Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 193) (1883 07 24)
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Bite ———— ‘The Cheapest and Best Ha ey 3 6 ped SL AH =e Library! Whe Cream of American and Foreign Novels for Five Cents! = ANA +! ‘Ns ham AA ” pe ail HAIG ruin. al a . a iT KT ||| Se : | Waioniea wauen|s AIL ig M ~ ‘ | dead 4 x $2.50 a year. Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., at Second Class Mail Rates. Copyright, 1883, by BEADLE AND ADAMS, July 24, 1883, ——— $$$ $$ ___$__— — No193. VoL. VIII. PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST., N. Y. PRICE, 5 CENTS | BREAKING THE FETTERS; « tecvrss seo, BY GEORGIANA DICKENS, | Wo AUTHOR OF ‘‘A SCATHING ORDEAL,” ‘‘ LORD ROTH’S SIN,” ‘‘ PUT TO A TEST,” “THE COST OF A FOLLY,” ETC, 3 Ws gS VE A, jx 2 MU ; ‘“‘4 KISS, DARLING,” HE EXCLAIMED, pe Peayeal
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. 2 — : pes THE GYPSY'S SECRET BY GEORGIANA DICKENS, _ AUTHOR or “pur To A TEST,” “‘ THE COST OF A FOLLY,” ETC., ETC. ; "CHAPTER 1. AN-ACTOR AND A. GENTLEMAN, Ir was a bright autumn morning, and two ladies were walking and chatting together be- neath the trees of Beechwood. They were visitors at Beechwood Villa, the seat of the Hon, John Cawsand, and were now enjoying thesearly Sunshine, and picking their way over the fallen leaves which bestrewed the’ paths. One of them was Clara Meredith, a fair and lovely girl of twenty; the other, old Mrs. Witherley, the sister of Mr. Cawsand, and widow ofthe 'ex-senator whosé namé she bore. They were frequent guests at Beechwood, for-Clarawas the daughter.of Colonel .Mere- dith, its owner’s oldest friend, and the prom- ised bride of his grandson, Herbert; and the elder lady’s arrival was always so timed as to coincide with the younger’s, in order that-she might act as chaperon, and occupy that posi- tion in her brother’s houseliold-;which the death of his wife, about a year before, had rendered necessary. ‘Here we are, alone together again!” ex- claimed the girl; thrusting her arm playfully through that of Mrs. Witherley, and attempf- ing to hurry her movements. ‘Now, let us walk all the way to Gypsy Corner, and tell jedeh. other our experience since the last merry meeting.” ‘Oh, my dear!” screamed her companion, aghast at the quickened pace, and out of breath at the end of the first dozen yards; “what a dreadfully impetuous creature you are! You forget: how old I am!” ‘No, no, dear Mrs. Witherley,” cried Clara, laughing, and again urging her forward; ‘“‘ you are not a day older than when first I know you. So come along, and:let us step out.” “ You will kill. me, child—you really will; I cangot go further!” ‘ “Why, you are not so old as Mr. Cawsand; and see how he gets about!” replied Miss Mere- dith, good-humoredly, and relapsing into the usu rate of progression. deed Tam, Clara. I am two years his sno = all I can say, then, is, you don’t look it,” “Don’t I, my dear?” she asked, simpering, and mollified in a moment. ‘*Well, all I know is, I ought to. Think of all the trouble I have had!’ “Trouble!” exclaimed Clara, in amazement. “Yes, Did I not lose Mr. Witherley two years after my marriage, and have I not been a lone widow ever since?” “Ho, ho!” the girl laughed, alot “ And you call that trouble. Why, here you have been a free woman all these years, and ‘all the ‘elderly. bachelors. in our set are dying for you!” “Clara, I am shocked at yout: What a thoughtless, giddy thing you are! Do be seri- ous! Tellme, when is Herbert coming?” The question drew a blush upon Miss Mere- dith’s cheek, but it in no way damped her spirits. ‘Oh, he will not be here till Thursday— ' three days more. He is at Newport, as you know, with his regiment, and he cannot get leave till then. The colonel and the major are both away, and he must wait till they r re- turn.” “ Indeed!” “Yes; and you and I, dear Mires ‘Witfierley, “must be companions and confidantes»till that _ happy time arrives.” ‘Well, my dear, if you do not think me too —— BREAKING THE FETTERS | | - Breaking the. Fetters; advanced in years and too slow on my legs for your society—” Clara, for answer, interrupted the old lady ‘| by slipping her arm round her waist, and im- printing’ a hearty kiss upon her shriveled cheek, “What a dreadful girl you are!” exclaimed the other, quite disconcerted by the suddenness of the attack. ‘‘ You frightened me, Clara, by seizing me in that unexpected manner! I thought it was some one from behind! I am so fearfully nervous, as you know. You really startled me!” She was very small and fragile, and, by the side of Miss Meredith, looked still more so, As a girl, her face and figure were delicate and piquant; and now the features had been sharpened by time, and her frame had become attenuated. -She was pleasant-looking, though, with her two. puffs of white hair upon her fore- head, her twinkling little-eyes, and still rosy countenance. But she was timid as a hare, and as nervous as a bird. “Tsay, Mis. Witherley,” inquired Miss Mere- dith, suddenly, after proceeding some distance in silence, “actors are gentlemen, are they , not?” ‘““ What an extraordinary question, my dear!” The old lady stopped and wonderingly re- garded her. “ But téll me—are they gentlemen?” , “Well, Clara, I hardly know what you mean, Some gentlemen are actors, and some actors are gentlemen. Why, I myself, when I was a girl, used to play with the Entre-Nous Amateurs; and my brother John was devoted to the drama; and, for the matter of that, sohe is now—” “ Yes, I know all that; but I am referring to professionals.” “Oh, you mean regular actors.” Mrs. With- erley screwed up her lipsand looked grave. ‘I am afraid I can give you but little information. Of course there are many very respectable per- ‘sons, and some even gentlemen among them; but the females, my dear Clara, are terrible creatures. Do you know, one of them actually tried to run away with my George!” ‘‘ What, Senator Witherley?”’ +S GBs indeed she did!” “Not after he was married?” “Yes, my dear, actually! And I was only just in time to save him, She had the audacity to drive up to the house in a brougham, and had-already enticed poor George onto the seat beside her, when I rushed out through the front door, down the steps, pushed the servants aside and seized him by the arm just as the coachman was driving off! I quite tremble even now when I think of the escape he had.” : ‘But you do think some of them are gentle- men?” “Certainly, But what an odd subject. Why do you want to know?’ “Well, I was thinking of Ivan Berrington.” “ Who?” inquired the elder lady, turning - sharply and trying to catch the name. ‘‘Tvan Berrington. But I forgot you only arrived at the Villa last evening; and you know I have been here nearly two weeks. I must tell you, then, that he belongs to the company — at the Courtland Theater, and that he is the principal member of it. We have driven over to see him perform once or twice, and Mr. Cawsand is delighted with him. He says he is as good as McCullough,’’ “You don’t say so?” “Yes; but he is more than that. You must know he is very handsome, and tall, and dark. Oh, you cannot think;” cried the girl, warming with the subject, “ what a very superior person he is! And how strangely we came to know him ies u seem to know him very well, Clara, d remarked Mrs. Witherley, in a quiet manner, without any ‘Mr.’ before his name.” “Did I?’ returned Miss Meredith, with hightened color, and smiling merrily. “ Ha, ha! he is no sweetheart of mine, my dear old chaperon; but he is a very nice man for all “T noticed that you spoke of him | / So that, And he acts so beautifully, and with such feeling. “You should haye seen him as Claude Melnotte.” “(How did you come to know him?” ‘Well, it was the most romantic thing in the world. It happened this way: The day after I arrived at Beechwood, nothing would do but Mr. Cawsand must haye the pony-car- riage round to give me a drive. I was, of course, delighted. It was a lovely day, and I enjoyed it immensely. We drove through the woods, visited lots of the old haunts, and then went over the ridge on the road to Courtland, You know the spot; it was just at the top of the hill. Mr, Cawsand was poiuting out the City Hall towers in the distance, and dropped his whip. I jumped up at once to regain it, but he would not hear of it; no, he gallantly insisted that I should retain my seat, and that he would get out himself. The consequence was, dear Mrs. Witherley, the pony bolted; and as the reins had fallen about his heels, I was power- less to stop him, and frightened to death. Well, the wretched animal tore away quite out of sight of Mr, Cawsand, who, I heard after- ward, was in.dreadful alarm, and after making two or three wonderfully narrow shaves of walls and gate-posts, turned down at headlong speed for theriver. I had giver niyself up for lost from the first; but when I saw the water I screamed outright. Just at tbat minute I noticed a gentleman standing at the cross-road, and he was evidently watching me; for, as I came nearer, be suddenly sprung at the puny’s head, seized hold of the bridle, and threw his whole weight on the creature’s neck!” ‘‘ How noble of him!” “Yes; that is what Isay. Well; he held on, brought the beast to a standstill, and remained with me till Mr. Cawsand, panting and out of breath, appeared upon the scene.” ‘‘Who was he, Clara? Did you ask, his name?” ‘¢ Your brother did. It was Mr. Berrington. ° Mr. Cawsand would take him back to the Villa to dinner, and would have no denial. But as the gentleman said he bad a pressing engage- ment at Courtland that evening, and one which could not be put off, a compromise was made, and he stayed to luncheon instead, with the proviso that he should come and dine the fol- lowing day.” ‘‘ And did he come?” inquired Mrs, Wither- ley, who was deeply interested. **- Yes; and he told: us who he was—that ho was an actor at the Courtland Theater. Of course, your brother was pleased beyond mea- sure. He is so fond of that kind of thing, you know; and he promised that we would drive in and hear him. So we did. We have been three times altogether; and I think he has been invited here about as many times subse- quently.” ‘Rather awkward, was it not, my dear?’ * “Tn what way, Mrs. Witherley?” “T mean, about doing the honors, you manage?” ‘‘Oh, we felt the want of you, badly; but we had to make the best of it, Mr. Cawsand made me take the head of the table; and, of course, Mr. Berrington took mein.” , “ Why, Clara!” “Of course he did. Why should he not? Had he not rendered me a service—perhaps saved my life? Indeed, I thought 80} and the least I could do was to be civil.” “ Well, well; I hope Mr. Berrington under- stands the position.” “My dear Mrs. Witherley, Mr, Berrington is a gentleman, and not likely to make @ mis- take.” The point was not so easily settled in the old lady’s mind. She merely replied by 4 monosyllabic ‘‘Hum!” and then, pursing up her mouth and assuming a look of solemnity, How did pursued her way without speaking. _ Here was evidently a case for some watch- fulness, and ope to increase her responsibility as chaperon. How thoughtless of her brotbef to invite her charge, as she considered Clara, before she herself bad been able to sbut mE '
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Pe 24 4 ¥ ee ~ her house in Boston and come down to Beech- wood. And what could he be thinking of, to Play the host so inconsiderately, under the Circumstances, to a perfect’ stranger, and a gentleman of certain attractions, and to throw the weight of entertaining upon a young girl like Miss Meredith? Why did he not give him & ten-dollar bill on the spot, and have done with it—or at least have waited till Herbert came home, and then show him some atten- tion, if the case demanded it instead of forcing an unknown acquaintance, and giving her no |. end of worry and anxiety? . “You said he was handsome, did you not, my dear?” “Yes, very.” “ And was there not something about being dark and tall?” 3 ‘*Oh, yes. He has the blackest eyes and hair I ever saw; large, dark, expressive eyes, which seem to dilate when he speaks, and light up with enthusiasm when he is moved. His hair, too, is of that wavy kind which one rare- ly sees, and which is so becoming.” “And my brother; was he equally well im- pressed?” “Tonever knew him miore cheerful. ~ You see, Mr. Berrington has traveled a great deal, and is so well informed that he could not be otherwise than ‘entertaining. And then he is 80 good an actor, and so well read in his pro- fession, that your brother was in the seventh heaven. You should have heard him, Mrs. Witherley! I could hardly get a word in edge- wise. They were going over old ‘plays to- gether, and spouting the dialogue in turns; and your brother laughed every now and then till the tears came into his eyes!” - “And when does Herbert.come, do you _ Bay?” “Heigho! In three days’ time—on Thurs- day.” At that moment Mrs. Witherley, who had been intently regarding some object at half a mile’s distance from her, and which the stems of the trees had until now obscured, suddenly turned round, and taking to her heels, scudded Away with amazing rapidity back along the path they were traversing. Clara, who for the instant was surprised and dumfounded by the unexpected and extraordinary movement, followed her, and, by a few rapid steps, placed herself abreast, ‘ “What is it—what is it, dear Mrs, Wither- ley? What is the matter?” - “Oh, my dear Clara!” panted the old lady, clutching the girl’s arm with both hands, and looking round over her shoulder, “Those horrid Gypsies! saw them all encamped yon- der, There—there’s one of them now, stand: ing up, and coming this way! Clara, let us gét back!” “The Gypsies!” smiled Miss Meredith, draw- ing her chaperon’s arm protectingly through her own, “Why, I brought you here to see them. They are almost always to be found at Gypsy Corter, and they interest me.” “Oh, my dear child, don’t say anything so dreadful! Let us get back! I am trembling like an aspen! They'll be telling our fortunes if they catch us! Let us hurry!” “There, look over there! You need not be + afraid; there is Mr. Cawsand in the pony-car- riage, Let us cross, and get a ride back to the Villa!” CHAPTER II. A GYPSY ENCAMPMERT, Tur Hon, Jobn Cawsand was as hale and hearty a man of sixty-eight winters as ‘could be found in the whole State of Massachusetts, © was tall and thin, with just a trifling stoop in his shoulders from the accumulation of years; but he was wiry and active, bright and Clear-headed. As the owner of Beechwood, and a goodly portion of the country surround- ing, his reputation as a hospitable host, a kind “andlord, a pleasant neighbor, and a good man Of business had never been gainsaid. He was 4 certainl a little choleric—many old gentle- 7 Men are} but then perhaps there was some ex- #. BREAKIN +. 44 7 cuse for it, There had been much to try him, The bitter had been mixed with the sweet in a proportion far greater than falls to the lot of many men, and nothing but his inborn good-. ness of heart had prevented his becoming mel- ancholy and a misanthrope. Married to a beautiful girl in early life, he became the father of two sons, and both of them were dead. He was now a widower, and childless; the only occupant, besides the usual domestics, of Beechwood Villa. Of these two sons it is necessary to say something, The first, the eldest, when a fine, handsome, promising fellow of two-and-twenty, came home from his. university to commence that career which his father had planned for him, as heir to Beechwood and a large income. He was named Jobn, after bis father, and he was Jike him not only in person, but in manner and temperament. There were points of difference, however; the counterpart was not quite per- fect, _ For instance, the son was way ward, un- willing to occupy himself with detaiis of mat- ter of fact, and, unlike his father, he was dreamy and romantic. . Nevertheless, the father’s integrity, good-nature, arid honesty of purpose were truly reflected in his favorite boy, and he regarded him ‘with pride and as a worthy successor to the paternal acres. John Cawsand consequently had things pretty much his own way, for his brother, Frank, was two years his junior, and absent for the most part at college. He had his own fast horses in tha stables, he kept his yacht at anchor in the bay, he had his guns and his dogs, ‘and twenty people at his heels to do his bidding’ One circumstance alone during his whole lifetime gave his father pain and annoyance, and that was a curious one. The boy had a penchant for visiting the encampment of Gypsies on the meadow just within the north boundary of Beechwood, and as its dusky in-’ habitants had pitched their tents there from time immemorial, and were to be found there almost all the year round, the lad’s visits were more frequent than his father had any notion of. The wild nomad life of these mysterious people had its charm for the fanciful imagi- nation of the boy; their habitavions, their oc- cupations, their alleged ‘powers of divination, and, above all, the respect with which they treated him, combined to exercise ‘that influ- ence which most young people feel at some time in their lives, only in a more marked de- ee. Some of the Beechwood servants averred that the young master had a playmate there, and that when he went to see her he never went empty-handed, However that may be, it is certain that in after life, when he came home for good, his visits’ to Gypsy Corner were not discontinued, and that he had‘not for- gotten little Ella, his protegee, then a handsome girl of eighteen, the beauty of the Lovel tribe, and the best dressed and nurtured of her fel- lows. ; Mr, Cawsand did what he could to dissuade his son from such a predilection; at one time by barsh words, and at another by threats of banishing the whole colony from their’ squat- ting ground, till a period was put to the sub- ject in dispute by the poor youth’s‘death. He was wrecked in bis yacht off the coast and he and bis crew perished on the rocks: near Mar- tha’s Vineyard. Frank, his second son, married a few years later; but was thrown from his horse one day and killed, and left a boy behind him, the sole heir to the property. Frank’s wife had fol- lowed. her husband, but in more peaceable fashion; and now John Cawsand had but the grandson left, and on him he concettrated all that love which he had nowhere else to bestow. So it was not to be wondered at if the old gentleman was sometimes irascible and some- what out of temper. “Good-morning, sir,” said Markham, the head gardener, touching his hat to his master as he appeared on the hall steps after breakfast. . “What's the matter now. Markham?” asked | thé same time. » Bra. GST Pei edeer ce oes his master, assuming that the early greeting boded something unpleasant, and turning to- ward him inquiringly. ; ““ Why, sir, I came to speak ‘to you about them imps of Satan down at the Corner.” “What of them?’ demanded his master an- grily, and preparing himself to hear of some new encroachment or depredation. “Well, sir, I can’t keep them out of the grounds nohow. They breaks down the hedges, tramplés down the grain in the fields, steals _ the vegetables, and the fowl-yard ain’t free from a visit from them. every dark night.” ‘Have you seen them there?’ demanded Mr. Cawsand sharply. “T can’t say as ’ve actually seen them, sir. They're too sharp for that. But théy have left their marks behind them.” “1 see to it, Markham; I'll see toit, -Con- found the whole crew of them!” he exclaimed, walking hastily up and down the upper step; ‘they are the pest of my life} ‘I’}l see to it, Tell them, as you go round, to put the pony in the phaeton, and to bring it to the door at once.” . Somewhat disturbed and angry at the com- munication which the man had made to him, John Cawsand continued to pace the circum- scribed spot in front of the doorway, till the sound of the approaching phaéton altered the tenor of his’ thoughts. Entering the mansion for a moment, he soon reappeared equipped for the drive, and taking the reins from the | groem in attendance, trotted away down the drive. Passing along the road which ran through his property, he drove along at a rapid pace, and after a little while descried in the distance the forms of two ladies, whom he recognized as his sister and future wife of bis grandson. ~ Seeing that they were endeavoring to attract his attention, he made toward them, and then pulled up and awaited their approach, ' “Ha, ha!” he shouted, loud enough to be : heard a mJe cff, and having partially regained his good humor; ‘ what takes you two out so far from the house, this morning? Is it the sunshine, or is it to have your fortunes told by the Gypsies? I see you have been in the direc- tion of their camp.” : “* Oh, John,” gasped Mrs. Witherley, coming up completely exhausted, and strugglivg to re- gain her breath; ‘do, like a good soul, take us up in the carriage! I cannot budge another inch! I bave been running for ten minutes— ever since Isaw you turn the corner on the road |” : : * Running!” exclaimed her brother, laugh- irg, and looking with a comical expression at Clara, whose face was flushed a little by the exercise. ‘*Why, what has made Betsy take to running? Rathér unusual, isn’t it, eh?” “Those horrid Gypsies! You know how nerv- ° ous I always.am about them, and wé came upon them quite suddenly. I had quite forgotten the locality I was walking in, or1 never should have gone. near them!” en “Well, well,” replied the old gentleman, getting down to arrange the rugs, and highly amused at his sisier’s adventure and trepida- tion. ‘Iam just in time, then, for the rescue. But you, Clara, my dear, don’t seem at all frightened. How is that? Have they been telling Betsy’s fortune?” ; “Don’t be exasperating, John!” replied the old lady, seating herself in the carriage, and at once becoming assured by her brother’s pres- - ence. - The next instant Clara was installed in thé seat behind, and the two ladies only awaited their escort to resume his position, - ** Upon my word,” he said gallantly, survey- ing his fair freight. as he stood upon the turf by the roadside, “TI hardly counted on this good fortune! I hope Herbert will not he jealous. But, I say,” he added, rubbing his nose, and looking at them thoughtfully, ““ where — do you ladies errant want to be driven to? Are you in a hurry?’ © : * Oh, no!” cried Mrs. Witherley and Clara at yt ta a a a Th ph emt a A he 2 Sere » aontl, =—— sorte ie ieeee Fs Fab YO .- eee 3 4 s ; a, 43
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Or. ' est, She had never “Well, then, I'm afraid, Betsy, you will have to tax your nerves a little further yet.” ‘* What do you mean, John?” ‘Why, when I pulled up, l was on some little business which will take me to Gypsy Corner, and it is imperative that I go there.” In an instant, and at a bound Mrs. Witherley leaped into the road, and looked reproachfully at her brother. “John, how dare you trifle with me like this?” “Tut, tut!” he said, coaxingly; “have no fear, Betsy, my dear. You are safe enough with me. Come, get in again, and let us be off; and then we will drive round the village and home again.” Hesitatingly the old lady took her place, and the vehicle was put in motion. Half a mile brought them toa spot from which the camp was visible, and then they halted, About a hundred yards in front of them, to the right, and occupying a piece of waste ground about an acre in extent, a motley group were assembled. Two or three Ciravans were placed so as to form a shelter from the westerly wind, and in the lee about a dozen low and rounded tents were pitched, Inside them, and round about, swarms of chil- dren rolled upon the bare earth and played their gambols, while their elders strolled about among the half-famished horses which were tethered in close proximity, or sat in small knots, talking, or engaged upon the necessary business of their calling. In one place, where a trickle of water ran beside the road, a party of women, young and old, were occupied in ringing out the inner garments of the whole community, spreading them out to dry on the adjacent bushes, and making the landscape picturesque with their prevailing colors of red and yellow, Some of the men were busy making clothes- _ pins, others weaving basket-work, while boys and girls looked on, handed the materials, and learned the mysteries of their apprenticeship. As the phaeton came in sight, every voice was hushed; and immediately afterward sev- eral hasty movements took place, closings, secretings, and hidings, which betrayed a laud- able. desire to make as respectable appearance as possible, and to create no reasonable doubt as to the honesty of their employments, Clara watched the scene with evident inter- been so close to the wonderful abodes before, and everything struck her with astonishment and delight. Poor Mrs. Witherley, on the other hand, was terribly perturbed. She clutched her brother’s arm with one hand, and laid hold of Miss Meredith’s shoulder with the other. ‘Good heavens, John!” she exclaimed, sud- denly, noticing a desire on his part to free himself from her grasp; ‘‘surely you are not going to get down?” ‘Yes, Betsy,” he replied, quietly handing her the reins, ‘I shall not detain you long. Clara will look after you, and protect you as well as I could, You will not lose sight of me.” Descending from the vehicle, and moving a pace or two in front of it, he looked intently at the Gypsies’ camp, and then called out, “ Some one tell Richard Lovel to come to me, I wish to speak to him.” As his words reached the people, there was a stir among them. Voices were heard re- peating them, and gesticulations were made to enforce their meaning. Quickly a lad was dispatched to one of the caravans; and there, after a few moments of explanation, an elderly man was seen descend- jag the steps, and quietly regarding those who desired his presence. Satisfied by the scrutiny, he smoothed away the long gray locks from his forehead, pulled his heavy coat about him, and advanced to where Mr. Caw- sand was standing. He was tall and gaunt, of commanding and of a certain dignity of mien and carriage, indicative not only of power, but also of obedient subjects, His face, bronzed as Lie> | it was by the Eastern blood which chased through his vefms, and wrinkled by time and exposure, was well formed and intelligent. He was clothed in along woolen coat, which he wore open, exposing his waistcoat of maroon plush, his knee-breeches and gray worsted stockings, As he passed along from the further end of the encampment to where his visitors awaited him, Clara was able to make these observations, and to note the authoritative manner in which he dismissed those who would have followed‘him, and disposed by a wave of his hand of those idlers who wished to satisfy their curiosity. ‘‘ Sir?’ he said, touching his broad felt hat respectfully, and assuming an air of attention. The dignified manner of the Gypsy, coupled with the remembrance of the object of the visit, so irritated the other, that all his old ani- see rose up before him, and bitterness, which had been allowed to slumber, broke forth afresh, “How dare you, you old scoundrel,” he burst out, energetically—‘ how dare you allow those vagabonds of yours to trespass and make depredations on my property! If you cannot control them, I will see what a little hard labor at Courtland will do for them, or else I will dig out the whole nest of you, root and branch, and clear the ground of the nuisance!” “Tao me ask, sir—” “ No; I won’t let you ask anything!” fumed Mr. Cawsand. ‘‘ You have been the pests of my family ever since you were allowed to squat here, and matters are now coming to a crisis, If another complaint reaches me, off you go for good, and I will rail the place in!” “Had Mr. John lived,” replied Richard Lovel, quietly, and unmoved. by the. other’s violence, ‘‘ things would be different, and per- haps I should not now be obliged to hear myself called a scoundrel by his father.” “ Had he lived? What has that to do with it?” asked his father, hastily, and altering his manner, The Gypsy had spoken mys‘eriously about him on former occasions, and always with the effect of creating a diversion and altering the old man’s train of thought. Lovel shook his head, and was silent. ‘Why do you allude to the lad?” asked Mr. Cawsanod, sharply, and moving about with hasty steps in front of the man, ‘‘ How dare you refer to one whose only occasion of sorrow to me was his silly intercourse with your wretched people?” ‘Look here, sir,” returned Lovel, proudly, and speaking calmly, as before. ‘‘ What have you suffered that I have not? If your son’s in tercourse with my people—and my people loved him, mind..you—if his intercourse with us, I say, brought sorrow to you, do I not trace my own child’s death to it? Not his fault —no, no! I donot blame him. I have sorrow too, sir—I have sorrow, too. Ella, my bright- eyed girl, was the orly child I had!” The conversation was taking a turn which the other had not contemplated, and being de- sirous of changing it, he mollified his de- meanor, spoke about the trespassing and the loss of poultry, and ended by accompanying the old man on a visit to the camp. ‘Let me tell your fortune, my pretty lady?” said a voice, softly, on the other side of the carriage. Mrs. Witherley jumped as if she were shot, and turned round in terror. Close by her stood a middle-aged, swarthy woman, wearing a yellow handkerchief upon ber head, and at her elbow a young and pretty girl. “No, no, no! Go away! I won’t—I won't!” “TRH let me tell this sweet young lady’s? Cross my palm with silver, darling, and PN tell you all the stars are saying about you!” Clara laughed at the woman’s insinuating tone, and thinking it might be the quickest way to free herself of her company, she pro- duced a coin and gave it to her. “Oh, Clara, how indiscreet—how truly dreadful of you!” , BREAKING THE FETTERS. “Don’t be alarmed, dear Mrs. Witherley; I'm not afraid.” Then, taking off her glove, she playfully — held out her hand. ‘Now, tell me what you can read there.” As the woman took the delicate pink fingers, and held them in her own rough brown ones, and began to examine the intersecting lines which marked the palm of the hand, the young girl who accompanied her drew near, and looking over the other’s shoulder, watched and listened with attentive interest. She was the fortune-teller’s daughter, dark- eyed, like the rest of her race, and of a beauty above the common. She was well-knit, lithe, graceful in her movements, and her habili- ments were donned with a care and neatness which contrasted strongly with the other fe- males. Her hair was dressed with studied regard; the red silk bandana which covered it was clean and spotless; there was a string of amber beads upon her neck, and one or two gold rings upon her fingers, Sbe was superfor to the rest of them, and the difference was striking. “Yes,” said the elder woman, musingly, as she gazed at the hand before her, and traced the indications with the point of her finger; “there is one who loves you, my pretty dear; and you love him, too. Oneday you will love him more than you do now.” ‘Ha, ha!” laughed Clara; ‘‘I dare say.” “For Heaven’s sake,” exclaimed Mrs. Witherley, trying to draw the girl's hand away, ‘‘don’t have any more told you!” “Oh, yes; I must bear some more now, I am getting interested, Pray go on, my good woman! Can you tell me who he is?’ “ Certainly I can,” replied the Gypsy, with- out hesitation. ‘ He is tall, and dark.” “Yes, but who?” “T cannot tell you the name; names are not written on the hands; but he is tall, and dark.” “Go away, you terrible person!” cried Mrs. Witherley, again tugging vigorously at the hand, and endeavoring to dissuade her charge from hearing further. “ Shall I marry him?’ inquired Miss Mere- dith gleefully, and raising her voice so as to be heard above the clamor of her chaperon. “cs Yes,” ‘You never shall!” passionately cried the girl, who had been standing beside her mother and devouring every word that was spoken. ‘You never shall!” she repeated, as she sprung forward, with flashing eyes and heav- ing bosom, and wrenched Clara’s hand away from the fortune-teller’s. For a moment afterward she stood glancing at the three defiantly, and then she turned away hastily, and hurriedly retreated, “Heaven be praised, John!” ejaculated Mrs. Witherley, as her brother approached the car- riage. ‘* You have come just in the nick of time! ‘We have had such an escape!. I won- — der we are not all killed!” CHAPTER TI. A RECREANT LOVER. CouRTLAND THEATER, with its dingy pil- lars in front of it, is situated on one side of a square of what were formerly well-to-do. houses. Deserted almost in the daytime, the only pedestrians who pass through the locality are the clerks and business men who are em- ployed in the surrounding offices. By night the place wakes up—at least that portion of it which contains the theater—and a row of brilliant gaslights, a noisy crowd, and the rumbling of vehicles enliven the neighborhood till bedtime, Against the walls of this house of entertain- ment flaring posters of various hues, au- nounced to such of the public as chanced to wander past its door that the celebrated tra- — gedian Ivan Berrington was still carrying out his engagement by a nightly appearance, and that Mr. Wings, the manager, was at his wits’ end to find standing-room for the ever-increas- ing audience, :
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Other placards, interspersed among the larger ones, declared in regretful terms that the period of the gifted actor’s visit was draw- ing to a close, and that after one more per- formance the Courtland stage would be rele- That ‘‘one more performance ” had taken place last evening, and the bills still lingered {x the walls, as if unwilling to acknowledge the fact that they were an anachronism, and useless, It was early morning—that is to say, early for those who don the mask and buskin—ten o’clock; and Ivan Berrington, who had just Visited the building, was seated in an easy- chair in the manager’s private-room, and in conversation with that individual. Mr. Wings was very deferential. He stood while the other sat; produced brandy and soda- water from his own especial cupboard, and brought forth his cigar-case filled with his own Particular Manillas. “Sorry to lose you, Mr. Berrington. Have- n't had the house so well filled for months. Could we possibly come to any arrangement about the wine? I suppose you are engaged Ahead though? Berrington smiled. “T can hardly tell you at present what my plans are. But there is plenty of time. Sup- Pose you write to me in a month?” Mr. Wings was pleased. Tiere was a chance of catching this lion once more, and he beamed with good-nature, “Let me open another bottle?” “No more, I thank you, Mr. Wings. I shall ‘still be at my hotel for a day or two, and Ican See you again before I leave.” “New York, of course?” ** Yes; New York, I think.” ‘Y Mr. Berrington rose, brushed away the little spots of dust which had accumulated upon his coat, smoothed his hat, and going to the broken piece of looking-glass above the mantle-piece, Zave a few finishing touches to his toilet. He was of good figure, well and carefully dressed, gentlemanly in his bearing, and, as Clara Meredith had described him to Mrs. Witherley, very handsome. Mr, Wings watched him admiringly, reached his. walking-cane for him, and unable to re- Press his commendation, burst forth: “May the gods protect you, Mr, Berrington, and send you back to my boards! I give you my word, sir, the Courtland folks never knew what Richard the Third was till last night! You mustn’t disappoint them, sir—you mustn’t disappoint them!” “‘ Well, well,” said the actor, smiling, we will see what can be done. Meanwhile, I must Say good-by to you, and thank you,” The interview over, Ivan walked out from ‘the close atmosphere of stale gas and orange- Peel into the quiet square, and after looking at his watch and considering a moment, slowly Wended his way. toward his hotel. It was his first day off duty for a month, and he was determined, as the day was fine and promising, to spend it in the country, But we will now leave the actor to proceed upon his holiday, and go to the American | lotel, at the end of High street, in the. bar- room of which a gentleman is waiting, and _teady to make our acquaintance. _ “Now, then, you fellow!’—he was address- Ing an obsequious waiter, who, by a wonderful ©ompliance with the visitor’s wishes and a , Sreat show of alacrity, was solacivg himself With the prospect of a well-earned fee; ‘have you done what I wanted with my valise?” “Valise? Yes, sir.” “And my ulster?—and the guns?—and the Umbrella?” ‘* Yes, sir. I have taken them all to the of- fice, and booked them. They will be at Beech- Wood before you, sir, if you’re going to walk.” Oh, all right.” ‘Hope Mr. Cawsand is well, sir; and Mrs. itherley, and the young lady?” “What young lady?” asked, the gentleman * Ronchalantly, and stroking his' mustache, ‘ gated to that talent which usually supplied it. ee BREAKING THE FETTERS. “Well, sir, I mean the lady as is to be your good lady, if I may make so bold.” ‘¢ Waiter, you are an ass!” “Yes, sir.” Left alone for a few minutes, Captain Her- bert Cawsand, for such he was, turned to the large glass over the empty fireplace, carefully repointed the waxed ends of his long and black mustache, picked his teeth on the heart-hrug, and made up his mind for departure. His age was four-and-twenty, but he certain- ly looked several years older. There were lines about his eyes and mouth which time alone had not produced; and a blush upon his cheeks which one would have been bold to at- tribute to nothing else but vigorous health, Ho was strong, though, and active, well made, and of good hight, Of his features, the most noticeable were his eyes, They were dark, and small, and restless. The twinkle in them con- tained a mixture of impudence and mischief, but their expression wanted stability, and con- veyed an idea of cunning and experience, rather than amiability and lofty purpose. He was not bad-looking by any means, though the form of the face was irregular and unclassical, His bair, which was dark and glossy, was parted with scrupulcus care, and in the most approved military fashion. At the present time he was equipped in walking attire, and only required his hat and gloves to complete his costume, Settling his account with the very agreeable young lady who presided over the ledger in the bar, he did not omit to compliment the fair damsel on her radiant beauty, nor to drink her health in a parting glass of sherry. Nor did he lose the opportunity of entrap- ping one of her pearly fingers when she hand- ed him his change, and endeavoring to put it away into his vest-pocket, as part and parcel cf the value returned to him. Neither did he fail to disregard the pretty carnation which suffused the barmaid’s cheeks at the trival occurrence, nor to suggest that the bloom was more lovely than any rose which it had been his fortune to run across. With his hat slightly poised over his left ¢ye, and smiling in a satisfied manner as he heard the young lady remark to some one near her that “the captain was very affable,” Herbert Cawsand stepped into High street, passed along the crowded pavement, for it was Thursday and market-day, and soon found himself on the country road. The road from Courtland to Beechwood on an autumi afternoon, is one of the prettiest to walk along in the whole county., Much of the high- way is bordered on either side by over-hanging trees, and by those wild hedges so peculiar to the county and so charming to the botanist. To the left, at those intervals where the view is open, ricb, undulating fields of ruddy earth fill the scene as far as the eye can reach; while to the right the land slopes through emerald pastures to the shallow river, and rises again, after awhile, on the other side to. the hills in the distance. The breeze which came from the blue Jine of sea in front of him had but six miles of land to traverse before it reached his cheek, and the effect was exhilarating and re- freshing. There was only one drawback—the thorough- fare was dusty; and therefore, when half the journey had been accomplished, Captain Caw- sand, who knew every inch of the way from boyhood, stepped aside through a gateway and made for a certain path which led to his desti- nation through the fields and by-lanes. The track would strike the turnpike-road again be- fore he got to Beechwood, and it would not only shorten his walk, but be far more agree- able, He was in high spirits—pleased with himself, and in the humor to please any one else. He was free fora time from the routine of bis regiment. Partridge-shooting was just going to begin, and there was female society at the Villa when he cared for it, Besides, hadn’t Jobn Cawsand, his grandfather, come down, for the fiftieth time, like a trump, and settled - pees all those little matters outstanding, cleared away the atmosphere of embarrassment, and set him on his feet again? Suddenly a girl’s voice, singing, fell upon his ear, breaking the stillness, and awakening him from the happy train of thought in which he was indulging. He looked round and listened. The tones came from some little distance, but their cadence was sweet and musical. There was no other sound; and from the uprestrained and fitful manner of the unseen songster, she seemed to be alone and pouring out her heart, like Pon of old, to the trees and flowers around _ her, A few more steps brought the captain to a turning, and there before him, and only fifty yards away, the siren was discovered. It was Lottie Worgan, the Gypsy girl, the daughter of the woman who had told Clara Meredith’s fortune, the belle of the camp at the Corner. She was attired much the same as she was up- on that occasion—if anything, with greater care. The pet and pride of the community—for she was not only the prettiest and mest coquettish of their’ womankind, but also the niece of Richard Lovel, the head of the tribe— she was exempt from many of those duties which were common to the others. Not thas she claimed exemption, but that it was ac- corded to her. Here hands, unlike thi se of her fellows, were smooth and shapely; her feet were stockinged and ‘clothed with shoes, and she bore herself as if conscious of superior- ity. She had wandered idly from the caravans, | singing heedlessly as she strolled along tho . hedgerows, plucking a tempting blacklerry now and then from the brambles, and then stopping toruminate. The path she bad taken was a frequeat one with her of late. the high road, along which the coach came rat- tling, and she liked to watch it and see it pass. But she did not go as far as the road itself. There was a stile in a field some little distance from it, bub near enough for a point of obser- vation, and here she sat and waited. This was her occupation now, and she was whiling away the tims in carols. As the girl’s back was toward bim, and as she was unaware of his approach, Hertert, Cawsand slackeréd his pace and trod lightly. His first glance told him tbat she came from Gypsy Corner; and his second that it was Lottie Worgan, a dusky nymph whom he had_ noticed many a time before in passing, anit” who, since he saw her last, had giown to be a woman. As he came nearer, bis footfall, how- ever he tried to soften it, could not escape the. quickened ear of the singer, and she started, hushed her verse, and locked rownd quickly. . . “*Good-morning, pretty one,” said the cap- tain, advancing to the stile on whicb the girl remained seated, although she made room for him to pass. ‘TY could not think where all the music came from, For the last minute or two I have been perfectly charmed.” The Gypsy’s color hightened at the saluta- tion, and for a moment she cast her eyes about. her uneasily; but the next instant she smiled poutingly, and coyishly turned away her head. The gentleman, who was struck immediate! v by the maiden’s beauty and her picturesq: o and well-studied apparel, delayed to end the interview; so, having mounted the step and landed on the other side, he turned and spoke to her again. : ‘Shall I tell your fortune, my pretty one?” he asked, coaxingly, and adopting the tone and manner peculiar to the race when proffering~ the question. ‘‘Cross my palm with sonre- thing, lady-bird, and I’ll tell you all you want to know.” He laughed gayly at his impromptu profes~ sion of the chiromantic art, and held out his hand toward her. The girl laughed too. Her- bert’s comical expression, as he impudently offered to read the mysteries of those stars which none but her tribe could reveal, and, aboye all, to unravel them for her especial. 4 It led to ~ ~V >
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€ Ah benefit, brought the smiles to her face till she laughed outright. She was amused, too, at the incident, for she . recognized in the person who addressed her the grandson of John Cawsand, and being natu- rally a coquette, and. quite;aware of her good looks, she was: flattered . by his speech and shy accordingly. “No, no, sir,” she replicd, showing her pearly . teeth and playing with her apron, ‘‘None but the Gypsy people can read. the book of future things.” “Don’t you believe that,” returned the cap- tain, gayly, and drawing a step nearer, ‘‘I have learned, the. whole thing, and what I wasn’t taught I told myself.” The girl shook her head incredulously. “Qh; itis perfectly true, I assure you. Now I know exactly. what is going to happen to you, And Ican tell you a lot besides.” “ Could you?” she said, quietly, still with her head averted. Yes, by Jove! Now, first of all—but let me look at your hand.” - Lottie was diffident, but he managed to take it. ‘There! that’s it! Now let me have a look at the lines.” The damsel laughed again at the absurdity of the position; but allowed him to hold her fiu- gers and scrutinize her palm, ‘*Of course!” exclaimed the young gentle- man, without waiting to make a lengthened study. ‘‘ One thing is plain enough. You have got a sweetbeart.” The Gypsy tossed her head and curled her lip, Surely that was nothing wonderful! The wonder would have been if he had said she had not. “Ts that all your friends taught you to dis- '. cover?’ she asked, with just a tone of mocking. “Oh, dear, no; not by any means. Ha! what is this?” He looked closely at the open hand, and then at the girl’s face. ‘*Heis about to make you some gift or present,” ‘‘ What?” she inquired, taken off her guard, and bending forward to catch bis reply. “A kiss, darling!” he exclaimed, quickly seizing her round the waist, and pressing his lips to her cheek. “And a deuced good one, too!” Lottie Worgan leaped from the stile, and stood panting and confronting him, Hereolor left her face instantaneously, and her eyes were flashing and indignant. “Come, come!” cried the captain, laughing ‘ immoderately at the success of bis joke, and attempting to repeat the process; ‘don’t be angry, pretty one. You can’t tell fortunes like that! Ha, ha!” “Look!” she said, as she stepped back and eluded him, and while a malicious expression appeared upon her face, ‘‘look! there is some- ove over there who knows you!” She pointed over his shoulder as she spoke, and by the seriousness of her manner, diverted him. Herbert turned his head inquiringly, gazed a moment, and then swore an oath. Across the field, at the opposite gate, and on the same line of pathway, Clara Meredith was standing! Good Heavens! had she seen him? How long had she been there? Which way was she look- ing now? These were the first thoughts which rushed across the captain’s brain, and the next were—What was to be done?—what could he say? Muttering something between his teeth, and nerviog himself for an encounter which he knew must be more or less unpleasant, he re- adjusted his hat, which had become rather out of place, and assuming as jaunty and defiant an air as possible, left the Gypsy girl without . ceremony, and walked across the meadow. As he shortened the distance which removed him | from the young lady, he noticed that her face was turned toward the road to the right, and that his approach was apparently unperceived. _ BREAKING THE FETTERS, ‘his hat to the young captain. a Ce tute) ie Wabo e: Perhaps she had not seen him, after all, But, | by Jingo! if she didn’t, it was a precious close shave! CHAPTER IV. CROSS-PURPOSES, ‘An, ha! I have surprised you!” cried Cap- tain Cawsand, merrily, as he neared the gate against which Miss Meredith was leaning. ‘Surprised you, by Jove!” “You have, certainly!” ‘returned Clara, coldly, and scarcely altering her position, Herbert bit his lip. What did she mean. by such an answer? Did it contain sarcasm? Had the trivial occurrence been witnessed, then? He glanced toward her quickly and suspicious- ly, but she appeared to be occupied by looking at something in the distance, and her face was ‘not toward. him, ** Are you all alone, Clara?” he asked, trying to adopt the same tone as before, but with some confusion and ill-success. “Yes,” she answered, quietly, and for the first time turning toward him. ‘I foolishly came without Mrs. Witherley, It is not usual for me to walk by myself,” , “You didn’t come to meet me, did you, Clara?” inquired Herbert, now struck with the idea that she might have done so, and that she accordingly desired to be unaccompanied. “That was my object in coming here, I knew you preferred the route by the fields, and I thought to intercept you.” “It was awfully kind of you,” returned the captain, passing through the gate, and about to close it after him. “Do not shut it,” she said, placing her hand on the rail, ‘“‘I wish to return by the road,” He saw that there was something wrong. He noticed too, or thought he did, that she had been crying, and that her cheek bore an un- wonted flush upon it, He felt that she was constrained and uncordiasl, utterly unlike her- self, and that something had happened to cause vexation, if not downright anger. Certainly he bad never found Miss Meredith over- demonstrative or gushing in her affection to- ward him, and he had never quarreled with her on that account, but her present mode was frigid and repelling.. It was not a match of his seeking. Clara was not guite his style. But she had money; would have more, ore day; and his grandfather, John Cuwsand, had brought the whole thing about. He liked her, however; thought she could be very agreeable when she chose; and he accepted the position of her future husband with praiseworthy obe- dience, ‘Don’t you think you will find the road too dusty?” he remarked, offering his arm. ““No; I prefer it to going back the same wa id “Won't you take my arm, then?” “Many thanks; but I would rather walk singly.” “Hum!” thought young Cawsand, as he paced by her side awhile inssilence. ‘ Some- thing is in the wind, that’s certain. TI wonder if it was that deuced business with the Gypsy? I never saw anything of this kind before. Pm in for it anyhow. Wish I knew how to be- gin,” A few yards through the meadows brought them to the road, and just as they emerged upon it, the Courtland coach was descried coming up in the distance, and they stopped a moment to allow it to pass. On it came, re- joicing in its hues of black and vermilion, and rattling behind its four gray horses, till within a short distance of the pair who were standing on the pathway, and the driver tightened his reins, slackened speed, pulled up, and touched As he did so, a gentleman on the box, whom Clara instantly recognized as Ivan Berrington, bowed to her and descended; and when he bad reached the ground, the vehicle rolled away on its jour- ney. : ““Good-morning, Miss Meredith,” he said politely, while she gave him her hand, and he t ¢ bins ; } 4 took it with a gesture of pleasure. ‘Pray forgive me for thus accosting you, but I am going to Beechwood Villa to pay my respects to Mr. Cawsand before I leave the neighbor- hood, and I should like to know if I'may find him at home,” “Ob, yes. He does not go out to-day, and T am sure he will be glad to see you. We our- selves are returning, and shall be pleased if you will accompany us.” Let me introduce you to Captain Cawsand, Mr. John Cawsand’s grand- son.’ “Who did you say? T didn’t catch the name,” said Herbert, stiffly, and twirling his mustache, , ; “Mr. Berrington—a gentleman who ren- dered me a signal service some little time back, and a friend of your grandfather,” Young Cawsand said something indistinctly, looked nettled, and immediately “cut at the heads of two dandelions with his walking- stick. The captain’s evident desire was to show by his hauteur that be was not only displeased at the effrontery of the person named Berrington in presuming to address the young lady in the manner he had witnessed, but also that he was annoyed at the way in which she had received him, and at the invitation she had given him to form one of the party. It was a Jailure, however. Its purpose was defeated by his plainness, The motive was too open and un- disguised to. overlook it. Moreover, she saw that the new-comer was hurt and embarrassed} and as her gratitude for his timely intervention in the matter of the runaway pony had by no means vanished, she was determined to prove to him that she, at least, was not displeased at the meeting. ‘‘T am fatigued a little by my walk,” she said, turning to proceed. ‘May I take your arm, Mr. Berrington?” Ivan started as he heard the request, flushed, and then turned a little pale. He was unaware of the relationship in which Miss Meredith and Herbert Cawsand stood to each other; but his instinct told him that she must have a motive for preferring such a re- quest in the presence of ove so much better known to her. Was it simply her amiability which prompted her to gratify him by asking him to support her steps, in remembrance of that ‘* signal service ” of which she spoke? Or was it to avoid a tete-a-tete with her companion, ‘who ‘seemed churlish and ill-temperea? He chose to believe it was the former, though the unmistakable frown which marked the captain’s forehead, and the undisguised com- pression of the lips, half inclined him to think the latter. However, Ivan Berrington was satisfied. He cared not from which side the wind blew so that the breeze reached his cheek. Whether from Clara’s kindness, or Cawsand’s uncouthness, the pleasure had been vouchsafed to him, and he troubled not to seek too deeply for the impulse, “T am very pleased,” he said, with well- bred courtesy, and in a subdued mauner- ** May I also take your wrep?’ “Thank you, if you will be so kind.” The side-path happened to be a narrow one, offording room for two pedestrians ‘only, walking abreast; and ecnsequently, as Clara. walked inside, next the hedge, Herbert found himself either before or behind, or in the dusty road. His mood was decidedly peevish from the moment of the intrcduction, and now he was fast becoming morcse and petulant. To add to his vexation, none of the conversatiop was addressed to him. Berrington certainly made some remark to him about the weather and the appearance of the country, but he had snubbed him at once, and he had not ventured — again. As for Clara, she hardly appeared to be aware of his presence, 7 “ And so you are about to leave the neigh- — borhood, Mr. Berrington?” observed the young — lady, in a tone ef concern which almost made _ the captain break forth into swearing, ; ‘*¥es, Iam sorry to say.”
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rob ce '* BREAKING THE FETTERS. _ a ' “Why should you be sorry?” asked the girl, with interest, and touching the wild flowers with her parasol as she passed them. “Because my stay in this part of the coun- ’ try has one or two happy associations in it, and I must leave them behind me.” There was just a shade of melancholy'in his voice, and he finished rather abruptly, and was silent. It was a common, everyday kind of obser- vation, and suchas would occur to most persons on leaving the place of a month’s pleasant so- journ, but it set Miss Meredith thinking. “Are you going far from here?” she asked, at length, and speaking loud enough for the captain to catch every word, and to lose noth- ing of the accent of solicitude which accom- panied the question. It was too much for him; it was the last Straw on the traditional camel’s back, and it broke the power of his endurance. He was walking ahead at the moment, and suddenly turning round, he announced 'sillenly that his grandfather was expecting him, and started off briskly alone. A. mischievous smile stole over Miss Mere- dith’s face as she saw him depart, but she of- fered no word of remonstrance, nor did she concern herself in the least, Sbe had seen the meeting with the Gypsy girl, and, as was na- tural to one of pure and high feeling, she was hurt, indignant, and resentful. She had wit- nessed the whole transaction. Unseen by Lottie Worgan, she had been waiting at the gate for several minutes. She saw him approach her; she saw him jesting with her; and, last of all, she saw his dis- loyalty. She had been insulted, injured to the quick. Shame and anger were burning within her, and, woman-like, she dissembled. Like Herbert Cawsand, she was not op- pressed with too great an ardency of affection; like him, she was ‘no enthusiastic ‘admirer of her betrothed; but she was honest, and loyal, and true. She had been content, young and inexperienced as she was at the time, to al- low herself to be engaged as her father had wished her to be; she had been satisfied, as the months went on, to abide by the decision she had made, and to suffer the engagement without enthusiasm; but she had never dreamt of a failure in allegiance or a wavering in fidelity. Her eyes had to-day been opened, and al- though scalding tears burst from them upon her face, she repressed the reproaches which were rising to her lips, and withheld her indig- nation. There was a pause after the unceremonious departure of the captain, and Ivan’s reply was delayed. “Yes,” he answered, somewhat preoccupied by the latest incident; ‘I think of going to-New York, There is some sort of understanding about anengagement there, and I feel obliged to comply with it.” “ And will this be your last visit to Court- land?’ “Oh, no; [hope not; but I cannot possibly fix the date.” “Have you held the profession of an actor long? Although I need not ask that, as you are 80 famous.” Berrington smiled. “JT thank you very much for saying so. I only wish it were true. If I only had power equal to my ambition, I might become so, I will allow. But I have not been at it long enough tobe more than an average player; only four or five years.” “Then you were not—I do not understand these matters—were you not brought up to it?” “No,” he replied, laughing. ‘‘ They wanted to send me to Cambridge and make me a law- yer, or a parson, or something of that kind; but I was too restless, too fond of my freedom, and somehow or other I took to the stage.” “ And you do not regret it?” “Why should I? Has it not given me as _ Mauch occupation as I wished, and provided me 4 with an income?” “Then you have finally adopted it?” ‘That I cannot say, Miss Meredith. It satisfies me for the present, but the future is undefined.” To change the subject he remarked upon the beauty of the landscape. “Yes,” she said, in reply to his observation, ‘the view is indeed a lovely one; but I think the nearer we get to Beechwood the more lovely it becomes.” “T have always thought so, too.” ‘But you have seen it so seldom.” ““Not much of late years, certainly; but I knew it well in my boyhood [ used to stay in the neighborhood sometimes during by holi- days, and I am familiar with most of its features.” There was a pleasant ring in his voice, and a simple grace in his manner which failed not to have their effect upon his listener. There was a manliness in his carriage, and an elasticity in his step which spoke of courage and resolution, and there was an earnestness and gentleness in the tones of his yoice which made them linger in her ear. Certainly she was prepared tolike him because she had been prepossessed in hisfavor. Shesaw that he was handsome; she had proved him to be generous and self-sacrificing when he res- cued her from death, or at least from dreadful injury; and she felt that she was leaning on the arm of a gentleman. What would have been her sentiments if she could have read the heart of Ivan Berrington? —if she could have read it as she would have done the page of an open book? Would she have modified her impressions? Suppose sbe had been aware that the pleas- antness of his voice was tuned by emotions of strong and passionate love?—that the buoy- ancy of his tread was caused by her own pre- sence, and because her hand was resting on his coat-sleeve? Suppose she had known that ever since their. first chance meeting, now a month ago, he had thought of her, dreamed of her, urceasingly? That the freshness of her beauty and the kindliness of ber manner had fasci- nated him, enthralled him, and banish-d every other ideal from his imagination? If she had known that at times his ambition was wide enough, and high enough, to include even the possession of herself, would ber estimate of Ivan Berrington have been the same? She could not have been totally unaware of the existence of some such predilection. Man cannot help betraying his preference, and woman detects it instantly. Certainly, she never guessed the depth of hls devotion, or supposed it to be more than the homage due to kindly intercourse, On-the other hand, was Berrington devoid of any tiny spark to guide the current of his thoughts? Had his eyes been too blind to ob- serve the tender interest which beamed in hers?—his perception too dull to notice the marked and rapt attention to his discourse?— the pleasure with which she welcomed bis ar- rival, and the look of solicitude which came upon her when she saw him depart? However, there was one thing on which there was no room for doubt. Whatever his ears had heard, or his eyes had seen, he felt it now, in his present condition, to be hopeless. What was he? What had he but his name as an actor? How could he aspire, or presume to indulge in such a day-dream? Nothing but the happening of the fortuitous, nothing but the achievement of position and fortune, could bridge over the gulf between them, and enable him to pursue his suit with any show of equality. He knew nothing of any existing engage- ment, though he suspected something when he first saw her and Herbert Cawsand together that afternoon, before the coach stopped; but he dismissed the idea as soon as he had sur- veyed the situation. He was unaware of any hindrance but his own mnamelessness, and though the object seemed unattainable, he could not assure bimself that it was so. It was a pleasant walk, those two miles along the country road. Ivan had never been so -happy in his life, and Clara had been by no means miserable. It was only the lodge’ and the woman standing at the open gates which recalled them to the actual condition of things, and the near termination of the journey. Berrington thought that Miss Meredith might . wish to dispense with the assistance of his arm on reaching the entrance of the domain; and he made a movement as if to free her from the. position; but she had apparently resolved’ to keep possession of it, for she tightened ‘the grasp of her fingers, and, as he thought, was rather ostentatious than otherwise of the posi- tion in which she approached the house, “Thank you very much!” she said, at last, on arriving at the flight of steps. ‘‘ Without your help I could scarcely have accomplished the distance.” Ivan smiled, and was gratified, handed her the wrap he had been carrying; and followed her to the doorway. ie **Ha, ha!’ exclaimed John Cawsand, cheer- ily, coming to the entrance to greet the arri- . vals; ‘“whom have we here? Why, as IT am y* alive, it is Clara and Her— No! Bless my heart, it is Mr. Berrington! Why—” “Yes,” said Miss Meredith, as she pulled the old man’s face down and kissed him, on ‘the foreliead, “‘he has come to say good-by to you; © he is going away, he says.” “Glad to see you, sir; glad to think you — would not run away without paying usa part- ing visit. And now that I have got youn,I ~~ shall not let you depart so easily. But where is Herbert? Where is he, Clara, my dear? Where's the boy? Have you not seen him?” : He shook Ivan by the “hand, and held it i ‘while he awaited the young lady’s answer.,, © “Has he not already come?’ she asked, in_ return, and surprised. ‘‘He left us on the road half an hour ago, saying that he would ° hurry on, as you might be expecting him.” “No,” returned his grandfather, satisfied Z with the reply, and ushering his guest into the ota hall; “I expect he is in his room, @banging his attire. But the young rascal might hdve “one come to me first, though. And started off by ot himself too, did he, Clara? In my day young rt gentlemen were more gallant.” Then turning is to Ivan. “Now, Berrington, we dine at seven, Ve and to-morrow you shall help to night. Here, Watkins,” he called toa servant » who passed at the moment; “get the pink room ready for this gentleman.” Then resuming with his friend, “‘Herbert, my grandson, has ye arrived, and he will be delighted to make your = acquaintance. By Jove! we ought to beabla to get up something now we have got you. Couldn’t we manage something light, and have the reighbors in to see it¢ How would ‘Cut off with a Shilling’ do? You could do Sam, I “4 could take old Colonel Rerners, and, by- Jingo! he | \ Clara could do Kitty! What do you say?” Berrington smiled, to make himself pleasant ; and to bumor his hest, and then retreated to — oa his chamber. \ CHAPTER V. +’ JEALOUSY’S THREAT. Ir was early morning, and Ivan Berrington — had risen from bis comfortable couch inthe ‘*nink room,” and was now engaged upon his toilet. He was fond of early rising; andnow that the surroundings were so beautiful, and the day a bright one, he sib res: a ramble | ‘3 through the country. ; The previous evening had been a happy one. Mr. Cawsand bad been kind and hospitable in the extreme. The addition to his usual society had made him merry and talkative, and when he parted with his guest at bedtime, he had learned to like him more than ever. The only drawback had been the sulky demeanor of the grandson, Barely maintaining himself within ists the bounds of ordinary civility, he bad re-- pelled any attempt at familiarity on the part | ‘of, the Peso si had contradictéd “him ws ee
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a 8 than once, and, after swallowing his mo- dicum of claret, betook bimself to °the study, to look up his guns and _ sbooting- gear in readiness for the morning. So, as on the former occasions—Mrs. Witherley, in spite of her struggles against it, had been obliged to retire early on account of her last attack of nevralgia—the province of entertain- ing had fallen upon Miss Mereditb; and, as if to show him that she was in no way discon- certed by the young captain’s behavior, she exerted herself to the utmost. When Mr. Caw- sand, toward nine o’clock, having talked him- self tired, fell asleep in the easy-chair, she challenged Ivan to a game of chess; and when the old gentleman awoke from bis nap she went to the piano and played and sung tbe best pieces she was mistress of. Encouraged by her efforts to please, and unwilling to make too heavy a demand upon her powers without _ sustaining some part himself, he looked through the collection of music, and finding some bal- lads which he knew, sung tnem to her accom- paniment. Then, discovering that his voice was rich and melodious, and his knowledge of the art considerable, a couple of duets were selected; and lastly, he sat down to the instru- ment and played with execution and taste. A game .of piquet with his host finished the amusements; and then, after a chat he retired and slept till daybreak. Noticing by the clock in the hall, as he passed down the staircase, that there were yet two good hours to breakfast-time, he took his hat from the stand, opened the door, and stepped forth into the air. The prospect was an inviting one: the breeze was delightful, and there were several objects of interest to be visited. First of all, there was the sea-view from the rising ground a little to the right; then there was the grove; next, the piece of ornamental water with the island and the swans; and, finally, the walk along the avenue. ; It was along this avenue that we first met ClarajMeredith and Mrs, Witherley; and Ivan having traversed it, he turned aside into the wood, and discovered a path among the bram- bles. Here the foliage was dark and dense, and the solitude, except for the song of birds, complete. Pursuing the way, by no means a wide one, by thicket and clearing, through glade and dell, and drinking in the beauties at every step, he came to where the foot-track was in- _ tersected by another, and hesitating which to take, he paused. The stems of the trees were too thickly planted to allow of his seeing more _tban a few yards around him; and thinking _ that he might wander on till he lost himself, > he stopped and examined his watch. He had yet an hour; plenty of time to return at leisure, and even then be early. “Tvan!” said a voice near him. The voice was low and sweet, but it seemed as if the ' word had been ejaculated under the influence of sudden surprise. The breaking of the silence around him was so unexpected, that he started, and turned in- stinctively to where the sound appeared to come from, and there stood the Gypsy girl, Lottie Worgan, trembling from head to foot, and gazing at him wonderingly. “ Oh,, Ivan!” she cried, passionately, after . watching him an instant to satisfy berself that she saw him indeed in the flesh, and that he was no phantom; and then gliding toward him, taking his hand and pressing it in both her own, to her lips, ‘‘ How cruel of you not to come near us—not even to let us know that you.are bere! Why do you treat us as stran- and forget us altogether?’ She still retained his hand, and as she finish- ed speaking, she laid her cheek against his arm and kept it there. “ Why, my dear little Lottie,’ he said, with evident pleasure at the meeting, and caressing the black and glossy hair which fell upon his bosom, ‘‘ what brings you out so early, and all -. glone?” “Qh, we are not far from the Corner, Ivan. t BREAKING THE FETTERS. Come back with me and stay with us. You never come to see us.” ‘Yes, Lottie dear,” he said, gently disen- gaging her, ‘‘I was in the camp a week ago, and that was my third visit this month.” “ But you kept yourself to uncle Richard’s caravan, and yeu never came to see me!’ “True, dear; but then I could not. I had business with Mr. Lovel, and it was better to keep my visit a secret,” ‘* But why should this secrecy exist? It used not to be so! And then not to tell me that you are here.” “ But did you not know it?” ‘‘- Yes, I knew it; but not by your telling. I have found it out myself.” She drew a step from him, and regarded him reproachfully. “JT have watched you, Ivan, and I know your errand,” ““And what has Lottie Worgan seen,” he asked, playfully, ‘‘ that she should look at me so unkindly ?” “ T have seen you every day that you have been to Beechwood, I saw you yester- day.” “‘ Yesterday?” “Yes, I watched you dismount from tho coach, I was waiting by the stile in the fleld close by; Ialways go there now to see it pass, because I knew you came by it, and I saw you greet the lady from Beechwood Villa.” ‘* Well, Lottie, and what of that?” *¢ And I watched you for a long time after- ward, and saw her leaning on your arm. I suppose,” she added, while ber lip began to quiver, and a haughty expression appeared upon her face, you are too high to think of us now—too fine a gentleman to think of the Worgans?” “‘ Now you do me injustice, Lottie,” he said, advancing and taking. her hand. “I never forget you, and I never shall. But there are reasons why I should doas I am now doing. It is not from unkindness, nor from,any false pride,” They turned and walked slowly along the path she had taken for her return, and after pursuing it for a while iu silence, she suddenly leoked up and motioned him to pause, “You think that lady pretty?” she said, in a tone of half-inquiry. ‘‘ And you love her, Ivan?” She watched the effect of ber words, as an alchemist would the ingredients which he was submitting to the crucible. Berrington raised his eyes, and regarded her quickly and curiously, but made no reply, and the girl knew that she had bit the mark. “But, Ivan,” she went on hastily, and breathing hard; ‘‘her hair is flaxen, and her eyes are blue!” ; And then she stood back, and drawing ber- self up to her utmost stature, pushed back the handkerchief which hid her own black tresses, and looked at him with those large dark orbs of hers, as much as to say, ‘Here you have the pattern; the best and brightest of the Gypsy tribe!” The motion was quiet and modest, simply displaying the consciousness of the possession of typical beauty, and of a na- ture so much in contrast with that of the girl she spoke of, “Dil tell you what it is, Lottie,” he replie4, good-humoredly, struck with the grace of her gesture, and unable to repress his admiration; ‘there are lots of hearts that will break for you yet, and they would be dull indeed if they did not!” But the Gypsy girl did not receive it asa complimevt. First, she glanced sharply and searchingly at his face, and then, bursting into tears, hid ber own in both her hands. “Come, come, Lottie; what ‘is this? What have [ said? I meant nothing unkind; I was only joking!” ‘‘ Ab, youcan joke!” she exclaimed, between her sobs, and trying to repress them; ‘ ’tis easy to say a jesting word, but it may tear the heart that. hears it.” “Well, well,” he returned, soothingly; ‘I ; come you! meant but a compliment to your beauty, © Lottie, and I did not think to pain you.” “What is my beauty to me,” she cried, almost fiercely, ‘if Ivan can pass it on to an- other? What are my good looks, if Ivan thinks me plain? Ob, Ivan, Ivan!”—she flew toward him, and sinking quickly to the | ground, embraced his knees and clung to them —“is your face turned from me? Has it come to this, that yonder pale-cheeked girl can make me as a thing of nothing to you? For whom have I lived, Ivan, but for you? Of whom do I dream of night, but of you? If you forget me, what have I but to die?” Berrington was surprised at the outburst, and inexpressibly agitated at her vehemence. He was touched and pained at the uncontrol- lable outpouring of the poor girl’s breast; he was unprepared for it and confused. ‘Rise, Lottie!” he said, at length, gently untwining her arms, and attempting to raise her from her knees. She saved him the effort; for as suddenly as she had thrown herself before him, as quickly did she regain her feet. Then orossing her hands upon her bosom, she stood by, hanging - ber head and blushing, as if ashamed at the be- trayal which had escaped her. **You astonish, you amaze me, Lottie! I did not suspect—” “No!” she ejaculated; ‘‘you could not. You are a map, well taught, high in the world, and proud; and I buta poor girl, weak and alone. How could Ivan Berrington, the guest of Beechwood Villa, stoop to be loved by Lottie Worgan? But I know bow it is,” she continued, drying her tears and losing the soft- ness of her expression; ‘‘I guessed it a month ago and yesterday I was convinced of it!” “Listen to me, Lottie,” said Berrington, quietly, and taking a step toward her. ‘‘ What you have said bas grieved and distressed me beyond measure. You do not think me so un- kind and so cruel as to despise the love you bear me? I prize and cherish it, I bave ever loved you, as my sister!” **T care rot for a brother’s love,” ‘¢ Now you are unreasovable, dear girl.” ‘Do you love Clara Meredith as a sister?” she asked, botly. “T was speaking of my affection for you, Lottie; and I repeat that I Jove you dearly as a sister—and so I always shall do. I can never forget our childhood. We were as brother and sister then, and that relationship, as far as I am concerned, sball never cease.” Sister?’ she murmured, regarding him in- tently. “Yes; my sister. My very dear sister.” “Nay,” she replied, still fixing her eyes upon him; ‘‘I am, at any rate, your cousin; and I would rather be that than sister.” Ivan returned the glance, and reddened. ‘Come, Ivan, dear,’ she whispered, com- pletely altering her manner, and coming and clasping her bands on his shoulder. ‘Come, Ivan, dear,” she said, softly, looking into his face, and smiling with all her powers of en- treaty; “‘let us be as we were of old. See how I wear my hair, in the braids you said you liked. fee how I cover it with the silk bandana which you gave me. Iam the same, Ivan; Ihave not changed! Come back with me to the tents!” “Not now, Lottie; another time. I bave an engagement to-day, and I must return.” “Hal” she cried, springing from him, and at once banishing all ber tenderness. ‘‘ Then leave me, and go to ber! If you prefer her arms to mine, go to them! Go to her, and bask in ber smiles, while you can! The time shall come when she shall not be there to wel- Begone, I say! Who am I tu stop you?” A. few seconds had sufficed to change her whole demeanor. No longer the injured and broken-hearted suppliant, no ionger the true and tender lover, she spoke at first with the — sharp impetuosity of anger, and then a frenzy — of passion seemed to seize her. Her handsome — face no longer retained those pretty lines and
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curves which it bore erewhile; it was now hard, angular and defiant, Her gestures, just now so graceful and winning, had become bold and threatening, and her voice loud and wrath- ful. “See here!” she exclaimed, stepping back as Ivan drew near. ‘‘ Forget that 1 have spoken! Forget that you have seen me! Forget my very face and form!” As she spoke, she tore the crimson handkerchief from her head, threw it to the winds, and violently and eagerly undid those careful braids of her lux- uriant hair, and scattered it upon her shoul- ders. ‘‘There!” she cried, plucking the rings from her fingers, and hurling them far away into the rushwood. “TI have destroyed every trace of my former self; go, and forget that I have loved you!” “Lottie! for Heaven’s sake—” “No! Come not near me! My path has been crossed! I have been robbed, and by her. I do not blame you, but her; and she shall feel my vengeance!” “Girl, are you mad? Of what are you speaking?” ‘*Leave me!” she said, pointing to the direc- tion whence he came—‘“‘ leave me! But mark! you shall never wed her! Go!” she screamed, seeing him hesitate to obey her; “ you have one rival there already, and retribution is coming!” As she uttered the last word, she turned in the path, and sped, like a deer in its flight, along its windings and intricacies, till a clump of cedars hid her from his sight in the dis- tance. At first he was stunned and confounded. He knew the quickness of the Gypsy blood: he knew the hot, impulsive temperamert which peryaded the whole race; but the momentary transition from pleading gentleness to direful fury, from tones of love to vengeful threats, had not only surprised and shocked him, but actually terrified him; and when she flad away he found himself powerless to follow. A minute, however, sufficed to shake him from the spell, and following the track she had taken, he pursued it to where he lost sight of her. Close by him the wood ended, and the open country was visible, He walked to where the view was unbroken and looked around bim. A quarter of a mile below him curled up the smoke from the camp at Gypsy Corner, and away to the right, and slowly approaching it, he descried the object of his search. She was walking quietly, and with her head down, evidently returning to the spot she came from, and Ivan Berrington stepped back and traced the path homeward. “Poor Lottie!” he sighed, reflectively, and fora moment the tears welled into bis eyes; ““who could have thought that such a fire was smoldering in that dear little heart of hers?” He stood still, and meditated. ‘‘T never supposed it-——never dreamt of it. Tf I call my whole life to remembrance—and I can do it every page, from my. earliest child- hood—I can find no incident that could give birth to such a prepossession, no circumstances | that could have planted the conviction in her mind that I could ever be otherwise to her than what I am at present: We have been boy and girl together,” he continued, slowly Tesuming his pace; ‘‘ we slept together beneath the same tent as infants, and we shared the Same corner of the caravan; we wandered Over the country together as playmates, and | we have met again at broken intervals in after life. Fate decreed that we should thus be thrown together. We were different from the Others, and we sought each otber’s society. But nothing rises before me like deception. No rebuking spirit warns me that I have betrayed. My path in life has been different from hers , and She, poor girl, has not seen how or why it di- verged. Poor Lottie Worgan! I am unhappy, miserable, that I have been awakened to this knowledge! I must see her, speak to her ie calmly, and expiain.” | He quickened his step, for he had yet some distance to travel, and the breakfast hour was near at hand; but he found it utterly impossi- ble to drive the subject from his mind. He strove, by fixing his eyes intently on the land- scape, to blot out the remembrance of it for a time, at least, or to put off the consideration of it to a more favorable opportunity; but the at- tempt was an unsuccessful one, The menaces he never heeded; he passed them by as the necessary accompaniments of anger; but she seemed to speak with the as- sumption that Clara Meredith returned his love, and that he had no uphill fight before him, Had she seen anything, or heard anything, that could lead her to think so, or was it her fear that such a thing would happen that made her fancy it already existed? And then she hinted at a rival! that? Was it young Cawsand, his kindly host’s grandson? Surely vot! There was nothing in his man- ner, nothing in bers, to warrant such a con- clusion. However, his stay at Beechwood would soon be over, and on his way back he would take in Gypsy Corner, The sudden appearance of the massive stone mansion, with its. substantial turrets, and towers, at last had the desired effect of ban- ishing the wild form and words of Lottie Wor- gan, and Berrington arrived upon the graveled terrace just as the tongue of the stable-clock gave out the hour of eight, ‘‘ Good-morning !—good-morning!” shouted Mr. Cawsand from one of the up-stair windows. ‘You are an early riser, Mr. Berrington. Come along! The coffee is made, and the muffins are smoking! You'll just be in. time for the shooting! I say, have you seen any- thing of those confounded Gypsies? . They’ve been on my grounds again—deuce take them!” Without waiting for a reply, the old gentle- mat turned from the window, and descended to the ball to welcome his guest. Who was CHAPTER VI. BREAKING HER FETTERS. AT the breakfast-table at Beechwood Villa ail the members of the household were assem- bled, with the exception of Mrs, Witherley. She, poor thing, at that particular moment, had her face swathed with a flannel bandage, caked in laudanum and chamomiles, and was solacing herself with hot tea and toast among the mysteries of her four polished bed-posts. Clara, bright and radiant, and clothed in a light morning-dress of dainty fashion, excused the attendance of her chaperon, and. presided at the coffee-urn. She greeted Mr, Cawsand on entering the room with her usual kiss upon. his forehead, and the old gentleman returned the salute by imprinting two upon her cheek. She took the band of Berrington, the guest, and next in order, as of an old acquaintance, replied to his inquiries for her health smilingly and without restraint, and then turned to Her- bert Cawsand. ““Good-morning, Clara,” he said, without demonstration of any kind. And then, as if to account for and justify his want of hand-shaking, he busied himself in his pockets, produced a_spirit-flask, and went and filled it at the sideboard. The little incident was lost upon the older man. He was accustomed to the bluntness and brusquerie of his grandson, and he merely passed it by with the mental observation that in his day the taste of a pretty girl's lips was one of the finést appetizers for breakfast he knew of. Mr. Cawsand was dressed in shooting-coat and gaiters like Herbert, and when the meal was dispatched, he set about the real prepar- ations for the day, “T say, boy,” he exclaimed, , rising from the table and addressing the captain, ‘‘ take Mr. \ BREAKING THE FETTERS. Berrington to your room and rig him up for the sport. He can’t go through the thicket with those light clothes on. Get him—” “‘My dear sir—” “ Get him one of your coats, Herbert, and some boots, and— “But really, ur. Cawsand—” “ Nonsense —: nonsense, my dear sir; I couldn’t think of letting you go out like this. As for gaiters, there are plenty in my dress- ing-room, and guns. Herbert, go and get your Remington—not the one you use, you know, but the new one,” The black looks and disgust of the captain were so apparent.to at least two of the party, that Clara especially, knowing the young gen- tleman’s temperament, expected an immediate outbreak of rudeness. His grandfather, too, who had noticed the hesitancy, was looking round, and about to repeat in a louder key what he had said before, when Ivan luckily interposed. “T hope I shall not offend you,” he said, laughing gayly at the proposition, “if I say that I shall be glad to be excused. I am un- prepared for shooting and out of practice, and if you will pardon me for saying so, at no time very enthusiastic about the pastime. It is want of taste, I know, and enough to condemn meé at once in the eyes of sportsmen; but if you will kindly allow me the entree of your library, and let me look through some of the volumes during your absence, you will confer upon me a treat which I cannot indulge. in very often.” Herbert smiled a sneer at Clara, expressive of the contempt in which he held the man; and without attempting to press the matter, or second his grandfather’s wishes, he quitted — the breakfast-room for the study, which was . the. depository ,of his sporting gear, and equipped himself for partridges, On the other hand, Mr, Cawsand was molli- fied. He was more than that; he was flattered and pleased. If there was one thing more than another at Beechwood Villa on which he prided himself, - it was his library, He had expended many hundreds of dollars upon it, and in the course of years had madea _ collection the like of which the whole county could not produce, To have it admired and appreciated was to receive back a portion of the expense he had lavisbed; and, consequently, when Ivan men- tioned it as the alternative, he not only ac- knowledged that he had chosen a worthy amusement, but considered him a man of sense for so doing. b Sertatals-+stertuiabrd) he said, laying bis hand kindly on his shoulder. “T forgot that your pursuits might give you a preference for such things. Yes, yes; by all means. Get me. the key, Clara; you know where f hang it. You shall have it all to yourself. will find the catalogue in the right-hand cor- ner of the first shelf.” ‘Very many thanks, Mr. Cawsand.” And, by the by, you'll find plenty of read- ing in your line. I’ve got all the English dramatists’ works, and a black-letter Shakes- peare. Come,” he added, taking the key from Miss Meredith; you going, and then you can shift for your- self.” Mr. Cawsand then conducted his friend along the corridor, and arriving at the door of the ~ You * T will open the place and set. especial apartment, he unlocked it and intro- duced him to its treasures. ‘There you are,” he said, sweeping bis arm round the room in the direction of the crowded book-shelves; ‘‘I don’t forbid smoking. Ring for anything you want, and make yourself comfortable. When you are tired here, there is the drawing-room just outside.” , Left to bimse)f, the first thing that occurred to Berrington was to thrust both hands into ~ his pockets, go to the window, and fall into a fit of meditation. First he thought of his host’s kindness; next, of Clara Meredith; and then ef the undisguised hostility of the grandson, De
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Ae “ ve 1 apparently causeless rudeness and determined refusal of cordiality. Was he actually the rival of whom poor Lottie Worgan hinted? And if ‘so, what had been his success—if, indeed, he had already declared his suit? No; the idea seemed unworthy of a moment’s thought. Their natures appeared so different, their tastes so opposite, that he would not en- tertain it. By-and-by a tramping of feet upon the gravel recalled him from his reverie, and on ‘looking he beheld the shooting-party starting on their expédition. It was a pretty sight, and for a moment he watched it with an interest which denoted that under other circumstances “he would gladly have had his share of the promised sport, Besides Mr. Cawsand and the captain, two or three of the neighboring land-owners had brought their guns; and with Markham at the head, and accompanied by his dogs and beaters, the whole moved off briskly to ‘the scene of action. - As they passed out of sight, Berrington turned from the window and surveyed the rows of countless books which covered all four walls of the apartment. He then found the catalogue, compared it with the printed num- bers, and found the volumes of which Mr, Cawsand had spoken. These, at least, he would dip into, if only to satisfy the old gentleman on his return that he had employed himself as he told him he should do; but he found the occupat.on wearisome, and almost devoid of pleasure. The fact was, he was not ‘i’ the vein,” and | do what he would, he could not concentrate his thoughts upon what the volumes had to tell him. : At the end of a couple of hours passed in the desultory examination of the vast collection, Ivan retired to his room to remove the dust which had accumulated upon his hands, and - then descended the stairs to find the drawing- room and to divert himself with its attractions. Did he think to find Clara there? If so he was disappointed. He had the place to himself, and allits riches and beauties, its costly orna- ments, and its gems of art awaiting his ad- miration. Sauntering from one object to another, and bestowing interest upon each in succession, charmed with the delicate refitement and taste- ful decorations, be passed at length through the long window at the side, the one which open- ed into the conservatory, and found himself in an atmosphere of peculiar fragrance, and in a bower of exotics, creeping, flowering and hanging, looking like fairy-land in miniature. | Every country in the world seemed to have contributed something, and all appeared to re- joice and flourish in the artificial climate which had Been prepared for them. The great mass of the foliage was in the center, reaching to the lofty roof, and all around it ran a tesselated ' pavement, bordered by choicest flowers, and shaded by Australian ferns and fuchsias. Ivan was enchanted. Everything was or- dered so exquisitely, and so many plants were . “new and strange to him. Wrapt in admiration 5 4 he turned the corner of the path, and glancing along’ it to see what further beauties it contain- he suddenly started, became confused and erimsoned to the forehead. ' There was a rustic seat at the extremity, half-hidden by a leafy canopy, and upon it ‘re- clined Clara Meredith, absorbed in reading. ~ Berrington had approached too far to retreat ‘without making his presence known. Had he even contemplated a backward movement it would have been futile, for no sooner had he discovered her presence than she detected his, and springing to her feet, blushed a counterpart of his own. “T apologize, Miss Meredith,” he said, from where he stood, and without attempting to ad- ‘vance, ‘I was really unaware—I had no idea buat what I was the only occupant, or, believe me, I should not have intruded.” Ashe spoke, he attempted to retrieve his er- ‘BREAKING THE FETTERS. ror and to retire by the way he came; but the reassuring voice of Clara made him pause and hesitate. The girl laughed ‘pleasantly, closed the book, and placing it under her arm, drew toward him. ‘You certainly made mo jump, Mr. Berring- ton. Like yourself, I thought I was alone. I often come here,” she added, looking back at the place she had vacated. ‘I call it my re- treat, ‘and sometimes I read here for hours.” “And now I fear I have interrupted you.” “No, not at all. Iam glad you roused me to my duties. I fear you must have thought me atruant. You must be tired by this time of those endless books. Come and look through the drawing-room,” Ivan‘did not’tell her that he had already made the inspection, mentally acknowledging that he ‘could ‘go through the same process a thousand times under her tutelage, so he turned with her delightedly and re-entered the apart- ment, “Now, what shall IT show you first?’ She busied among’the tables, and looked at the ar- ray of cabinets and cases, undecided what to select, “Are you fond of pictures, Mr. Ber- rington?” ‘* Most certainly.” , “Then let me show you this album; it is full of views, mostly photographs, and of places abroad. Have you ever been abroad?” “Yes; but not out of Europe. I know something of France, Germany and Italy. Have you any pictures of those countries?” **Oh, yes; plenty. ‘You shall see them.” He reached ‘the heavy volume, and laid it before her on the table, and then placing a chair for her, stood by and watched her as she unclasped the fastenings and displayed its se- crets. , With all her apparent unconstraint, there was, nevertheless, a perceptible trepidation in all she said and did. There appeared to be an effort to maintain her self-possession, and a nervousness lest her manner should seem other- wise than what she intended it tobe. She de- sired to convey the impression that she was perfectly at ber ease, undisturbed and com- posed, and that she was merely performing an act of courtesy to a visitor left to himself for arousement, : Tt was a difficult task, however, and unsuc- cessful. The studied care with which she sought to conceal her inmost tioughts, and baffle all penetration into her emotions, only served to jay them bare, and to betray them to the very man from whom she sought to hide them. Had not her imagination dwelt upon him from that first moment when, as if lanched by the hand of Providence, he threw himself between her and destruction, and at the risk of injury saved her unhurt? Could she forget his noble conduct on that occasion, or the gentleness with which he soothed her fear? Had she not pictured the whole occurrence a hundred times, and recalled his every word and gesture? What else but her loyalty to her plighted word to Herbert Cawsand had made her refuse to tell herself that she loved him? What did she know of, or care for, those hard and’ fast conventionalities which would declare a man of Ivan Berrington’s profession, however high he might stand in it, to be be- neath the regard of such a one as herself, and, in case of marriage, a mesallitince ? Had she not admired his handsome face and manly figure, and been charmed, almost fas- cinated, by his conversation and society? And lastly, was she not thinking of, him, to the ut- ter destruction of all her powers to concen- trate her mind on her book, when he appeared before her in the conservatory? How, then, could she so maintain herself as not to betray some little mark of weakness, or subdue that agitation which was the tell-tale of her emotions? ; - On the other hand, Ivan, as he stood by her : ee : ; : ¥ a Me At Se oe ¥. ‘ =, PAY 4 a PORE Ly a ivi ° Se BAR Re de a ns eho Ae oy nee side, with his hand resting on the back of her ~ chair, was by no means unmoved. His fancies, that morning, had not been among the books, nor among the flowers of the greenhouse. Onesubject alone occupied them, and that was—Clara Meredith! She could feel the shaking of his hand as it nervously grasped the rail behind her; she could hear his quickened breathing, and note the tremor in his accents; but she still turned over the leaves of the album, and remarked upon the pictures. **Now, here is one,” she said, pressing hack the covers, ‘‘and one which I think very beau- tiful. It isin Italy. You have been to Italy, I think you said?” “Yes,” he replied, looking at the view for a moment, and then withdrawing himself, and walking toward the window. ‘I have passed many happy days there, and I think of going again; perhaps for a permanency,” “ And leave America?” “Yes; leave America altogether.” “How very extraordinary! Why, Mr. Ber- rington?” He came and placed himself again beside her, and leaning with one hand on the table, bent down his head, and regarded her in- tently. ** Because, Miss Meredith, I love you with all the power that the heart of man is capable , of feeling!” ‘Mr. Berrington!” exclaimed Clara, rising, and turning pale. ‘“Do not mistake me, Miss Meredith; do not be alarmed. Iam not going to say anything that should be a bar to the continuation of the friendly intercourse which I hope to have ex- tended to me till the afternoon, when I take my departure, and see you for the last time. I say for the last time, for having once de- clared what I have, I banish myself from your presence, and bury the whole subject in my breast.” “ But, Mr. Berrington—” began Clara, trem- bling. “Nay,my dear young lady,” interrupted Ivan, and speaking with apparent calmness; ‘I am quite aware of my folly—I will not call it presumption, because I have never presumed to entertain the shadow of a hope, I am perfect- ly conscious of my position, and your own, Miss Meredith, I am thoroughly sensible that toaman like myself, without fortune, name, or anything which the world would esteem to recommend me, to dream of one day possessing a prize so precious as yourself would be mad- ness. But, Clara—let me call you so for once —you have been kind to me. That good old man, your friend, has opened bis door to me, and taken me by the hand. Z£ have not been used to such gentle intimacy; I am unaccus- tomed to beauty and goodness such as yours. Your words, and the tones of your voice, thrill me with a delight which is almost oppressive, and they ring in my ears continually. Do not mistake me, Miss Meredith,” he continued, while his voice became a little husky and his eyes sparkled with moisture;. “I have felt myself bound to give utterance to what is within me, but you need have no fear, I shall never recur to it. I have spoken—I must have spoken or died—and you have heard me. Henceforth if is buri.d. Do not despise me, Miss Meredith. Take what I have told you as my homage, and when I leave this house, bid me depart in peace!” Clara had made two attempts to interrupt him as he proceeded, but his manner was so commanding, so full of dignity, and yet so gentle, that she thought it better to wait till he should cease, and then speak as occasion might require. She, felt, too, that the delay would enable her to overcome her agitation, and to still that throbbing in her bosom which she found her self unable to repress, and to collect that firm- ness which she knew to be necessary. “Mr. Berrington,” she said, making an effort a to speak with calmness, “I shall certainly never think unkindly of you, though the manner of — nat 4
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ms ‘) thought proper to make it, have surprised me. Are ycu not aware of my position? That [ am engaged to Captain Cawsand? That my being ‘a guest in this house is solely due to that cir- cumstance?” Ivan recoiled as the words were spoken. ‘I was unaware of it. I never guessed at such a thing. I could not have supposed so, But even had I known it, I should have still declared _what I have done already; and without treach- ery toward him, and most certainly without | intending insult to yourself, May Heaven bless you, and make him worthy of you!” He paused an instant, and then said: “May I take your hand and say farewell? I only await the return of John Cawsand to make my adieu to him, and to depart from Beechwood.” Clara stood irresolute, and remained silent, with her bead averted. She did not offer the hand, but he approached her, took it, pressed his lips upon it, aud, without another word, left her presence ror the library. A quarter of an hour after Berrington quit- ted the drawing-room, Captain Cawsand en- tered it, having just returned from the first part of the shooting, and having cast aside his . heavy clothing for other more suitable. He found Clara seated at the center-table, with her face buried in her hands, and resting on the book of views. On drawing near, he discovered that she was weeping. “ Hallo!’ he exclaimed, looking at her cu- riously. ‘‘ What’s this? Tears! Well, if there’s one thing I hate more than another, it is to see a woman sniveling, What's in the wind? What has happened?” Getting no reply, he began again, “By Jove, Clara, I can’t make you out! You have been deuced odd to me ever since I came home! You seem so taken up with that sreak- ing actor fellow that I can’t get a civil word out of you By Jove, I don’t like it; and what’s more, by Jove, I won’t stand it!” “ What tone and language are these?” de- manded Clara, rising from the seat, and con- fronting himindignantly, ‘‘ You forget your- self, sir!” “ No, I don’t, Clara,” he returned, doggedly. “Tf I speak authoritatively, my position to- ward you warrauts me in doing so.” ‘“‘Then I absolve you from that position at once and forever! No girl with a spark of respect for herself would submit to such arro- gancs; not even that Gypsy woman whom [I saw you salute but yesterday!” Herbert Cawsand was staggered and speech- less at this outburst; and Miss Meredith, throwing a glance of concentrated scorn to- ward him, gatbered up her skirts, and sailed majestically to the door, opened it, and van- ished. CHAPTER VII. LOTTIE’S REVENGE. Wen Clara Meredith quitted the drawing- room her face was flushed and tearless. There was an expression of mingled contempt, de- fiance, and decision, so utterly unusual to her features, that when she reached her own cham- ber, and caught them, in passing, in the look- ing-glass, she almost started at the change which bad come upon her countenance. If Herbert did not realize the full meaning of the words she uttered, she certainly did; and the air of determination which she wore indicated a strength of purpose in accordance with it. Without a moment’s reflection, she knew that she bad cast the die, and that no person on earth should make her reverse it. The scene which she had witnessed at the Stile had decided her on the instant. After that there could be no more confidence; no more of that love which she had been endeay- oring to foster for him; no more respect. It was a treason which matured married life might possibly, in certain cases, pass over after due penitence and protestations; but to a pure, high-minded girl, in the heyday of her life and beauty, it was the crime unpardon- ‘this avowal, and the time at which you have / BREAKING THE FETTERS. oe Herbert, by his rude behavior, gave her the opportunity, and she accepted it. 2 Her first idea was to lay the whole’ matter before Mrs. Witherley, but it occurred to her that the old lady would very probably take the side of the offender, on account of the re- lationship. Her second was, to think the sub- ject over quietly, and then act according to the decision she might arrive at. This latter she resolved to do, and with a view to arrange her thoughts the better, she put on her hat, caught up the book she bad been reading a short time before, and leaving the mansion, went in quest of some unfrequented spot where she might indulge her humor, and, free’ from all observation, think the question out to her heart’s content. Some little time after her departure, the sound of the hall clock striking twelve reached the ears of Ivan Berrington as he promenaded | thoughtfully up and down the whole length of the library,. It flashed across him immediately that the Iuncheon hour would be at one, and as he had no inclination to prolong his stay so as to be included in that meal, he resolved to seek out Mr. Cawsand and bid him farewell. After the little interview with Clara it would be far bétter to avoid the occasion of a meet- ing, constrained as it must be under the cir- cumstances; and considering the unequivocal bearing of the captain toward him, and the indisp»sition of Mrs. Witherley, such a course seemed imperative, Accordingly, he roused himself from his ab- straction, passed out of the apartment, crossed the hall, and tapped at the drawing-room door. “Ha, Berrington!” said his host, looking up from his cushioned chair, and speaking with a pleasant gayety; ‘‘here I am, you see, and with my boots cff. The ground was a trifle too rough for my feet this morning; or I sup- pose I can’t stand the work quite so well as I used, so lhave changed my gaiters for slippers, and am taking it easy. How did you get on with the books? I am afraid you have been dull.” “T have been delighted, Mr. Cawsand. Of course I could do little more than adniire in the time; but I managed to light upon the vol- umes you spoke of. I bring you back the key, and thank you very much.” “Well, then, you can bave your shooting after all, They start again after luncheon. Herbert came back with me, but the rest of them have gone to the lodge.” “You are very kind; but I think not to-day. | Indeed, I have come t6 say good-by, and to ex- press how much I am indebted to you for your kindness,” “Tut, tut! Say good-by? Nonsense, non- sense! -I can’t let you run away like that.” ** T should indeed be sorry to curtail my visit if I did not know that it is imperative that I should be elsewhere,” he replied, smiling; ‘ but I have business which I must not neglect, and—” “At all events, you can stay to luncheon surely? Ill ring and order it at onee.” ‘Pray do not think of it, sir. I have exact- ly a quarter of an hour, aud if I start at once, I shall catch the Courtland coach as it passes the north gate.” “Well, Berrington,” said the old gentleman, in a somewhat disappointed tone, but giving up opposition, ‘‘if it be imperative, of course I must urge nothing. However, I am sorry to lose you and I hope to see you again.. Let me know,” he added, after a moment, ‘‘ whenever you happen to drop into our neighborhood again. You can always send me a line.” “You are extremely kind, Ishall not forget my visit to Beechwood Villa, nor the courtesy of its owner.” John Cawsand shook Ivan’s hand very cor- dially, apologized for not accompanying him to the door on account of his present fatigue, and calling after him not to forget the invitation he had given him, turned: round in his chair, erossed his legs, and mused. ‘ . 4 Gye ee : rae it { , + oe wd se : ; i “ By Jove!” he exclaimed, ‘Tm sorry he’s gone, What a way the fellow has with him! Wish he would come oftener. One of the best companions I have met for some time. . I wish Herbert would take tohim. The acquaintance might improve the lad; he might learn a Jot from Berrington.” \ Strange to say the two persons of whom he was thinking were at that moment on the high- road to a greater knowledge of each other, and the desire for better intimacy originated with his grandson. Ivan had reached his hat from the rack and was on the point of departure when he heard. himself called, and by a voice which he could” not mistake. ‘Excuse me, sir, but I should like to have 6 word with you before you go.” It was Captain Cawsand, and ,his tone and manner indicated a ruffied temper and the near “ approach of bluster. | ‘“‘ Certainly,” replied Berrington, civilly. “I have not much time to spare, as I wish to catch the coach; but I can afford you a few minutes, nevertheless.” mii “Step this way, then,” was. the laconic re- joinder, as Herbert turned round and led the way to the study. ‘' Now,” he burst forth, as soon as he had shut the door, and with a look of defiance and hatred, ‘‘who the deuce are Pe you#—and what is the underhand business that : you are-up to in this house?” : “You forget yourself, Captain Cawsand,” said Ivan, quietly. : ‘“No, I dov’t!” asserted the other, loudly, and with excitement. ‘‘ You have sown dis- — sension here as a return for the old man’s con- descension, and I'll get to the bottom of if! ~~ Who the deuce are you, I ask? Berrington is” no more your name then Wellington is mine! Men of your trade have to disguise their origin under the borrowed name of gentlemen. What — is the one you were born with?” ‘« At all events,” replied Ivan, mastering his —_— indignation, and endeavoring to preserve his ~ : calmness, “‘ supposing such to be the case,no- ~ b: dy is hurt by me, an actor, calling myself sce ‘ Berrington,’ but every one would ridicule »— your being theught a ‘ Wellington.’” ie “You mean some impertinence by that!” : exclaimed the captain, advancing a pace, and nt assuming a menacing aspect. ‘I tell yom most distinctly that you are a low, vagabond = play-actor, and that you have no claim to the tile of gentleman!” ‘ ‘‘May I remind you,” returned Berrington, Pay with imperturbable ccolness, ‘‘that your pre- . sent behavior is a breach of hospit.lity, ard ~ that a breach of hospitality isa thingthat gen- ~~ tlemen are careful) to avoid?’ uf ‘‘Confound you!” shouted the other, bis pas- sion becoming more violent; “if you werea fellow of any position at all Pdcall youout, | and get that satisfaction from you which per- — a sons of my stamp receive from one another!” ery “Dueling, my dear sir,” rejoined Ivan, as quietly as before, ‘‘isa thing of the past. Ih _ has gone entirely out of fashion. It was a’ folly, and very unsatisfactory, Now, when I consider that I have been insulted—don’t in- terrupt me—and my offender requires punish- ment, | pursue a different plan completely.” Ate ‘““What may that be?” sneered Herbert, scornfully. fe. ‘“‘T possess myself of a borsewhip—sucha one as this!” He walked to the wall, and took down the very article from the two pegs on — a which it was resting, and then returned to his former position. ‘And haying done so,7he resumed, without betraying the slightestsign — of heat or anger, ‘‘I take my man like this!? © —he suddenly sprung forward, and seizing the ~~ captain by the back of his coat-collar, com- pressed his knuckles so firmly against thenape of bis neck that he simply opened bis mouth =~ and became speechless, ‘‘I take him like — - this!” continued the actor, holding his adver- ; sary at arm’s length, as in the grip of a vise. — and rendering him as powerless as an infant,
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408° BREAKING THE FETTERS. to strike—“and administer such castigation as I think fit!” The captain’s surprise and terror were 80 plainly marked by his countenance and strug- gles, that his captor saw he bad produced the desired effect, and released him. “That is my mode of treatment, sir!” he said, now a little pale, but still very coolly; ¥‘ but I hope you will not compel me to adopt it. I presume there is no further need fora /prolongation of this interview, and, with your permission, I will now leave you!” Hatred, spite, revenge, every resentful pas- sion, were stamped on Herbert’s livid face; but terror of the superior strength and force of mind which had baffied and paralyzed him kept him silent; and Ivan, fixing his eyes upon him significantly, retired from the study and from the house. A little more time had been taken up with the interview than Berrington had calculated upon, and consequently the walk, which, under _ the circumstances, would have been taken leisurely, now demanded a brisk pace in order to be at that particular point of the estate where he might intercept the four grays on their return journey to Courtland. A glance in the direction he required to go showed him immediately that a considerable portion of the distance would be avoided by striking at once across one side of the lawn, and then, by passing over the rustic bridge i in ‘the narrow part of the lake, be would gain a path which he had noticed ona former occasion, and so reach the highway atthe spot desired. Deter- mining accordingly, he left the beaten road under the avenue, and bore away across the grass, Altbough unruffled by the late passage of arms with the grandson of his bost, he could not belp feeling annoyance that such a circum- stance should have occurred to mar the other- wise pleasant remembrance of the inmates of ~ Beechwood. Every association with them was happy but that one; and in that one he found _ subject of satisfaction, in that he had not been ~ betrayed into any act of violence with the man who was to be the husband of Clara Meredith, and that he bad confined himself to such an illustration of his prowess as was suf- ficient for his purpose. The kindly manner.of his old host, and his smile of welcome, he should never forget. The face and figure of Miss Meredith were graven on his heart; and they formed a picture which would retain its color and freshness as long as life remained to him. Had he sown dissension, as the captain averred, between the two? If.so, how? He asked himself the question steadily and thoughtfully. Certainly he had not done so knowingly or designedly; and.from what he had been able to observe, he fancied a disagrea- ment, if any existed, had an origin quite out- side himself. One thing he was quite sure of, and that was, Herbert Cawsand was not the man fitted to be Clara Meredith’s husband. “ Not that he considered himself to be the es- pecial and only proper companion for such a girl, but because he could discover no com- munity of thought; inclination, or sympathy ween those two who were at this moment he object of his musings. / A walk of five mioutes brought him in sight ‘of the piece of water, and a little way further on he could desery the narrow bridge which carried the path across it, and led the way to the north boundary of the grounds. The man- sion had now become lost to view on account of the intercepting trees and the undulation of the ground; and the locality to which he had arrived was silent and solitary. He turned and looked toward the old spot, as if to bid a long farewell to it and all its pleasant memories, and then increased bis speed in the same direction as before. There was something in front of bim, how- ever, some fifty yards distant, which caught his eye and made him gaze intently, It appeared to be a woman, for what he saw seemed to be a portion of a female’s dress, the lower part or skirt; and if so, she must be seated on the ground bordering the footway. The head and body were out of sight, hidden by some intervening sbrubs. Wondering who it could be, and what attrac- tion could induce her to select a place so retired and unfrequented, he became aware, as he drew near, that the person, whoever it might be, was not sitting, as he supposed at. first, but reclining, The discovery awakened an interest not un- mixed with apprehension, for he detected no movement or change of position, although he was careful to tread heavily, so as to give no- tice of his approach. Another step, and a sight met his eye which appalled him. It was a scene calculated to daunt the stout- est; but to Ivan Berrington it came like the blighting chill ef winter, blanching his cheek and stopping the pulsation of his beart. He stood aghast, and for a moment paralyzed. It was Clara Meredith. She was lying partly on her side, with her right arm under her face and supporting it from the earth, and her left was outstretched along the grass. On ber shoulder, and as far as her elbow, her dress was dabbled in blood. Her features were white, like marble, and smeared with it, anda crimson stain bedewed her waist, and spread as far as his eye could reach. A catastrophe had happened of a nature which he could not conjecture, but one which told him instinctively touched the poor girl’s life. With a sense of choking, and dashing the tears from his face, he threw himself on his knee, and gently lifting the drooping head, gazed breathlessly at the pallid lips in search of some indication of existence. “Oh, God!” he cried; “Miss Meredith! Speak, in the name of Heaven!” A slight, unconscious moan met his easr and told him that she lived, but so feeble and sub- dued, that help, to be of..use, must come at once, To-ery for assistance till the woods around him echoed back tke sound was his first em- ployment, and then to discover the wound and the character of it, the second. As for belp reaching him in aspot so remote, an instant’s thought taught him that it was next to impossible. He was alone with her; no other aid but his, if he could render any, was at hand, and he was trembling with appre- hension. There was not an instant to lose! Tenderly and hastily he examined the cloth- ing which covered her bosom, and a sigh of relief escaped him on finding that it bore no trace of violence or injury. Raising “his eyes to the shoulder, where tbe sleeve was saturated most, he noticed imme- diately a clear cut in the fabric, an inch or so in length, and evidently leading to the locality of the heart. Beyond a slight tearing of the dress, as by some pointed instrument, on her left side, and nearly under the arm, there was no other mark to indicate a wound, or to account for the ap- pearances which were presented. Sati fied so far, he bent his head to look for any change of expression, and then with nervous fingers opened his penknife, and placing the blade of it to that portion of her sleeve which confined the wrist, ran it up carefully, and divided the garment so as to bare the delicate arm entirely. The origin of the bleeding was revealed in- stantly. There was a deep and incised punc- ture a few inches below the shoulder, and blood was still flowing from it freely. Leaving all surmises as to how or why the mischief had occurred for future consideration, Ivan took out his bandkerchief, and tearing it into shreds, joined them together so as to form one long bandage. He next rolled up a portion of it in order to make a compress, and then placing this last immediately on the place of injury, bound it tightly with the other. So far he appeared to have been successful. His next care was to exert himself to recover ay 4 Ege 2 nip Bet arte ere the sufferer to consciousness. Quick in action and ready in resources though he was, Berring- ton was for an instant ataloss. A spirit-flask, such as he saw Herbert Cawsand filiing that morning, would indeed have been precious; but he had none. There appeared to be no remedy at hand that he could think of. Stay! There was water—the water of the Jake. A moment later he had Clara in his arms, and was bear- ing ber toward it. With her head resting on his shoulder, and her cheek against his own, he hurried across the intervening space, and setting down his burden on the sloping bank, removed the scarf which she wore upon her neck, and stooping over the brink, held it in the water. He then approached her, called upon her name in tones of entreaty, and, ap- plied it to her lips and temples. There was at once sufficient sign to stimulate him to further action, and ere long reward overtook bim in the shape of a return to semi- sensibility. It wasa weary and anxious pro- cess—a balancing, as it were, between life and death; but hope increased with every effort, and never quite deserted him. Helpless and passive as an infant, he bathed the blood-stains from her face and removed them from the wounded arm. He then knelt down again beside her, lifted her so that she could lean against his bosom, and smoothed back the tresses from her forehead. How he longed to tighten the pressure of bis arm as it encircled her and press her to his heart! Ten years of his life would he have given to have laid his lips to hers and brought the color back to them by his rapture; but ‘he refrained. They were not his. At length, after many incoherences and evi- dences of terror, Clara Meredith opened wide her eyes and realized the position. At first the gaze was wild and restless, but when she fully understood her present weakness, and recognized the features of the man in whose arms she was reclining, and whose throbbing breast it was which supported her, she started, and tried to raise herself; but her strength was unequal to the exertion, and slowly she fell back again, and rested as b fore. She was not unconscious, but utterly powerless and pros- trate. Convinced at last that he must endeavor to remove his charge to where she could obtain that attention which was so necessary, and sen- sible of her inability to stir without assistance, he raised her tenderly once more in his power- ful arms, and bore her away toward the man- sion, Speaking to her as be walked, kindly and encouragingly, in order to awake her from her drowsiness, he succeeded after awhile in restor- ing her to such a knowledge of passing events that he begged her, if she could possibly make the trial, to approach the house on foot, of course by the support which he would give her, in order not to alarm the household, or shock their good old friend, pale and blood- stained as she was. “Tell me how it happened?’ he asked, as he steadied her footsteps and watched her face with an expression of agony upon his own. “A Gypsy woman,” she answered faintly. “A Gypsy woman stabbed me.” CHAPTER VIII. A STARTLING REVELATION. ‘Don’t go!” exclaimed John Cawsand to Berrington, about balf an hour after the arrival of a Courtland surgeon, who had been fetched post-haste in the pony-carriage, and who had just returned in the sameconyeyance. ‘Don’t go!” he cried, almost embracing him in the warmth of his gratitude; ‘besides, you'll be wanted as a witness,” The fact was, Ivan had not dared to go- From the moment he learned who the assailant was, he was filled with alarm and concern of — the most painful nature. He could not fy — from the spot till he had bees assured of hows 4
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BREAKING THE FETTERS, State of Miss Meredith, neither could he depart | some light might be thrown upon the matter, and leave the hot- blooded and misguided Lottie Worgan to the mercies of the law. He knew at once that it was she, and he fully realized the penalty which she had incurred. ‘‘ What does the doctor say?” asked Berring- ton, hastily, Mr, Cawsand was greatly excited. He had turned away from the actor to pace about the room without waiting for an answer to his entreaty, ‘‘ Don’t go;” and now that he heard his voice, he stopped to catch the words, * What does the doctor.say, sir?” “It is not so serious as we thought, thank God!” he replied. ‘‘Is is nothing dangerous, I mean, if treated with care; but it might have been—it might have been! She is composed, poor girl; and now that her arm is dressed, she is comparatively without pain. But woe to the wretch whe attacked her! I will track that fiend if it costs me my fortune.” He went to the mantle-piece and pulled the bell-handle, “TJ will requite them for their ingratitude! To think that my own household should thus be made a mark for their vindictive passions! To think that that poor child, whom I love asa daughter, should be made the victim! They Shall feel the weight of my hand if I have yet strength to lift it! This last has filled the measure of all their vagabondism and treach- ery, and never more shall they pitch their tents at Gypsy Corner!” He was red in the face with passion and in- dignation, and as the servant appeared at the door in answer to his summons, he demanded loudly, “‘Who have gone in search of this Wwoman—this black-skinned savage?” “There’s no one avout the house, sir,” re- plied the old butler, obsequiously, ‘“‘ but me and the stable-boy.” ‘‘ What do you mean, you rascal?’ shouted his master. ' *¢ All the men-servants, gardeners and all, are off with the shooting-party, sir. Mr. Markham said he wanted all the beaters he could get.” ** Confound them all for a pack of idiots! Then send the boy off at once to the Courtland Police station, and tell them to send the super- intendent up to me without a moment’s delay!” “Yes, sir.” © May I say a word?” interposed Berrington, &dvancing toward him quickly. Mr, Cawsand paused in some fresh command he was about to give, and looked at him inquir- ingly. ‘* Pardon me for interrupting you, sir. May I, before you dispatch your messenger, say a word to you in private?” There was great and unmistakable earnest- ness in his manner, but the other frowned, He considered the request to trench a lit- tle on his prerogative, and stood upon his dig- nity. ‘‘Of what nature, sir? Do you desire to ad- vise me how to proceed?” “By no means, I have aspecial reason, and I beg it as a favor.” “Close the door,” he said, to the butler, “and wait outside till I call you.” Then, Surning to Ivan: ‘Now, sir, will you oblige me?” “IT do not for a moment presume, Mr. Caw- Sand, to make a suggestion without some strong motive—that motive I will explain hereafter— but I wish to submit to you that you will be more likely to attain the end in view by aving speech with Richard Lovel in the first instance.” Mr, Cawsand regarded him steadily, and re- ed his frown. “This girl,” continued Ivan, “cannot fly from the locality without his knowledge, nor Beek a refuge which his people cannot dis- Cover, On the other hand, without some ad- tional testimony than the simple recognition, Which Miss Meredith will no doubt be able to _, Make when confronted with her, it would be 2 €asy, by a combination, to defeat a convic- tion, If Lovel could be spoken to, I believe i] ay me and the inquiry be assisted.” The other mused, and walking to the fire- place, stood there, and looked down thought- fully at the hearth-rug. “And if he should refuse all information, and the woman meanwhile make her escape?” “Tf I may say so, sir, I hardly think Lovel is the man to lend himself to an act so base as this, I know something of him, and I venture to pledge myself that he will attend here at your summons.” “You have met him?’ asked Mr. Cawsand, a little surprised. “Yes; and I think you will find him read to do what is right.” } Shocked as Berrington was at the outrage which he felt certain had been committed by no one else than Lottie Worgan, and exe- crating the cruelty of the deed from the bot- tom of his heart, he still felt a desire to shield the mistaken creature from the vengeance which he knew must overtake her if appre- hended, and it appeared to him that no better way could be devised to shield her than by bringing Lovel, the head person of the tribe, into such a position that he could learn the facts of the case and adopt what line of de- fense might occur to him. Much as he desired that the crime should not go unpunished, he shrunk from the idea of being her accuser, and of being the means of condemning one who not only had been his companion and play- mate of early life, but one whose very incen- tive to the misdeed was her avowed passion for himself, “It may be as you say,” replied John Caw- sand, walking to the door to communicate with the servant. “I can at least make the experi- ment, and should it fail, Ican set the officers of the law to work immediately. It will be but an hour lost. Here,” he continued, calling the butler to him; ‘‘the pony-phaeton is still in the yard. Go and tell the boy to drive to Gypsy Corner without delay, and ask Richard Lovel, the old man, to come to me at once.” * Yes, sir.” “ And,” whispered Berrington, following the domestic to the door, ‘‘ tell the boy to say that I am here at the Villa, and that I desire his presence particularly.” “Where is Herbert all this time?’ exclaimed the old gentleman, petulantly, resuming his place on the hearth-rug; “he will be ina dread- ful way when he returns, and no wonder! I wish I had taken the lad’s advice some time ago, and driven the pestiferous swarm out, bag and baggage. This settles it. Out they go now, and for good!” Ivan remained silent and in thought. **Most extraordinary thing, eh? What mo- tive could they have in hurting poor Clara? If it had been myself, or even my grandson, I might possibly have. understood it. But why they should have shown such deadly hatred and violence to her, a girl who has scarcely ever come in contact with them, is more than I can imagine.” His listener was frowning, and did not re- ply. “Upon my soul, Berrington,” resumed he, leaving his position suddenly, and seizing the actor’s hand, ‘I owe you a great debt of grat- itude! Ican scarcely tell you what I feel!” He rubbed his hands acress his eyes, and shook alittle in his voice. ‘Miss Meredith is cer- tainly beholden to you for her life, and my grandson that his future wife has been pre- served to him! I shall never forget it, Berring- ton, never! Sit down, and tell me, from first to last, all that you did, and what you think about it.” ‘And you think there is no danger?” asked Ivan, concernedly, as he drew a chair toward him. “Indeed, I trust not. The doctor spoke en- couragingly. ‘The wound was not an extensive one, but the excessive bleeding had exhausted her, That, he says, is' rather favorable than otherwise.” Thank God!” Se Came ge NS nl 43 Re “« And she desires me to tell you,” added Mr. Cawsand, also seating himself, ‘that she hopes, before you leave us, to be able to express her thankfulness to you personally.” At the end of an hour, during which the whole of the adventure had been narrated and commented upon in every conceivable aspect, the butler reappeared, and informed his mas- ter that the phaeton had returned, and that. the Gypsy was waiting in the servants’) quarters, S “ Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Cawsand, hastily ris- ing. ‘Show him in; show him in here, and tell the fellow with the carriage to remain in readiness in case I want him.” Ivan also arose, but more slowly, and walked toward the window. A minute afterward a heavy step was heard outside, and then the door opened, and Richard Lovel was ushered into the apartment. As the old man appeared upon the thresh- old, he paused and looked around him stead- ily. It seemed as if he expected a greater company and was surprised that there were but two. His bearing was not so dignified as it. was on the occasion when the owner of Beech-* wood visited the camp, and he looked down- cast and disturbed. “You have heard of this outrage?’ de- manded Mr. Cawsand, advancing a step, and motioning to the domestic to withdraw and close the door. “T have, sir,” replied the Gypsy, lowering his head and folding his hands before him, “T have heard of it, aud it grieves me to the heart.” - ‘Of course you know,” continued the other, “that the crime was perpetrated by one of your people?” Lovel kept his gaze upon the carpet, and did not reply. “‘“Ah, you do not answerl—you admit it? Who is the woman, and what was the motive?” “T admit that you bave been wronged, Mr, Cawsand, and by one of us,”—his hands were moving restlessly, as if under some painful emution—‘‘but I cannot diselose to you the name of the person. Be merciful, sir, and leave the punishment to nie. Do not seek to bring her before the law!” “No, Lovel. It is a duty I owe to the law, and to the poor young lady who has been so cruelly injured. I must bring her to justice!’ “She is my own flesh and blood, sir!” im- plored the Gypsy. ‘‘Have pity, and let me inflict the punishment! I have the power, sir, I will banish her from the tribe.” “‘ Nonsense, man! ‘You know not what you are talking of! I am glad that you have pointed to the individual in question, and that you repudiate the act; but your own common sense must tell you that it cannot end here, I have a duty to perform in such a case as thie, and it must be carried out. Where is the woman?” “She is my sister’s child, sir, and she is still in the camp. I conceal nothing from you. I knew that something had happened when I saw her return about two hours ago, and what I have since heard as I came along leaves me little room to doubt. I know the motive, sir, and it is not such as you imagine. She meant no harm to you or yours.” ‘““No harm to me or mine!” stormed Mr. Cawsand. ‘To whom, then? Is not Miss Meredith one of my household, and the be- trothed of Mr. Herbert? No harm to me or mine, indeed!” Lovel turned round despairingly, He knew — not what to urge. He felt that he had alleged — nothing in extenuation, and that he could not palliate the deed. Still, he wanted merey. “Tf you wish to screen yourself,” continued Jobn Cawsand, in a determined tone, ‘‘and to save others of the gang from being implicated in the matter, you will furnish me with all the assistance in your power, What is the wo- man’s name?’ “Ivan,” said the Gipsy, suddenly appealing to Berrington, who was an interested listener, and who was moving about uneasily, ‘‘ speak a ere a ‘“ fe i yo. v~ 2¢ J eae pee
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_ mt AE ' word for me; say something to soften the squire’s anger! I thank Heaven that the lady’s life has not been taken; but I know that a crime has been committed. Ivan, he is igno- rant of the cause, It wasa woman’s quarrel, and it had nothing to do with animosity against himself. I am aware of the incentive; I can understand the impulse; but, Ivan, for poor Lottie Worgan’s sake, intercede with the squire, and so turn disgrace away from those that belong to me!” The ‘astonishment of Mr. Cawsand when Lovel called upon Berrington to come to his aid, and invoked him by the familiar name of ** Tyan,” almost had the effect of making bim forget the object of the interview. He looked from one to the other in rapid succession, with a puzzled expression upon his face, and seemed ata loss for words to question the assertions of the speaker, or even to interrupt bim. “Tell him,” the Gypsy went on, bis voice be- coming clearer,:and his utterance more yolu- ble,—“ tell him that the untutored girl ‘con- esived that she had been wronged; that the man she Joved had been weaned from her by Sne of another race, and that she was mad- dened and revengeful, Tell him that the Eastern blood in-our veins is quick to resent; | that weare ignorant and passionate, and that the poor girl considers that in striking at the young lady, she was striking at one who had a injured her mortally. Tell him this, Ivan; not -buskily, “I-must tell him. that it can make the crime lighter, but to ac- count for it.” “Tdo not understand,” said Mr. Cawsand, Pe torel, at the many subjects touched upon Lovel, and at Berrington’s silence. ‘*Why a you address yourself to this gentleman as to one whom you know to be acquainted with the matter you are discussing? On what footing do you stand, that you can use the familiarity of his Christian name alone? I am at a loss; I am perplexed!” Lovel gazed round the room in a troubled manner, and, then turning to Berrington, said It cannot be kept back longer. Harm will come, instead of good, if I withhold it now.” “Say what you will,” returned the actor, “if it can help Lottie, Haveno fear of me, I am not ashamed of my connection.” “Teall him ‘Ivan,’ then,” replied the Gypsy, holding out his band to Berrington, who took it readily, “‘ because be is my grandson!” Your what?’ ** My own grandson, sir.”’ ** Impossible !” ** Not so, John Cawsand. He is my daugh- _ter’s child; but he knows little of our ways, and is nearly a stranger to us. Circumstances of a peculiar nature have made him what he . you a Gypsy! tertained, admired, mate much of, and to is, and have placed him in a sphere above his fellows.” “ Berrington,” said Mr. Cawsand, going to- ward him, and looking at him incredulously, The man whom I have en- whom Iam indebted for the kindly service of to-day, and of that other occasion—you, a » Gypsy! and that man’s grandson!” “ Sir,” said Lovel, whilea little smile played - around his wrinkled features, “does it so astonish you that he‘is my! grandson?” “Tt does; I am astounded!” What will. you say, then, when I tell you that he is yours also?” . The movements and expressions of the three men, as the announcement was made, were something which it is difficult to describe or delineate. The face of the Gypsy was sar- brows. _of such a declaration. his arms upon his chest, lowered his chin, and, He knew ‘well what must be the effect As he spoke, he folded donic. peered forth from under his shaggy eye- There was a lovk of triumph and de- fiance in his attitude, and his listeners were impressed with the gravity of his manner, and bs So se consciousness which he possessed pte ae bag spoken what he could affirm, van the result was as marked as it was on oor Cawsand. He knew the relationship , he bore to Lovel, and he was aware that. for certain reasons which might prejudice him in his profession, that connection had been kept a secret. But he suspected nothing else. The avowal of his grandfather had dismayed him. He was terrified. As for John Cawsand, he recoiled before the man, and regarded him as demented, He flushed at first with anger, and then, almost immediately, as he beheld the old. Gypsy’s | earnestness, the color left, his cheeks and he became perfectly white. ‘¢ How my grandson?” he demanded, forcing | in his hand. his firmness, ‘“‘ What invention is this? What new lying wonder have you brought from Gypsy Corner—eh?”’ Lovel appeared as if about to decline the invitation to explain himself, and reluctant to dwell further upon the subject. “ Speak, man, for God’s sake!” cried the other; ‘‘if there’s anything to be said, say it!” ‘‘ Well, then,” resumed the Gypsy, quietly, ‘‘if the time has come for me to speak, I may not keep silence longer. This has been forced upon me, sir. I never intended that this mat- ter. should be divulged during your lifetime, for reasons which seemed good to me; but the trouble of my niece compels me to say what I am about to, He”—be pointed to Ivan— ‘knows nothing of it. He knows himself, and he is known to us, as Ivan Berrington; but bis real name, the one in which he was baptized and the one he has not yet borne to the world, is John Cawsand.” “What conspiracy is this?’ exclaimed the old gentleman. ‘Do you think my memory cannot go back to ‘the time at which you are hinting, or that I have forgotten anything?’ “What I am speaking of,” returned Lovel calmly, ‘‘ you could not forget, for you never knew,” ‘a3 Eb q”? ‘You were aware of the attachment of your son, some thirty years ago now, to my daughter Ella, my own, my only child. But you never knew that they were actually mar- ried.” “Great Heaven! Across a broomstick in your wretched encampment, I suppose?’ “No, John Cawsand; not so. They were married at St. Agnes Church in Boston, and by the rites of your creed.” He paused, and taking a worn and shabby leather case from his inside pocket, opened it, and bringing forth a paper, held it in_ his hand. “There is a copy of the. certificate of the marriage, and you can see the original when- ever you care to visit St. Agnes Church,” Mr. Cawsand snatched the document from the. Gypsy’s fingers, and carrying it to, the light, eagerly scanned its contents, “The old clergyman who married them ‘still lives,” added Lovel, ‘‘and the other papers can be seen, I allude to the certificates of birth and baptism,” John Cawsand came back from the window, and stared excitedly at Ivan, and then at the weather-beaten man whom he had caused to attend there, The actor was flushed and nervous, and stood regarding the two principal persons of the scene with an earnestness which was almost painful. “Your story,” said Mr. Cawsand, ‘‘ bas been eunvingly conceived, and this paper has been executed according to prescribed form; but if you have/no further proofs, do you think I can be cajoled by sucha flimsy attempt? Do you mean to tell me that my favorite,son acted as you would insinuate without my knowledge, and that he would deceive me? /Do you think it, possible that he could have made such an alliance, and that nothing would have been known of it—that nothing would have leaked out in all these years? Man, it isimpossible!” ‘“* Lswear before Heaven, iit is true! I had moved my tribe that year to the neighbor- hood of Northam,and the young man was parted from us. All the Village, except his father, knew that he came to visit my child _BREAKING THE PE Die. aa a Ella, and when I struck my tents for the sum- | | ' | ee SS ee ee ee nvr a a a eae mer he found out our new abode, and came round in bis yacht. I forbade him; I told bim to go back and seek a mate among: his equals; but the youth was hot and resisted. He proposed to marry her on condition that we kept the matter secret, and in spite of counsel he had his way. It was on the occa- sion of his last visit that his vessel was wreck- ed, and he perished,” ‘ And the wife? ‘She died.” The Gypsy bent his foreéhendl “She died within the twelve- month of her widowhood. She had been taken from among us to a close and busy town, and when the poor lad was lost she broke her heart © and followed him.” “ And the child?’ “T took him. I kept him in the ¢aravan till old enough, and then I placed him at’ school, giving him the name of Ivan Berrington: ‘Tvan,’ as you know, sir, is but another form of ‘ John.’ Iset by money for the purpose, for _I knew who the child was, and who he would be hereafter, and under his new name I had him educated. I knew well what I was doing, John Cawsand. I was determined ‘that my poor chiid’s boy should one day have his rights, and I made the sacrifice. The ‘clergy- man who married his-parents and christened him afterward took him as a pupil, and did’ justice by him, At eighteen years he won some position which entitled him to begin a career ab college, and since that time be has worked bis own way and become what he is.” ** Do you say you can prove all this?” de- manded John Cawsand, in an altered voice. ' ‘“T swear todo so, 1 swear to bring such proof as shall convince you without the’ shadow of a doubt!” The other was silent a: moment; then he suddenly approached Ivan, and drawing him to the window, scrutinized his features. - ‘‘Ts it so?’ he asked, convulsively, as he fancied he traced a likeness—“ is it so? What can you tell me yourself?” “Believe me, sir,” answered Berrington, on whom a visible effect had been produced, “ that Tam surprised and amazed equally with your- self. I have heard the greater part of this story for the first time in my life; but T can quite corroborate that portion of it which re-* lates to myself. All along I have known’ that there was some mystery attached to me, but my grandfather, Lovel, has always promised that at the fitting time it should be disclosed to me. I knew that it related to my parentage, because the name of Berrington is otherwise unknown to me; but'that my suspicions ever pointed in the direction of Beechwood I most: solemnly deny.” The old gentleman moved’ away, and pidia the room for several minutes. The ‘emo-" tions within bim were multitudinous and con- flicting. “At one time’ his ccuntenance’ was dark and lowering; at another, pleased and® gentle. As his eye fell upon the gaunt’old Gypsy, with his gray and straggling locks, his tat- tered habiliments, and his -half-p¥oud, half- deferential mien, the long-standing antipathy came out afresh; and then, again, ‘as he turned and regarded the actor, the man’ who bad won his heart by bis own intrinsic excellence, his gaze became kindly almost to’ tenderness, Suddenly be recollected something; and pausing in bis walk before Richard Lovel, he asked: “ And this woman—this assassin—what of her?” _ “Sir,” replied the Gypsy, ‘‘she was his playmnate”—he bent his head toward Ivan— “and bis only companion while Re dwelt with us, and she loved him. For some reason, she has fancied that she has been supplanted. Not that she had the right to claim his love’in re- turn, for his lips have been guiltléss of ‘ows, and his actions bave been ptire. But the poor girl’s heart was torn with jealousy. She — believed berself scorned and forgotten, and the — young lady, she ey had nag tet rae me,
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. “What! Clara Meredith injured the Gypsy wench? How could the woman be jealous of her?? ‘Because she saw that she loved John Caw- sand, your grandson!” CHAPTER IX, THE TURN OF FORTUNES. “CLARA, my dear;” said Mrs, Witherley, One forenoon, as she entered the drawing-room of Sunnyside and found the young Jady alone at the piano, ‘‘a visitor has just arrivedy and I Shouldn’t be surprised if you are wanted to entertain him.” A visitor, dear Mrs, Witherley? it possibly be?” ‘*Qne who will be pleased to see you, I dare say; but I scarcely know whether you will be equally gratified to see him.” ‘Tell me, like a dear creature, who it is,” “Well, then, your tall, dark acquaintance of Beechwood.” ‘Mr, John Cawsand?” “Yes, my dear, the same,” Clara had asked the question with but ordi- nary interest, for a caller was nothing extra- ordinary at her father’s house; but when she _heard the name, the rich crimson blood mantled in her cheeks, and she rose to cover her confu- sion. “T suppose you are at home, dear?” asked the old lady, who had observed the effect of her communication. “Yes; I think so,’ said Clara, hesitatingly. “Very well, dear, If he should ask to see you, I will bring him here.” Mrs. Witherley quitted the room, and left her charge alone to recover herself. It was two months since the memorable in- terview with the Gypsy at Beechwood Villa, and during that period the actor had merged into John Cawsand’s grandson. Proofs the most incontestable and testimony the most irrefragable had been produced and Sifted. Localities and people had been visited and examined, and,'in the.end, the heir had been acknowledged, and his grandfather, al- ways singularly prepossessed in his favor, had Welcomed him to his roof, and opened to him afresh that part of his heart which his early 8rief had hitherto closed. To one. person onlyythe discovery had been Unpleasant, and that was Herbert. Indeed, the repugnance which he had experienced on their first meeting increased to such an extent that when Ivan’s position was placed beyond doubt, Captain Cawsand suddenly found out that the term of his leave of absence expired the next day, and he rejoined his regiment forthwith. The camp at Gypsy Corner had disappeared Rever to return. r..Cawsand, as one of the Conditions for not proceeding against the un- fortunate niece of Richard Lovel, had paid down to that individual a thousand dollars, Stipulating that the whole tribe should leave the State and find another settlement, the Money being a compensation for the compul- Sory shift of locality. ‘But to go back to Sunnyside. Clara Meredith had not long to turn over in her mind the bearing she ought to adopt to- _Ward the visitor, nor to repress those turbulent ®motions which had been stirred by the notice Which Mrs. Witherley had given her, A light tap at the drawing-room door Warned the young lady that some one was Sbout to enter, and immediately afterward her Chaperon again presented herself, accompanied by the gentleman in question. “Clara, my love, here’s Mr. Berrington—I Mean, Mr. Cawsand! He Says he cannot go back to Beechwood without seeing you. But You must not keep him long, for your father Who can _ Wants to take him round the grounds.” . “Miss Meredith; I am delighted to see you!” _ he said, advancing and taking her hand. “I am on my way home from New York where I ( | | BRE gd ¥ = = «€ A a » Re hia vc : “Come, then, my own, my darling!” The next instant hé had locked her in his arms to his breast, and in that position they were discovered by Mrs. Witherley. THE END. THE » iJ Sunnyside Library 1 Latta Reo@arn. By Thomas Moore..... awed waht 10¢ 2 Don Juan. By Lord Byrons..2..c..6. 88.022 ee 20c 8 Parapise Lost. By John Milton.,............ 10¢e 4 Tue LApy or THE Lake. By Sir WalterScott.. 10c 5 Lucius. By Owen Meredith . 1.2.0.6... et eied 10¢ 6 Unping; or, THE Warter-Spirir, From the German of Friederich De La Motte Fouque.. 10c For sale by all newsdealers, or sent, postage paid on receipt of twelve cents for single numbers, double numbers twenty-four cents. 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Li rary. American Copyright Novels and the Cream of Foreign Novelists, Unabridged, FOR FIVE CENTS! ’ The Gheapest Library Ever Published! a 1 The Masked Bride; or, Will She Ma Him? By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. ir 2 Was It Love? or, Collegians and Sweet- hearts. By Wm. Mason Turner, M. D. a oe va hs Fam 5 By ag nes ni Campbell. rave eart; or, Startlingly St p By Arabella Southworth’ Te ee ae 5 Bessie Raynor, the Work Girl. William Mason Turner, M. D. ci 6 The Seeret Marriage. By Sara Claxton. 7 A Daughter of Eve; or, By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. : eae Rot : eart. = Alone in the World; or, The Young Man’s Ward. By the author of s Clifton,” = & 10 A Pair of Gray Eyes. By Rose Kennedy. 11 Entangled; or, A Dangerous Game. By Henrietta Thackeray. 12 His Lawful Wife; or, Myra, the Child of Adoption. By Mrs. Ann §. Stephens. 13 Madcap, the Little Quakeress 3 or, The Naval Cadet’s Pioning, y Corinne Cushman. 14 Why I Married Him. By Sara Claxton. 15:'A_ Fair Face; Bartley T. Campbell. 16 Trust Her Not; or, A True Knight. Margaret Leicester. linded by Love. 7 A Loyal Lover. By Arabella Southworth. . 8 His Idol; or, The Ill-Starred Marriage. By’ Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 19 The Broken Betrothals; or, Love versus ' Hate. By Mary Grace Halpine. ; 20 Orphan Nell, the Orange Girl; or, The Lost Heir. By Agile Penne. 21 Now and Forever; or, Why Did She Mar- ry Him? By Henrietta Thackeray. 22 The Bride of an Agtor, By the author of ‘“* Alone in the World,” ‘‘ Clifton,” etc, 23 es oda or, Why She Proposed. By Sara axton. 24 Her Face Was Her Fortune, By Elea- | nor Blaine. Co 28 Sybil tis. Ann §. Stephens. uet Girl. arriage. By Sara Claxton. By Agile Penne. 3 ByMary A. Denison 32 Mariana, the Prima Donna; or, Roses and Lilies. By Arabella Southworth. 33 Whe Three Sisters. By Alice Fleming. 34 A Marriage of Convenience; or, Was Hea Count? By Sara Claxton. 35 All Against Mer. By Clara Augusta. 36 Sir Archer’s Bride; or, The Queen of His Heart. By Arabella Southworth. 87 Khe Country Cousin. Rose Kennedy. 38 His Own Again; or; Trust Her Not. By 39 Flir tath ary Payot rtation; or, oung Girl’s Good Name. Ge Fanci Mbatbanell, (Rah. Boyal.) 40 Pledged to Marry. By Sara Claxton. 41 Blind Devotion. By Alice Fleming. 42 Beatrice, the Beautiful; or, His Second Love. By Arabella Southworth. 43 The Baronet’s Secret ; or, The Rival Half- | Sisters. By Sara Claxton. 44 The Only Daughter 5 or, Brother against 45 Her Hidden’ F: rs Love At All Odds en Foe; or, ve At 5 By Arabella Southworth. ” 46 The Little Heiress; or, Under a Cloud. By Mrs. Mary A. Denison. 47 Because She Loved Him; i eo oe By nce graing: n Spite o erself; or, Jeannette’s Repa- ne Pe gg Boh R, Sherwood. - s eart’s stress; or, Love at First Sight, By Arabella Southworth. 50 The Cuban Heiress; or, The Prisoner of La Vintresse. By Mrs. Mary A. Denison, 51 KTwo Young Girls; or, The Bride of an | j Earl. By Alice Fleming. : 62 The Winged Messenger; or, Risking All for a Heart. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 53 sg nee Hope, the Actress. By William ason Turner, M. D. 54 One Woman’s Heart; or, Saved from the Street. By George 8. Kaime. 55 She Did Not Love Him}; or, Stooping to Conquer. By Arabella Southworth. 56 Love-Mad 3 or, Betrothed, Married, Divorced and——. By Wm. Mason Turner, M. D. 57 A Brave Girl. By Alice Fleming. 58 The Ebon Mas By Arabella Southworth. or, Out in the World. By | } By | | 95 Lettice Arnold. or, How Will | 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 usband. 72 The Two Widows. 73 Kose Michel; or, The Girl. By Maud Hilton. By Annie Thomas. als of a Factory | 74 Cecil Castlemaine’s Gage; or, The Story of a Broidered Shield. _By Ouida. ys) bs Black Lady of Duna. By J.8. Le ‘anu. 76 Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. Rowson. Wistake. By the 77 Christian Oak AG author of ‘‘ John Halifax, Gentleman,” etc. 78 My Young Husband; or, A Confusion in the Family. By Myself. WOA ueen Amongst Women. By the author of ‘‘ Dora Thorne,”’ etc., ete. 80 Her Lord and Master. By Florence Marryat. 81 Lucy Temple, Sister of Charlotte. 82 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 Bliot. 87 The Romance ofa Poor Young Man. By Octave Feuillet. 88 A Terrible Deeds; or, All for Gold. By | Emma Garrison Jones. 89 A Gilded Sin. By the author of ‘Dora Thorn,” ete. 90 The Author’s Daughter, Howitt. 918 The Jilt. By Charles Reade, 92 Eileen 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, By Mrs. Marsh. 96 Haunted Hearts. . By Rachel Bernhardt. 97 Hugh Melton. By Katharine King. 98 Alice Learmont. By Miss Mulock. 99 Marjorie Bruce’s Lovers. By Mary Patrick. j 100 Through Fire and Water. By Fred- erick Talbot. Hannah, Peg Woffington. A Desperate Deed. By Erskine Boyd. Shadows on the Snow. By B. L. Far- jeon. The Great Hoggarty Diamond. By W. M. Thackeray. From Dreams to Waking. By E. Lynn Linton. Poor Zeph! By F. W. Robinson. The Sad Fortunes of the Rev. Amos Barton. By George Eliot. By .Mary By Mss Mullock. By Charles Reade. 109 Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses. By B. L. Farjeon. 110 The Wandering Heir. By Charles Reade. yet ; The Brother’s Bet; or, Within Six Weeks. By Emilie Fiyeare Carlen. ulock A Hero. By Miss 4 Paul and Virginia. From the French of Bernardin De'St. Pierre. 114 °fwas Im Trafalgar’s Bay. By Wal- ter Besant and Jamos Rice. : 115 The Maid of Killeeno. By Wm. Black. 116 Hetty. By Henry Kingsloy. ‘ 117 The ayside Cross; or, The Raid of Gomez. By Captain E. ‘A. Milman. 118 The Vicar of Wakefield. By Oliver Goldsmith. 119 Maud Mohan. By Annie Thomas. 120 Thaddeus of Warsaw. By Miss Jane Porter z 121 The King of No-Land. By B. L. Far- eon. 122 Lovel, the Widower. By W. M. Thack- eray. F 123 An Island Pearl. By B. L. Farjeon. 124 Cousin Phillis. . 125 Leila; or, The oe of Grenada. By Ed- ward Bulwer @Lord Lytton). 126 When the Sh Comes Home. Walter Besant and James Rice. _ ‘ 127 One of the Family. By James Payn. 128 The Birthright. By Mrs. Gore. 129 Motherless; or, The Farmer’s Sweetheart. By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. or, The Mysterious - 13 j Guardian. Ree Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 130 Pomvchoest OF ra orphan Girls in New 59 eel Be wileas or, A Bitter-Vengeance. | 131 Sister against Sister 3 or, The Rivalry cf G0 Cecil's Deceit; or, The Diamond Legacy. | 439 Sold or Gold. BY Mis, M. V. Victor 61 ae re ee By Gara (iasind 133 Lord Roth's Sin. By Georgiana ae. 62 The cee om ee ay Barearet Blount. 134 me He Love Her? By Bartley qT. nye e Creole Sisters. By Anna E. Porter. i fd G4 What Jealousy Did, "By Alice Fleming. | 136 WABGhe Gate Wire? ‘By tire. Mary Reed 65 The Wife’s Secret. By Col. Juan Lewis, Crowell. 66 A Brother’s Sim or, Flora’s Forgiveness, | 137 The Village on the Cliff, By Mise _ By Rachel Bernharit, = / Thackeray. ma - v7 a» tt ee ee ee! OD AAW © D QAD By | 138 Poor Valeria! The Broken Troth By Margaret Blount. 139 Wiargaret Graham. By G. P. R. James 140 Without Mercy. By Bartley T-Campbell, 141 Honor Bound, By em ovejoy. — 142 Blocking from Love. By Mrs. Harrie rving. 143 Abducted; or, A Wicked Woman’s Work. By Rett Winwood. I 144 A Strange Marriage. By Lillian Lovejoy. 145 Two Girl’s Lives. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 146 A Desperate Wenture; or, for Love Own Sake. By Agabella Southworth. 147 The War of Hearts. By Corinne Cush- man. 148 Which Was the — 2 or, Strangely Misjudged. By Sara Claxton. 349 An Ambitious Girl; or, She Would Be An Actress. By Frances Frelen Davenport. Lovo Lord of All, By Alice May Fleming, A Wild Girl. By Corinne Cushman. A Man’s Sacrifice. By Harriet Irving. Did She Sin. By Mrs. piary. Reed Crowe. He Loves Me Not. By Lillian Lovejoy. Winning Ways. By Margaret Blount. What Sho Cost Mim; or, Crooked Paths, By Arabella Southworth. A Girl’s [lcart, By Rett Winwood. A Bitter Mistake; or, A Young Girl's Folly. By Agnes Mary Shelton. Lady Helen’s Vows; or, The Mother’s Secret. By the Late Mrs. fe. F. Ellet. or, DMF HikhwweHS SrSr Sr Sr Sr ore 1 Sror veo ow MD s¥AHer By Georgiana By A Parson’s Jennie Davis Buying a Heart. By Lillian Lovejoy. Pearl of Pearls, By A. P. Morris, Jr. A Fateful Game; or, Wedded and Parted, By Sara Claxton. The Creole Cousins 3 or, False as Fair, By Philip 8. Warne. A Seathing Ordeal; or, May Langiey’s Mad Marriage. By Mrs. Georgiana Dickens, A Strange Girl. By Albert W, Aiken. A Man’s Sin. = Winwood. ‘The Hand of Fate; or, The Wreck of Two Lives. By Arabella Southworth, Two Fair Women. By Wm. M. Turner. Tempted Through Love; or, One Woman’s Error. By Lillian Lovejoy, Blind WBarbara’s Secret. By Mary Grace Halpine: 171 A Woman’s Witchery; or, Through Much Tribulation. By Sara Claxton. 172 Black Eyes and Blue. By Corinne Cushman. 173 The Cost.of a Folly. Dickens, ; 174 The Pretty Puritan. Daughter. 175 is Love a Mockery? or, Revenge is Sweet. By Arabella Southworth. Adria, the Adopted. By Burton. For the Woman He Loved; or, Fate- fal Links. By Agnes Mary Shelton. ‘The Locked Heart. By Corinne Cushman, Parted by Treachery. By Harriet Irving. Was She a Wite? or, The Proof of Love. By Rett Winwood. nder a Clouds; or, A Daughter's Sus- picion, By Sara Claxton. An American Queen} or, The Heart of Gold. By Grace Mortimer. A Point of Honor; or, Diamond Cut Diamond. . By Lillian Lovejoy. : Pursued to the Altar. By Corinne Cushman. ; Put to a Test; or, A Fortune Hunter’s Fate. By Georgiana Dickens. 186 The Ferrible Truth; or, The Thornhurst Mystery. By Jennie Davis Burton. 187 Outwitted by Herself; or, A Mother's Scheme, By Arabella Southworth. 188 Florette, Child of the Street; or, A Pear! Beyond Price. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 189 Mer Guardian’s Sacrifice ; or, A Name in the Balance. By Sara Claxton. 190 Pretty and Proud; or, The Gold-Bug of Frisco. By Corinne Cushman. 191 A Woman’s Maneuver} or, Purse, not Heart. By Lillian Lovejoy. 192 Whe Bitter Feud. By Jennie Davis Bur ton. 193 Breaking the Fetters; or, The Gypsy’s Secret. By Georgiana Dickens. 194 The Mysterious Guardian; or, Little Clare, the Opera Singer. By Corinne Cushman. 195 Im the Balance; or, A Shadowed Love. By Arabella Southworth. « ~ : 196 Jule, the Jewess; ‘or, the Miser Millions aire. “By Dr. Noel Dunbar. cm . A new issue every week. Tan WaverLey Liprary is for sale by ali News déalers: five cents per copy, or sent by mail on re ceipt of six cents each. 7. EADLE ADAMS, Publishers, ¥ og William street, New York.