Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 203) (1883 10 02)
The text was read from the page scans by machine (OCR), so it has mistakes and its columns may run together. See the pages · About this title · At the Internet Archive
Page 1
mer » 7 * va fan | ‘ 4 cf 4 as oN ia ‘ i F ’ , € ; fh é ; =" 4 ah y $ 7 : . 2. é sd ’ ~ ~ nwt { “ f my Se iy . th - af Pe: : ‘The Cream of American and» Boreign Novels for Five Cents! : NT TK i Nee sa i ) | im , of, THE, BARGAIN a ‘9 BETWEEN THEM, BY LHDLDLLAN : LOVEAIO Y, . AUTHOR OF “SINNED AGAINST,” ‘‘HONOR BOUND,” ‘‘A STRANGE MARRIAGE,” ETC., ETC. 4 ” i ‘ a N- NY N hs SARA ge ay i i) Ni 4 WN) ; iN aaa 4 1h} ny. A : ¥ 1, iN . Ae det true toe Seats eee - - f a ) va PREG as 1 Zp Ze \ : aS NS ‘“¥ SOON CAUSED THE FELLOW TO MEASURE HIS LENGTH ON THE GROUND.” — hie easy a ] aha nee > IP Beis ; > ey
Page 2
$ — OR, Between Them, BY LILLIAN LOVEJOY, AUTHOR OF “HE LOVES ME NoT,” “BUYING A - HEART,” ‘A. POINT OF HONOR,” ETC. CHAPTER I. AN UNWELCOME SUITOR. “A spacious, plainly-furnished room, with heavy old-fashioned furniture, faded crimson curtains, closely drawn because the evening was chilly although the season was spring, and a bright fire burning on the hearth, beside which were seated an elderly man, pale, ema- ciated, evidently an invalid, and a beautiful girl of eighteen, his only daughter. Perhaps no greater contrasts in appearance ever held so near a relationship as Joshua Thornton and the fair Beatrice. He, small and awkward in figure, sharp-featured, red- haired, with prominent blue eyes glancing quickly from under his scant eyelashes; she, tall and finely molded, with brown hair artis- tically coiled round her well-shaped head, and dreamy, dark orbs capable of flashing‘ with pleasure, enthusiasm, or even anger, according to the mood of the moment. _Beatrice inherited her beauty and impulsive temperament from her mother, the daughter of an Italian refugee, who, driven from his native land, bad settled many years before in Madison. Poor Signor Cannaro, in his struggle with poverty, was glad to give his black eyed Giulia io marriage to the ill-favored, cross-grained attorney, at that time the principal legal lumi- nary of the quiet country town. And if the Southern flower faded and died within the first year of her wedded life, such misfortunes will occur to dissolve the happiest unions, “The evenings seem colder than ever, though it is nearly the end of April,” grumbled Mr, Thornton, holding his hands over the welcome blaze. “ Yet it is wanton extravagance to have a fire.” ‘* You are only just recovering froma severe illness,” returned his daughter. ‘‘ The doctor advises you to keep in a warm room for fear of a relapse.” ' “Will he pay the coal bill or for the wine which he orders me to take?—I, who have never tasted wine for the last ten years, ex- cepting of course when I dined with a client, But doctors are a selfish race, thinking of noth- ing but their fees. Are you not of my opinio Beatrice?” Pees The girl, bending over her work, murmured a careless affirmative. “How dull and listless you are!” he pursued, in the | complaining tone. “My clerk, Maxwell, has my’ interest at heart | tay own child.” tired of these sordid cares,” sighed ‘f Besides, I could never understand rty stole so suddenly upon us, and all clients fell away altogether.”’ 1ances of fortune, my dear; just the ill-luck that sometimes. defeats ail a Ec ts to succeed in life.””- ir. Thornton, however, did not consider it expedient to give full details of the circum- stances which had occasioned his descent from the once respectable rank he held ‘in his pro- fession, pride . s chief patron had been the“Hon. Claude Carew, owner of Fairview and its adjoining estate; but there was an ugly story of discredit- able proceedings on the lawyer’s part in some business negotiations which he was transacting _ on his client’s behalf and ostensibly in his in- te. whisper of betrayed confidence and an ac- bribe reached the Hon. Mr. Carew’s nd without any unnecessary delay, that ul gentleman transferred the manage- \ ra -PASSION’S REPRISAL. ment of his legal affairs to a firm in a different portion of the town, ~ a (agp eat _ From that hour Joshua’s fortune steadily de- clined. Though no specific charge bad been made against him, people would not.employ aman upon whom suspicion affixed a brand. Henceforth his professional duties led: him into a sphere tainted by crime, and among clients anxious to engage the services of a lawyer not over-troubled with conscientious scruples. There was a short silence after the last re- mark, then Beatrice said, with another sigh: ‘“T wish I were an heiress like Miss Merriton. She rides past sometimes on her bay mare, looking so bright and happy.” “The girl is well enough; and if she were as ugly as sin, I should still say he is a lucky fel- low who wins her. Old Merriton is a million- aire, and she will inherit his wealth.” ‘*No doubt he expects her to marry a for- tune, but there is many a poor man who would gladly lay his heart at her feet, for she is beau- tiful and accomplished in addition to her wealth.” ““They say Claude Carew is looking after her as a suitable wife for his eldest son; but I doubt whether there is truth in the report.” “Tell me what you have heard!” cried Beatrice, eagerly, fixing her bright eyes upon her father; ‘‘not in that vague manner, but word for word!” “Why, bless me, how interested you have grown concerning the Carews and Merritons!” said Mr. Thornton. ‘Let them marry as they please, it can make no difference to us.” “Of course not,” she replied, with rather a nervous laugh; “‘ but women are always curious upon subjects relating to love and matrimony, and I am no exception tothe rule. Miss Mer- riton will make a handsome bride, father.” ‘* That is according to people’s taste. There are other girls far prettier than she.” A knowing glance gave point to the obser- vation; then Mr. Thornton, with the satisfied air of one who believes he is making a remark highly aeceptable to the hearer, added, ‘‘Je- rome Maxwell says you are the beauty of Madison.” “ T knew he admired me,” returned Beatrice, quite unimpressed by the compliment; “ but, unluckily, Mr. Maxwell’s opinion is of no great value.” “You are so hard to please,” said her father, fretfully; ‘‘you might have married before now if you had ‘not been so fanciful. I really do not see any reasonable objection you can entertain toward Jerome. He has been my head clerk for many years, and it shows ex- cellent feeling in the young man, that although he has lately come into a good deal of property under the will of a deceased uncle, he still per- forms his accustomed duties in the office.” ~ “He is a very estimable man, I believe,” she answered, coldly. “Yes, and not bad-looking. Men do not criticise often one anotber’s personal appear- ance, but he strikes me as being a fine fellow— eh, Beatrice?” ‘‘ Probably some folks might call him hand- some.” “T thought you would say so. After all, you are a sensible girl, and not blind to your own interests.” é **T do not expect to derive any material ad- vantage from my appreciation of Mr. Maxwell’s endowments.” Joshua Thornton looked earnestly at his daughter, vainly trying to read whether her indifference was assumed or real. “Perhaps you will not treat the matter so lightly,” he said at length, in some displeasure, “* when you hear that I am anxious you should marry Jerome.’ Things are going with me worse than ever, but if I could persuade him to become my partner, and put his money in the firm, we might start afresh, as it were, and extend the connection.” « He paused, but she remained silent, still ply- ing her needle industriously. ' “Jerome is..a careful lad,” he continued— “a thorough man of business. It is doubtful if I could persuade him to risk his recently ac- _ quired inheritance without your influence. He admires you greatly; I think he loves you, or would, if he saw a chance of winning recipro- eal_regard. Give him encouragement, Bea- trice; he would make you a good husband, and the marriage would. bind together our in- ‘terests.” . ‘‘ But I do not love him, father.” . ‘‘Marry him first, and love him afterward; that is the proper course of procedure for a modest young woman to adopt. I have no patience with the mawkish sentimentality of a school-girl who fancies her heart is irrevocably given to the first fool that pays her a compli- ment,” <T have not theslightest intention of marry- ing at present,” observed Beatrice, in a tone of decision. ‘Grant me patience with this self-willed girl!” exclaimed Mr. Thornton, twisting his fingers in his thin hair, as if intending to pull it out by the roots. ‘‘ When I tell her she might render me a service, and settle herself advantageously in life by becoming the wife of a sensible, agreeable, good-looking young map, she refuses with as little hesitation as if such chances were met with every hour in the day.” After thus apostrophizing an invisible audi- ence, Joshua flung himself back in his chair, meditating on the rebellious conduct of daugh- ters in general, and his own in particular. Suddenly he started into an upright position, and seemed to listen intently. At the same instant a slight flush arose upon Beatrice’s delicate cheek. omg “Do you not hear a footstep on the gravel path below?” he whispered—“ the footstep of @ man slowly pacing past the house?’ “Tt is but fancy,” she answered, quietly, though the blush deepened. : ““T am growing weak and nervous since MY illness. 'The house stands im such an isolate position, with no other inmates save ourselves and Bridget, and there are so many bad cbal- acters. about, that I live in constant dread of burglars!” ‘“‘ We possess nothing to excite their cupid- ity.” ; Ni I have known men who would massacre 4 city or sell their own souls for a five-dollar bill,” argued Mr. Thornton, ‘It is dangerous to indulge in false security.” . ‘“ We have lived here for years in safety.” . “But I have always taken proper precau- tions. For instance, every night .a loaded pistol is placed near my bedside, though now I doubt if my nerveless hand could pull, the trig- ger. I must teach you how to fire a pistol, Beatrice.” / “Father, we should frighten Bridget out of her senses,” smiled the girl. “Never mind that, child. Here is the key of the old oaken bureau; open the second drawer and—” “Mr, Maxwell bas called, sir, and wishes to see you,” interrupted a pleasant voice, as aU elderly woman’s round, good-tempered visag? — peeped in at the door—“if so be you're nob too ill to receive company.” “Tam well enough to receive a friend,” a0- swered Joshua. ‘And, Beatrice, mind you give him a cordial welcome,” he continued, 4§ the old domestic took her way down-stalrs, soon returning to usher in her visitor. Jerome Maxwell’s appearance would hav® prepossessed many persons in his favor. He was tall, stoutly built, but not ungrace ful, fresh-complexioned, with gleaming white teeth constantly displayed, sleek black hair, and carefully-trimmed mustache. His eyes were of a reddish-brown, bright and restless. He dressed with gentlemanly taste, his mov® ments were quiet, his manners unobtrusiv® and the hand which clasped Beatrice’s finger’ - with tender pressure was white and well- shaped. ee i “We did not expect so late a visitor,” said Joshua, when the first salutations were over. “T heard you approaching the house, an mistook you for a burglar.” —- ; ins ; ; ae, = 1 P pages ‘ =, 1%
Page 3
2p A ei “Young Barton drove’ me here in his dog- cart,” returned Jerome, lightly; “it was on his way home. We came up the lane, and as Bridget happened. to be standing at the back entrance she let me in that way. So J did not startle you, Mr. Thornton.” } Well, anyway, you are welcome. I like to hear the day’s news, and it cheers my little girl to see a friendly face after enduring all day the society of her peevish old father.” “T should indeed be happy if my company afforded Miss Beatrice pleasure,” said the young man, with an ardent glance at the beautiful girl, who neither flushed nor paled beneath his gaze; ‘‘but I fear you, overrate my influ- ence.” He seated himself nearly opposite the object of his admiration, whose countenance he scanned as if seeking some token that his pres- ence was more than tolerated; while Joshua, though not generally famed for hospitality, pressed him to partake of some refreshment, Jerome declined. “No, thanks, Idined late to-day, and now want a little private conversation with you and Miss Beatrice.” No one could have guessed from her calm exterior how quickly her heart was beating as he significantly uttered these words. ‘‘ Why should I attempt. to conceal the rea- son of my visit?” he continued after a moment’s pause. ‘There is nothing like honesty and candor among friends. Do you not think, Mr. Thornton, that if an honorable man intends be- coming.a lady’s, suitor, be should be equally anxious to obtain the approval of her lawful guardian. as well as that of the iady herself? ‘* Certainly; achbiag 084 show higher prin- siple,” agreed his friend. } pass se Mr, Thornton, I solicit your permis- sion to tell your daughter of the love with which she has inspired me.” ; “That permission is gladly given, A “Thanks; I had ventured to reckon upon your approbation. And now, Miss Thornton —Beatrice, will you accept the hand and heart I offer?” ; d “Ido not admire your fashion of wooing before witnesses,” she replied, her ripe lips curl- ing rather scornfully. ‘‘ However, 1 am grate- ful for the honor you do me, and— : “She accepts your proposal, ? broke, in Joshua, fearing a rejection. “Henceforth we are one family, to sink or swim together. You understand me, Maxwell?” “‘ Perfectly, Mr. Thornton.” And Beatrice, noticing the lock of intelligence exchanged be- tween the two, felt that the matter had been previously discussed more freely than her father had led her to suppose. s On the: day when this dear girl becomes my wife, he con- tinuad entbusiastically, ‘‘you and 1 will enter into another kind of partnership, and the wed- ding guests who drink the health of bride and bridegroom shall do honor to the toast of Bac- cess to the firm of Thornton and Maxwell.’’ “But you are mistaken,” cried Beatrice, summoning up her courage, though her father 8 fiery glance sought to awe her into silence, ‘‘I have not given my consent.” “But you will, dearest, when I tell you that all my hopes are centered in our union.” “Tt cannot) be,” she murmured, ‘* Pray urge me no more,” ‘ Perhaps Miss Thornton has set her affec- tions on another,” observed Jerome, with a gloomy brow. ‘‘In that case, I have no chance of success.” t “Nonsense, man; you are faint-hearted, re- turned the father,, ‘‘It is my whim to lead a secluded. life and see little or no society... Bea- trice, like a dutiful daughter, stays at home, and has no opportunity of forming attach- ments, You need fear no rival, Maxwell.” “Ts that so?” cried Jerome, his brown eyes ‘seeming to emit sparks of fire. ‘ Are your af- fections unwon?” She bowed her head in acquiescence, not. trusting her lips to speak. ; I ‘‘Then let me hope that in time you will re- gard my pretensions with more favor. It en tet Ee a ete 5 ee ‘ og er TS re eae AB le .-* 7 ine PASSION’S REPRISAL. shall be my triumph to overcome this calm |. indifference, and win you for my own.” ‘‘ From this hour I regard Beatrice as your affianced wife!” whispered Joshua Thornton, encouragingly. ' CHAPTER. II. A CLANDESTINE MEETING. THE gorgeous sunset of a lovely midsummer evening covered the west in vivid tints of crimson and gold, as two young men paced up and down the long terrace fronting the noble pile of buildings belonging to Fairview; both smoking their cigars meditatively, and each seeming to find his own thoughts more interest- ing than conversation. Much alike in feature and figure, nearly the same hight, and only differing a year in age, Everard and Kenneth Carew were often taken for twin brothers; but though resembling one another in personal appearance, their charac- ters were dissimilar, Everard was thought- less, impulsive, and extravagant, disliking all serious pursuits, and never looking beyond the pleasure of the hour; while Kenneth was somewhat grave, and, like his father, tevacious of the family honor and proud of the Carew name. ! The one passed the greater.portion of his time in the stables, where he was on familiar terms with every groom and helper; the other might be described as his father’s prime minis- ter, who) was consulted on all business con- nected with the estate, which, however, he was! unlikely ever to inherit, as Mr, Carew, with true old English ideas derived from: his ancestors, had willed Fairview and all the sur- rounding property to his oldest son, with the proviso that he. should do the same if he had children—if not, it. would revert to Kenneth or his heirs, : The silence at length became oppressive to the vivacious heir, He threw, away the end of his: cigar,; yawned repeatedly, and then re- marked, ‘‘ Really, life seems dull and mono- tonous in this, quiet country town, and makes me regret our merry college days, which were too soon over. Do you not find the atmosphere of Fairview more. aristocratic than pleasant, Kenneth?” “T manage to make, myself tolerably com- fortable,” replied his brother; ‘‘but, then, I am not so thorough a Bobemian at. beari as youare. However, if you were dull, why did you not accompany father to Newark, where the races are held, to-morrow? I know he was vexed at your refusa),” “Thad a particular reason for wishing to remain at home.. There is a certain fair lady I must see this evening.” ‘You mean Lilian Merriton?’ observed Ken- neth, with embarrassment. ‘‘Not I; the millionaire’s heiress may be a very pretty girl, but she is not to my taste. I like fire and spirit, not mild insipidity,” ‘There is nothing insipid about the beauty of Lilian Merriton,” returned the other, flush- ing with anger. ‘‘ Hers is a pure and delicate loveliness, which steals upon the heart instead of taking it by storm, Her golden hair is like a saint’s aureole; her eyes reflect the sweet serenity of the soul within.” Everard burst into a hearty fit of laughter. ‘“‘How poetical we are! Why, Kenneth, you are evidently deeply smitten.” ‘There is no shame in loving a woman like Lilian, though I have tried to conquer my_af- fection, believing she was destined one day, to be your wife.” ‘** You may feel at ease as regards my rival- ry; so go in and win,” ‘« You forget, Everard, that Mr. Merriton is likely to regard every suitor of Jess wealth than himself in the light of a fortune-hunter; and Lilian herself. might misconstrue my mo- | tives.” i os ) pid ‘And think you admired her. I 8 dowry and great expectations even mor » than her pretty self, eh, my boy?” ot ae “Tt might be so; yet I scarcely think that. ‘ ; Tia | and Everard, after looking she would so misjudge me,” LAs ors. eet Se Pee Re RTE oe | sider—”’ be useful to him in matters of business. Ifyou = condemn my choice, at least do justice to the — 2 sith Llove.”..my of “Lam ob-gaole! bot sas oo Soon after, Kenneth, re-entered the bouse; i ‘* A clear case,of Ripdved hearts and secret sympathies,” laughed, Everard. _‘‘ Well, Ken- neth, rest quite secure that,I shall not damage your cause, for, in truth, I am desperately in love with another fair maiden,” “T am glad itis so, for I know our:father is anxious you should marry early, and, perhaps, then you may grow more contented with the quiet life which we lead... Can I guess the name of the lady of your. choice? Is it Ma- rion Howe, or one of the Misses Delavere?” Everard was in his turn slightly confused, ‘‘ Your suspicions have fallen quite wide of Pat the mark. Indeed, I suppose your prejudices will be shocked when I tell you that my choice has fallen on Lawyer Thornton’sdaugh- ~~ ter.” ‘*Impossible!” cried Kenneth, a ‘“Why impossible? She seems to me just —_ the sort of filly to reconcile a man to the idea Hi. of running in double harness,” ‘But her father is a rogue—a syindler!’,, | “What hard names you are giving,the venerable old gentleman! But as. I bavemno intention of marrying Aim, it does not-mat- _ > ter.” anit a ' “You know the very sound of, his name » > f : | J sends father into. a fury.” libw fe® =f: “ Beatrice will change her name whenshe = marries me, so the governor’s ears will, not,be . molested by the obnoxious cognomen,” .5; ‘a ‘““He would, never consent to such a degrad- * ing alliance.” whey ‘Most likely not, if his consent were asked. We must. marry privately... When. the knot ma was tied and,could not, be unfastened, he would - ¥ forgive. us,” avn, steht ~ “You would not, break oti father’s heart!”, “Tt is not quite,so brittle as"you imagine. Besides, if his fayorite son can win a wealthy heiress, it will afford him ample consolation for my shortcomings.” tn ef “emilee eee “Does Thornton know.of,.this?”asked Ken: neth,. suspiciously, . ‘‘Has he assisted his — daughter in drawing you. into the net?” _ . “To do the fellow. justice, he, is in perfect ignorance of the love- vows exchanged between us, If there is blame in. the matter, itrests = =~ on no one save myself, pate first at church, was bewitched by her loveliness, after- = ward managed to meet her bas narenen® = in her morning rambles, until, one | y i day, I was fortunate enough to relieve ber = from the persecution of a half-drunken tramp, aT who, not satisfied with the alms sinpagtie. stowed, was. proceeding to extort. more by 3/3 sundry alarming menaces, Isoon caused the fellow to; measure ‘his length on the ground; £ and the lady, struck by the prowess of ber a knight, though at; first prettily coy, rewarded him with her gratitude, her triendsb cmd. ee A eventually her love!” PET elie at ire “TI fear all this will end badly!” observed = Kenneth, thoughtfully, ‘I wish I bad mot heard your secret!” _ Peake heavy “If you cannot approye, at Yeast yo on} not betray me?” said mae hastily. | y ae your own love for Lilian Merriton I ask you: to respect my confidence,” Wi ee 4 hae “You need not fear; but if your word be. — ee not yet pledged, I would entreat you to recon- _ , a “Tt is too late!” rejoined his brother, a! i. fiercely. ‘‘ The gil has icons, heoanit around» “dl my very heart-s ! I would a thousand eG sooner, than a her!” : pe . ; ‘““May she be worthy of such love!” sighed = Kegpneih Seated es ; vient ‘T cou er more than worthy !— eS. ee pearl of price! And, hark ye, ; ele mien AE miss af once from your mind the notion et \ ie ae have been inveigled into this engagement! On the contrary, Beatrice néeded much wooing before she owned her affection; while, as to a $ her father, I hear he is persistently urging ber = to marry his head-clerk, Maxwell, who would — 4 - es ati, bis .watebs o. 4 bes i, a , SP ner A ag i‘ 4 sie Paar she} alee el 3 Pee SRY ne Fey cc ee TN eee o aero EP Pil ae * Neg Ay eer eae r= Th
Page 4
pega ate down the avenue, finding him- in the dusty country road which saeets. Thornton’s ugly red-brick resi- ‘The moon was slowly rising in the cloudless ; ®ky, the stately trees rustled in the soft even- "ing ‘breeze, as he stopped at the well-known _wicket-gate, and glanced at the window of “Beatrieo! S apartment. ; A light was shining through the curtain, ¥ signaling that she would be able to leave the % house without fear of discovery; and as he ' £tood a moment gazing on the welcome beacon, old Bridget emerged from the shadows. ' Ob, there you are at last, Mr. Everard!” oe ried the old woman, who was a devoted ad- ‘ herent of the lovers. ‘‘She has been weary- ing for your coming, poor lamb! Her heart is héavy to-night; maybe you'll be able to ‘ebeer it!” “Is Miss Thornton ill or in trouble?’ in- eee quired the young man, eagerly, struck by the 4 dolorous expression of the woman’s counte- Fe sane, and fearing he knew not what. y ~¥-'“Bhe will tell you herself. But don’t stay : ‘g0 mear the house; master has sharp ears, and . maight bear us talking. " “T will await her coming at the usual spot. a Good-by, Bridget! Tell your young mistress I * gm impatient to'see her!” agg He ‘strolled to the end of the lane, and took - station under the canopy formed by the A Made branches of a fine maple tree, -| ' Often “had he and Beatrice held their tryst 7 penceth its shadow. He had even fashioned ‘a rustic’ seat with a large bough growing near ms ground, “There he sat down to rest, until he saw the 47 g girl gliding through "the darkness, and ae | gowns to meet her. oh - '*T have been more cautious’ this evening, darling!” he whispered, smiliug, as he pressed her to his heart, and put aside the waving \ “curls that fell over her smooth, low forehead. “You will not have to scold’ me again for Hsin, # your father’s suspicions. But what is : é a yee wine = on with tears! Dearest, , a weeping aa aged herself from his embrace. : iho ‘thoonbeams showed him that she was “! e. pale, and that her lips’ were quivering, as ve 1 pain.’ i “Hor voice was strangely hollow and broken ar ds she said: | oe ' “Everard, this must be our last meeting, i * unless” your’ loye is strong enough to triumph he OR per difficulties for my sake!” . “What mean you, Beatrice? What would ' "you have me’ do?” «TT dare not tell you! You would deem me Keay bold—unmaidenty! I must fulfill my fate, and ie ‘marry Jerome Maxwell to-morrow!’ Have I been deceived in you? ‘Are you a . flirt, a jilt,” ‘he cried; angrily, “instead of the gentle, aff ne i gn girl whose promises I be- : would ne ver be broken?” <t ' “¥ghall never’ cease to love you,” she an- Spal ‘sweréd, weeping; “though soon such love will acy -be my misery and shame.” ~~ “a “But "this ‘Maxwell he persisted. “Why | -} does he daré ‘continue bis persecution, and force you into marriage against your inclina- tion?” (FOE eli i: ©T have ‘not ‘ventured to confess my aver- -. # sion ‘to’ thé prospect,” she faltered; ‘and my See leadings | for delay are treated ’as childish ob % a i “Surely you can assert your’ right to be --*- @onsulted on sucha subject. If you cared for me, you would successfully resist a coercion pats! which parts us forever.” it - “But my duty as a daughter appears to hoe v4 | demand the ‘sacrifice, ” sighed Beatrice, ‘‘It pam seems that my father has incurred responsibili- beat ties he cannot meet, and Mr. Maxwell promises to gees all demande’ when I become his wife. “You belong to me,” he affirmed, energetic- st ally, “and have no right to dispose ‘of yourself ‘ae Ecol my —_ Do you K tatgee the an wat ‘be married quietly as soon as possible. then be" " Papa’s partner, you know,” PASSION’S REPRISAL. evening when we exchanged rings, and I gave you half the gold-piece which the blacksmith had broken, telling you to wear it round your neck as a love-token until death divided us? Have you forgotten all the vows you whispered in return? Surely there is nothing so thor- oughly weak and vacillating as a woman’s fancy!” Beatrice was stung by his reproaches. “Instead of blaming me,” she said, impetu- ously, ‘‘ why do you not rescue me from a fate which I abhor? Come with me now to my father, confess our engagement, promise to aid him in his difficulties—you are a richer man than Jerome Maxwell—and afterward you can ask Mr. Carew’s consent to our union.” ““My dear girl, I have told you before of my father’s prejudices,” ‘They may be overcome, I have too long supported the ignominy attending these secret meetings, and now your reproaches wound me to the quick. I love you, Everard, faithfully as ever; no happiness the world could give would be comparable to that of being your wife. But in thus frankly owning my devo- tion, I expect a corresponding unselfishness on your side. For my sake you must endure your father’s anger, and yourself bid Jerome Max- well withdraw his pretensions to the hand of your affianced wife.” Very beautiful she looked, standing erect before bim. The Southern blood of her Italian mother was coursing through her veins in passionate warmth, her dark eyes flashed, her closely- clinched band was held against her beating heart. Never had Everard seen her so deeply moved, “Be calth, darling,’”? he murmured, with all a man’s horror of a scene, ‘‘ while I explain to you how erroneous is your opinion of the position which I hold. In the first place, Beatrice, I am not a rich man, but entirely dependent on my father during his lifetime; secondly, I must tell you that he has made me the heir of Fairview on the condition that I marry to suit him, and if I seriously offend him now, I may be a considerable loser at his death. Therefore, common-sense and prudence compel me to be cautious.” “Everard, you have said enough; bid me farewell, and let me go.” Her pride was fired. She loved him still; but his hesitation in risking pecuniary advantages for the sake of ‘the woman he professed to adore, seemed to her base and unmanly. “Stay awhile,” he entreated, his. brain whirling with conflicting emotions. ‘“ Let us consult what is best to be done,” * Tt is wiser to subrhit to the inevitable,” she replied. ‘‘Our love has been a bright, brief dream, which must be put aside for the stern realities of life. I must attempt to do my duty as Mr. Maxwell’s wife, while you, Everard, will doubtless soon forget me, and be the happy husband of a bride selected by your father’s wisdom.” Very bitterly she spoke, though her eyes were heavy with unshed tears, and her hand grew cold in his. As for Everard Carew, he was almost mad- | dened by love and jealousy. “Darling, I cannot lose you!” he cried, im- petuously. ‘** You must leavé this house to- night, with Bridget for your compavion, and I will take you both to New York, where we can Father is luckily from home, so will not remark my absence... We must start by the night express; the journey will only take a couple of hours, and I know a lady, an old friend of my dead mother, who will gladly receive you and keep a still tongue.” In his excitement, he thought of no obstacle to his plan; he would have liked to carry her off that very moment, and laugh at Maxwell’s discomfiture when he found his bride was miss- ng. Beatrice, however, shook ber head with an air of calm decision. i | could not leave S34 father to certain eae AY, vege ‘ - Pe ae eel ATE Be ee rat a Be (e ruin. Maxwell has promised to meet. Of course, he would be furious at my disappearance, and withdraw his pledge of assistance.” ‘What sum of money is required to’ meet the bill?” “I searcely know. I fancy it is over a thousand dollars.” “Nothing very ruinous,” smiled young Carew, who had been reared in a different school to the lawyer’s daughter. ‘‘ Well, my dearest, make your simple preparations, and bribe Bridget with sweet words and expecta- tion of substantial reward to be the companion of your flight. I will hasten home and shortly return with bank-notes for the amount, which you can inclose in an envelope directed to your father as a gift from his unknown son-in-law elect. . That will at least stave off present dis- agreeables; and when we are married, it will be hard if a Carew cannot give as much aid to his wife’s nearest relative as a beggarly fellow like Jerome Maxwell.” If Everard indulged a pleasing belief that a few thousands judiciously bestowed might in- duce his prospective father-in-law to emigrate to some happy land where lawyers are cordial- ly welcomed, he did not breathe a word of his secret aspirations to Beatrice; and she, poor girl, overwhelmed by his magnanimity and the prospect of avoiding a dreaded bridal, al- lowed herself to listen to tender pleadings, which found an echo in her own heart, Nor let us judge her too harshly, Mother- Jess from her birth, neither precept nor example had been given by her remaining parent to fit her for treading unscathed the thorny path of temptation. So, though, at first, she protested against the proposed elopement, Everard’s per- suasion finally prevailed, and he left ber with the understanding that she would be ready to meet him at the same place shortly before midnight. CHAPTER III. FATHER AND SON. A witp and reckless, worse than foolish, scheme was maturing in Everard’s brain as he hurried homeward, He had promised Bea- trice a certain sum of money; but it was not in his present possession, nor could he find means of raising it in the short time left at bis disposal. He was aware that bis father had received that afternoon a considerable amount from his agent for the rent of city property, and this he had seen him deposit in his desk. He would borrow (so he phrased it) these bills for a few hours. To-morrow, after leaving Beatrice com- fortably established with his friend in New York, he could resort to his old acquaintance, Mr. Aaron, the money-lender, who had removed recently to town, and would be happy to ac- commodate him with a loan for the trifling consideration of sixty per cent. ‘By the time his father returned from Newark, where be was certain to stay at Jeast ‘a couple of days, the money would be replaced, and no harm done. He knew his father had omitted to take the number of the’ notes in his hurry to catch the train, so detection was almost impos- sible;. yet he could not stifle the upbraiding voice of conscience which whispered that he purposed acting in a dishonorable, nay crimi- nal, manner. He reached home at last. Kenneth he be- lieved to be at the Merritons’ musical party, which was to take place that evening; but, to make assurance doubly sure, he asked the foot- man who admitted him whether his brother was out, and received an answer in the affir- mative. When he was sure of being unobserved, he stole into the library. A shaded lamp was burning on the table, leaving the rest of the room in shadow; but he well knew where the desk stood, and could see its silver mountings gleaming in the distance. The key was keptin a drawer of the writing- table, Mr. Carew being culpably in adie ene Ay ‘ Pye A heavy bill falls due tu morrow, which
Page 5
Everard easily found and fitted it in the lock. As he did so, a sense of the enormity of his fault came over bim. Were it not for the remembrance that Bea- trice was even then preparing to quit her home and trust her future happiness to his care, he would have retreated, leaving the deed un- done. But love conquered his scruples, the voice of his good angel was disregarded, and ina moment he was a man degraded in his own eyes, and already conscious that be would reap a bitter harvest from that night’s work, A heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder. He turned, and confronted his father, tall, stern, and terrible. “Have I the misery of finding my eldest son a thief?” “Father!” stammered Everard. “Dare you call me by that name when, by dishonoring me you have broken the tie be- tween us?” ‘‘J aid not expect to find you here.” “So I presume,” said Mr. Carew, grimly. “But I suddenly remembered an important business engagement for to-morrow morning, which I did not feel justified in neglecting; therefore, instead of proceeding on my Jour- ney, I got out at the first station; and took a return train home. I was asleep in yonder arm-chair when your entrance awoke me, and I watched your movements.” ‘‘T meant to replace the money before your return.” “ A poor excuse. Everard Carew, has your love of horses and betting brought you so low? Nor have I deserved this at your hands, for, though I blame my weakness in minister- ing to your extravagance, twice have I paid your debts without asking too many ques- ¥ tions.” x “You have not-treated me unhandsomely, I own,” agreed Everard, gloomily. “But now all is over between us,” con- tinued Mr. Carew; ‘I must beg you to leave the house as soon as possible, taking with you your ill-gotten gains. You cannot remain here longer; your brother and myself are accus- tomed to consort only with gentlemen.” ‘Father, you are cruel!” came with a sharp ery of pain from Everard’s lips. ‘OA word of forgiveness from you might bave saved me; now I am reckless, and care not whether I take headlong the course that leads to de- struction, You need not fear that I will dis- grace you, or fores you to endure my loathed society. I shall leave New York by the first vessel that sails from the docks, no matter whither bound. Farewell! Your favorite son will console you for my loss.” He flung the notes upon the ground, and strode to the dvor, but turned upon the thresh- old to give one more glance at that familiar room, and at his father, ‘whose haggard counte- nance was convulsed with grief. ‘ “Think of me as kindly as you can,” he said, more gently. —_—. The midnight chimes had sounded. Beatrice Thornton, leaning upon Bridget’s arm, stood under the maple tree waiting for ber lover. Both women were equipped for traveling, and Bridget carried a small black valise, into which she had crammed every available artic.e that she fancied her mistress was like to re- quire until the wedding outfit could be ‘pre- pared. The young girl trembled from head to foot; but her companion, charmed with the ro- mance of the adventure which cbo foresaw would form a basis for unlitmite t yos-Ip during the term of ber uatural liic, ai | het sorry to thwart ber master’s. plans, consoled and sup- ported her as best she could. Beatrice, before leaving her rovm, had placed upon the dressing-table a letter contain- ing a few lines, breathing affectionate regret aod asking pardon for her flight. It had been arrang‘d tbat the bank-notes 1p their envelope wore to be laid’ beside this epistle, Bridget re- turning to the house for that purpose. The kno wled 34 Beatrice possessed of ber father’s PASSION’S. REPRISAL. | character assured her that relief from pecu- niary troubles would be the surest compensa- tion for her loss, and she had a vague hope that, once married, she might persuade | Eve- rard to let him know—of course, under pledge of profound secrecey—that his runaway daugh- ter was the wife of a Carew, and as such en- titled to consider herself on an equality with the proudest matron in the State. The drooping boughs are pushed suddenly aside, and Everard stands before them. But what a change that single hour has wrought in his appearance! He looks a hunted, des- perate man. “« Beatrice,” he says, ‘‘for love of you I have lost all that men hold most dear—friends, country, home, and my own. self-respect. There are many convicted felons less guilty than I; they have outraged the laws of society for bread; I, at the dictates of a fatal passion, have degraded the name I bear, and broken, it may be, my father’s heart!” “Oh, Everard! Everard!” she wailed. “Tell me what all this means!” ‘¢ For you I have sinned,” he continued, un- heeding her request. ‘‘ Now will you give me my reward, or, like many another temptress, desert the wretch whose ruin you have wrought? In a word, Beatrice, to-morrow I shall be an exile from home. Will you cast in your let with mine and be my wife, or return fo your father’s house and forget that I have ever lived?” Frightened at his almost frantic appeal, and the violence of his demeanor, the young girl scarcely knew what answer to make, but the indignant Bridget threw herself into the fray. ‘“ My poor, dear lady shall not go over the seas with a madman!” she cried, decisively, taking the trembling Beatrice to her bosom. “You ought to be ashamed, Mr, Carew, so you ought, to come here using such language and rolling your eyes like the clown at the circus, when this innocent lamb has done no harm either to you or yours, She would make too good a wife for the like of you. And, ob! I repent the day I ever let myself be talked over to help you in your courting; but it was all for the sake of my dear young mistress.” “Give me my answer, Beatrice,” persisted the young man. “Tf already I have injured you so deeply,” she murmured, ‘‘ it might be better that our fates should not be linked together.”’ “‘You have made a wise choice,” he said, with sullen calmness. ‘‘Go home, Beatrice, and to-morrow stand at the altar by Jerome Maxwell’s side; he will never guess how near- ly he had lost his bride.” As he turned and left her without another word, Beatrice gave a faint cry, and would have fallen senseless to the ground had not Bridget caught her in her arms, and supported her to the rustic seat. Just then the tramping of a horse’s hoofs became audible in the road, and Jerome Max- well, mounted on his stout gray mare appeared in sight, having been spending a convivial evening with his friend Barton, Hiseagle eye soon fell upon the pair. ** What do I see?” he cried, hurriedly dis- mounting and coming toward them. ‘‘ Why ars you here at this hour, Bridget, with Miss Thoraten? Isshe ill? Has she met with: an accident?” * Oh, please go away, Mr. Maxwell, with- out asning questions,” pleaded Bridget, still in tears. ‘‘She is coming to herself, and the very sight of you will make her worse.” ‘*Woman! you forget that in a few hours your young mistress will be my wife. I have a right to ask for an explanation of this scene, and if both you and she refuse to give it, I shall éxpect her father to inform me why be suffered his daughter to be abroad at midnight without his protection.” Thus brought to bay, Bridget considered for a moment whether she would appeal to bis generosity ‘or tell a falsehood ~ svffi-iently plausible to allay his suspicions. Reluctantly ‘ ’ — na ¥ 7 ee, “ah of ps." CE ee ee eee > 5 5 . 1 x ‘ : x eu" i , ? a PS LaF e Ee nhc E> tabs cena OW tte Aap ik % <n) atte eine gk mts oa ne Ky hae ee NL See LP ea eS hanes _— ms “ol a » z she resolved to confess at least a portion of the trath. » « ” “i - , ro 7 ey I am going to tell you a secret, Mr. Max well,” she began, coaxingly, *tthough she would never forgive me if she knew, She came here to-night to say good-by toa yourg gentle- - man who has been courting heron the sly for some time past, avd it is only natural that she should be a little overcome.. Now don’t’ yo be angry; for there’s few folks, they say, that marries their first love, yet they make none the less good husbands and wives when their turn comes. Just take my advice, and ‘ride quietly on, for it would worry the poor ‘dear out of her senses again if she found yeu here when she recovers, soon be as well as ever. I will take her home presently, and when you are once. her young man, I'll engage she’ll never waste another thought upon young Carew.” - Jerome stood silent, seemingly undecided what to say or do. He almost shuddered ‘as Beatrice slowly) unclosed her eyes and the name of his rival escaped her lips:: But Bridget impatiently waved him away in token of dismissal, and he may have. felt that it would be impolite to provoke an. open rupture with a girl whose indifference he had from the first more than suspected. Th So it bappened that when Beatrice’s con- PSone ie! returned, she found herself alone with the simple but kindly domestic, who, as she carefully supported pepacaninanins toward the house, was cautious not to reveal the fact that the expectant bridegroom of to- morrow was cognizant of the lovers’ meeting under the trysting tree, 9° 9M CHAPTER TY, (nn MR. WILLIAM SMITH, | NEARLY a year had passed since Everard Carew quitted Fairview, and during’ that period no communication from him had been received by his family or friends, NosTie & ‘‘Let him go,” Mr. Carew had'said to Ken- neth, his only confidant, him again, After my death he will soon re- turn with pretended grief and real gladness, ta take possession of all that will be then his own. I do not mean to be vindictive beyond «th grave, and shall not alter my will as I had ag® first thought of doing. He-shall have an e son’s portion; perhaps time and experience may teach him wisdom and honorable f If he comes no more to Fairview during: lifetime, you can give him my forgiveness blessing.”’ ; z* Kenneth promised to comply with ‘this ne- quest, but was hopeful that a reconciliation might be effected between father and son,» ~ A small party assembled one evening in:the long drawing-room. It consisted of the rector and his wife, Mrs, Blake (a widowed sister of Mr. Carew), Mr. Merriton and his daughter = Lilian. ; fbos yitha Lilian was a charming gir in form, aristocratic-looking, dna pane ana witha profusion of pale golden hair canes ome her broad, white forehead, and twisted into innumerable braids and cvi:s behind her head, She wore a perfectly-fitting dress of creams colored cashmere and silk, trimmed with lace of the same hue, relieved by a cluster of deep crimson flowers at the bosom. Pearls of grea size and value encircled both neck and arms, harmonizing with the delicacy of ber fair com- plexion,. ’ titel wat ‘Your father looks worn and - lately,” she said to Kenneth, with ‘ns Sena of a friendship dating from childhcod, “ Has he been ill?” iow, Brie0o0 ‘“Not quite so well as usual,’ although-iha is never likes to be pressed with questionson the subject. Iam rather uneasy about him!’ |» “TI have noticed a change ever since yé brother went abroad. Why do! you not write . phi ee to come home?” sao) aid Mr. Villars, the rector, who was ‘statiding near, here joined: in the conversation." i! Deilea. “Yu are speaking of “Mir. Carew’s healthy® . t2 —* : ee ote we oe EE ‘oi : si ; See, she moves; she: will — Citi | “T never wish to sea - * ah “ Moat ath ae ‘Ss " ate oe we Ag ee i Oorny Maat teak La at wee ve os np Pl 7h $, na tay es tT? peer ae fl. ee ee 2 Me met: f “rt Eee, 2 rg at, - i ass ent *. i Poe eel
Page 6
-. to - have recourse to medical skill. ing, but with a cunning expression. he Stiher SOS with the pompous solemnity he considered suitable to his clerical dignity. « Mr. Kenneth, it is your duty to advise him The first symptoms of disease should be checked, for every day we see around us instances of the uncertainty of human life. Have you heard that Thornton, the lawyer, died last week and was buried yesterday?’ Kenneth professed a proper amount of inter- est in this melancholy intelligence, and Lilian eried eagerly: ‘‘ Oh, he’ was the father of that beautiful girl of whom my maid told me such a romantic story. I always pitied her so mauch,” “T know the story to which you allude. She was seized with a fever on the very morn- ing appointed for her marriage, and although her bodily health is quite) restored, she. suffers still from fits of deep depression, which show her mental powers are impaired.” “Tt was altogether sad,” observed Lilian, tuthing from: the pompous rector to her younger companion, ‘She was engaged toa Mr. Maxwell, who afterward becaine her fa- ther’s partner... All the bridal preparations were completed, and she was dressing for the. important ceremony, when, just as the wreath of orange-blossom was being fastened in her hair; she tottered:and fell to the ground. «It soon became evident that'she was- alarmingly ill, and: a ‘messenger. was dispatched to the church, where Mr. Maxwell awaited the com- ing of his bride, to warn him that no wedding could take place that day.. You can imagine his grief and disappointment.” “Ts the engagement broken off?’ asked Kenneth, with some curiosity. “Oh, dear, no,” said Lilian, shaking her sunny head. -“ Mr, Maxwell, I am told, is de- yotedlyattached to the lady, and is ready to wait with patience until she is quite recovered. It is'not every woman who can inspire so deep an affection. .We must generally rest con- tentéd with-that light love which vanishes at the first.cloud of sickness or sorrow.” ..‘‘ Nou cannot seriously mean to utter such a libel.on our ‘sex!’ returned the rector, while Lilian, blushed deeply at finding Kenneth’s pale face fixed upon her in grave reproach. » They were talking when the butler entered, - ¥édring rather a perturbed air, as if his digni- Seance had received a shock, He took to Mr. Carew; who wasisitting a little t from the rest, and whispered a few sen- ‘Some one desires to see me at this hour,” _ =< @epeated his master, ‘‘ and will neither give his - mame nor state his business! Tell him, Mor- rison, that I am engaged, and he must call to- aorrow.” “ac Morrison dtaurted to give the message, but ‘S00n returned. »olI told him, Mr. Carew, that’ you bad com- " ‘pany, and he said that he brought news. more ting ‘than’ all their talk, and that if you to see him now, be would take no fur- trouble in tbe matter. I think—I think itis something about Mr, Everard.” _ 2 will speak to him in the cin ee said Mr, hastily. - . With an apology to his guests, and a few _ words of explanation to Kenneth, he left the drawing-room, and descended the ‘broad stair- _ case to the library. _ The visitor was standing on the hearth-rug, _ twisting his felt hat nervously in his hands, and staring about him at the unaccustomed splendor of oak and gold fittings, handsome _ furniture and bookcases filled with splendidl y- bound volumes, _ ‘He was tall and lithe in figure, not bad-look- He was ettired somewhat in nautical fashion, wearing athick pilot coat, a blue-checked shirt, and a dark silk | ‘handkerchief carelessly knotted round bis throat, » “ What is your pusiness with me, my man?’ asked Mr, Carew. ‘It should be something ; to excuse your urgent message.” “en ‘ou needn’t be so sharp on a cove wee bas -PASSION’S REPRISAL. come miles out of his way to. do you aservice,” retorted the other, in an injured tone. ‘“ But I had given my word, and Bill Smith was always a good-natured fool, ready to do his utmost to oblige a friend.” ‘* Well, Mr. Smith, why do you wish to see me?” “Don’t you ever look for news of your eldest son, Mr, Everard Carew?’ answered the stranger, with a keen glance from under his beetling brows; ‘‘the same who left home a twelvemonth come June, and went across the sea to the diamond-fields of Brazil.” “Do you bring news of him?” cried Mr. Carew, with ill-concealed anxiety. “We went,out together in the good ship Morning Star; and thougb he was a swell, and I.only a poor workingman, striving to better my fortune, we somehow got familiar-like, and I used to tell him all about the country, where I passed a couple of years when quite a lad, When we landed at Rio I Jost. sight of him; but we happened to meet again at the diggings, and became close pals. Lor’, I could spin you a long yarn, if it was worth my while, of all the troubles and dangers we went through together.” “‘Confine yourself to the chief pointsin your story,” said Mr. Carew, attempting to, speak with calmness; although his voice slightly trembled. ‘‘ Where is my son, now?! . Is. be well?” Mr, Smith shook his head dolefully. ‘Poor fellow, he is dead! Some. say. the climate is wonderfully healthy; but it didn’t suit him, and. what. with the hard work, that be hadn’t been used to, he kinder grew weaker daily; and at last went off.” ‘What proof have you of his death?” said Mr. Carew, in a hoarse tone. ‘‘ Perhaps. you are mistaken altogether. Your comrade may not have been my son,” he, added, with feverish energy. ‘Oh, don’t think there’s any mistake in the matter! Just afore he died, after be had been thanking me for all, my little attentions, he told me that his father was an, Honorable, living at a place called Fairview, near Madi- son.. He said there had beenja squabble about money, and that was the reason he left the Statein a hurry. Then he asked me, if I went back, according to my intention, would I go to his father, the Hon, Claude Carew, and, tell him his eldest son, Madcap Everard, would never trouble him again,” ** And then; he died,” said Mr. Carew, slow- ly. ‘‘Have you.any certificate of bis death?” The man produced a slip of paper from his pocket, and handed it to the other. “JT don’t know whether you will find it quite a formal dockyment,” he remarked, ‘They are not too particular at the diggings. But, anyway, it will be a satisfaction to your mind to see it.” “This is a certificate of the death of one Joseph Smitb,” said Mr, Carew, sternly ey- ing his strange visitor, ‘‘ What interest can it be to me?’ “Smith is a mighty convenient alias fora gent to use when he wants to drop, as it were, into another spear,” remarked the other, with a knowing wink. ‘‘We Smiths are such a large family that no one asks any orkard questions. It was only just at the last that I knew that my pal’s real name was Everard Carew, and being a secret, I was bound not to make it common talk by mentioning it to the doctor,” “ Your story may be true,’ said Mr. Carew, doubtfully; ‘and yet—” “If you doubt an honest man’s word, Mr, Carew,” cried Mr. William Smith, with a show of indignation, ‘‘the sooner we parts company the better. But I ask you, as a gen- tleman, why I should have traveled all these miles, if it had not been to keep my promise to a poor young chap, dying far from home and friends?” 7 do not say that it is not $0, but this story may be fabricated through hope of a re- ward, The certificate does not bear my son’s. ‘ name, and there is no proof of his death save your bare assertion.” ‘ The man rattled out a volley of oaths, and lashed himself into a fury. “You gentlefolks think no one else has any proper feeling. As for your money, I’d throw it in the gutter afore I’'d accept a penny! So now I wish you a very good-evening, and I reckon you won’t find William Smith such a fool as to do a good-natured thing to serve a friend in a hurry, let him be living or dead!” He opened the library door, tramped heavily through the vestibule, and Mr, Carew heard the outer portal close upon him. Then, for the first time, his firmness gave way. While he thus yielded to a burst of natural grief, his late visitor walked swiftly down the avenue, his mouth widening into a grin. Scarcely had he passed through the lodge gates, when Jerome Maxwell darted from the shadow of the high hedge, and demanded: ‘Well, Smith, how have you prospered?” ‘Done the job neatly, I flatter myself, Mr. Maxwell. Ifthe old cove does not believe his son has kicked the bucket it’s no fault of mine.” “‘ Did he ask many questions, or seem doubt- ful about the certificate?” ‘‘ Well, he was rather flabbergasted with the change of names;: but I put on a bold front, and argued out the matter, as you bade me. It was lucky for you that my poor brother Joe, who died in Brazil, was about the same age as young Carew, or we might not have got over the difficulty so well.” Mr. Maxwell smiled. “It would have involved an extra amount of trouble, There is nothing like judicious forethought in matters of business.” ‘Forgery is always dangerous,” observed Mr. Smith, sententiously; ‘‘ but the best rege- lated mind. is apt to fall intoa mistake, If Mr. Carew were to come back next week, nothing could be proved against us. We had only been deluded by some cock-and-bull story told by a young chap now dead,” ‘“‘ Be pleased to remark,” hissed Jerome, his brow darkening, ‘‘ that J have made no com- munication to Mr. Claude Carew which may one day be contradicted. At your own risk and responsibility you undertook the com- mission with which I intrusted you, on terms agreed upon between us. You have performed your share of the transaction, and will receive. the reward stipulated—namely, silence respect- ing certain antecedents not redounding to your credit, and a sum of money that, if you are prudent, will keep you from want until you are able to obtain honest employment. This agreement was made verbally and without witness, therefore I advise you not to feel tempted to mention my name should further discussion arise concerning this eyening’s inter- view at Fairview.” ‘‘ Don’t you fancy I want to split, ‘A still tongue makes a wise head’ is my motter.”’ “Tf you did split, as you call it, you could not injure me, I should positively deny our acquaintance, and. my character stands rather higher than yours, considering you are an old jail-bird.” ‘You have no call to throw it in my teeth if I have been in trouble. I never yet peached upon a pal, nor shall I now; so make your mind at ease.” “T am not uneasy, William Smith, You are too sensible a man to offend me willingly- Why, the other evening, when we met by ehance in the square, and you offered to re- lieve me of my watch and any superfluous cash I might carry about me, you were too wise to persist in your demand when you had recog- nized me, For my own part, I hayea goo memory, and immediately recollected my for- mer client,” “Well, Mr. Maxwell, it is waste of time to stand palavering here. om “Perfectly correct. Besides, you under- — stand that I wish you to leave this neighbor- hood. Mr, Carew can then take no further ~ steps to obtain from you such particulars of ©
Page 7
“ol * : nie his son’s death as you might find it difficult to concoct.” “ All right, guv’nor; I am off by the next train.” Jerome took from his pocket-book a roll of crisp bank-notes, which he counted into his companion’s eager palm. _ +s Three be totte fives—fifty in all. Good pay, I think, Mr. Smith, for such a trifling service.” ‘ The gentleman addressed gave a knowing wink and started on his way to the nearest railway station. CHAPTER V. JEROME PERSEVERES. Poor and friendless as Beatrice was now, broken in health and spirits, her beauty faded until, in Bridget’s estimation (who loved blooming cheeks and sparkling eyes), it was scarcely more than a memory of the past, it is no wonder that the worthy domestic should be anxious to see her well settled in life. Everard Carew had vanished; why should not Jerome Maxwell become his successor in the affections of Beatrice, and the long-post- poned marriage take place at last? So Bridget pondered over the matter as she employed her time in trimming her Sunday bonnet black, of course to show respect to the memory of the late Mr. Thornton, whom in her heart she detested. “Pm sure Miss Beatrice is enough to wear one’s patience out to see her sit moping there day after day. Td sooner she was deaf and dumb, for then, I suppose, she would talk with her fingers, and be a better companion. Really, she wants a rousing up, and I shall give her a bit of my mind. Miss Beatrice, dear,” she began, in a coaxing tone, ‘‘are you not tired of sitting still, for all the world like a statue? Why should you not go out and get a little fresh air, or else read the book that Mr. Maxwell brought himself from the library, be- cause he thought it might amuse you?” “Thank you, Bridget; I know you mean well, but I do not care for change of scene, and hate reading.” “Never was there such a strange young lady! Mr. Maxwell will soon pay you his daily visit, and if you will not walk down the road to meet him, you bad best shake off your gloom, and seem a little glad to give him wel- come.” é “You are fast becoming a zealous partisan of Mr. Maxwell’s, Bridget.” “Small blame if I am. You want a hus- band and protector, Miss Beatrice.” , A spark of the old fire came into the girl’s dark eyes as she answered: “My heart 1s given to Everard Carew, and while he lives I will never become the wife of another. T-am thankful that my illness saved me from con- mitting a grievous sin; for I should have per- jured myself at the altar had I stood before it with Jerome Maxwell.” , “Miss Beatrice, your youth will slip away while you are fretting over the loss of a lover who gave you up too easily. Every year will see some change, until you get old, and gray, and wrinkled; that you will regret this folly. “TJ shall never regret escaping from the shackles of a loveless marriage.” “Tf you were rich and independent, it would be different,” argued Bridget. “Somehow, rich people can always find friends who flatter and study to please them. But you will not have a friend in the world if you send Mr. Maxwell away. Indeed, dear ebild, if you are wise, you will cease crying over spilt milk, and make the best of things as they are. “ You give me bad advice!” cried Beatrice, impatiently. ‘Why will you not suppose that Hverard may return, faithful and foud as aver, to claim me for his wife? Whatever trouble may have made him speak and act so strangely in our last interview I know not; but when to me again.” . _ “That can never be,” was the reply. ae a oy » a “ at pace . “3 Rs Mette Ww . j a 2 ar ee cet ON OT caeeh SC a eae ae a ce Ns its shadow is dispersed, he will come | to Eo) SSI eae ene eae ee eee eeeeaeaes«> ag . ‘ grievous mistake, but I feared to rebel openly against my father.” , ‘You think it would have been a mistake to marry me? Beatrice, have you no feeling for the bitterness of my disappointment? Happi- ness seemed just within my grasp when it dis- solved into air.” “T am sorry,” she faltered. “That is what you women say when your indecision and caprice drive men to madness. But forgive me; I did not wish to wound | reproach you. If you cannot accept me as a lover, at least you will allow me a brother’s privilege of offering such aid as may enable you to remain in your old home, and miss none ~ of your accustomed comforts.” _ “How good you are!” she said, gratefully, giving bim her hand. ‘‘ But I could not receive such favors; my self-respect would suffer. My future plans are already decided. A cousin of Bridget’s rents a cottage at no great distance; I intend to live with her, and work for my own support.” “You will not even view me as your father’s friend?” he said reproachfully. ‘‘ Are we to be entire strangers?” “For old friendship’s sake I shall always welcome you.” . Jerome had succeeded in tracing young Carew from Madison to New York, from thence to the deck of a provision-ship sailing to South America. It was evidently his intention to hide his identity under a feigned name and leave no clew by which relatives or friends could gain knowledge of bis subsequent move- ments. And if, in the course of years, he became . tired of masquerading, and returned to reclaim his heritage, he might find Beatrice Thornton had changed her name to Maxwell and all re- grets would be too late, tf iat As Jerome crossed the square he came upon a small riding-party, consisting of Mr. Carew and Mr. Merriton well in front, discussing, if he only could have known it, the feasibility of certain schemes for obtaining more authentic intelligence of Everard’s decease; while in the — Kenneth and Lilian rode slowly side by side. The girl looked her prettiest in her neatly- fitting habit, with a delicate flush upon her cheek, produced either by exercise in the open air, or the softly-whispered words of her com- panion, or by both combined, perhaps, Jerome eyed them, and smiled sardonically. “‘Now that Master Kenneth has reason to hope that fortune has given him both his own and his brother’s inheritance, he pays court to the wealthy heiress; would not receive his attentions quite so favor- ably if she did not believe that William Smith’s romance bad some foundation in truth,” _ yt" CHAPTER VL aa THE TRAVELER’S RETURN, © 38m THE busy streets of New York are compara- — tively quiet and deserted, for the stores are 7 while she, I warrant, . closed, and it is such a damp, dull, drizzling \ Be evening that the ordinary mind appreciates the advantages of a sheltering roof and cosey cup of — tea, Even the street musicians recognize the im- probability of obtaining audiences and prepare to finish business for the night, while the street he would fain take shelter did he not fear the lynx eye of the policeman and the peremptory — mandate, ‘ Move on!” Hither reckless or too deeply engrossed in . bi: 2 ace, ow “t thought to be conscious of the bad weather, | Everard Carew walked slowly down Broad. way. whe Three years an exile from his native land, he bad only recently disembarked from the clipper-ship Amazonia, which had pee 5 back to the States and Beatrice after his long wanderings. Yes, Beatrice was the magnet that had drawn bim with irresistible force back from the land of his wanderings. He cared not to revisit the home from ij 7? rs ” beggar glances longingly at the doorway where _ which he had been banished, to receive, perhaps,a Pe
Page 8
mj! 4 a ak, te OF - shouting voices, ‘ ; t reluctant pardon for his fault, or even to be reinstated in his old privileges as heir to Fair- view; but he longed to know whether this girl, whom be had loved even above honor and self- respect, was still free, and faithful to the mem- ory of that short, sweet dream, which had so abruptly ended. During his wanderings in South America he had received no letters from home, nor-had he cared to read the newspapers, from which he might have learned that his father was dead, ‘ and that a large reward was offered for any reliable testimony as to his own decease. He knew not that detective skill had been employed upon his behalf, without eliciting any satisfactory proof that Joseph Smith had not been the heir to the Carew estate. Everard had undergone many vicissitudes in the three years’ absence from home, sometimes brought face to face with want, then raised by a sudden stroke of good fortune to a generally short-lived state of prosperity. His associates had been neither select nor few; many of their characters would not have borne inspection; others had sprung from the ‘lowest’ grade of society. Aristocratic Mr. Carew, or even Kenneth, would have shuddered at seeing a scion of their patrician. race amid . such companions, But Everard was not soscrupulous, Indeed, his disregard for conventionalities, and happy knack of adapting himself to the taste of those with whom his temporary lot happened to be cast, stood him in good stead, and his love of - adventure prevented him feeling too deeply the ehanges through which he passed. It was in San Francisco that his luck seemed _ permanently to change for the better. By a fortunate accident he was able to ren- ' der a service to the owner of a-rich tract of mining-land in Nevada. The man was grate- ful, and finding young Carew had no fixed em- ployment, and was altogether in an impecu- nious condition, offered him the situation of overseer to the mine, His liberal terms were accepted. Everard worked hard, made money, and would have been happier in distant California than among the elite of society in his own home if he could have forgotten Lawyer Thorn- ‘ton’s daughter. | She held a prominent place in his thoughts this gloomy autumnal evening, when the star- less sky, the wet pavement, the steady falling in, made a desolate picture had he chosen to observe it, but the hopes and fears that agi- _ tated his mind banished all sense of bodily dis- comfort. | In fancy he was far away from the muddy _ city streets, waiting under the trysting tree for the sound of that light footstep, or listening to the timid accents in which Beatrice had owned reciprocal love. Should he write, announcing his arrival in ‘New York, and making arrangements for a “meeting at the old spot? Or had she been coerced by her odious father into marrying: Jerome Maxwell? These questions incessantly recurred, with- out gaining satisfactory answers. Yet hope whispered that she would summon firmness to resist all pressure that might be put upon her, and remain constant to her first love. He was crossing the end of a narrow street, heedless in his. present frame of mind of a growing noise and confusion, the sound of the tramp of many feet. Suddenly a fire-engine dashed round the cor- ner on its way to a conflagration at no great distance, _. Everard, by a hasty movement, was attempt- ing to avoid it, when his foot slipped on the muddy stones, and he would have fallen un- der the horses’ hoofs had not two strong hands - dragged him. from. bis perilous position. “A narrow escape, gov’nor,” remarked his _-preserver when they were both in safety. on the pavement. “Tf your life’s of any value, I _ *gpose you won’t grudge a poor devil who is down upon his luck some reward - saving gh melee $33) The speaker was not a very prepossessing object. His tattered clothes hung loosely on his tall, gaunt frame, his face had a pinched, cadaverous look, his eyes were deeply sunken in their sockets. There was a fawning smile upon his thin lips, contrasting with the scowl upon his brow, that would have prejudiced a physiognomist against him at first sight. But Everard was no physiognomist, and saw nothing beyond outward signs of want, which moved his heart to pity. “ Certainly I will reward you,” he answered, ‘‘for you well deserve to be recompensed for your pluck and presence of mind. But I have scarcely any money with me; you must come to my hotel.” “T’ll come anywhere for a trifle of the need- ful. You fine gents don’t know how hard it is for a chap to earn an honest living, or some- times even to get a bit of bread.” “T know it, my man, only too well,” replied Everard, recollecting his struggle for bare subsistence scarcely two years before. ‘‘I have roughed it myself, not only in this coun- try, but across the sea, and my experience has taught me to feel for the trouble of others,” ‘‘ Ah, if there were more gents in the world like you,” returned his companion, in a burst of enthusiasm, ‘‘who would be ready to hold out a helping hand to a poor cove floundering in the mire, there would be less vice and mis- ery in this great town.” They were walking toward the hotel where Everard had taken up his quarters for the present, and on the way thither young Carew, unheeding the curious glances that were bent: upon them, beguiled the time with a graphic narration of sundry adventures be had met with on the other side of the continent, in requital of which confidence Mr. William Smith (for the stranger who bad rendered Everard such timely assistance was no other than that worthy) launched forth into certain descriptive passages of his own career, that, far from be- ing founded on fact, were lofty flights of imag- ination. He was poor, he owned, but that was no crime, | His virtues, such as honesty, industry, and sobriety, exposed him to the persecution of the lawless crew among whom he was forced to dwell. His sole yearning was to lead a life of humble respectability, and if kindly fate threw him across the path of any one sufficiently kind-hearted and generous to be willing to relieve unobtrusive merit in dis- tress, his warmest gratitude would repay his benefactor’s goodness. Everard was impulsive to a fault. Besides, the remembrance that the man had in all pro- bability saved his life pleaded irresistibly in his favor. ‘You have found the friend you need,” said he heartily; ‘‘ henceforth it will be your own fault if you fail into this state of abject wretch- edness. Do not accompany me now to my hotel; the people there might recognize you when you appear before them in another char- acter, but take this change to supply your im- mediate wants, and give me your name and address,” Mr. Smith mentioned his visin cognomen, and the filthy alley near the Five Points, where he was at present located. Everard carefully noted: name and address in his pocketbook, and the two separated, mu- tually satisfied as to the result of their conver- sation, The one rejoicing that he bad found an easy dupe; the other maturing in his brain one of those wild schemes which had formerly earned him the nick-name of Madcap Everard, Beforethe week was over William Smith had undergoye a wonderful transformation. His unkempt hair was closely cropped, his face clean, and no longer disfigured by the stubbly beard, a neat suit of clothes replaced his tatters, and his whole appearance indicated that a marked improvement in his. condition had taken place. This was indeed the case, ‘for taken from the wretched home where dirt, famine, and disease / i Li hi Gye "th + t Riiebstie AGAR Laem eer Ve |, ae er seemed almost to wear bodily form and dog — sia? hep ue (~ Aaa ry > ee Ae pee at Se fe oy Pett ze the footsteps of its denizen, he was ensconced in comfortable rooms, well clothed and fed as the servant of Everard Carew, No more purloining from shop or pocket, whichever’ was most conveniently near; no more dread of the policeman’s step, of stern magistrate or prison fare. After all, thieving is scarcely a paying vice, as witness the miserable looks of many an area sneak. William Smith began to think he should thrive better in, a more reputable at- mosphere. He enjoyed the novel sensation of living at another’s expense without fear of un- pleasant consequences. One thing he learned which invested his new master with a halo of interest. He was the Everard Carew whose death he had announced on that unforgotten evening when, at the lawyer’s instigation, he paid a yisit to Fair- view. How well he remembered the handsome library with its oak furniture and well filled bookshelves, and the tall, gray-haired old man, who questioned him so eagerly, while he, well- tutored in falsehood by his crafty employer, recounted the story that carried its death- wound to a proud but not unloving heart. He began to wonder if it were possible to betray Maxwell without damaging bis own cause, and decided that the instinct of self- preservation required him to keep silence. The knowledge of a master’s secret is, however, always useful. Between Mr. Carew and the lawyer he might manage to make a little money without compromising his safety. While William Smith thus studied his own interests, Everard Carew, in his careless fash- ion, gave him such instructions as fitted bim for the situation of valet and butler to a single gentleman, and was daily more pleased with the man’s shrewdness and seeming gratitude. He had removed from the hotel into com- fortable furnished apartments, and there he still lingered, scarce knowing how best to communicate with Beatrice in his ignorance of all that might have occurred during bis long absence. At length he concluded it would be the wisest plan to write to her, giving a brief summary of his career since they had parted, and en- treating her, if she were still free and had not ceased to love him, to be once again at the trysting-tree on a certain evening. He should know then whether her affection had braved the ordeal of time and trouble, and if she were. ready to fulfill her vows by linking her fate to his. In short, the question should be at one decided whether he might hope to enjoy a life blest by domestic happiness or wander forth once more an exile from her presence, relinquishing all claims to his patrimony in favor of his brother Kenneth, The long epistle was completed, He read it over with the well-pleased thought that her eyes would soon rest upon the lines, and brighten as they gazed on each term of endearment. He could hardly realize the anguish of the mis- giving that stole over him when he reflected that she might long since have given her hand to bis rival, and instead of a welcome barbin- ger of happiness, his letter might only be re- garded as the bearer of distressing tidings. Never mind; he must put his fortune to the test, trusting all would be well. Before he consigned the paper to its envelope he added a few words:— “*T shall write by this — to my brother. Heand I were always good ena s,so I mean to aequaint him with my arrival in New York, and he may use his own discretion as to whether’ he will keep the matter secret from my father,” Then he fastened the letter in its receptacle, and took up his pen to write to Kenneth. ‘‘He was alive and well—he loved her still. Her troubles were over; they were to be re- united, and never part again.” In her tumultuous joy Beatrice could hardly believe the evidence of her senses. Over and over she =p the precious words, while ho,@
Page 9
1 Se.’ | soe ‘ i : vei 48 ( ’ ay" Ak ‘ — ly appearing to the sight of her fond father, whom she disturbed from'a hurried perusal of the morning paper in the seclusion of his study. “ Papa, you wust really admire me in this beautiful dress—your own present, too! I fear you will find that Monsieur Worth has been rather extravagant in the matter of lace, but as you ordered no expense to be spared to make me presentable for this important event, you cannot very well complain.” “‘T am not apt to complain of anything con- ducing to your pleasure; As to your dress, you always look well in white, and to-day I think it suits you better than usual.” ‘*Papa, that is scant praise; I shall expect Kenneth to pay me a higher compliment.” The old man played with ber golden curls, as, seated on a low stool at bis feet, she, € smilingly at him, s ‘Kenneth Carew may consider himself, a lucky man, my child,” her father said, ‘‘ for this day he will win the fairest bride in the whele State, who brings bim not only youth and beauty, but a loving heart and wealth such as many a duke could not afford to give his daughter.” ‘“‘T wish, papa, you had not spoken of money among my advantages,” said Lilian, witb a vexed look; ‘‘I like to think that Kenneth chooses me for myself. alone.” “ Be sure that he loves you, pet, for mortal man could scarcely be indifferent to such at- tractions as you possess, Still, as a man of the world, he must feel that the Carew’ coffers will be replenished with the Merriton gold, and that knowledge can but add to his satis- faction in making the alliance.” ‘‘Tf I were an empress,” she said, very softly, ‘‘and. he one of my lowest subjects, [ _ would still select him for my lord and love.” “A very pretty sentiment,” smiled her fatber. ‘‘Ratber too romantic, perhaps, for a plain man of business like myself, but suitable to a young lady on her wedding morning. It. is fortunate, since young Carew isso irresisti- — ble, that he has inherited the Carew ‘ o for I should have grieved to be obliged to thwart my Lilian’s fancy.” one ‘Tf his brother, Everard, had lived it would not have prevented our marriage,” she an- swered, innocently. my fortune is large; if would ell our wants.” ’ “You are not ambitious, Lilian, but I ‘ should have taken upon myself the responsibil- ity of deciding the question. a ” a a gas a0 St.’ = “You say, papa, that have sufficed for T would not va nine sefs ond 5 ete wae F Rf ae Se ae TS Oe oe * ‘ ¥ w barter my child for wealth and position; many — ae aman might look for a son-in-law higher in the social scale than Kenneth Carew; but I ass could not have permitted you to sacrifice your prospects entirely to girlish romance, and Kenneth well knows that bad he si in- berited the few thousands his father originally intended leaving him, it would have been mad presumption to aspire to your hand.” Her countenance became overshadowed. It seemed treason against love to suppose that — such mundane considerations should separate two kindred hearts, “T don’t know how we got upon this’ topic,” 7 observed Mr. Merriton, ‘‘Come, Lilian, our guests will be soon arriving, and it will be time to hurry off to church, if the knot is to’ be tied this morning. So kiss me, my dear, — and take my fondest blessing and best wishes d before you leave me to complete your toilet.” He laid his hand upon the bright curls az she reverently bowed her head, and murmured a few words that came from his inmost heart. The wedding was to be quietly celebrated at’ the church Lilian attended. Mr. Merriton and Lilian successfully resisted his desire, be- ; ing simple in their tastes, and averse to mak- ; nee a Ap > a] ’ iy ‘ i ose “ie eee et ere Pe 900 ¢ , . 7 . v% Stet Shoe. galls ais mn mate) ey =f y ¢ ont Soe Seen AOE Rar reer eT) PeR ON. Se ey fas hy ee ae rates Ch Ae a 2 ee Pro a ae > y Tee eetitess i se ae ike os rhe ta ps ait x =< ed m
Page 10
25 4320 wee 40. cite the curiosity of half the town. Fest ee Oe ee eS te ae ars a wee: tS lid “PASSION’S REPRISAL. populace had turned out in full force to see the marriage; and as Kenneth, in defiance of general usage, stood in the church porch await- ing his bride, he felt himself to be ‘‘the ob- served of all observers,” and was proportion- ately embarrassed and uncomfortable. ‘Soon the eagerly-expected carriage drove up to the gate. He could see the drooping, blush- ing face, half-hidden by the vail, and was _ more than repaid for the long period of proba- YS _ sacrificed by: marrying this man! ’ tion during which he had suffered the anguish of hopeless love. A few short sentences would presently unite him for life to Lilian! Down the narrow path she came, leaning on her father’s arm, fair as the flower whose name so nearly resembled her own, her trail- ing garment rustling gently as she advanced toward him. : At that moment a géneral movement and confusion became apparent in the rear of the crowd; murmurs of admiration died away or were lost in the hum of rising voices; every eye was turned from Lilian to gaze on a hag- gard, frenzied woman, with disheveled hair and blood-stained hands and dress. _ Gesticulating wildly, she made her way through the throng, and flung herself between the bride and bridegroom. “T am not, then, too late!” she shrieked, in hoarse tones, . ‘‘ Lilian Merriton must not be Kenneth Carew, I denounce you as the assassin of your brother!” f “This woman mu3t be an escaped lunatic,” cried Mr. Merriton, impatiently. ‘‘Take her 2 | away 15) , Half a dozen brawny hands seized Beatrice, “oD who struggled in their grasp. - “Tam not mad,” she cried, “though to have left him lying cold and still might well have turned a loving woman’s brain. Yet strength will be given me to avenge his death, and then. it ‘matters: little whether life or reason 7 Se a es ae x 1 leave me.” “Tt is Miss Thornton,” said Kenneth, recog- nizing her in some surprise so altered was she - in appearance and demeanor, ‘‘ Unloose your hold, miy men, and let her speak. . What can you mean by making this wild accusation?” he _ demandéd, turning to the half-maddened girl. “ My brother Everard died long since in South America.” | “No, no,” she interrupted ; “he was alive only a few hours ago. See, here is his pre- cious letter, received but ves‘erday! Cannot - you imagine the joy with which I set forth to - nbes him? Yet ere I arrived at our trysting- _ tree I found him stricken to the earth. It was your hand that did the deed, for the sake of that pale-faced girl, who must be your wife, even at the cost of a brother’s life!” “This letter is certainly in Everard’s hand- writing, » said Kenneth, visibly agitated as he glanced at the extended missive. ‘‘We must inquire into the matter, and ascertain whether ' Miss Thornton has any foundation for her ex- traordinary assertions.” _ ‘There can be no wedding to-day,” said Mr. -Merriton, with authority. “Lilian, my love, _ let me take you to the carriage. We must return home.” ‘But before yielding to her father’s request ae she approached Kenneth, and whispered in his ear, “ Whatever trouble may be in store, [ ¥ _ shall nays both love and trust you.” words gave bim comfort, though he ray sgpicne 2 no answer; indeed, in his mental confu- gion all power of coherent speech had for the time departed. Sadly he watched the car- riage containing Lilian and her father drive rapidly away. while, a party of gentlemen prepared _ to obey the directions of Beatrice by making Nearebeabattie body; others, dispersing into dif- 5 tigen ot ad marveled at the strange event ented the marriage, and hinted lity of — guilt. the pacer’ ‘found at Haw- et upon Fe. 7a Lane was held at ey Union House when Yet the all kinds of conflicting exidenae was given. There were doubts as to the identity of the deceased; but the stature and general contour of the figure, the color of the hair, the ring upon his finger, and the name of “ Everard Carew” marked on sundry articles of clothing, were held to establish the fact, and it was con- ceded by most people that the murdered man was no other than Claude Carew’s eldest son. The evidence of Beatrice was beard with great interest, Her love and despair moved the coldest heart. Many, too, looked suspiciously on Kenneth, as, notwithstanding all warning, she persisted in asserting that he only derived benefit from his brother’s death, “He denied having received a letter,” sho said, ‘though Everard must have written; and could offer no proof as to where he had passed the hours on that eventful evening. If he, were really walking in the grounds, smok- ing a cigar, after dinner, it was strange tbat none of the household should jbave seen him, and bear witness in his favor.” Madcap Everard had given no address in the missive dispatched to Beatrice. The most ex- perienced detectives failed to find a clew to his New York lodgings, and the whole affair was evidently enshrouded in the deepest mystery. Those cruel blows upon the face must have been made by some blunt instrument—the knob of a heavy stick, or the butt-end of a pistol. The work had -been effectually completed, and even Beatrice could distinguish no ‘trace of the lineaments aad were engraved on her memory. It was hard tte Kenneth Carew that this impassioned and high-spirited girl implicitly believed him to be guilty, Her thrilling words carried conviction to many who would other- wise never have harbored the least suspicion that he could be involved in such a crime. Dark surmises were whispered, old scandals long sunk into obscurity brought again to light, and Everard was.represented as the life- long victim of a father’s unnatural aversion and a brother’s greed, On the day of the funeral, when Kenneth, as chief mourner, attended the grand obsequies which marked the important fact that another Carew was deposited in the family vault, black looks were bent upon him, and_ several ill- conditioned townsmen audibly vented their indignation. In short, popular feeling was not in his favor; and though he bore himself proud- ly, he was none ‘the less consciousthat by many he was deemed a criminal who sooner or later would meet his just deserts, Still, no important evidence was forthcom- ing to enable the magistrates to issue a war- rant for his apprehension; and, after many delays, the. coroner returned his verdict— ‘¢ Willful murder against some person or persons unknown,” The next morning Mr. Merriton paid a visit to Fairview. The old gentleman had kept somewhat aloof since the day of the interrupt- ed wedding, and now Kenneth noticed that his greeting was stiff and constrained, while he had the air of one about to perform an un- pleasant duty. Too well the young man an- ticipated the nature of the misfortune which was about to befall him. “T trust Lilian is better, Mr. Merriton,” be remarked, when they were seated. ‘‘I was grieved to hear that she had been unwell.” ‘*Thank you, Mr. Carew. The doctor assures me there is no cause for alarm, Her suffering has been mental] rather than bodily, nor can we be surprised when we remember the sbock which her nerves experienced on that fearful morning.” ‘For her sake even more than my own I re- gretted that she shduld have been subjected to such an ordeal. We have both been severely tried; may we hope that the future will bring compensation for the past?’ He uttered the words deprecatingly—almost interrogatively. Though no coward, bis heart ae before the sccernines aspect of Lilian’s father. Yarir* aw - S475 4 by * ery Rene ees ind » age ® | a So AS 4 a—* * 4 ao at ee On kt WARS cn is Ss RR Bee gear ahd es OT ye ae i ee a “ After what has happened, you can scarcely expect my daughter to sbare that future!” he observed, coldly. ‘‘A public disgrace has been thrown upon us both; we have been made the talk of the land; her name must no longer be linked with yours!” “You would separate us, then, though we love each other, and for no fault of mine?” “The match never met with my entire ap- proval,” said Mr, Merriton, evading the ques- tion, ‘ Lilian is greatly admired, and if she bad not been willful and blind to the duties of her position, might have made a very differ- ent match. She preferred to accept your pro- posal. I would not thwart her wishes, for the Carews bore an honorable name and were re- spected throughout the State. It is very different now.” Kenneth’s bronzed cheek flushed to a crimson hue, ‘‘T understand you,” he said; “but you might have spared me that taunt. If the ravings of a frantic girl have prejudiced me in your esteem, and our long acquaintance has given you no faith in my integrity, it is well that the semblance of friendship should cease between us, even if I sacrifice my hope of being your daughter’s husband.” “Do not take offense too hastily, Kenneth, 4 stammered Mr. Merriton, somewhat abashed. “Of course I know that Beatrice Thornton’s accusation is not true,” “You may be excused for feeling doubtful,” was the bitter answer, ‘‘since there are many who are ready to condemn me unheard! [ would rather have been arrested and tried for my life, than hear the covert innuendoes breathed by malicious tongues. But unless the real assassin is discovered, it would be difficult to prove my entire innocence; and every one will whisper a suspicion that my hands are imbrued in a brother’s blood,” ‘Tt is strange that the police make no dis- covery. I hear you have offered a reward for—” ; ‘(Rive thousand dollars. If it were needful, I would give my entire fortune to stand clear in the sight of my fellow-men without this shadow on my name.,”, There was a long silence. Kenneth was struggling for composure, and Mr,. Merriton scarcely knew what to say. “Do me the justice to believe,” began the former after awhile, “tbat I had no intention of asking Lilian to fulfill her promise while these cruel rumors were afloat. I trusted she would not misjudge me, but patiently wait until some fortunate chance enabled me to re- fute all calumny. Is she aware of this visit?’ he asked, suddenly. Mr, Merriton confessed that he had not mentioned his intention. “She is so fragile and sensitive, it would only have distressed her. But my duty is to watch over her welfare, Kennetii, so that she may never reproach me with a want of pater- nal care.” ‘“‘Tf she were my wife,” answered Kenneth, dryly, ‘‘I would, give her no reason to blame you for having consented to our union, But I do not wish to urge my claims upon yout, or speak of that love which would bave striven to make her happy. At your desire I reloase your daugbter from her engagement. {ft is , fortunate that Beatrice Thornton did not arrive a few minutes later; you might not have found it so easy to separate us,” Mr, Merriton mumbied a few words expres- sive of his sorrow at being forced to act dis- courteously toward theson of his old friend, pleading in excuse his fatherly anxiety for an only child. | Kenneth scarcely heard his apology; he was striving to realize the bitter truth that his bride, so nearly won, was lost, perhaps, for- ever. When his visitor had departed, he roved restlessly about the house, sore at heart, yet striving bravely to hide his suffering even from his own sight, At last he entered the suite of rooms which - Ng mir She hose © ee eee oe
Page 11
had been fitted up for the use of the expected mistress of Fairview. Delicate draperies, luxurious furniture, exquisite paintings and statuettes were everywhere. There was the low easy-chair, placed in close juxtaposition to the satin-lined work- table, the piano which had been so carefully selected, the books and ornaments specially chosen to suit Lilian’s taste. He hurriedly quitted the apartments, locking each room through which he passed, and retain- ing possession of the keys. ‘ not her humble friend zeeiously inter- mor we Biiss Beatrice, the likes was never’ Heard: of a bride wearing mourning on ber wedding- $y day! It would be quite a scandal; and J have my doubts as to whether the ceremony — would be legal! You must wear a Bs mana ra gown if it is only a common muslin; but had a everything is to be plain and quiet, T have is thinking if flowers in your ' would ‘ of place; though really—” ay. — “Dress me as you Y please,” get Peston, es dG hs
Page 12
impatiently, ‘‘so long as I am not troubled by hearing long arguments upon a subject so un- interesting.” “ Uninteresting!” Bridget could only hold up her hands in ‘amazement, then walk away, shaking her head despondingly. _ { One dull November morning, when earth and sky were shrouded in vapor, and winter /had already commenced, Jerome Maxwell and Beatrice Thornton plighted their ill-omened Bigs VOUS, Never was.a bridal more void of all sem- _- blanee. of .gladness. Even the bridegroom , looked abashed and ill at ease; while Bridget _. (the only substitute for the usual attendants upon the white-robed bride) sobbed audibly throughout the ceremony, and indulged in __ hysterical yehemence of grief when called up- _.. on to sign her name in the vestry, for with _. the penetration given by affection she fore- boded that such nuptials could never insure happiness. As for Beatrice, her eyes were gleaming with a fire that almost suggested the fe fever of insanity; the hue of her cheeks alter- nated from a hectic flush to deadly pallor; her ‘ rigid lips seemed barely able to pronounce the _\ words dictated by the minister. i Yet all proceeded in due order; the irrevo- cable pledges were taken; Jerome had gained the prize so long vainly sought—Beatrice was his wife! ie ats CHAPTER IX, WHAT SHE DISCOVERED. Kenyneta CAREW walked through the leaf- Jess woods, his gun upon his shoulder, his dogs - following well at heel, The day was clear and frosty, the sunshine fast dispersing the icicles hanging from the long bare boughs _ ! which sometimes almost formed a canopy above ‘his head as he pursued his way. =: - Suddenly be met her who was ever in his thoughts; although, as he now shunned all a society, they had never met since the day when | their intended union was so abruptly stayed. vate How pensive and fragile, yet surpassingly \ fair, Lilian Merriton looked in ber becoming _. dress of black velvet and sable! _. Yet, though love surged tumultuously through every fiber of his heart, pride forbade its outward manifestation, and he would have passed her with a mere formal recognition had she not extended her hand, meanwhile raising ae os to his two soft blue eyes, with just one tear ._, standing in each of their limpid depths. ‘What lover’s displeasure or prudence could ze resist such influences? Kenneth forgot Mr. -' Merriton’s unfriendly scruples and his own sense. of outraged dignity as he clasped the _, slender fingers of the fair girl before him, ‘He might—the spot being lonely—have kissed away her rising tears; but. the oppor- tune remembrance that he no longer could venture on the privileges of an affianced lover recurred in time to prevent that breach of decorum. He attempted to incase himself in - the armor of cool reserve. _ Miss Merriton, I did not expect to meet __-Yyou here.” VAs | “T know, that Kenneth, or you would haye + walked in another direction. Hitherto you have studiously avoided me, and now accident ' has thrown us together, you treat me as a _ stranger.” “JT believed I was acting according to your _ wishes,” be stammered, _. “My wishes?” she repeated, in genuine astonishment. + “Yes; or at least those of Mr. Merrituu,* “There you mav be ~igin, My father is 4 4 ed as » op accuse Gea ree ee A MaDe ee. ae) oT er a ee OR ee Patek 9 Until they are falsified I dare not claim your love and trust,” “Kenneth, you know how implicitly I believe in your innocence—how much ! regret that the breaking off of our engagement has given your slanderers another apparent justi- fication of their calumny.” “People applaud your father’s wisdom in not bestowing his daughter upon a suspected man,” said Kenneth, bitterly. ‘I do not doubt that he has reaped golden opinions as to bis prudence and integrity throughout his circle of friends.” Lilian was silent fora moment; then whis- pered timidly, with downcast eyes: ‘“T wish—oh, how I wish that unbappy girl had arrived but half an hour later with her frantic accusation!” f “*You cannot seriously mean, my darling,” he cried, his gloomy brow clearing, “ that you would not have regretted to find your fate linked with mine, or to share the shame which has fallen upon me?” “1 wish that I might have taken my right- ful place by your side, to cheer you in the hours of depression produced by unmerited obloquy—to show by my devotion that I believed you incapable of crime —to help you to live down scandal, and win back confidence and regard! Had I been your wife, my father could not have sundered us; there could have been no conflict between love and duty!” It is doubtful what rapturous answer Ken- neth might have made to this sweet confession; for, as the last words hovered on her lips, a cry of wild alarm in a female voice rung out upon the air, and startled both the lovers. “ Hark! what is that?” cried Lilian, clinging to the young man’s arm, as she looked around apprehensively. “Some one, I fear, who is in distress or dan- ger. I must hasten in the direction whence the sound proceeded.” ** And I will accompany you,” said Lilian. Together they hurried down a secluded path leading into the deeper recesses of the wood, until they came to a small open space surround- ed by ancient trees. Kneeling on the cold earth, her arms out- stretched as if to clasp some fast-receding form, was Beatrice Maxwell. Lilian, impelled by womanly sympathy, ad- vanced toward her, after warning Kenneth to keep out of sight, as his presence would only irritate the unhappy girl, concerning whose sanity she had grave doubts. “ Did you see him?” inquired Beatrice, in the low accents of suppressed emotion, as Miss Merriton bent over her. ‘ But no,” she con- tinued; “ why do I question so vainly? It is to me alone his spirit would appear to chide the tardy fulfillment of my vow of vengeance. And yet have I not sacrificed and suffered in order to perform that solemn pledge? So, Everard, why look so reproachfully on me? I cannot bear that stern, unearthly gaze!” ‘Your fancy has deceived you,” said Lilian, soothingly. ‘‘ Everard is at rest; the sins and sorrows of this world can trouble him no more.” : “You think so because they have laid his body in the family vault with funeral pomp. But his spirit wanders still, I saw his mortal semblance standing there—just under the arch formed by those knotted boughs. Terrible was the reproach in his stony glance; and, ob, it is well-deserved, for three long mort»: “uve nearly passed away, and x7 work remains un- done” sae rose, and with trembling hands gathered her mantle around her. “You “are ill, Mrs. Maxwell,” Lilian said. ‘Stay no longer here, but return home. Your husband will be alarmed at your absence.” “Yes, I will go to Jerome and tell him of my vision; he must help me now.” She glided away amid the trees, leaving Lilian to rejoin Kenneth and exchange a few more words breathing »ffectionate confidence before they separated, uncertain when kindly fortune might once. more reunite them. iv ‘F Sache Ne oy 1 ‘ ee i aes ’ a ; i tet f ‘i ‘ * > Jog ante : v, a ' * n . . P; A pate eR te ee OU kee ee oe um hha 't he) uae S PASSIONS REPRIGADS (00 The lamp was just lighted in the parlor a The Hermitage when Beatrice entered, but the old room, with its dark panels, heavy furniture, and faded hangings, looked far from cheer- ful. Jerome sat beside a small table drawn near the hearth, upon which were some cigarettes and a bottle marked ‘‘ Hau-de-vie,” for even at that comparatively early hour the lawyer had been enjoying sundry strong potations. % Certainly those few short weeks of wedlock did not appear to have conduced to the im- provement of Jerome’s looks or serenity of temper. His forehead was marked with lines of care, his brows were knitted over his sunken. eyes, his voice was harsh and sharp as he ad- dressed his young wife. ‘¢ Where bave you been gadding this after- noon? You are never athome. I have told you before that I would not allow these soli- tary strolls.” “JT have been in the wood, Jerome,” she said, almost humbly. ‘‘ My head ached so badly I thought the air might do me good. I did not think you would be home so early.” “TJ am a fool for my pains, when I know well enough my wife would rather I stayed away. Most women have a smile of welcome when a husband returns laden with business cares and longing for a word of kindly 7°" tion. But you—” ie ‘‘T warned you, Jerome,” she return¢!! trembling tones, “that you must not expt. find me the same as happier wives whose hearts have not been crushed and brokon by the troubles of their girlhood. Surely you remember the bargain between us? You knew my hopes were buried in the grave. I never deceived you by one flattering falsehood, but you were content to take me as I was.” ‘‘ Perhaps I overrated my powers of for- bearance. Anyhow, your disobedience to my express commands and indifference to my in- terests are sufficient motives for estrange- ment.” “ Have patience with me,” she answefed, pressing her hands upon her throbbing heart; ‘* perhaps in time I may more resemble what you wish, At least, I will attempt to perform my duty, if you do not neglect to keep your promise.” ‘‘ T do not understand to what you allude,” he said, roughly, without turning his head. ‘¢ You women love to speak in riddles,” “Jerome!” The man’s audacity almost struck her dumb, but she struggled against the tempest of passion which caused her every vein to tingle, and replied in a tone of assumed composure: ‘‘ You cannot have forgotton your promise to endeavor to unravel the mys- tery surrounding Everard Carew’s death, Oh, Jerome,” she continued, more vehemently, ‘‘I saw bim but an kour ago; his pleading look seemed to ask for vengeance on his destroyer. His unquiet spirit cannot rest; it will haunt me till justice has been done, And you. my husband, will aid me to perform my vow~” “‘] believe you bave lost your senses,” he cried, angrily, “to imagme I should play the part of a private detective in order to gratify your caprice. Young Carew: is out of my way; there let the matter rest, Even your simpli- city ean scarcely expect me to mourn his loss.” ‘Then you bave broken your word,” she said slowly, asif not able yet to realize how cruelty she had been duped. ‘‘ You have proken your word, Jerome Maxwell, an’! I— most miserable of women—have sacrificed ‘“v- self in vain.” ie, ‘‘-You are pleased to be complimentary,” he sneered; ‘though I, too, deserve some pity ’!’r having linked myself to a woman whose every thought is for a dead lover, However, I vowed that you should be mine in spite of all inter- vening obstacles, and now that we thoroughly understand each other, I warn you that I will tame your proud spirit. If you cannot love, you sball learn to fear me,” — He raised his hand with a menacing gesture alinost as if about to strike her. He was mad- dened by the cov! contempt expressed in every ” ‘ oy * , y : FE) [! ree a aa
Page 13
lineament as, with the haughty mien of an empress, she quitted the room. Beatrice resolved that very hour to tell Jerome she could no longer regard him as her husband; be had himself broken the tie be- tween them. If he refused to free her—and she had vague ideas that he had legal power over her—death would be welcomed rather than his loathed society. Wildly she thought of the cool, clear river by whose banks she had wandered in childhood; might she not rest beneath its rippling waves? Or— She paused; it flashed across her mind that the pistol which her father during his life- time Lad kept close at hand in his dread of burglars was probably still in the second drawer of the oaken bureau. The old piece of furniture had been banished to the lumber-room when Jerome took posses- sion of the house and slightly modernized its arrangements, But Beatrice, in her restless and despairing state of mind, resolved to satis- fy herself without delay that she had the means of deliverance should her husband en- torce bis claims or take measures to prevent her quitting his protection. Tn her madness, for it was little less, she _., _, ly recollected the magnitude of the crime 5,,|_, te-destruction, though a natural feeling of ‘8° \ Op made her shudder at the thought. -_'* will find the pistol, but use it only in the iS. extremity,” she murmured, as she lighted a small lamp that always stood on 4 table in her chamber ready for use, and prepared to mount the narrow, steep stairs leading to tho garret. In a few seconds she had entered the room. The oaken bureau stood in a dark corner. She made her way toward it, and attempted to open the drawer containing the weapon. It was locked, but in her father’s time a duplicate key bad been manufactured for her special use, and to this she now resorted. At first the dr: wer seemed empty, save for a few old pack- ets'of dusty papers, but plunging her hand into its furthest recesses, she drew forth the object of her search. ; And not that only. A dark blue ribbon was entangled round it, from which hung suspen- ded a portrait of herself, executed years ago by a traveling artist, and given to Everard; also the half gold piece that had been their first love-token, She stood gazing on them, appalled at the unexpected revelation. The ribbon was stif- fened and stained by blood, and an examina- tion showed that the butt-end of the pistol had been put to a terrible use, of which it still bore traces, ° : Thoughts of her lover as she saw him last, defacod beyond the semblance of humanity, 4 remembrance of his oft-repeated promise never to part with her gifts while life remained, aid- ed Ler to solve the mystery. Not Kenneth Carew, but her husband, Je- rom! Maxwell, had committed that murder near the trysting-tree. CHAPTER X. THE DEAD ALIVE. BEATRICE was ill for weeks after her fatal discovery; but at length strength came back to her feeble limbs, full consciousness to her be- wildered brain, and once more she was forced to tgke up the burden of existence. J-rome she seldom saw, for she became so - Psptibly worse when, at the beginning of he illness, he approached her bedside, that the r “ical attendent advised him to discontinue Lis visits to her room. f “It is a frequent phase in nervous disorders that the patient becomes unduly excited by the presence of one whose influence during ordi- nary bealth would be most soothing and bene- ficial,” remarked the polite practitioner. And Jerome took the hint. F Did he suspect that his wife knew aught that he was anxious to conceal? Was he at all aware that his secret had been discovered on that fatal evening? She bad mechanically re- Ylaced the proofs of his guilt in their former Nes LE oo ae ah iy , Ris 3 “4 * Pe 13 me ‘““The doctors are coming to see you to — morrow,” resumed Bridget. | a “J will not stay bere to await their visit. Who knows what influence Jerome Maxwell : may bring to bear against. me? We will go forth together, Bridget, you and J. I am will- ing to suffer privation or peril—anything rather than stay longer in this house,” , ‘‘But you are only just recovering from ill- ness; you have kept your room for weeks!” re- monstrated the domestic. “That matters nothing. This roof can shelter me no more. I must escape before I am robbed of my liberty, and doomed to linger out my days in solitude, or the society of the mentally afflicted. You do not intend to for- _— sake me, Bridget, in this crisis of my fate?’ et She had risen from her couch, and was . nt already eager to prepare for flight, my 23 “Think what you are about to do!” Bridget . entreated. ‘We cannot travel without vray nor live without daily bread. Wi ittle savings were spent long ago, and yo ep, | Miss Beatrice—” pills: wid a She stopped, fearing to wound her favorite’s pride; but well she knew that lavish generosity toward his bride bad not been one of Jerome Maxwell’s foibles. : ¢ Pape >| “T would rather starve than risk the loss of — SS freedom!” cried Beatrice, passionately. “There is money enough in my purse to take us away from Madison, and I have a few old trinkets __ and my father’s gold repeater, which I must part with to afford us the means of subsistence —s_— until I am strong enough to work. But, Bridget, = ti not urge you to venture if your courage Ss. \e “TI only fear for you, Miss Beatrice. Often and often in my early days I’ve been brought face to face with want, yet managed somehow , __ to tide things over without being much the ts 4 worse; but you are different, and in your weak —_— health need every comfort. I feel as ifit — would break my heart tosee you suffer.” __ 2 a ‘‘ Remember, dear old Bridget, how wretched I should be immured in prison—for so would an asylum appear to me—and separated from you, my only friend. Do not attempt to com- Bi: bat my resolution, but rather assist in making — preparations for my escape from such a ~ doom.” te i% Throughout the remainder of the day Puldert om a busied herself at intervals in packing 5 ae black valise with as many sioearter Raed +a could induce it to hold; while Beatrice sat near the window, impatiently watching for even- cote ing shadows to steal over the land a She longed to bid a final farewell to the scene of her brief and miserable wedded life. __ Her vow must be broken, and Eyerard’s death ~ pass unavenged; for the fettersshe had yolun- tarily axsumed forbade all hope of justice being awarded to his destroyer... ss It wanted scarcely half an hour to midnight, the servants were sitting over their supper in _ ai. the kitchen, Jerome was drinking brandy and ee water, and smoking bis choicest cigars ued retirement of his yon when two sen sa rie cloaked and vailed, left The. Hermitage, and: 0g took the nearest way toward the railway- station. , DMB Vettes iy ; ‘ e gi 4 M4 Perhaps both remembered that night far away. in the vanished. past my a i weal quitted her father’s house to unite her fate with that of Everard Carew’s, andhadreturned /— oppressed. with disappointment and shame, ~ abandoned by the lover to whom she had con- fided her happiness. eins | ate In somber silence they proceeded, Bridget supporting the olbeicteliian tele of Hotere tg panion, until the welcome light gleaming a —— oH Foose revived their drooping spirits, and told them pee the station. ae : DE ! i: ar é * . vs eta iy ae oye aan
Page 14
+ * z ~ #4 ————— — SF eT They were already gliding away from the station when a tall man was seen hastening to reach the departing train and rougbly pushing aside all obstacles that threatened to arrest his progress. With a thrill of terror, Beatrice recognized her husband, and drew back to the further cor- ner of the seat, scarcely daring to hope she might escape his scrutiny. Her flight from home was discovered, and he had followed her, ‘so she supposed, or ‘perhaps mere suspicion had directed his steps to the sta- “tion. \ i ‘ But now the engine puffed and panted as it resumed its journey. No one had attempted to molest her; and recalling the look of baffled rage imprinted on Jerome’s face, she ventured to hope that she had started unseen, and that her husband might prosecute his search in other quarters. » _ As the time wore away fatigue overpowered her; her head drooped upon Bridget’s shoulder, and she fell into a troubled sleep, haunted by dreams that brought back ‘the terrible scenes . through which she had lately passed. ' She woke with a start, scarcely: knowing whers she was, s0 much the real was mingling with the ideal of her visions; for Bridget’s arms were thrown arcund her in an aceess of - alarm, the whistle’ of the engine emitted a series of shrieks, the car was swaying violettly from side to side, “Then came a crash and rapid descent, amid the noise of breaking wood-work and the screams of affrighted passengers. The engine and several ears were off the track and rolling down a steep embankment. Stunned and bewildered, Beatrice lay amid the wreck. She heard’ Bridget’s loud) moans, and felt the presence of her clinging arms; but all was dark around them. » She was herself bruised and shaken, though not, otherwise injured, for a portion of the broken carriage formed a support for the rest ae prevented a crushing weight falling upon er | Are you’ ee Bridget?” she gasped at length. “My arm is pinnidd down; I am afraid it’s broken. What will become of us, my darling? We shall never be got out alive!” “ Be brave and patient, dear Bridget; some one will come to our deliverance.” The minutes seemed lengthened into hours as they waited for release, sometimes whisper- ing a few words of mutual comfort; more often in the silence of keen expectancy. They could hear the hum of voices, and knew that efforts were being made to extricate them from their perilous position. '\ At length the wood-work forming their liv- ing tomb was partially removed, though with extreme care and’ caution; and the gray light of dawning day stealing in upon them, gave token at their Amprisonment would soon be over. “Work with a will, my men!” cried a clear, manly voice, “we shall soon release them now!” © Those tones éndtvated to the ears of Bea- 4 - trice, and caused her heart to thrill with eAy >, es “ing her in bis arms, he bore her away from mingled ecstasy and awe. 3b must be all a dream,” she murmured, _ “from which I shall’ awake presently. Only - face looked down upon her. ‘in dreams shall I hear again the voice of Ever- ard Carew!) A heavy beam was lifted from above, and a A ery of inef- fable joy issued from her parted lips. “Everard, have you come at last to take me with you to the spirit-land? Oh, my love, if this is death, itis very sweet to die!” ‘ Beatrice! Beatrice!” His soul went ouf in the words. A giant’s strength seemed given him; and he worked a with almost supernatural vigor. ‘The task was completed; and tenderly lift- ‘the wrecked carriage, leaving Bridget to the - /eare of a kindly brakesman, who ey os i ee her | a - hi ; Fr ‘ = ’ . ene * , . 7 , » *. PASSION’ S REPRISAL. CHAPTER XI. AT LAST. In the parlor of a vine-wreathed cottage, near the spot where the accident had taken place, Beatrice sat alone. The sunshine streamed in upon her; the waving tendrils of the vine kissed her cheek, as she leaned against the open easement; the birds caroled their choicest lays, to welcome the warm spring day. Vet all the glow and brightness of nature exerted no soothing influence over ber mind, Her thoughts were occupied with her own sor- rows. She slowly. realized that he whom she had mourned as dead was still alive, and, of course, Jerome bad been deeply wronged. At the remembrance of her husband she shook as with an ague. What would Everard’s resurrection bring her save life-long remorse? Her bewildered brain suggested endless questions which it was powerless to answer. Who was the murdered man they had buried in the family vault of the Carews?) How had Jerome obtained pos- session of that blood-stained miniature and love-token? What course must she now pur- sue? Whom could she consult, with Bridget lying in the room above, too ill and weak for much speech, and no one else to guide her in this difficult crisis? Her only clearly-defined wish was that she might be sundered from Everard, since it was a sin to renew those vows of.love which, in heart, she had never broken. The door opened; his footstep sounded on the floor as he crossed the small room, and took his station beside her. She did not turn her head; and ‘yet she knew his look was on her with an intensity of affection. “Why have you come,” she cried, in innpa- tient agony, ‘‘ when you must know ‘that your presence tortures me? But perhaps you may not guess: my folly and weakness—how I was tempted to believe you dead, and in that, be- lief-—.” ‘‘ Became’ the wife of Jerome Maxwell!” he interrupted. ‘‘My) poor Beatrice, at first I imagined you were false to me, or, at least, had easily forgotten; but one glance at your pale and altered countenance when I saw you weeks ago in the woods convinced me yours was no happy marriage.” ‘I took you for an apparition,” she faltered. “The idea that you were dead was firmly implanted in my mind.” ‘© Yes; I have heard the whole story of my supposed decease from several péople, who, firmly believing in ‘Madcap’ Everard’s un- timely end, were far too dull to recognizs that scapegrace in the bronzed and sedate stranger, There was a mystery which I can partially solve; for I have reason to think that the sup- posed Everard Carew was no other than my servant, William Smith.” “J cannot understand,” ‘“The body was found near our trysting-place on the very evening that you had promised to meet me, Your ring was on his hand!” ‘*T fear the rascal had very ill-defined no- tions regarding the rights of property, and took possession of many of my belongings to which he had no claim. It was my own fault, however, for taking into my service a vagrant from the streets. But the man’s story touched me. It was artfully concocted, and experience had not yet taught me the wisdom of distrust- ing plausible tales. I sheltered, fed, clothed him, and, like a fool, ventured to suppose I had ‘earned his gratitude: One evening I had been writing to you, Beatrice; and was filled with all sorts of blissful anticipations, when, just as I returnéeti from posting may letter, I was taken suddenly ill. I fancy the fellow had drugged my wine, and, either by accident or design, more than half poisoned me. When I partially recovered consciousness I found out that he had decamped, taking with him, as it afterward appeared, money, clothes, and such articles of value. as he could easily appropri- ate. Among others—saddest loss: of els. your. she murmured, . beloved miniature and whe broken gold-piece, | with which I would not have parted for a kingdom’s price!” He paused. Old memories were crowding across his. mind of that passionate love which had blighted his youth, and now, in his mature manhood, revived with all its pristine fire as he found himself again by the side of Beatrice. ‘‘T remained ill for several weeks,” he con- tinued; “indeed, at one time, the kindly land- lady, who nursed me through the attack, be- lieved I should never rally. But at length my health improved, my mind regained its accus- tomed tone, and I was about to write to you. once more, when I read the announcement of your marriage in one of the daily papers.” ‘And I was mourning your loss,” she sighed, “while you were deeming me cruel and inconstant. Strange as it may appear, it was for your sake that I consented to marry Jerome Maxwell,” Then she told him of her vow, uttered in the first impulse of grief, and the subsequent com- pact entered into with the wily lawyer. “You ruined, though unknowingly, the happiness of both our lives,” he responded, sadly. ‘At first I determined to leave Amer- ica immediately, and become again a wan- derer. ‘Then the wish came across me {0 see you onco more, although I believed you bad ceased to love me, I. journeyed to Madison, kept well out of the way of. my brother and former friends, and only indulged myself with an occasional distant glance at you, 1 was re- turning to New York quite unconscious that you were a fellow-passenger when the accident happened to. the train,” ‘‘Then you never informed Kenneth of your arrival in New York?” she inquired, eagerly. ‘Never! I abandoned my intention of writ- ing until I had had an interview with you, for my future plans rested upon your decision.” Bitterly she repented her mistake and the irrevocable wrong she had committed in accus- ing Kenneth, Not even to Everard could sbe at that moment confess her fault. ‘“‘’We must part, Everard,” she faltered, ‘for our love bas been too deep te dwindle into mere friendship!” “You send me from you,” he said, re- proachfully. ‘You will not permit me the happiness of listening to your voice—of feeling . that Iam in your presence! Beatrice, do you think I would lure you from your duty? Rather would I watch over you, and even at the cost of many a bitter pang, see you con- tented in your domestic life!” . “That cannot be!” she interposed, hurried- ly. ‘Of all wives I am most miserable. You add to my troubles; for, while you are near me, I can only remember that my im- pulsive folly deprived this hour of the felicity which it might have brought us.” “Then I will say. farewell,” he answered, extending his hand to clasp her burning fingers. ‘“‘ Heaven forbid I should increase the burden you have to bear!” ‘‘May you be happy!” she murmured. “Is Mrs. Maxwell here?’ asked a strange voice at the doorway. Both Everard and Beatrice started. They had not perceived the man’s approach, He was a roughb-headed, apple-faced country bumpkin, baving the appearance of a farmer’s laborer. ‘What do you want with me?” asked Bea- trice, perplexed. and alarmed at his sudden ine trusion, unable to imagine how her identity had been discovered. ‘‘T don’t want ye; but missis, that is, Farm- er Dashwood’s. wife, up at Elmwood Farm, said as how ye was to come up quickly if ye wished to see your good man alive.” Could Jerome have been in the train? Im- possible! Yet Beatrice remembered the glimpse she had caught of him at the railway station, and was forced to acknowledge that he might — have stepped into it aa of the cars at the further ee Le d $ , ' ‘ me Oe nad PRR a eS» - . rd
Page 15
' hours,” she replied simply. ———— Am I to go with ulously. : ‘‘- Yes; I will show ye the way. —-just up the lane yonder.” Beatrice withdrew to assume her walking attire, and say a parting word to Bridget, of whom the old dame who owned the cottage which had hospitably given them shelter, took good care. When she entered the room below, Everard called her aside. “Tbave béen questioning the man. There seems no doubt that Mr, Maxwell was severely injured in this morning’s catastrophe, and was carried to the neighboring farm. Have you courage to see him, Beatrice? It will bea painful sight,” ‘But one from which I must not shrink. He is my husband, and has sent for me, — If he is dying, I shall take my place beside his pil- low, and tend to him to the last.” “‘ May I escort you to the farm?” She made a gesture of refusal, and left the cottage with her guide. A short walk down the lane brought them to the farm-house, with its many gables and lattice-casements wreathed with Virginia creepers. The farmer’s wife, a comely matron, hur- ried forth to receive them. ; “ He is wearying for you to come,” she said, “and I feared you might be too late.” : ‘‘ Then there is no hope?’ inquired Beatrice. “The doctors ‘say he cannot live many ‘¢His chief in- juries are internal. He may go off at any moment, so' you’ must expect the worst, my dea fad? Dime Book of 100 Games. 4 at et Dime Chess Instructor. _ 100 pages 12mo, Speakers, Nos. 1 to % inclusive. Bech ch speaker containing pieces. — ei¢ ¥ Dime Book of Beauty. — 8" The above books are sold by newsdéalers “hd. 54 dress, on receipt of price, ten cents each, DLE wo. | a eg : 2 % i ir aa a . SPEAKERS . 2 * 24 ~ Ve ai ee Le +a) ane ee aS 7 i ‘ae af > an 7 a ’ ‘ a ¢ ~ , wv poe! Se \ ean. af ye +a
Page 16
The Cheapest Library Ever impr ee i The Masked Bride; or, rine) She Masry | 74 Cecil Castlemaine’s, Gag he or, The Story | 146 Pe Desperate, V Venture Sted or, Hor Love’s : Reed Cr ie a. 2 Was, kb Love Fats n aren D. Sweet- | 75 The J Black Lady of Duna, By J.S. Le | 147 The War of ANfearts, By Gorkane Cush. 3 The Girl ife.. By Bartley T bell. 76 Charlotte Templ om e. Mrs. Rowson. 14 Wh i 4 a mere, Neeates ‘ a. Startlingly srg ‘seeotel 77 Christian Oakley's Tetalce,, By the 4 Mi hm repr ae ike 3 Memes at PRE eeely 5 Bensic gio Bayhor. the: Work author of “ John Halifax, “Gentleman, *” ete. 149 An Ambitious Girls or, She bh on Be , Mason Tum or, M. De Girl. ‘By | 78 my Young Husband; or, A Confusion in An Actress? By Frances Helen Baven 6 ray reer . inerlane Cl e Family. By Myself. 150 Love Lord of AER By Alice Ma: Homing £ Tat Riek oF tive By Sara Claxton, | 79 A Queen Amongst Women, By the 151 4 Wild Girl. By Corinne Cushman, ree. Reed Crowell.” nuded by Love. author of ‘‘ Dora Thorne,” etc., etc, 152 A Man’s Saealtt te a Harriet Irving. 8 dace. “f i B Ax Hella fio 80 Her —e and Master. By Florence | 153 Did She Sin. By Mrs. Reed Crow! S time he chic World: a ae a Southworth. Marry: 154 He Loves Me haa B By illien Lovejoy. » Ward, fy tho author oF 01 bo a conn Man’s | 81 Ener: Messin. Sister of Charlotte. 155 Winning Ways. i; Maxenot Blount. 10 A Pair of Gray Eyes. B en, K 82 A Long Time Ago. By Meta Orred. 156 What She Cost Ytins; or, Crooked Paths. ‘19 Soltnpematod rf As « by hose ennedy. 83 Playing for High Stakes, By Annie : By ‘Arabella Southworth. “ Heatitten P bn eee angerous Game. y Thomas. 157 A GirPs Heart. By Rett Winwood. iz His Lawful Wife; M h 84 The Laurel Bush. By the author of | 158 A Bitter Mistake; or, A Young Girl’s ; AAOpHON. “By Mr A ee yas. e Child of “John Halifax, Gentleman.” Folly. By Agnes Mary Shelton. 13 Madea » the Lica ain — ens. | 85 Led Astray. By Octave Feuillet. 159 La elen’s Vow; or, The Mother's Naval Coviet's Wooing, e Pood or, The | §6 Janet’s Repentance. By George BHliot. Secret. By the Late Mrs, E. F. Ellet. be ape apa ate ahaa Src emere | £7 he ftameatay gem irecr Nouns tenn |age Basing gett my aaE Lee: itt A b : r * , i¢ Trust Her “Noett ea Pate 88 A Terrible Deeds or, All for Gold. By | 162 A Fatetal Game. y Sara Guxten. isan Lelocsict, or, rue Knight. By Emma Garrison Jones. 163 The Creole Cousins; or, False as Fair. 17 A Loyal Lov or. a EAS bye ee a 89 m Rona AN Sin. By the author of ‘!Dora was By ee 3 AA Ware de 1; May Pasa 18 His Idol. By ry Reed Crowell. 90 TI 7 vathing oy se or, May ey’s P| ; uthor’s Daughter. : (19 The wees Botrochals or, Love versus Howitt, Mee srae. te oe | 188 rye Girl. B By sat Pickens. t's 20 Orphan Nell, Sia Gran: Girl; rt 91 The , Silt. By Charles Reade. 166. A Mans Sin, Rett Winwood, Last Heir, By’ Agile Penne rl}; or, The 92 Bileen Alanna. B Dennis. C O'Sullivan. 167 che Hang.p' ort ate; or, The Wreck of ~ ctory. eon, ‘wo Lives. 1 h , 21 Now Bin’ by Honnietta Thackeray. Did She Mar- | 9 , Whe Quiet Heart. By Mrs. Oliphant 168 Two Fair foumiba: ey Wan, hi. Turner. * 22 he icde ce an in hor | 22 Lettice Arnold. By Marsh. 169 Tempted chron y ee or, One ' i 7 teal ine th the per che Ors ee 8 6 ee or. o6 Heunted carts: Ree bal Bernhardt. i Woman's Error, y tilian £0 oe ug elton. arine Kin; li rbara’s e ° me ~“aiedhe or, Why She Proposed. By Sara | ee aeee Learmont, ” By Miss Mulock . ae rae Haipine. eet. “By om 2 arjorie Bruce’s overs, a 1 A °s Witchery. By 5S. Clax 24 aaa Face Was Mer Fortune. By Elea- Patrick. _ oe igs Black yes yee ine. A Serene iy 25 Onl Schoolmi: | 100 Through Fire and Water. By Fred- Cus i eer ees De, Sree Cute erick Talbot. 173 The” ‘Cost of a Folly. By Georgiana ae ark, By Col R Iograbam. 19% Bee Weiaaceea. by ChariesRende, | Pa bg trange e; offington. arles e. 1 The "Pp t Puri . BY A Y ; 7% By oquette 0 , 103 A i aeons y Deed, By Erskine Boyd. - he, rtd nig Readis cig: y Mane 28 or; The Gambler's Terie, iid 104 wer on the Snow. By B. L. Far- | 175 is Love 5. fend i = hit. “ Revenge is 29 na. Charehcist 105 rg 1S Prost Mecenrey Diamond. By | 176 E echiomg the Adopted. By Jennie Davis t 3 a) Agile i Pon e. | s Mad | _s A guiay veya ‘Ai Detiigon asd Froim. Dreanis to Waking. By E./ 177 For the b Seng AR te pod or, Fate- 2 ie Bit Bena sae 100. Ehe Sal Wertunes st the Hey. Anos | 77S Te Locke ea ee ne ies Ba A isters, By Alice Fleming, Barton. iot. 179 Parted by Treachery. By Harriet Irving. te : oak ett of, Was 109 Breadvand-chcene and Kisses. By |.180 Was She a Wife? By Rett Winwood ; 3 rx. By Clara Augusta, 110 The . Wandering Heir ‘181 Under a Cloud, By Sara Claxton. eae, « Bride; or, The Queen of His ait satan + By, Charles |) go Am American Queen. | By G. Mortimer. a ‘111 The Brother’s Neer or, Within Six |) 783 & Point of Honor. By Lillian Lovejo, > 37 The we Country Cousin, ices mned “ £ me aber Har ony a9 A Biron A Me Winer ee tT ata re eo V: . From th French of x! Girl’s tn Name. Alt, Bae) ane eins Wms Sdioes - 185 Put to a Test. By Georgiana Dickens. ee Fleming, ay His econd Phare Claxton. Hee, tl Apeeele South 43 The Barouev’s ssn i Onl os Mart he a oi, Under « Gioia. Sy aie foe Him; 5 or, How Will eS Herself i or, J eannette’s Repa- td t. a é Arabella Sout Fess 5 $ OF, Teaye, at First . es ofy vere Prisoner of Shoe ot Seeruae ae wit Alice Bi ‘All d-Crowell.. ope, the e Ac rome By William Wa RE. 64 One W ars Seed Heart or, Saved trom the ane By Colonel Prektiss Stabe 197 A \ Sister's Crime. | By Agnes Mary Shel- : Street George 8.’ Ho in’ New |: ayy Lov A St i 130 ee arg or,' Two Orphan. Girls ew Raps shee gh AAs ¢ HXlm 5 on on oop ng to By Albert W, Aiken 198 Pia wilde or, The Inheritance of eH 7 ; 131 Bieter ainst Sisters or. ag aon, at Hate. By Jenn es sity $6 Love-Mad 5 8 ameched, aan Divorced Hearts. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crow: D ahi, r eedaiy it ance ihurner, M. D. 132 Sold for Gold. By Mrs. M. Seotor 199 mae Beautiful, emon, | By Frances # 58 | OU a ¢ ‘ the Mysterious 133 Lord Roth’s Sin. : “phe eorgien op a 200 Morte pesca or, sr Ctidermia and (Maa... ee Te Maky lbed Grow ‘134 Dic d He Love Her? By ey T, Camip |, ley. Reochee ty Griona fh elinoan ty TO Ba: 135 Sinned Against. By Lillian Lovejoy. 201 2 ‘Fotas Girls Ordeal ; or, ‘1 Love You ’ ves * 1 A By Sar: 136 atom ee: is Wife? By Mrs. Mary ill,” By Sara Claxton... a an W aaniane Bride. By Margaret Blount | % 202: Teen Evil Genius, ~ Barat tering reve re Creole sters. By Anna B. Porter 37 eea Ss Village, on the Cliff. BY Mist eee pansion’s | He t 138 Poor ‘Waterkas By ane Blount, Between Them. By L bee heugeee 139 Mar pares: raham. G. P.. R. James. | 204 Ble ant, a bert; or, The Gloved Hand. _| 140 Witho ercy. BY roe Campbell By Philip $. Warne. (fen Wy Alex en By Mek Braddon. | "42 Fleeing trom a in Mire. Harriet ji new isgue any week. es ns. By D’Ene Tap Wa’ yeriey Lrprary is for ‘by all News. my Young tte. By My Youn Wite’s pias fee. A menesinre 5 eer dealers, five cents copy; or sent seb at on re 144 A Strange ~ rriage. By [lien Lovetoy: ceipt of Bix cents eat awk AL Rose sapaizel., By Maud liton, Cac: Cpomrell:. to street, New York, san Pengo ae aoe a : { a , Hai Bh Re igs cet Wee Tips Aas i: aS Be ’ 4 tak ae Sete i T ee? Fag. fn Awe : Pincay ask Aiton tye LLY tan AS Se Ce ey J oe 4 ihe eat ce Agate vit a x Bees ro Sheed ae eae i rother against | 114 °fwas In Trafalgar’s Bay. By Wal- ter e tha sant’ and. James ‘Rice 115 The Maid of Killeena., By Wm, ‘Black. i 6 Hett By Henry Kingsley. ‘117 The’ Wayside _— or, The Raid of Gomez. _ By Captain E _By. Oliver Bernardin De' St 118 The he, Vicar of, Wakefield. Gold 119 Wraud Mohan. By Annie Thomas. 120 Vhaddeus of Warsaw. By, Miss Jane Porter. 121 tere King of No-Land.’ By B. L. Far. eon. 122 we the Widower. By W. M. Thack- 128 rey Island Been By B. L: Farjeon. 4 Cousin Phillis ' 125 Leila; or, The Siege of Grenada. By Rad- ward Bulwer (Lord. Lytton). 126 or pen the Shi Comey Home, By Walter Besant and James Ri 127 One of the cy a By. James Payn. : 128 The Birthright, Be a ore iiiah} armer’s Sw 194 brary. | 1 Copyright Novels sist the ae of Foreign Novelists, Unabridged, FOR, FIVE bist a Mystery. By Jennie Davis Burto Scheme, By Arabella Southwo ‘188 Pi gkebker fate, My ‘Op Beyond is terious Guardian; era Singer. By Corinn 195 — the Balance} Fa A Shadowed Love, ‘192 The Bitter Feud, 193° pene ety the or gs Boer By Geo! Sinan bieweha The Gypsy By Arabella Southworth. Sara Claxt 186 The Terrible Truths pe ee Thornhurst 187 ®utwitted. by. Herself > or, A Mother's Child ot ie ati ‘or; A Peart ee. By Col. Prentiss Ingra ham. 189 aier Guardian's ot. Or; A Name ' inthe Balance. » By 190 Pretty and Proud... re acy Gashenan. 191 A Woman’s Maneuvers wie Purse, not H By Lillian Lovejoy. By Jonnie D. Burton, or, Little Cushman, 196 rite the Jewess et ag the Miser Million- By Dr. Noel