grenville. 58 Lame "Tim, the Mule Boy of the Mines; or, Life Among the Black Diamonds. 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. D. Clark. 62 The Tiger Hunters; or, The Colorado Boys in Tiger-Land. By Joseph KE. 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 Moose-Huntersy; 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, 66 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 Freds3 or, The Voyage of the “ Ex- periment.’ By Edward Willett. 69 The Deer-Hunters; or, Life in the Ottawa Country. By Jobn 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. Prentiss Ingraham. 72 Woung Dick Talbot. By Albert W. Aiken. 73 Pat Mulloney’s Adventures}; or, Silver Tongue, the Dacotah Queen. By C. L. Edwards. 74 The Desert Rover; or, Stowaway Dick Among the Arabs. By Charles Morris. 75 The Border Gunmaker; or, The Hunted Maiden. By James L. Bowen. 76 The Kit Carson Club; or, Young Hawk- eyes in the Northwest. By T. C. Harbaugh. 77 Left-Handed Pete, the Double-Knife. Jos, E, Badger, Jr. 78 The Boy Prospector; or, The Scout of the Gold Ravine. By Roger Starbuck. 79 Minonee, the Wood Witch; or, the Squatter’s Secret. By Edwin Emerson, 80 The Boy Cruisers; or, Joe and Jap’s Big Find. By Edward Willett. 81 The Border Rovers; or, Lost on the Over- land Trail. By J. Milton Hoffman. 82 Alaska, the Wolf Queen; or, The Girty Brothers’ Double Crime. By Captain Charles Howard. 83 The Young Nihilist; or, A Yankee Boy Among the Russians. By Charles Morris. 84 Little Rifle; or, The Young Fur Hunters. By Capt. ‘‘ Bruin” Adams, - 85 Fighting Fred; or, The Castaways of Grizzly Camp. By T. C. Harbaugh. 86 Dr. Carver, the “ Evil Spirit” of the Plains; or, The Champion Shot of the World. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 87 Old Ruff, the Mountaineer; or, The Trapper’s Strange Pet. By Captain “Bruin” Adams. A new issue every week. By Brapie’s Boy’s Lrerary is for sale by all news- dealers, five cents per copy, or sent by mail on re- ceipt of six cents. BEADLE AND ADAMS, Pus .isuers, 98 William street, N. Y.
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© American Copyright Novels and the Cream of Foreign Novelists, Unabridged. FOR FIVE CENTS! — COM 3D 8 OO Ww ~ “2S a a | we COC Ot D Oke W oo = So 9 ood é i) wo 23 to - word 8 aD or to i) wo KoNKe mR NE CO ase or weenie OO WoO neo OS 43 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 A Brother's Sin fhe Masked B-ides or, Will She Him? By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. Was It Love? or, Collegians and Sweet- hearts. By Wm. Mason Turner, M. D. Whe Girl Wife. By Bartley T. Campbell, A_ Brave Heart; or, Startlingly Strange. By Arabella Southworth , Bessie Kaynor, the Work Girl. William Mason Turner, M, D. The Sverct Marriage. By Sara Claxton. A Dauzhter of Eve; or, Blinded by Love. By Mr-. Mary Reed Crowell. y Heart to Heart. By Arabella Southworth. Alone in the World; or, The Young Man’s Ward, By the author of “ Clifton,” ete. A Pair of Gray Eyes. By Rose Kennedy. Entangled; or, A Dangerous Game. By Henrietta Thackeray. y His Lawful Wife; or, Myra, the Child of Adoption. By Mrs. Aun S. Stephens. Madcap, the Little Quakeress; or, The Naval Cadet’s Wooing. By Corinne Cushman. Why I Married Him. By Sara Claxton. Marry By A Fair Face; or, Out in the World. By Bartley T. Campbell. : Trust Her Not; or, A True Knight. By Margaret Leicester. A Loyal Lover. By Arabella Southworth. His Idol; or, The lil-Starred Marriage. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. ; The Broken Betrothal;: or, Love versus Hate. By Mary Grace Halpine. Orphan Nelli, the Orange Girl; or, The Lost Heir. By Agile Penne. Now and Forever; or, Why Did She Mar- ry Him? By Henrietta Thackeray. The Bride of an Actor. By the author of “ Alone in the World,” “ Clifton,” ete. Leap Year} or, Why She Proposed. By Sara Claxton, : Her Face Was Her Fortune, nor Blaine. Only a Schoolmistress; or, Her Untold Secret. By Arabella Southworth. Without a Heart, By Col, P. Ingraham, Was She a Coquette? or, A Strange Courtship. By Henrietta Thackeray. Sybil Chase; or, The Gambler's Wife. By Mrs. Ann §. Stephens, For Her Dear Sake, The Bouquet Girl, By Agile Penne. A Mad Marri*ge. ByMary A. Denison Mariana, the Prima Donna: or, Roses and Lilies. By Arabella Southworth. The Three Sisters, By Alice Fleming. A Marriage of Convenience; or, Was He a Count? Bv 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. Mis Own Againy; or, Trust Her Not. Arabella Southworth, Flirtation ; or, A Young Girl’s Good Name. By Jacob Abarbanell, (Ralph Royal.) Pledged to Marry. By Sara Claxton. Blind Devotion. By Alice Fleming. Beatrice, the Beautiful; or, His Second Love. By Arabella Southworth, The Baronet’s Secret; or, The Rival Half- Sisters. By Sara Claxton. The Only Daughter; or, Brother against Lover. By Alice Fleming. . Her Hidden Foe; or, Love At All Odds. By Arabella Southworth. The Little Heiress; or, Under a Cloud. By Mrs. Mary A. Denison. Because She Loved Him; or, How Will It End? By Alice Fleming. In Spite of Herself; or, Jeannette’s Repa- ration, By S. R. Sherwood. His Heart's Mistress; or, Love at First Sight. By Arabella Southworth. By Elea- By Sara Claxton. By The Cuban Heiress; or, The Prisoner of | La Vintresse, By Mrs. Mary A. Denison, Two Young Girls; or, The Bride of an | Earl. By Alice Fleming. The Winged Messenger; or, Risking All | for a Heart. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. menses Hope, the Actress, By William Mason Turner, M, D. Street. -By George S. Kaime. She Did Not Love Him or, Stooping to Conquer. By Arabella Southworth. Love-Mad ; or, Betrothed, Married, Divorced and——. By Wm. Mason Turner, M.D, A Brave Girl, By Alice Fleming. The Ebon Mask; Guardian. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. A_Widow’s Wiles; or, A Bitter Vengeance. By Rachel Bernhardt, Cecil’s Deceit; or, The Diamond Legacy. Pure. Jennie Davis Burton. : A icked Heart. By Sara Claxton. The Maniac Bride. By Margaret Blount The Creole Sisters. By Anna E. Porter, What Jealousy Did. By Alice Fleming. The Wife’s Secret, By Col. Juan Lewis. or, Flora’s Forgiveness, By Rachel Bernhardt, __ 4 One Womaw’s Heart; or, Saved from the | or, The Mysterious 67 Forbidden Bans, By Arabella Southworth. 68 Weavers and Weft. 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 Husband. ; 72 The Two Widows. By Annie Thomas. 73 BRose Michel; or, The Trials of a Factory Girl. By Maud Hilton. 3 74 Cecil Castlemaine’s Gage}; or, The Story of a Broidered Shield. By Ouida. The Cheapest Library Ever Published! 138 | 139 75 ake Black Lady of Duna. By J.S. Le anu | 76 Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. Rowson. 77 Christian Oakley’s Mistake. By the author of “‘ John Halifax, Gentleman,” ete 78 My Young Husband; or, A Confusion in the Family. By Myself. 79 A Queen Amongst Women, By the author of ** Dora Thorne,” etc., ete. 80 Her Lord and Master, By Florence Marryat. 81 Lucy Temple, Sister of Charlotte S82 A Long’ Time Ago. By Meta Orred. 83 Playing for High Stakes. By Annie Thomas. 84 The Laurel Bush, By the author of “John Halifax, Gentleman.” 85 Led Astray. By Octave Feuillet. 86 Janet's Repentance. By George Eliot. 87 The Romance ofa Poor Young Man. By Octave Feuillet. 88 A Terrible Deeds or, All for Gold. By Emma Garrison Jones, 89 eae pe Sin. By the author of “Dora Thorn,” ete, 90 The Author's Daughter. By Mary Howitt. 91 The Jilt. By Charles Reade. 92 Hileen Alanna; or, the Dawning of the Day. By Dennis O’Sullivan. 93 Love’s Victory. By B. L. Farjeon. 94 The Quiet Heart. By Mrs. Oliphant. 95 Lettice Arnold. By Mrs. Marsh. $6 Haunted Hearts... By Rachel Bernhardt. 97 Hugh Melton, By Katharine King. 98 Alice Learmont, By Miss Mulock. 99 Marjorie Bruce’s Lovers, 3y Mary Patrick, 100 Through Fire and Water. By Fred- erick Talbot. 101 Hannah. By Mss Mullock 102 Peg Woffington. By Charles Reade. 403 A Desperate Deed. By Erskine Boyd. 104 Shadows on the Snow. By B. L. Far- | jeon. 105 The Great Hoggarty Diamond. By W. M. Thackeray. 106 From Dreams to Waking. By E. Lynn Linton. 107 Poor Zeph! By F..W. Robinson. 108 The Sad Fortunes of the Rev. Amos Barton. By George Eliot. 109 Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses. By B. L. Farjeon, 110 The Wandering Heir. By Charles Reade, 111 The Brother's, Bet; or, Within Six Weeks By Emilie Flygare Carlen. 112 A Hero. By Miss Mulock. 113 Paul and Virginia. From the French of Bernardin De St. Pierre, 114 °fwas In Trafalgar’s Bay. By Wal- ter Bosant and James Rice. 115 The Maid of Killeena, By Wm. Black. 116 Hetty. By Henry Kingsley. 117 The Wayside Cross; or, The.Raid of Gomez. By Captain E. A. Milman. 18 The Vicar of Waketield. By Oliver Goldsmith. 19 Waud Mohan, By Annie Thomas. 20 Thaddeus of Warsaw. By Miss Jane | Porter. 121 The King of No-Land. By B. L. Far- jeon. 122 Lovel, the Widower, By W. M. Thack- eray. 123 An 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 The Birthright. By Mrs. Gore. 129 Motherless; or, The Farmer's Sweetheart. By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. , 130 Homeless; or, Two Orphan Girls in New | York. By Albert W. Aiken. , 31 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 = He Love Her? By Bartley T. Camp- ell, 135 Sinned Against. By Lillian Lovejoy. 136 Was She His Wife? By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell, ’ 137 The Village on the Clif, By Miss Thackeray. r 140 141 142 May 4 we Oo “ TOtSor or oroe —— ee oe . > Ute Cr ~ i Poor Valeria! or, The Broken Troth. By Margaret Blount. Margaret Graham. By G. P. R. 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. Two ‘emeaes Lives. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. >} A Desperate Venture; or, For Love's By Arabella Southworth. By Corinne Cush- Own Sake. The War of Hearts, man, Which Was the Woman ? or, Strangely Misjudged. By Sara Claxton. An Ambitious Girl; or, She Would Be An Actress. By Frances Hielen Davenport. Love Lord of All, By Alice May Fleming. A Wild Girl. By Corinne Cushman. A Mfan’s Sacrifice. By Harriet Irving. Did She Sin. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. He Loves Me Not, By Lillian Lovejoy. Winning Ways. By Margaret Blount. What She Cost Him; or, Crooked Paths. By Arabella Southworth. A Girls Tleart. By Rett Winwood. A Bitter Mistake; or, A Young Girls Folly. By Agnes Mary Shelton, Lady Helen’s Vow}; or, The Mother's Secret. By the Late Mrs. E. F. Ellet. Buying a Heart. By Lillian Lovejoy. Pearl of Pearls. By A, P. Morris, Jr. A Fateful Games or, Wedded and Parted. By Sara Claxton. 163 The 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 Fates or, The Wreck of es Pee oer a 2 @ @' Melek = 184 . Two By Arabella Southworth. Fair Women. By Wm. M. Turner. Through Love; or, One By Lillian Lovejoy. By Mary Two Lives. Tempted Woman's Error. Blind Barbara’s Secret, Grace Halpine. A Woman's Witchery; or, Through Much Tribulation. By Sara Claxton. Black Eyes and Blue. By Corinne Cushman. The Cost of a Folly. Dickens. By Georgiana ‘Khe Pretty Puritan. By A Parson’s Daughter. Is Love a Mockery? or, Revenge is Sweet, By Arabella Southworth. ‘ fr Adria, the Adopted, By Jennie Davis Burton, For the Woman He Lovedy or, Fate- ful Links. By Agnes Mary Shelton. The Locked Meart, By Corinne Cushman, Parted by freachery. By Harriet Irving. Was She a Wife? or, The Proof of Love, 3y Rett Winwood, Under a Clouds or, A Daughter's Sus- picion. by Sara Claxton. or, The Heart of An American Queen} Gold. by Grace Mortimer, or, Diamond Cut A P- int of Honor; Diamond. By Lillian Lovejoy. Pursued to the Altar. By Corinne Cushman. ; Put to a Test; or, A Fortune Hunter's. Fate. By Georgiana Dickens. . 3} The Terrible Truths or, The Thornhurst Mystery. By Jennie Davis Burton. , Outw.tted by Herself; or, A Mother's Scheme, By Arabella Southworth. Child of the Street; or, A Pearl By Col, Prentiss Ingraham. or, A Name Florette, Beyond Price. Her Guardian’s Sacrifice 5 in the Balance. By Sara Claxton. Pretty and Proud; or, The Gold-Bug of Frisco. By Corinne Cushman. A Woman’s Maneuver; or, Purse, not Heart, By Lillian Lovejoy. The Bitter Feud. By Jennie Davis Bur- ton. : Breaking the Fetters; or, The Gypsy’s Secret. By Georgiana Dickens. The Mysterious Guardians or, Little Clare, the Opera Singer. By Corinne Cushman, In the Balance; or, A Shadowed Love, By Arabella Southworth. Jule, the Jewess; or, the Miser Million- aire. By Dr. Noel Dunbar. A new issue every week. Tue WAVERLEY Lrsrary 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.