Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 220) (1884 01 29)
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CHAPTER I. no, 201. ‘*Mrpniaut! Good Lord, how horribly familiar to me is the discordant clanging ef those horrible chimes. For the first three weeks of my va- cation they seeméd to be constantly ringing in my ears, and I was just beginning to for- get them, when I am summoned to their awful reality. Ten— eleven — twelve! go on, ring out the knell of my youth, and hope, and love; check off my life hour by hour, and tell me with infernal regularity at this time that another day is dead, that an- other set of opportun- ities has been wasted, and that I am _ so much nearer to my grave! Great Heaven, to think of the miser- able manner in which my life is passing from me! When I first entered upon my profession it was not, God knows, the idea of making money that tempted me. I had grand _ visions of standing by the bedside of the sick, and scaring away the demons of disease and death that were hovering around it; I had hopes of achiev- ing name and fame, with Lucy to share them with me, and what am I now? A man of thirty years of age, a prison sur- geo., struggling on with the wretched pittance of six hun- dred dollars a year, with convicts and jail-birds for his pa- tients— scoundrels without a spark of integest or gratitude, and whose only ob- ject, as far as I am cuncerned, is to en- N Mi ui No iv IMO i Sl an Wy aS il Thee SS ““MAKE YOURSELF EASY, SIR FREDERICK,” SAID DR. TRAVERS, EARNESTLY, “‘ OW THE SCORE OF LADY RANDALL’S AJ VOWANCE.” Copyright, 1884, by BEADL®# AND ADAMS, deavor to deceive me by shamming niala- dies in order thas they may escape from the labors of the tread- mill and the crank.” As he uttered these last words the speak- er rose from bis chair, plunged his hands deeply into bis pock- ets, and began pacing to and fro, looking round the room as though seeking for consolation, but find- ing none. To a person men- tally ill at ease, as he seemed to be, the as- pect of the apartment was not calculated to afford any comfort. It was a long nar row slip of a room, meagerly furnished with two or three chairs, a small iron bedstead, an old writ- ing-table,the leathern top of which was ink- stained and knife- notched, On the bare white walls hung a fairly executed water- color drawing, repre- senting a cosey lit- tle parsonage stand- ing in the midst of a thoroughly English landscape with a back- ground of high elm- trees, and with a gravel path evidently leading to the village church, the hoary, ivy-covered tower of which was dimly visi- ble in the distance. Beneath this pic- ture were two smail photographs; one of an old man, with flowing gray hair, the cut of whose gar- ments and the bight and rigidity of whose white cravat showed him to be a clergy- man; the other of a benign old lady, with & sweet smile, and a soft, tender expres- sion in her large eyes. In a corner \of tis
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_— oy Pe q ; i a ee ——— room stood a huge wooden p: ess, filled with stoppered glass bottles, arranged in rows, while inan open drawer at its base was a collection of surgical instruments, rolls of lint, plaster, and other appliances of the heal- ing art, alter King, the man who was patrolling this chamber with wandering steps, was an average specimen of the young Englishman of the upper middle-class, tall and strongly built; nature had intended him to be good- looking, had given him a wealth of dark-brown hair and brilliant, hazel eyes ; but hard work and disappointment in his career had robbed him of the luxuriance of the first, and dimmed the luster of the last. His brow was some- what bald, and the locks that clustered thickly round his temples were streaked with silver : but the nose and lips were finely cut, and the lines round the latter, and the square wan jaw told of firmness and decision. In his early youth he had lived the life led by most medical students during the time of} their engagement at the hospitals ; his pur- suit of pleasure had been far more eager than his attentions to lectures ; he was extravagant, not to say dissolute, and after scraping through his examination, and being admitted to the ractice of his profession, he had gone down Coals totheold vicarage in Gloucestershire, with the intention of getting as much money as possible from his long-suffering father, and returning, at once to London, to re-commoence his career of folly and dissipation. But a different fate awaited him. During his absence in the metropolis, Lucy Travers, the orphan niece of the childless old ! squire and great man of the parish, had come to keep her uncle's house, and with her, at firsr sight, Walter King fell desperately in love. | Notfor her beauty, perhaps, though with her brilliant red and white complexion, her laughing eyes, her long, curling chestnut hair, and her sound, strong teeth, she was pretty enough for any man ; but there was a nameless attraction about her, in her open frankness, in her honest sincerity, in the total absence of anything like affectation, or the tricls of the world. ; Aceastomed to flirtations with bar-maids and waitresses, or with women of even a lower order, Walter King found himself entranced by Lucy's modesty and purity, by her skillful management of her uncle's household, and by the attention and devotion with which she repaid the not too great kindness the old man had shown her in affording her the shelter of is roof. eno much more than this had Squire Tray- ers given to his orphan neice, and not much more, indeed, had he to bestow. _Open-hand- ed hospitality and devotion to field sports. of all kinds, carried on fora number of years, had sadly crippled the squire’s resources. His vast estates were heavily mortgaged ; his affairs were in the hands of trustees ; and though he clung to his position, and rigidly demanded its acknowle ape by every one with whom he was brought into contact, 1t was felt by all, and by none more Sp the squire imself, to be merely & hominal one. aval aia that maatter to Walter King, full of youth and health, and ambition. When he foun | he had secured pe fe love-and with such a frank, ingenious girl, he was not long in learning that important fact—he wanted nothing else. The tonite shook his head when the engage- ment of the young people was proposed to him ‘‘He liked Walter well enough,” he said ; ‘she loved Walter's father, his old college chum, and he would even make the sacrifice of parting with his niece ;” but he could not bestow on her even the smallest fortune, and the young man’s pride was too Breat to accept the offer which was made to , to marry Imcy, and eat the bread of idleness in her e's house, ; No! he had his profession, and with that he would make his way through the world ! idler truant from work, he side: been regarded clever, the au- thorities at the hospital had pronounced that GOING TO THE BAD, he had plenty of ability, and only needed ap- “Dead,” said the warder, shortly repeating epee k and now that he had a spur to in-| the military salute. uce him to persevere, he would soon find the path clear before him. A pleasant dream, but one not destined to | ficer full in the face. be realized. Walter obtained recommendations some of his old frends, applied here and there, passed six months as assistant to an over- worked surgeon, just struggling into good practice in London, passed another six months ‘* Well, Macpherson, what is that to me ?” said the doctor, raising his head and looking the of- ‘**T did not kill the man, I cannot bring him back to life; my busi- from | ness is to heal the sick, not to attempt to raise the dead!’ : ; ‘‘ Eh, Doctor King,” said the warder, a fine old Scotchman, who had been for years an of- ficer of the prison, and with whom the surgeon as drudge to an apothecary and general prac-| was a great favorite, ‘‘I didna ken you had titioner in the country, where he had to attend ot back, sir, and didna recognize you with to workhouse patients, and was knocked up} your hand in front of your face—I thought at all hours of the night to drive miles over the wild commons in the midst of the howl- ing storm, for a fee which in other days he would have given to a cabman, Finally, through the assistance of some of the squire’s friends, obtained the vacant appointment of surgeon to the Westchester county jail, which, at the time our story opens, he had held for some two years. This was the first evening since his return from his annual vacation. For one month in the year he was enabled to shake off the de- grading effect of the association with convicts, the perpetual sight of the whitewashed walls, the long iron galleries, the spiral staircases, the clanging doors, the constant marching and counter-marching, ng ig and the weari- some detail of prison life. Then he went straightway home to the quiet little village, where all the time not actually given up to Lucy, and that was not much, was spent in the company of his parents. At such times they were all tolerably hopeful, and man- aged to talk pleasantly of the future. Something would happen for Walter's ad- vantage, some one would die and leave hima fertune, or the squize’s affairs would ‘‘get round,” and in the meantime they were still young and loved each other dearly. - That was Walter's great joy ; he knew that the girl whom he had selected from the rest of the world was perfectly and thoroughly de- yoted to him; that no matter how long his ab- sence, how apparently distant the chances of their union, reovar great the attention paid to her by others, Lucy never gave him the smallest cause for doubt or mistrust. She was his—his alone; and hugging that thought to himself, as his sole consolation, Wal- | ter King had said good-bye to those dear ones, and started back to the scenes of his dreary | labor. But the contrast between his dear old hom», rich with so many memories, aad lit up with | the well-loved faces, and the cold solitude of | his cheerless prison apartment, was almost too | much for him to bear. ‘‘T cannot stand it!” he cried alond. ‘‘To think.” he added, taking a portrait from his breast pocket and looking at it with affection, “to think that only last night I was with you, my darling, holding you in my arms, and gaz- ing into your beautiful eyes, so tender and so true in their long regard, and that now it will probably be twelve months before we meet again. I can’t stand it? The best part of my life is being wasted, and I will bear it no longer. I will throw up this appointment and seek for some foreign service, where I may have the chance of distinguishing myself. Lucy will not object, I think; and even my dear old father, and my darling mother, would forgive me, if they could only comprehend the misery of my life here.” ; He fell into a chair as he spoke, crossing his arms upon tlie table and resting his head upon them. In this position he remained but a few minutes, and when he raised his in an- swer to a respectful tapping at the door, there were traces of tears upon his face. : These he hastily brushed away as he cried out: . ‘Come in—what is it ?” The door opened, and a warder appeared ; raising his hand and giving a military salute he said : « Doctor, No. 201.” . «Well, sir, what of him King, still shading his eyes with his hand. ?”’ asked Walter | ever, ' which Doctor Phillimore was still here.” ‘‘All right, Macpherson,” said Walter King, with a weary smile. ‘‘I know you mean* no offense, but why did you come to tell Doctor Phillimore, who would have no more power in such a case than I should ?” “‘T should think not, indeed!” said the old man, warmly. ‘‘ For myself, I wouldna trust Doctor Phillimore with the life of a tom-cat. He's too fond of toddy ” ‘‘Hush, hush, Macpherson, you must not say such things; and you have not answered my question.” ‘* Well, sir, it is just this,” said the cld man, restraining his contemptuous anger, *‘ Doctor Phillimore took great interest in No. 201, and when he went off duty, asked me to let him © know at once if there were any change in the man’s condition.” > ‘*He did not expect me back so soon.” : “Just so,” said the old man, peevishly. - ‘* He’s a careless body himself and gives noone ~ else credit for being punctual.” **I suppose this man was in the hospital ward ?” said Walter King, carelessly. ‘No, sir,” replied the warder, ‘‘ Dr. Philli- » more had him removed from there to the last cell in the south corridor.” ‘The deuce he did! As you say, Macpher-— son, he seems to have taken interest in this particular patient, ~ I must ask the doctor » about him. Tell me, Macpherson, who was - No. 201?” . ‘« Entered in the name of Russel; five years — mae penal, for forging and uttering bill of ex- — change,” said the man. I believe, doctor, with easy manners and soft, white hands; but a bad lot, I should think, to judge by his shifty eyes and cruel mouth.” ‘* Why you are quite a physiognomist, Mac,” said Walter King, laughing. ‘* Quite a high fellow; © ‘‘T dinna ken about feesonomy,” muttered the warder, ‘‘but I’ve had unco experience of es villains, not to recognize them at once; and » that this Russel is ane, I'll take my Bible oath.” ‘*Your remarks of Dr. Phillimore’s interest inspire me with a desire to have a look at this man. The last cell, in the south corridor, you say, Macpherson? Right, you need not wait, I will find my own way to it.” : The warder saluted silently, and withdrew. Left to himself, Walter King again com- menced pacing the room restlessly, but the feeling of nervous irritability, under which he had vanished, and, in its place, he was haunted by a kind of ey aap fear and mental terror, which impelled him from time to time to cast furtive glances over his shoulder, as though in % himself followed in his wander- — dread of oes! ings by a bodily presence. | ‘This is too absurd,” he said, half aloud and half to himself. sick girl, but a little touch of professional duty will soon put that to rights. What can have made Phillimore take such an interest in this reviously been laboring, seemed to have | : io “Tam as full of fancies as a © prisoner, I wonder? I thought all he cared for — was to draw my during the time he acted as my substitute, and, in return, to render as little service for the money as he conveniently — could; for—as old Macpherson was just upon the point of remarking if I had not responsible, he could never be amorely even to attend upon such patients as _ How: he seems, for once, to have four has divided his attention with the whisky — him—my friend Phillimore is a Sieipaied agit and if it was to the visiting cnloyed, eves ae ene a ys Sa oaeienantinieas iehtok, . has dens Sas. ee, BOS - j 1 wor a+ Ga ey 4 wD = ae
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wa . > i f se , 4 4 “4 : Tp. a. lal ‘ $ i : e Cs % 1 ‘ bottle and the sporting newspapers, and I shall be curious to sag what it is Tike” He put on his hat as he spoke, and, taking a small hand-lamp from a niche in the corner, lit it witha match, and shading it with his coat, passed out of the room. up lon mp ll ra the long stone corri- dors drew thémselves up as the doctor passed, and saluted him respectfully, those on duty in the upper galleries, hearing clinking footsteps, leaned over in curiosity, and drew back as soon as they recognized the familiar figure of the 6 of the cell at the extreme end of the south cor- ridor. This he unlocked with a pass-key, which he took from his pocket, and, holding the lamp above his head, entered the cell, closing the door softly behind him. CHAPTER I. THE DOCTOR’S BARGAIN. Te same strange, inexplicable terror which had beset Walter King while in his own room, came over him now, as he gazed around him. The cell was an ordinary whitewashed, narrow slip, with walls bare, save for two or three Scripture texts hanging on them, and devoid of all furniture except a small table, on which stood afew medicine-bottles which had been used by the dead prisoner during his illness, and a low truckle-bed. Stretched upon this, and covered over with the oarse prison sheets, through which the dull a eg t 4 turbed, flickered toand fro upon the sheet, giving the idea that what laid beneath it was stirred in outline was distinctly visible, lay a something— still and motionless, indeed, but in its dumb immobility, perhaps, more calculated to strike dismay into the breasts of those beholding it, than a raging maniac or bounding beast of ey. P domnathing of this kind must have struck Walter King, for, accustomed as he was to the sight of the dead, he hesitated before under- ing the task which had brought him to the spot, and seeking to discover, by an inspection of the corpse, the cause of the interest which jek Phillimore had taken in the patient when ve, It was strange ; he could not understand the ' 5 reason, and yet he felt it almost impossible to ’ ebay with his duty after his ordinary easy shion. . ashio e placed the lamp upon the floor, and seat- ing himself on the edge of the table, looked hard atthe figure stretched mute and notionless before him. The wind, which blew in fitful gusts down the long corridor, found its way under the door of the cell, and the light of the lamp, thus dis- temporary unrest. So vivid was this delusion that Walter King, eyes with his hand, peered long and earnestly atthe ghastly object before him, in order to -_ eonvince himself of the fantastic deception into , ee :. 44 Ki v ¢ « ¥ ‘ pt » __- which his nervousness had betrayed him, At any other time, not merely would he have laughed away the creeping terror which beset him, but would soon have destroyed its origin by ocular inspection of what he now stood aloof . a qe from, and only regarded with curious, awe- en gaze. But to do that at that instant he felt was im- , ’ * 4 hee ursery. "The clanging of a door in a distant corridor had the effect of startling him into something gd ae 5 ia abadha urd.’* he ‘said, placing his urgeon. On he walked, until he stopped at the door | calling his senses to his aid, and shading his | GOING TO THE BAD. hands on his head, and tightly pressing the tem- poral artery. ‘‘The quict home life which I have been leading would seem to have had the effect of deranging my nervous system, and in- breath to make more certain of it, but this time there was no responsive-throb. He laid the hand gently.down in its former position by the side of the body, and bending stead of coming back refreshed by the rest, and| down within an inch of the face, looked into set up for a renewal of my dreary labors, I am | the glassy eyes, and taking his lancet case from as unstrung and as shaky as I used to be aftera course of drink and dissipation in the old student days. However, there is an end to it,’ he mut- tered, rising from his seat upon the table, and advancing towards the bed. a look at this patient, whose case was peculiar | enough to excite an interest in such a very easy going practitioner as our friend Phillimore. As he bent over the bed a return of his tremu- lousness seemed impending, and le hesitated for an instant. Then, with one strong effort, he regained the mastery over himself, and with steady fit: gers seized the sheet and slowly with- drew it from the features which it covered. Cold, clear-cut features, eminently aristocratic and high bred looking, even disfigured as they were Ly the absence of the natural shading of hair, which had been cut close, according to the relentless rules of prison discipline. Such of it as had been left, though, was light in hue anc | very thick, growing down into a peak upon | the low, narrow forehead; the nose was straight ‘and thin, with lithe, almost transparent nos- | tells 5 the lips small, compressed, dried, and } almost colorless ; the chin narrow and pointed. ‘he eyes, Which were ‘wide open, were of a | steely blue, like the frozen surface of a pool, Walter King tiought, as he bent over and looked down into them. “Well,” said Walter King, after a prolonged survey, stepping back, but not removing his gaze, ‘“‘old Macpherson was pretty right, I think—it is a bad face, sure enongh ; cold, hard, and cruel to a degree. If I know any- thing about physiognomy, it is ® merey for human nature that this man was taken away so soon—he cannot be more than eight and twenty —and I should think there are very few crimes at the commission of which he would j have stopped. What killed him, I wonder? | How stupid of me not to have looked at Philli- | more’s entry of the case. Ihave half a mind to—great God, what was that ?” He sprang forward and stared eagerly at the placid features, but after a moment's survey | he regained his composure. | ‘The shadow thrown by the flickering lamp, no doubt,” he muttered, ‘‘though it had just the effect of a mocking smile passing over the fellow's face. By Jove, I begin to suspect that j old Macpherson is even shrewder than any of us believe him to be. He gavesome hint that |this man was well born, and assuredly his features, bad as they are, look thoroughly high | bred. Some aristocratic scamp, no doubt, who, having run through his property, and declining to deman himself by accepting hon- est labor, went in for a little easy forging, and thus came to grief. I have hid many of that sort thongh my hands since I have held this delectable appointment; and talking of hands, let me havea look at his! I recollect Mac- pherson alluding to them in support of his theory of the rascals antecedents.” He pulled the coverlet lower down as he spoke, and lifting up the nerveless arm, took the fingers between his own and examined them closely, “As I thought,” he said; ‘‘hand as well bred as the fact, and without its wicked ex- ression. There is not much to be read from ands, though the chiromancers pretend there is ; but one can tell easily enough that these fingers have never done any useful work, and that this pink, soft palm—how much of the vital heat it still retains! When did this man die, I wonder? Macpherson omitted to tell me that, and yet—great Heaven, what can be the matter with me to-night? Am I losing my senses ?’ In obedience to a professional impulse, and without giving it a thought, Walter King had slipped his fingers down from the hand to the wrist, and under their encircling touch it ' seemed to him that he felt the faintest, feeblest (benitheee honk bs ie Ga Ss Yes, he felt it distinctly. He held his own ** Now let us have | his pocket, held one of the highly polished in- struments in front of the parted lips’; but on inspecting it no sign of human breath :had . dulled the lustrous steel. Dead—he must be dead! The body spread |out before him showed every sign of having ° succumbed to death—and yet, that pulsation ! Walter King threw himself upon his knees, ; and again holding his breath, laid his ear lightly on the left side of the chest. | For the first minute after he placed himself |in this position he heard nothing. Then a tingle ran through all his framé as his ear, highly trained and accustomed to such duty, de- tected a faint muffled heart-beat. Again? Then silence, and let him strain ever so much he heard no more. But Walter King had heard and felt enough to nerve him to immediate action. quickly to his feet, muttering to himself : ‘“‘Catalepsy ! this is a case of catalepsy, that wondrous disease of which I have heard so much, but of which I never saw an example, Now, then, to prove whether the experiences which I have read were triumphs of science or mere lying legends served up for the gratifica- tion of the credulous!” | As he spoke he picked up the lamp from the floor, and was hurrying towards the door of the cell, when he suddenly stopped. ‘*Stay,” he murmured reflectively, ‘‘ what 1am I about to do? This poor wretch feels nothing, knows nothing; even if there be a faint spark of vitality left within him, he has to be left alone and it will soon be extinguished, swiftly and painlessly. Why should I try to blow it into a flame? Life to him, if he were to recover it, must for some time henceforth mean nothing but the corridors of this jail, or the stone quarries of Portland! Better let him ebb away, and—no, by Jove, I will try for it.” The prospect of a gladiatorial contest with He sprung the Destroying Angel, whose sworn foe he was, — settled the question at once in the young man’s mind, Be the result what it might, he was determined to use his professional skill, and he rushed away to his room to procure the neces- sary appliances. ¥ Within five minutes he returned, bearing with him, in addition to the lamp, a small gal-— vanic battery. All was as he left it; the figure motionlese on the bed, with the head and chest uncovered, and the arms stretched out stiffly over the — sheet. The doctor placed the lamp onthe table, an@ at once commenced getting the galvanie appa- ratus into working order. “It scarcely has sufficient power, this bat- tery,” he muttered to himself; ‘‘ but one must’ - make the best of what tools one has. Now, if this fellow were only laid out on the table at. the lecture theater of St. George’s, and old John was working at the battery, and I had the direct- ing of the wires, we could give him a shock that might be of some service to him! Let me see, now where shall I make the first applica~ cation ?” He turned round as he spoke. and made one + step towards the bed, but instantly stopped and reeled back against the table. The eyes of the prostrate figure, no longer dim and glassy, but full of expression, half curious, half imploring, were turned towards him—were shining fullupon him. Then, as Walter King, breathing hard through his set teeth, and trembling in every limb, despite his efforts of self-control, stood speechless, gaz- ing at this fearful sight, the lips of the figure slowl ig Where am 1 ?” issued from them. At the sound of the voice, scarcely human, though it was in its faintness, the and silently forward, and the next imBtant kneeling by the figure’s side, was 4 and the faintly-uttered words, — : ?. a
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GOING TO THE BAD. =a With his head hidden in his hands, the man | with deliberate skill. Some of his comrades and with a friend; but you must be silent, or | moaned forth : see him, and raise the alarm. The young lad ~ : ae your life is not worth ai hour’s purchase—you [oe That fate is reserved for me still. I shall ) who has finished his bathing, and is dressing 4 hear me ?7—do you follow me? I must leave | be buried alive within these prison walls for the , himself on the bank, hears it. Without stop- you for a minute: but while lam away yon | next seven years; no life, no light, no hope! ping to take off his clothes he plunges in; a must not attempt to move hand or foot, or to; O, God! how much more preferable were death | few rapid strokes take him to the npot, and eak, Give me some sign that you under- to that!” | then he disappears... The drowning boy is stand me.” | He spoke with such keen agony in his voice older and heavicr than he, and seizes lim in a The man had, apparently, not sufficient | that Walter could not help pitying him, though his grasp, but te lad manages to shake lim- ‘ strength to make any movement; but helooked| he was a felon. He laid his hand softly upon self free, and justas the struggles of the cx- } up with a glance which was intelligent enough, | the man's head, muttering, ‘‘’Tis a hard fate, | hausted boy are becoming fainter and fewer. iF and Walter King, rising to his feet, left the indeed!” he seizes him by. the hair, and drags him safely room, Instantly the man raised his head andlooked tothe shore. The name of the boy so nearly He hurried along the corridor untilhe reached | the doctor full in the face. drowned was Walter King; the boy who pre- a large press, warmed with hot air, in which the ‘**Do you think so?” he said, ‘If 60, why served him, Frederick Randall: and they are linen, blankets, and bedding of the prisoners , not release me from it ?” \both here, looking at each other, in this were placed to dry, and which wasalwayskept | ‘‘I, how could I release you, even if I) prison cell, to-night.” at a very high temperature. | would 2” | The mystery of the three parallel red bars ning the*press, and: rapidly scanning its| *‘' Easily enough. If you had only delayed on the forehead, and the free, light motion of contents, Walter King selected two large, thick , your return for twenty-four hours, and that} the hand, was solved now. In the words he blankets, which he felt to be thoroughly pene- | cursed attack of catalepsy—I know what it was, | had just heard, Walter King recognized and trated with heat, and throwing them over his! you see, well enough had not come upon ie, | admitted the truth. arm, retraced his steps to the cell. | I should have been free now.” ‘*Good God! Are you Fred Randall ?” Closing the door behind him, he s‘ripped| As the man spoke he frowned heavily, and| ‘‘ Yes, sir,” exclaimed the prisoner, bitterly. the sheet from the still motionless body, and {| with the contracting brows, appeared immedi- | ‘‘ Russell, the convict forger, is Fred Randall, enveloping it from head to foot in the blankets | ately above them on his forehead three plainly | late a captain in the army, and nephew and ¥ which he had brought with him, raised the defined parallel bars of red. Where, and on | heir to Sir Compton Randall, baronet.” BS head on his arm, and taking a silver flask from! whom, had Walter King seen these marks be-| ‘‘ And do none of your friends know of the his pocket, poured a little of its contents into, fore? The action of the hand, too, as though | plight in which you are ?” ‘* Where are you ?” he whispered ‘‘ in safety, _ ney 4 the mouth. | tossing something lightly away from him, with ‘* Not a single one, 1am happy to say. Di- ' = The man’s eyes at once opened and dilated, , which the speaker concluded his sentence, | rectly I found things going to the bad I } Pe and a faint streak of color dawned in the wan | was also strangely familiar to the doctor. Who | changed my name, and gave out I had gone to ‘ be and ghastly cheeks. | was this man, and where had they met before ?” | Australia. I should have gone if that infernal : mitt ‘*Good, so far,” muttered the doctor to ‘You would have been free !” he said, after | bill on which TI had written the wrong name ; Bia js" himself. ‘I never thought the dear old; moment’s pause. ‘‘Indeed! how would you; had not turned up in the very nick of time and {iy a governor’s best liqueur brandy would ever be| have gained your freedom, and how did my | got me arrested. However, let us be practi- = put to such base use as that—for it is a base | coming back interfere with it?” cal, and talk about the present. I saved your 5 use to save a poor devil from death, and hand} ‘‘ There is no need for me to tell you that,” | life once, King, and you must save mine now. Me an \ him over again to transportation. However, | said the man, doggedly. ‘Suppose I had} You must got me out of this at once.” + ar | my work is not half done yet.” known your substitute, Dr. Phillimore, years} —‘‘ But how ?” said Walter; ‘‘ how is it to be « ; As he spoke, he stripped off his coat, and|ago; suppose my name was not what I have|done? I allow my indebtedness to you and ] Se, kneeling upon the bed, and passing his hand) given it here, and that I were not what I seem) your claim upon me, but how am I to serve i cs under the blanket, commenced rubbing the | to be, and that I had met Dr. Phillimore in so- | you?” a a chest, and all the region round about the ciety, and that, for old acquaintance sake, he| ‘* It will not be very difficult,” said Randall, t ie heart, with his palm. had consented to square it for me so that I after a few minutes’ consideration; *‘ the pso- e id Under the friction, the chill rigidity of the | should get out of this infernal place undetected ple here believe me to be dead, do they not ?” a ke flesh gradually gaye way, and in the course of | 1 don’t say that it was‘so, and only ask you| “* Well?” Ww bs half an hour a genial warmth diffused itself | te suppose such a thing, mind—then you can! ‘‘ Mine is a curious case, in which you have s x throughout the body ; the stiffness of the limbs | see how your return and my attack, from which taken a great interest; you wish to investigate Fi .. dissolved, and the man, bending himself into a | you have just recovered me, and, small thanks | it further, to ascertain the real cause of death aa natural, easy attitude, laid his arm, under his | to you, interfered and upset the plan.” after so sudden and apparently so slight an ill- pe ey head, and fell into a soft, quiet slumber, during; Again the contracted brows and the parallel ness. In your researches you wish to be as- th ae which Walter King, seated by the bedside, kept red bars—again the lightl¥ tossing motion of | sisted by Dr. Phillimore, and in order that you ar ~a his intently fixed on him. _ the hand! ;may be undisturbed in your Operations you — bas _. : His sleep lasted for about ten minutes; at ‘‘I am very sorry to have been in any way) have the—the body,” and he smiled grimly as in OQ mF the end of which time the patient uttered a|the canse of thwarting your admirable he said the word—‘‘ you have the body con. Soy -s low moan, shifted himself uneasily to and fro, | scheme,” said the doctor, sardonically; ‘but | veyed across to his house, just outside the Meat, ee)" and finally opened his eyes. As they rested , you see my business is to attend to criminals— | prison gates, You see the idea !” _ Tne _. upon the doctor, a semi-consciousness of his | not to connive attheirescape. It is much to} ‘I do,” said Walter Kingveryslowly. “Do ‘tur ‘ae position seemed to break upon him. He ‘be regretted, for your sake, Mr. Russell, or | you believe Dr, Phillimore is to be trusted ?” ; elie Br:> glanced round the walls, and a visible shudder | whatever your name may be, that the surgeon ' “*T know it,” said Randall with emphasis ; hav passed throngh his frame. of this prison is not Richard Phillimore, but | ‘‘I have a hold over him which compels him glo oe ‘ Not one of these movements was lost upon | Walter King.” ‘to be obedient to me. ‘Say, will you do this? ° nen PA Walter King, He leaned forward, placed his “Walter King!’ cried the man, springing | If 80, not merely will you be repaying thedebt . to t By arm under the man’s head, and looking into his | up into a sitting position, and glaring eagerly | of life which you owe me, but will be provid- fort ag eyes, seemed to invite him to speak. at him. ‘* You are Walter King.” |ing magnificently for yourselfin the future, T oa ** Where am 1?” he askedy in a low faint) ‘That's my name.” ‘Sir Compton Randall is very old, his estates pass ey yoice. ‘In the prison ?” “That's what it was,” muttered the man to ‘are yast, and when I am master of them I will pati lis ‘Yes, you are still in the prison, Russell,” | himself; “I could not make it out. And so | take care that you ”—— aD NR , ‘And you; who are you?” it is not your business,” he continued, with a| ‘‘Stay,” said the doctor, holding up hig then ' Tam the surgeon of the jail.” sneer, ‘to connive at the escape of criminals? | hand; ‘‘I owe my life to you, and I consent to —_e ie. ‘The surgeon of the jail,” repeated the man, | Now, sir, I demand, as a right, that you help | repay the debt in the way you wish; but if you bein, as with a great. effort raising himself up on to his | me to get out of this place.” — should grow to be as rich as Crwsus I would Ny at elbow; “no, surely not? Where is Dr. Philli-| ‘As aright!” cried Walter King, in aston-| take no sixpence of your money, I would Bu ae more ?” lishment. ‘* And by what right, pray ?” |hold no further communion with you! ‘Nor aon a, “Dr. Phillimore was only here for atime,”| ‘Alife for a life,” said the man, bringing | will I even do as you wish unless you make t eL it bie _ faid Walter, looking hard at him; ‘and I, as | his hand down with force upon the bed. ‘‘Is one bargain with me; and that is, you swear he i? i, I tell you, am the regular surgeon of the jail.” | your memory good, Walter King? Throw it ) to me that if I restore you to freedom you will ‘ — who ¢ % ‘* And you are going to remain here on duty | back sixteen years, and conjure up to yourself consent to forego your evil courses and en- inerel a ¥ now ?” la bright sunny August day; the scene, the | deayor to lead a life worthy of your name and 0” ze “ ** Certainly, it is my place, I tell you.” iriver ‘Thames, just above the weir at Penton ; position in the world,” Cae late w 4 The man gazed at him for a moment with a) Hook; the actors, a knot of laughing boys, who| ‘I swear,” said Randall solemnly. » Rown ae bry IK: look, then muttering, ‘‘ Too late, too have come up there from Laleham grammar) ‘‘ Mind,” said the doctor, ‘if you break this — his abs " late !” fell back upon the pillow. | school to bathe. The little ones paddle near oath and return to vice, 80 sure as Iam aliv- of the in this way, the bank—those older and bolder swim merrily ing man I will revenge myself for this breach tg f Bee “You must not excite yourself 1s! my good fellow,” said Walter King, compas- | out into mid-stream. Suddenly a ery is raised, | of trust and duty, which you have put pressures" Ber | sionately, ‘‘ or you will undo allthe good Lhave |The best swimmer of the school has passed; upon me to make, and will hunt you down. | ‘his sta; ait been able to accomplish for you. Do you know | across the river twice, and he is coming back | Remember that,” he cricd, holding his finger $5 lire that you have been within the very jaws of|forthe third time, When, he has traversed | menacingly in the air, ‘‘ for as sure as I fails him, he , here I will be as good as my word.” ~ the wre * + o . | lt Aa) % death ?- Do you know that you have huda very | half the distance, his stren sak ees | smear chance of undergoing'a worse fate even loses his presence of mind, he splashes and | 2 - aan 2 Nee | wife’ | —-—s—stthan death itself — that of being buried alive ?” ‘sights with the. water, imstead of striking out' Shortly after daybreak, the next moming yy.) P| Lite, ae ‘ “, ty, : ‘ ’ 4 h _ beard w F 7 . . i ; . : { y eed | it ] t 5 i 8%
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GOING 20 THE BAD, x C—O herson and another warder issued from, Seeing the steward approaching, hestruggles; ‘‘ Why see, you folks. Are you down here ‘the side them a d litter, on which lay a mnufiled, shapeless burden. ith this they crossed the road, an as they approached Dr. Phillimore’s residence, with Walter King walking by their side, the door “ softly opened, and the doctor appeared in the u down. — is finger — sls a - v es ec * Spat i iA reall RNS ae iene FOR kee i, Bs: No passage. Im obedience to a beckoning motion of his finger, the warders then entered the house, and depositing their burdenin the li- brary, withdrew. No sooner had they gone than Dr. Philli- more, locking the door, pulled off the cover- ings of the litter, and assisted its occupant to rise. When Frederick Randall, for it was he, sat up, he shook hands heartily with Dr. Philli- more; and then turning to Walter King, offered to repeat the action. But Walter King drew back; ‘‘ What I have done,” said he, ‘“‘ Mr. Randall, has been purely a matter of duty on my part, and I wish to hold no farther communion with you. I have erformed my portion of the contract, now it is for you to keep your oath !” é CHAPTER . It, HONOR AMONG THIEVES. Tae wind was howling in all its autumnal fury, and the tidal boat plying between Bou- | logne and Folkestone had hard work to make anything like headway. Now she dipped down into the trough of the sea, and rolled over helplessly from side to side, while the green foam-crested billows at her stem and stern threatened to pour in and overwhelm her. Then, when her destruction teemed most imminent, she would rise buoyant asa. cork anl skim along with tolerable steadiness until the shock of another enormous wave woul. cause her tostagger as though she had receives! aiant’s blow, and cause the few. passengers who had ventured to remain on deck to shriek, vesticulate, and swear, according to their va- rious nationalities. The nationalities were various, but English people predominated; for the time was towards the end of October, when milord and milady are returning from their round of foreign trav- el to the pleasant shooting and the pleasant country life; when the lawyers, who en- doyed the earlier portion of their long vacation in climbing Swiss mountains, and ithe latter portion in “doing” Italian pic- ‘ture ' galleries, are coming back to their clients and their briefs, and when most persons have to think with ashuddor of the long gloomy ries and vast apartments of conti- _nental hotels, and to look forward with delight to the roaring, sea-coal fire, and the snug com- fort of home, There are some Americans, also, among the _ passengers, who, for the most part, were antici- the pleasant time in spending the ensu- winter in London, though one or two of ‘them, members of Congress, had engaged pas- sage in the next outgoing Cunard steamer, being anxious to get across the Atlantic before the m from: of the session at Washington. ; Bu the majority of them had made arranye- vga locating themselves at Morley’s, at e Langham, or in private apartments durin the next six months Pag: ile Ribera citizen who at one time, and not very long ago either, anerely looked upon England as a baiting place on his way to and from the continent, has of late wonderfully changed in this respect, and now not merely passes a considerable time of his absence from home in London, but speaks of the old city with a kind of filial respect and affection; finds himself warmly received in her best society, and is altogether pleased with at in her precincts. } ————— ee ee rtal of the prison, bearing between ) into a sitting position, showing himself to be a tall, gaunt, large-boned man, dressed in a frock coat, waistcoat and trowsers of dark color, and wearing in the midst of his buttonless, snowy- fronted shirt a large diamond solitaire. He seems to think that it would be undigni- fied in him to appear without his hat, for he immediately put on a tall, black specimen of the latest monstrosity in shape, which the genius of the Parisian hatter has invented, and | thus duly accoutered, seizes upon the steward as he passes by. ‘* Say mister,” catching the man by the sleeve, ** in this boat on time ?” “On time ? Don’t know what you mean, sir.’’ said the man, staring at him; ‘‘she will be in | in twenty minutes.” ‘* What’s that the man says, Hiram? Won’t you help me to sit up and fix myself a bit, I am so mussed with lying here; and there’s that real elegant bonnet, that cost me forty dollars in Paris, crushed as flat as a buckwheat cake. Say, won’t you give me your hand ?” The gentleman addressed as Hiram turned | round at the sound of the well-known voice by which these words were uttered, and staggered across the cabin to the opposite sofa, on which lay a@ small, thin, elderly lady, with sharp features and bright black eyes, but she was somewhat unsuitably dressed for traveling, in a rich silk skirt and embroidered jacket; and her blue-black hair, though somewhat disarranged by the journey, still showed signs of having been elaborately frizzed, while heavy bracelets encircled her arm and rich jewels encumbered her fingers. ‘Say, now, Hiram,” she said again, in a thin, querulous voice, ‘‘ won't you jest give me a raise up? When we was to home at Titus- ville, there was ne’er a man was a better hus- band. than Hiram P. Adams, but since we have come abroad, you propose to pay me to more attention, I think. You're not posted up in French politeness, Hiram—why, cer- tainly not? What's eeme of Minnie, too, I wonder ?” Mr. Hiram P. Adams bent down with much solemnity and pulled his wife into a perpen- dicular position ; and exhausted by the effort, and finding it impossible to keep his legs any | longer, sunk upon the floor at her feet. “Wal,” he said, remaining in his recumbent posture, ‘‘ Minnie is all right, I guess; she ain’t never sick, and them two Englishmen is looking after her,. And speaking of Titusville, Mrs. Adams, I would like well enough to be home there now, bumming round, Oil City, Reno, or any part of the neighborhood of the Allegheny Valley.” ‘** How low you du talk, Hiram,” moaned his wife; ‘‘won’t. you think that you are not at the bar of the Crittenden House or the Bush? Jest won't you recollect that it’s European | manners as is wanted here, and that you ain’t a still?” she cried, holding up her hands in aston- ishment. ‘‘ Mamma, dear, I thought you woul be on deck, and Sir Frederick has been looking for you everywhere.. We are just into harber i and you are the last people left in the cabin.” ** That’s just the way with your father, Min- nie; he is never in time, he is always doing the wrong thing, and he is always making me feel mean.” The wretched Hiram, for the last few min- utes, who had been trying the experiment, whether his long legs were steady enough. to , bear him, commenced to protest ; but his pretty | daughter stopped his mouth with a kiss, and | haying ussisted her mother to rise, shaken out and smoothed her dress, and given as much wep as possible to the flattened bonnet, she said ; | ** Now, mamma, dear, take hold of papa on | one side, and me on the other, and we will get | you up stairs.” But Mrs, Adams was not yet quiet, | ‘* Where’s that Ujaney ?”’ she cried. turning _ to her daughter. ‘‘ Poor mademoiselle! she has been perfectly , helpless,” said Minnie. “4 I don’t think Lever | saw Sir Frederick laugh so much as.when.we first diseovered Eugenie, a mere limp bundle, | lying against the smokestack.” ‘‘ Helpless, indeed!” cried Mrs, Adams. | ‘* How's that for impudence? LIshould like, to | know what is the use. of haying Biddies if they | are to be sick jist when they're needed ?” | ‘This way, Mrs, Adams,” cried a rieh, jolly voice, at the top of the companion-ladder, ‘*Let me give you my hand. Miss. Minnie, here is | Sir Frederick, waiting to escort you; in five | minutes more we shall be alongside the pier,” The speaker was a stout, red-faced man, of ‘about forty years of age; his features were | somewhat coarse and bloated; his black hair , was cropped rather close to his head, and his _ eyes and pendulous nether lip spoke gravely. addiction to the pleasures of the table. | Close by his elbow stood another man, tall, jand from as much of his figure as could be | judged from the heavy ulster overcoat in Which | it was enveloped, apparently powerfully built, The wind still blowing freshly, he had pulled his sealskin iyesign, Be so far over his face that nothing was to be seen of his features kave | the lips, the hard and cruel outlines of which were visible beneath his blonde mustaches, and the irresolute chin covered with a fair and pointed beard. But whatever might have been in his appear- } ance, it must have been pleasing to Minnie Adams, for as she took the arm which was proffered to her, and laid her pretty little hand /upon its rough sleeve, she looked up confid- /ingly, and even lovingly, for an _ be- ‘neath the peak of the sealskin cap, and then, with a sigh, dropped her upon the deck. | You surély won't think of going to London refining, a barreling, and w storing of petroleum | to-night, Mr. Adams,” said the stout man jest now.” ‘*T think I’d like not to be so cussed sick, that’s what I think,” groaned the unfortunate man in his despair. It's doubtful what explosion this desperate protest might not have called forth from Mrs, Adams, but the conversation was interrupted by the appearance at the cabin door of a young girl, who, with an exclamation of sur- prise, immediately hurried towards the speak ers. Such a pretty girl, of a delicate, refined type, with small thin nose, and kissable rese-bud of a mouth, and long, almond-lidded eyes. Her slim but well developed figure was suitably and whom they addressed as ‘* Doctor.” ‘It's growing dark and chilly, and you must be all thoroughly worn out by your voyage.” ‘*‘ Wal, sir,” said Hiram P., who finding him- seif in the very act of feeling in his pocket for his packet of chewing tobacco, out of which he thought he might help himself un- observed. ‘‘ Wal, sir I guess Mrs. Adams is the boss of this party, or Miss Minnie, and lam, it seems, to fill the position of one of our cdl- ored brethern on the other side.”’ be ‘Say, now, gentlemen. be champion talkist, don’t you think?” said Mrs. Adams, turning to the others, with a thin smile. ‘*T have not heard him make such a neatly attired in a well-fitting yachting suit of | speech since he ran for mayor, and was beat blue serge, over which she wore a heavy seal-| by Samuel 8. Stoddle on the Demodratic skin jacket. Ordinarily, no doubt, her com- must be an American gentleman ex-! plexion was somewhat pale, but she had been tended at full Jength on one of the divans of the wretched little cabins. He has been actu- xs meg but his clean-shayen checks are deadly white, his lon contest had given her a splendidly flush of health in her cheeks, while a little crisp y hair is disheveled, and! hair which floated on the forehead, and the two: on deck buffeting with the bluff wind, and the glowing now and again he pincks at his'e*'zcled goates long curls which hing over her shoulder wero “board with the energy of despair. ‘ crystallized with ths salt suray, | ticket.” ‘**Oh, no,” said Minnie, chiming in to inter- rupt any further discussion ; ‘* don’t let us go up to London to-night ; let us at the hotel; there is sure to be a ae bitegy etedens will lay over there, won't you, Sir erick?” — “Tf you do, miss, certainly,” was the whige pered reply, for which he r-ecived a gels : » “15 5 he 4 ge ay as iat vs ° 590 ls OR #5 zx) +h TS wv * , ns = be al 4 Oey ae ee “_T Hiram’s going into ~
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_ ness, hurried along, as though only intent on accustomed, it was discussed, and the American . family, wearied out with the travel and fatigues of the day, sought their couches at. a compara- 1B GOING TO THE BAD. Then he said) pelling a mouthful of smoke and holding his hand before his face to shield it from the blaze. ‘* Why, what’s the matter with you, Fred, pressure on his arm as thanks. aloud: ‘* Good hotel, Miss:\ Adams? I should think so, by Jove; the Pavilion is not to be beaten in the world.” to-night?” said the docter, turning round and “*T guess one can get a little lunch there— | looking at his friend. ‘‘ Ever since we landed some stooed oysters, some clam chowder a! you have been cross and down in the mouth, equab or two, some pie, and a cup of English not to be recognized as the same man who was breakfast tea,” said Mr. Adams, who by this) the life and soul of Homburg only a month time had managed to extricate what he requir- | ago.” ed for his consumption, and was in the full en- ‘Matter with me!” cried the man addressed, joyment of it. savagely. ‘‘Its enough to take the pluck out ‘* Well, we can do even better than that at the | of the best man to bring me back to such an Pavilion,” said the red-faced man, with a jolly | infernal country as this, more especially under laugh. ‘‘ However, here we are, close along-| the circumstances in which I am placed.” side. » Where is your maid, Miss Minnie? I ‘* Dear me, is it indeed ?” said the doctor, sar- will get Sir Frederick’s man to stay with her, | castically. ‘‘Seemed to be devilish pleasant and if she points out your trunks, and I know | circumstances, and such as I should not at all "bm have a perfect array of them, he will assist | object. to suffer under!” er in getting them ashore, and passing them} ‘‘Of course you would not,” said his com- throught the custom-house. Meantime, we will| panion, fiercely, ‘‘of course you would not, go along tothe Pavilion, but we may as well| Dick Phillimore, because you are as hard and press on, as they are generally pretty full. Ij|as plain and as common as dirt, because you ought, by rights, to have telegraphed for | uever knew what delicacy was—refinement was, rooms.” and so long as you can get plenty to eat, and **Do you hear that, Hiram ?” cried Mrs. Adams, | drink, and smoke, all of the best, so long as in her shrillest tone to her husband, who was | you, can have a good bed to lie on, and good just beginning to get into the richness of his| clothes to wear, you don’t care what anyone y-flower quid. ‘‘Hurry up, man, hurry up! says or thinks about you.” I say! one would think you was in the parlor’ The doctor had frowned at the beginning to home, with your feet to thé furnace, and | of tis sentence, but before it was concluded, Elder Colfax, of East Hickury, talking to you | he burst into a jolly laugh, and said: about your soul's salvation.” ** You are quite right about that, Fred; I'll ‘‘ Which, leaving out Elder Colfax, I wish I| be hanged if I do !” was,” muttered Hiram to himself, as he pro-| ‘‘ Now, I am different,” said Sir Frederick. eeeded in search of the French waiting-maid, | ‘‘I was happy and in good spirits as you say and encumbrances, which thé fashionable lean-|at Homburg, but why? Because there one ings of his wife inflicted upon him. could live with a pleasant, jolly set of fellows— Although it was growing dark, and the| Frenchmen, Americans, Russians, what not— weather was anything but inviting, such of the | where one’s rank was respected, and where belated visitors as still lingered at Folkestone | they knew or cared nothing for one’s anteced- had turned out 4s usual, to witness the arrival | cuts. Here, in this accursed place, you are— of the boat, and the disembarkation of its sick, |[ am always on the lookout for someone to drenched and discomforted passengers, recognize me as Russell, his fellow jail-bird, in Between two lines of snug, rosy-cheeked, | the Westminster County Prison. Besides, it’s self-satisfied individuals, all of whom had just|4 most horrible nuisance to a man of my eaten a hearty luncheon, and many of whom | position, to have to live from hand to mouth, were puffing away at their cigars, the home-| not knowing what may turn up next day, and returning travelers marched along. entirely dependent for his livelihood on horse- Some of them peered at them, as though | racing and cards,” searching for the facesof friends amiong the| ‘‘ Yes,” said the doctor, shaking his head, as crowd ; others, prostrated by their recent sick- | he looked at the fire, “‘it’s very much to be re- gretted that your respected uacle, Sir Comp- ton, did not leave you his money as well as his title. He could not prevent your becoming a baronet, but he determined, so far as lay in his power, you should be a devilish poor one, so he left all his estates to your cousin, the parson. I wonder whether the old boy could ever have heard of any of the little games which you used to carry on in your early days, my sweet youth. If so, there is no wonder at his being somewhat shocked.” “T have thought of ‘that myself,” said Sir Frederick Randall, reflectively. ‘*If my uncle had heard anything against me, he could only have learnt it from two persons—one of them would be you—and I don't think you would be likely to betray me!” ‘You may safely assume that, dear boy,” said the doctor, pleasantly patting his friend tively early hour, poo the shoulder. ‘If I had betrayed y it After they had retired, the.twe young men, | would have been on condition of receiving a who had remained in constant attendance upon | large sum of money, and from the condition them, proceeded to the smoking-room, which |of your dear Richard, you may easily argue they fortunately found empty. that he has not yet, at all events, touched the Ordering each a steaming glass of whisky | ingots, and is at present dependent for his support upon you and upon the general youth- reaching their destination in the train or the hotel. Oddly enough, Sir Frederick, although he had not. suffered at all during the voyage, and had a pretty girl like Minnie Adams on his arm, seemed to shun the observation of the crowd. He pulled his sealskin cap yet further over his eyes, and hurried along at a pace which made it somewhat. difficult for his fair companion to keep up with him. t Mr. Hiram P. Adams had looked for- ward toasa lunch, but what was in reality an excellent, substantial dinner, appearing extra enjoyable to, the travelers, after the light and famciful repast to which they had recently been | him, and the last man on earth to go back om | his word, when he has once given it! Speak- ing of King brings all the incidents of that extraordinary night forcibly to my mind,” | continued the doctor, leaning back, and puft- | ing at his cigar. ‘‘ Let me see-—it is just three years ago, and”’ | “Stop, for heaven’s sake!” cried the baron- | et, passionately. ‘What pleasure can you have in torturing me by recalling that scene _of my misery. I hate to think of it—I shut it from my thoughts, it is in the past as terriffic | to me as will be in the future, the day of my death when it really arrives. You never think of such things! Are you never memory- | haunted or conscience-struck ?” | **Never,” said the doctor, blowing his smoke into the air, and looking up to the ceiling. “I may vay never, unless, indeed, I have been : enoagh to eat Welsh rabbit, or anything indigestible just before going to bed; then I have an awful time of it, and fellows tel! me who have been sleeping in the next room, that I yell out and kick up the devil's delight; but that’s only happened to me once or twice in my life. Ordinarily, whatever I have done or intend to do, neyer troubles my conscience, and to tell you the truth, I don’t think I've got one!” | “You are a lucky fellow,” said Sir Frede- rick, bitterly. ‘* Yes,” said the doctor, smiling pleasantly ; ‘‘the less one thinks about such ridiculous matters the more time one is enabled to devote to practical purposes. Let us be practical now, dear Frederick. Are you aware ef the state of our funds ?” ‘‘They must, be low enough,” said the baronet, gloomily; ‘‘that run of fourteen times uponthe red at Homburg was enough to break the Bank of England.” ‘“ Well, dear Frederick, we are not the Bank of England—I wish to Heaven we were; wouldn’t I show them how to rig the money market—and it certainly broke us. If we hadn’t borrowed thatfive thousand franes from little Barre, on the strength of your noble name, we should have been stuck down there in pawn, and He ven knows how long we should have remnined there, for there is no | money to be raised England.” “How much of Barres advance remains?” | asked Sir Frederick. “Just thirty pounds,” said the doctor, after looking into his pocket-book. ‘‘ We shall get out of this for five, as I will undertake to settle the bill for our friends up stairs—to save them trouble, you know, and will lump it in alto. gether, and that will just leave us five-and- twenty when we arrive in town, Five-and- twenty pounds doesn’t go far in London, dear Frederick.” “*Tt does not, indeed,” said the baronet, in a despairing voice. ‘‘ What on earth is to be done? Can-‘you not think of anything?” *‘ Well, dear boy,” said the doctor, drawing his chair nearer to his friend’s, ‘‘ it does not do for us to beat about the bush, or to hide any- thing from each other, and to tell you the truth, I have been thinking of something, Now, with regard to our dear friends up stairs, you may have observed that, during our three weeks’ acquaintance with them, while you have been philandering and saying sweet nothings to the young lady, I have been paying great attention to the old one, partly in the cause of friend- ship, but partly, I blush to say, from a baser teddy, they lit their cigars, and the taller and | sup; 4 kent de: younger man dragging up a huge arm-chair in | ful ignorance of the games of ecari¢e an il- | motive. y frorrt of the fire, threw himself into it, and liards.” “Go on. What then? his hands in his pockets, stretched| .‘‘ There was only one other man whom I en- Ww a out at full length and with his eyes fixed | trusted with my real name, when | was in that ; horrible prison, and that was King —Walter | Why, upon the fire, began smoking steadily. ) ; The dootor -walked up to the window, and | King—he must have told my uncle! ing aside one of the heavy curtains, looked out across the harbor. ly. ‘The rain has cleared off,” he said, ‘‘but| hated him from the bottom of my heart, and there seems to be a devil of a wind blowing ; | 1am bound to say that he has a very manly and the clouds are scudding along at a rapid rate and | genial contempt of me, partly founded on my | “That is all he says to me for my sacrifice,” said the doctor; ‘‘ but no matter. hat then ? in the course of my intimacy with the y,.1 have discovered that, like most un- ) old “I think not,” said Dick Phillimore,, placid- educated women who have been enriched at * ‘‘ King is not a friend of mine; in fact, I late period of their lives, her sole happiness in | having money is to spend it in the most lavish | and preposterous manner,” __ “She need not go far to find two fitting ob- the white-crested waves look angry enough in | ignorance of my profession, partly on, account | jects for her bounty,” said Frederick, senten- the moonlight.” of my fondness for this very seductive tipple, “‘T wish they would run in and swamp this | whisky toddy, and my general dissipatgon. | tiously. | “No,” said the doctor ; ‘‘ but that is not at = 7 A i whole infernal place,” said his companion, ex- | But still, he is a gentleman, eyery inch of allinherline, She likes to spend it on horself, ) 4 i? : Hi } {
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GOING TO THE BAD. T — and she does it. In Paris and in Rome, in| them soon enough, supposing you failed to get} ‘‘The deuce it is!” cried Dick in astonish- Vienna and in Frankfort, in fact wherever she | clear off with your booty, or were detected even | ment. _ “How so ?” : ; has been, she has been purchasing rings, brace-' when you had disposed of it. No, Dick, no;| ‘‘ Why, while you were dancing round the lets, necxluces, and jewels of all kinds, to dear we must and we will have money, but we will | mother, and worrying your old brain iy en- diamonds ; and they are all in that bag which | get it ina very different manner, very different, deavoring to see how you could rob her of her she invariably gives me to carry.” and much safer than the insane scheme which | diamonds, I wag planning to get hold of a more ‘Did she tell you they were there ?” you propose.” | valuable jewel than any of them, her daughter.” ‘‘No, dear Frederick, but I know they are, “We will, dear boy, we will, by all means,”| ‘‘Ay, ay,” said Dick. ‘I knew you wera because I have seen them, When the old girl | said Dick Phillimore, taking a long pull, which | Making great running with the young lady; was asleep in that journey between Geneva and | emptied his tumbler, and ringing the bell; | but even supposing you managed to persuade Paris, I took the liberty of lifting her gold key | ‘* but how ?” her to run off with you, how would that bring from her watch chain, and opening the bag! ,, : aa. a stert, ., | Youany nearer the money ?” with it. Then I saw them allin their wittee It shall be duly provided for us by thos je raat ~ele off with me!” cried Sir Frederick, even ; F | from whom you intended to obtain it by force,” | Deeg 4 satin-lined cases ; heavens, glorious sight!’ . said the 7 aE ‘““When the cates “he: scornfully. ‘*i intend to marry her.” “Then what does all this lead to, pray?” | pores P ala aes -| “*Lo marry her?” asked the baronet, with a yawn. | fetatls” to your summons, I will give you the} ° ., To marry her with her parents’ consent.! ‘Well, ded? Frederick, my idea was this: | When we arrive at Charing Cross-to-morrow morning, we see these worthy people into a cab, and you go off with them tothe Langham; I} remain to take care of the luggage, and an hour | and a half afterwards I arrive at the Langham | with all the luggage except Mrs, Adams's little | bag. Lam white as death—I am very good at | making up my face—I can scarcely articulate | —I remember quite enough of anatomy to simulate rigor of the tongue, and tremble all | over. ‘What is the matter?’ ‘The bag! Is it here ?’ ‘ No.’ ‘Great heavens! I will devote my | life to searching forit?) AndI gootf. Letters are received from me from Boulogne, St. Peters- | burg, Pesth, Bucharest, Indianapolis, and Bag- gleboro, Pa., but I nevercome back. Mean- | time I take the diamonds to our old frien) Schaub, at Amsterdam ; they are broken up in | the usual way, and you and I have rather a fine time upon the proceeds.” ‘‘ Bah!” said his companion; lighting a fresh cigar. ‘‘You were always a fool, Dick; but | never, even out of your idiotic brain, did a proposition spring so preposterous as that which you have just broached. You have done as many bad things as I have, committed as many crimes, and worse crimes, I have no doubt, if all were known—but you have never suffered forthem as Ihave. You have never been found out—or, at least, only half found out—you have never been sent to jail—how my flesh creeps at the mere mentionof the word! I see the long stone corridors, the cold, slippery stair- cases, like serpents winding themselves up to the roof, the blank, whitewashed walls! I hear the dull, measuredtramp of the warder’s feet, the, rattle of the bolt as it shoots in the lock, the solemn, clanging of the chapel bell | rousing one perhaps from the dreamland of / hepe to the gloomy horrors of conscience, to the knowledge that another day of misery has begun! I feel again that desperate sinking of the soul, that conviction that Lam worldly dead | to all outward influences of happiness and joy! that haunting horror that T shall be actually | dead before the time of my release arrives ; that I shall never again see the bright sun beaming on the fields, the brilliant lines of | gaslight, with the busy population moving among them; never hear the sound of laugh- ter, never look upon merry faces, Good God! the mere recollection of all this is enough to drive me mad!” He shuddered as he spoke, and covered his | face with his hands. Dick Phillimore looked at him with strange curiosity. ‘‘ You are quite right, dear Fred- erick,” said he, ‘* All the things that you have mentioned are confoundedly unpleasant, to say nothing of being deprived of one’s smoke, made to wear ill-cut garments, and being put | upon a light and wholesome but scarcely ap- petizing farinaceous diet, the product of Oswego, which I am given to understand is a thriving city belonging to our American cousins, or the porridge of Scotland, does not make up for the enforced absence of a tender steak, and & bottle of Muir’s dry! As you say, dear Fred-| erick, I have never experienced any of these | things, nor do I quite understand why you have | imported this unpleasant element into the con- versation.” “Because you seem to have forgotten the / chances of detection in this preposterous | scheme of yours, You would know all about! | | The waiter answered the bell, and soon re- appeared, bearing two huge jorums of the steaming mixture. When he had taken his departure, Sir Fred- erick turned to his friend and said : ‘* Did you do what I told vou in reference to pumping this Yankee as to his fortune ?” “Sucked him as dry as the oil well out of which he got his money, and afterwards sold to his brother-in-law, dear boy,” said Dick Phillimore, with an engaging smile. ‘‘ For it was out of oil he got it. Ten years ago our friend, Hirain P., wasina small way, andkept— a dry goods store,as he calls it—something equiv- alent to our linen draper’s shop, I suppose | What do you think of that for a scheme ?” |__‘* Well, itsounds well enough,” said Dick | Phillimore, rubbing his fat chin thoughtfully ; ‘*but,” he added, after a pause, looking up at his companion with a queer glance, ‘‘ but what | about Kitty ?” : | Sir Frederick’s pale face flushed a deep- | bronzed red, and as he knit his brows heavily, his forehead became indented with parallel crimson bars. He was silent for a few minutes, then withdrawing his right hand from his pocket tossed it lightly in the air. ‘What about Kitty ?” he repeated. ‘‘ Well, Kitty has been too well trained, and she has my welfare too thoroughly at heart to dream of standiag be- tween me and its accomplishment.” | Master Dick.” in Titusville, Pennsylvania. He was doin j ; a : sufficiently badly, when a friend of his, Colonel| e ‘‘ You think so, do you, Fred?” said Dick Drake, of Connecticut, arrived at Titusville and ee sh en Phas | girs to commenced to bore for oil. He took Hiram | You, body and soul, [ know that; but she is a P. into his stahaehe. ae ye worked away | Woman, eaetlifock. after all, and I don’t think together, but they had a mighty hard time | She would stand another woman slipping into of it; had to send fifty miles every time their “a place A ic lawfully hers, and which she tools wanted repair; but they persevered, and | bas oceupie ae “RE at length direit ‘Best. cae A a splendid ‘Oh! don’t. ou?” said his friend. ‘* Well, ' vein, and in a little while they were pumping |I do. Time will show ; but if she does not with out of it at the rate of from thirty-five to forty | ® oe achat must BS mnee to, rps all,” barrels per day. Hiram P. hadashare in this © set his teeth savagely as he said this, and ana . had Yockokekal previously secured M looked 60 fierce and determined, that Dick bit of land in the neighborhood, which he | Phillimore thought it best to change the sub ject. ‘prospected’ on his own account, and which ‘Well, we shall see,” he said, throwing the turned out almost equally good. He did not stump of his cigar into the fire; ‘there is launch out, did Hiram P., but went on living plenty of time to decide about that, and the in his usual quiet, modest way, amassing bit plan 1s a good one as it stands. Meantime, it’s by bit, until he had accumulated something | agreed upon between us, I suppose, that if it. like two hundred thousand dollars; that is to | does come off, we share the proceeds—honor say, between forty and fifty thousand pounds. among”’-—.~ Then, like a sensible man, he thought he had **Thank you,” said Sir Frederick, interrupt. had enough of lubrication, sold his lot and | ing him, and rising from his chair, ‘‘you may plant to his brother-in-law, who blew his own spare me the pleasure of hearing the concluding head off in despair a year afterwards, and came | word.” quietly down to New York. There was a swindle on there at that time, as there usually is—a ‘coruer,’ as. they call it—and Hiram P. having a shrewd head of his own, and good ad- vice from his friends, went down into Wall Street and operated successfully. In the course T ail , 3 of three months he had nearly doubled his cap- ve aan was shining brightly one brisk ital, and then he withdrew, meaning to buy ectumas morning about three weeks after the What he calls ‘an elegant house up-town,’ and | 0CC™Tences just related, when Dick Phillimo take his daughter, to whom he has given an mopping jauntily along Jermyn street, St. excellent education, into society. But Mrs. A., ar ® stopped at the private door of a house, who, as you may perceive, isa woman of am- ik “d ayer ye = whit i ee bition, determined on coming to Europe, and | ootinaker's shop, and rapped thereon loudiy it was during this tour we had the good fortune | Sano eer aie nights previ ly Dick to meet them.” c : a rousty 1c ‘You may well say good fortune,” said Sir | 284 not retired to rest until. the small hours, Frederick, puffing at his cigar, ‘A hundred |#24 until he had partaken of an amount of thousand ponnds isn’t a bad sum to play with, | drink and: tobacco, considerably above the average, there were no traces of excess in his personal appearance. His face was plump and rosy, his eyes bright, his step light and free. His taste being somewhat gorgeous, he was arrayed ina blue body-coat, buttoned tightly across his chest, and a pair of cross:bar panta- paced amp head = wore anew shiny hat I peeve with a crown and a curled brim, and as he ame the papanal. ; heres: on the doorstep waiting to be let in, he _ “ Exactly, said Sir Frederick.. ‘Now I/| whistled a lively air, and looked asif he had intend to have the interest of that money at my | not a care in the world. disposal.” When the door was opened, Dick inquired of CHAPTER IY, " MINNIE’S LOVERS, ‘No, indeed,” said Dick Phillimore. ‘* Better, still, to have the interest of it to spend,” ** Safer,” said Dick, with a wink, ‘for such fellows as you and I, who have a fatal habit of not finding the interest sufficient and digging ‘‘Noblest of men,” cried Dick, with an ap- | the servant whether Sir Frederick was yet'np, an answer in the neyativéMhe ; entered the little hall, bounded briskly up he ‘You addle-pated old fool, I have been ar- / stairs, and walking into the sitting-room onthe ranging for it for the last six weeks, and it is | first floor, without the formality of knocking, threw himself into the arm-chair, and lighting preciative nod, ‘‘ but how do you intend to get | and receiving it ?” just ready to drop into my mouth.”
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Pe a cigar, stretched out his legs, and commenced to survey the apartment. It was not a very large room, although it was | lit by two windows looking on to the street, but | was perfectly cosey and comfortable, and excel- | lently furnished ; the walls were covered with | looking-glass, and pictures répresenting various | scenes ta the hunting field, there were sofas | and ottomans and lounges, there was a side-| hrd of it, if whoever you were talking to had | see ‘* You told | pool steeple chase to come off now, and your board on which was a silver stand containing | spirit decanters, a few soda water bottles, some | full and some empty; and some tumblers con- | taining the dregs of the last night’s potations. The table in the middle of the room: was | littered with the fragments of the dessert and with plates containing the butt ends of smoked cigars, a quantity of “their ashes, and a pack of were up late last night? You seem to have | am by no means proud. playing cards stewn in disorder about. On one of the sofas lay a heavy overcoat, | just as it had been carelessly flung there, and | an opera hat with one of the springs broken, | anda pair of lavender kid gloves soiled and split. Dick Phillimore shook his } ead slowly as he surveyed this scene. ** Like master, like man,” he muttered to | himself; ‘‘ Fred’s fast asleep in there, and his | servant, Foster, knowing that if he were left to himself he would not awake for an hour or | so, hasn’t even troubled himself to put the | room tidy, They seem to have had a fine time of it last night, if one may judge from what is left. Cards, of course! Fred couldn't get, through an evening without them—I wonder | whether he lost or won! Not that it mattcrs much ; for, unless something very miraculous comes off, the game here will soon be at an end, and we shall have to make our way back | to the continent, or perhaps to America or Aus- tralia, where the baronet’s title may still help | us in picking up a few flats and carrying on for | atime. Now let me try and rouse him up to & state of consciousness.” He left his chair, and, crossing the floor, | opened the inner door and looked into the | room beyond. ‘The apartment was furnished as a bed-room, and beyond it was a bath, and a dressing-ta. ble, on which were arranged all the appliances for the toilet—silver-mounted bottles con tain- ing essences and perfumes, and ivory-back brushes, each duly marked with a crest and monogram ; a suit of evening clothes was hung upon one of the chairs; boots and slippers ‘were strewn about the floor, while upon the table, by the bedside, lay a handsome watch and chain, some bank-notes, and some loose gold and silver coin mixed together. On the bed, half dressed, Jay Sir Frederick Randall. He was asleep and dreaming, but it was apparently no pleasant vision that haunted his slumbers, for ever and anon his forehead would be marked with that peculiar expression “which always followed the contraction of his _ ‘brows, and he would grind his teeth and clench his hands, and moaningly muttered half-formed words, Dick Phillimore stepped up to the bedside ‘and looked down upon his friend. ‘Fred has got the nightmare,” he said to hims:lf, ‘* and he is not very pretty to look at when he is in that condition. He must have -won, too, last night,” he added, turning ever the notes and money with his fingers. ‘‘ Now, if 1 ad had such a haul as that, my slumber would have been as peaceful as that of an inno- cent child. Hallo!” he cried, ‘as the sleeper tossed restlessly on his couch, and ground his teeth more audibly, ‘this must not be per- mitted to go on, Here, wake up, Fred! What's the matter with you, old man?” and . bending down to shake his friend roughly by the shoulder. ‘The touch, at first, had not the intended ef- fect; for Sir Frederick, with his eyes still close, called out: ‘ Hands off-—don’t touch ‘her 1 t her sink—let her sink, I say!” Then, d with amazement to see Dick seated by tb -dside, fot becoming conscious, he sat up and Fee What's the matter with you, Fred?” said ‘ 4! é GOuNG TO THE BAD. his companion with a jolly laugh. sink—who is not to be touched—what is t all about ?” . Who is to | ‘* Nothing of the kind. I mean to say that the money shall be paid. I don’t promise it | within three weeks, mind; butif I can give a ‘* I was dreaming,” said Sir Frederick, rub-| good guarantee to Samson, makeit clear to bidg his eyes. ‘‘I thought that Kitty and | were out in a boat together, and that the boat upset and she was thrown into the water.” him that it is all right, and that he will have it, he would hold it over for a short time.” ‘Do you?” said Dick, doubtfully; ‘ but ‘‘And a very rough time she would have | how you are going to get the: money I cannot -ollowed your advice,” said Dick. tuem to let her sink, and ”’-—— * Nonsense,” cried Sir Frederick, angrily ; ‘‘vou could not have heard me rightly; that What o'clock is is your confounded mistake! it ; ‘*Nearly twelve, dear boy; I suppose you made a good evening’s work of it,” he said, pointing to the money on the table. ‘Pretty well, considering,” said Sir Fred- erick, ‘‘ Haviland and Crawshay dined here, and we played ecarte after dinne@ and I lost money to both of them; but later on we went into Moss’s and had some hazard and roulette, and my luck must have changed, for at one time I nearly broke the bank, and though I lost some of it again, I came away carrying what you see there.” ‘¢ What I see there is one hundred and twenty- five pounds,” said Dick Phillimore, carefully counting the notes and gold. ‘A nice little sum to carry us on for a week, but not enough, dear Fred—nothing like enough, I’m afraid, to gild the pill which I have brought with me for you to swallow.” “What is it?” said Sir Frederick, looking anxiously at him, ‘‘ Not bad news?” ‘‘Very bad news,” replied Dick; ‘‘so bad, ‘that I must take a little brandy and soda-water to fortify me in breaking it to you.” He went into the sitting-room, and returning shortly after, bearing a tumbler of the foaming beverage, seated himself by the bedside. ‘‘You know, dear Fred, 1 am one of those old-fashioned fellows who always like to take time by the forelock, and to be as much pre- pared as possible for any contingency that may arise ; so, knowing that our joint bill for five hundred pounds would be due in about three weeks, I thought I would just look in upon | Samson, who holds it, and ask him to renew it for another three mouths.” : “You could not have done anything more stupid,” growled Sir Frederick; ‘* that was just | the way to awake their suspicions.” ** Of course,” retorted Dick Phillimore, ‘‘ac- cording to you I never do anything that is not stupid; but I did it for the best, and I am still glad I went.” ‘* What did Samson say ?” ‘Samson said that he would not renew it for another minute, and that he is tired of being put off. If the bill is not paid when it is due, he will put into effect the judgment he holds over you, and you will be arrested the next day. ft The deuce !” cried Sir Frederick. ‘‘ And do you think he will do this ?” ‘‘T am sure he will,” said Dick ; ‘‘ Samson is a strong man, and we have not found out the proper party to cut his hair. He means mis- chief, dear Fred; and depend upon it, you will have to suffer.’’ ‘And why not you, pray; your name is also } on the bill ?” ‘Yes, dear Fred, but Iam not worth pow- der and shot. I’m not a swell baronet, with the chance of drawing on his title in the mat- rimonial or some other market. Iam only a poor devil, who, if I were in prison, means stay there and do nothing; whereas, being out in the world I have a chance of looking about me, and picking up a little money at cards and billiards and betting, and thus | earning enough to pay Samson his interest. No, sir, he will leave me alone; but he will go in for you, you may depend upon it. ‘‘#fe shall not have the chance,” said Sir Frederick, suddenly sitting upright in the bed. ‘‘You mean to say you will bolt before the bill is due?” but by betting; there is only the Liver- book on that is as bad as it well could be ; you will lose upon that rather than win.” ‘* How I shall get the money is my business ; you don’t care, I suppose, so long as you're all right ?" **Not the leastin the world, dear Fred; [ So long as I havea clean shirt on my back, and a poundin my pocket, I don’t care who pays for them; but [ am curious to know how it is to be managed, nevertheless,"’ |. °** Are you?” said Sir Frederick, with a jeer- ling laugh. ‘* Well, then, I don’t mind telling you. The money with which Samson isto be paid, and on which I intend to live like a prince for the rest of my life, is to come from the place where fortunes are more quickly made and more spent than anywhere «'s: inthe world.” ‘**And where is that, pray ?” ‘* America, dear Phillimore, the land of dol. lars. J mean our Yaukee friend Adams to pay | my debts and support me.” ‘* Don’t you try to get hold of the old man at cards,” said Dick, shaking his head; ‘the |taught me some confounded game | ‘ poker’ or ‘ euchre,” or something, and won | sovereigns off me before I knew where I was.” ‘* Don’t be afraid, Dick,” said Sir Frederick, |langhing; ‘‘I will teach him a better game ! ’ | than that.” ‘** You are not thinking of what you mentioned to me at the hotel at Folkestone, the night of our first landing?” asked Dick. ‘*T am,” said his friend, ‘‘there is no other resource left.’’ ‘Then, again, I most earnestly bid you be- ware. Ihave been thinking it over seriously since, and what I told you about Kitty "—— ‘Leave Kitty to me,” interrupted Sir Fred- erick. ‘So soon as I have put matters in train at the Langham Hotel, I will go down and see Kitty, and I have no doubt that I shall be easily able to win her over to my views,” ‘*I hope you may,” said Dick Phillimore, quietly. ‘‘ Well, I will go now, for it is full time you were up and dressed. I will meet be anxious to hear what progress you have made.” : In little more than an hour afterwards, Sir Frederick Randall, dressed in excellent taste, and looking remarkably handsome, ste into a cab, and ordered the driver to take him to: the Langham Hotel. ; ‘* Just two o’clock,” he said to himself, after. referring to his watch, ‘I have timed matters admirably. The old people will have had their lunch, and will have started out again on one of those sight-seeing expeditions which afford them such delight, while Minnie, who is by no means of so curious a nature, and who, besides, may perhaps recollect that this is about the time when I usually pay my visits, will oe rt bly be at home and fh I don’t think T shall have much difficulty in carrying out my object, for the girl is good and honest, and is, I be- lieve, in love with me for myself, and without any thought beyond; while the old people are so tickled with the notion of having a baronet’s | lady for their daughter, that they will mter ; | no objection. Once through with that I must then look after Kitty. I thought at one time that that would be an easy matter, but I have egg tt See Ag come round to Dick Phillimore’s opinion, and — If she does—well, — it’s a desperate game to play, but with ruin - staring ine in the face there is no other way out — fancy she may turn rusty. of it.” The exb stopped at the door of pid el and after spcaking to the hall-porter, Sir F : ' ' called — you at the club at dinner, at seven, for I shall —
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rf Om a i ee erick was shown up to an elegant suite of rooms on the firsé floor. Ou their first arrival in London, Mrs. Adams, having been assured that the Langham Hotel owas the “‘ first of styie,” had ordered her hus- band to take them there, and had insisted upon having the dearest and best apartments which could be obtained. Hiram P. would have been content, as were some two or three hundred American citizens, of first-class position, to live in the public rooms, but his wife would not hear of it. They must have their parlor and their dining-saloon, and there must be a grand piano for Minnie, | and they must be able to entertain the?r friends when they chose-—- not that they had any friends, either English or American, but, of course, Sir Frederick —everything was Sir Fred- erick with Mrs. Adams—would soon introduce them to clegant people, whom they must enter- tain. So, although Sir Frederick, under the plea that there were no stylish people then in town, excused himself from introducing them to any of his friends, they were established in the fine rooms, and Mrs. Adams walked abont sur- veying herself with great delight in the hnge mirrors, andl covering the berutiful brocaded sofas with large paper parcels, the results of her daily shopping. Sir Frederick was not surprised, though he GOING TQ THE BAD. | how is tha. ‘” | Before that happy time of our meeting at. Homburg, everything seemed dull, insipid, and | wanting in flavor. It was my own fault, I sup- pose. Ihad seen and done everything, as I Supposed, and drained the cup to the dregs, _ but I then learned which I had never experienced, that of the society of a lovely and innocent girl.” ‘**You are laughing at me, I think,” said Minnie, still looking down. tomed to such flattery, remember.” ‘This is no flattery,” said Sir Frederick, earnestly, ‘it is only the simple truth. You | cannot understand, Miss Adams, how soon a |man grows tired of the companionship of mere women of the world. They are alike in every- thing, cut out of the same pattern, as it were, | With the same thoughts and the same smiles, say the same silly things in the same trained voice. Now, about you there is a freshness of idea, and a freshness of voice, which is per. | fectly delightful.” , ‘You must not speak about voice, Sir Fred- | | erick,” said Minnie, smiling. ‘I know you think I spexk in what you English people call a | regular Yankee accent.” ‘And I know that I can listen to you for ever,’ said her visitor. , ‘* I aim afraid that the pleasure, if pleasure it a pleasure above all others, , “T wm unaccus- | ae eee grasp. ‘*May I think you love me, Minnie?” he whispered, stealing his arm round her waist. ‘* Yes,” she said simply, looking at him an- abashed. ‘* You may, indeed! I have loved you always, from the first hour I saw you.” ** And you will marry me ?”’ ‘** If you wish it,” she replied. He drew her closely to him, and pressed one long kiss ov her lips. “Spoken like my own sweet girl,” he said. you.” ‘* You do not anticipate a denial, I suppose,” said Minnie, with a smile. ‘Well, it is not a great one,” he replied; ‘‘it is only that you will abstain from mentioning | what has passed between us to either of your | parents for a few days.” | A shade of disappointment stole ver Min- | nie’s face, | **May I not tell papa?” | 80 fond of me, poor papa! ef | ‘* You must not breathe a word to him or | to any one till I come back.” } **Comeé buck?” **T have to leave London on business for a few days; but 1 could not go out of town un- til I had put this question to you and had | your answer. Now, dearest, I shall go away she said; ‘the ig was very well pleased to hear that Mr. and really be, would soon pall upon you, and grow in excellent spirits, and I do not think you Mrs. Adams had gone out, but that Miss Min-| as monotonous as those amusements which you | need be assured that I shall hasten my return nie was at home and would receive him. Miss Minnie looked very charming as she |, rose from the sofa, on which she had been sit- ting, and advanced to meet her visitor with outstretched hand. At the announcement of his name two little red agate of delight had come fluttering into her c¢ was eminéntly graceful, seemed to float along | the floor, rather than walk across it. Sir Frederick paused with something like amazement, as he marked this beautiful girl's approach ; he thought he had never seen her look so pretty. (She was dressed in. a close- fitting mauve-colored velvet jacket, with a flowing skirt. ) (Fortunately for herself, Minnie had not in- herited her mother's love of display and ec- centric tuste in dress; nothing could be more simple than her costume.) She wore a plain linen collar and cuffs, the form «' fast- ened with a solid gold brooch, the latter elasped by plain gout studs, while a bright steel watch-chain, with pendant trifles, hung at the waist. On her hands, which were small and white, she wore but one ring, lony oval in shape, composed of a single splendid emerald, set round with diamonds. She had been wise enough, too, to avoid filling into the fashion then prevalent among Englishwomen, of ecar- Tylmg an enormous chignon at the back of her head, and had even given up the little frizzed eurls on her forehead, which bad been ‘her delight at home. Her fuir, soft hair was now arranged in two plain braids, and atthe back, | woven into a tightly-plaited coronet, which ad- ag set off the classic outline of her small “Tam so sorry papa and mamma are out,” | were her first words after she had returned to the sofa, and Sir Frederick had established himself in an arm-chair close by her. ‘You are so sorry, and Iam so glad,” said her visitor; ‘‘not,” he added, looking up softly into her eyes, as he saw a wondering ex- ression in her face, *‘ not that I have anything t the kindest feeling for your parents ; but a it is a great pleasure to me to find you one. “You are very good to say so, Sir Fred- crick,” said Minnie, striving to repress a risin bash ; “but indeed you are always good to ‘eons , it is I who have reason to be ul to you,’said he, drawing his chair nearer. ‘Do you know, Miss that life ; a Adams, 4 : > a bed a erent i i fra kaew jor non Uae tome wince the contrary | have already spoken of.” | you how wrong you are in that idea,” said he, lowering his voice, and bending over her. deep is my regard—my tove tor you—will you ‘* Will you give me the chance of proving how wish.” |as quickly as possible ; but until that return ‘* Will you give me the chance of proving to | you must not say @ word.” ‘* Very well,” she said with a little shrug of her shoulders ; ‘I suppose it must be as you They sat together for some time after that, ‘ | ‘* Indeed!” said Minnie, looking down, ‘‘and' and she did not offer to withdraw it from hin ‘Now then, | have one favor to ask eeks, and her eyes brightened with | pleasure, and her slight girlish figure, which | be my wife, Minnie ?” | talking of such matters as people will discuss « When Minnie Adams found herself alone, | she fell inte a deep and pleasant reverie. ‘*for Iam speaking to you in all sincerity. have waited long to ask you this; what answer /am I to receive ?” The girl was silent ; keeping her eyes steadily fixed upon the floor, Sir had not been a villain, he would have been touched by the sight of the palpitation of her bosom, which was visible through her dress— by her maidenly modesty and confusion. He was a Villain; for he saw all this and heeded it not; merely smiling to himself and tossing his hand lightly in the air. ‘You do not speak,” he saia, after a time. | You are not angry with me, Minnie 7” | * Angry,” she repeated, in a low voice, rais- ing her eyes until they rested on his face; ‘how could I feel angry—how could I feel anything but honored at hearing such words from one so far above me in position.” ‘* Position!” he cried. ‘‘ The only store I set by my position is that it enavles me to offer |you something in some way worthy of you. The only care I have for it is that it enables me to share it with you.” ‘*But have you reflected upon what you are doing? Do you know that my father, though rich now, was lowly born? That he is a self- made man, as, indeed, are all our citizens? Have you thought what your great friends would say if you married a girl like me, un- known to them, and unaccustomed to the ways full of her new conquest, Minnie professed to- of their society ?”’ “You will bea star among them, Minnie; and every one will be too glad to welcome you, and do you honor.” He took her hand as he said these words, rederick looked down at her, and if he | | In telling ,*r Frederick Randall that she had ‘fallen in love with him at first sight, she had spoken nothing but the truth, and she might | have added that she had never loved before. | Trueit was that a girl so beautiful and so ae- | complished eould not, of course, have passed through even such a small modicum of society ‘as had fallen to her lot, without attracting: | great attention, and without becoming eén-_ tangled in a few harmless flirtatious. | But in none of these had Minnie’s heart been engaged. She liked to dance, to ride, to talk; or to sing with certain eligible young men; but _ when the pastime of the hour was ended, they passed completely out of her mind, and’ ‘she never gave a thought to any one of them ‘again. So that she was comp‘etely free and | unwounded until she met with this fascinating | English baronet, and subjugated by his good looks, his aristocratic appearance, and the ele- | gance of his bearing and manner, she, was pre- pared to yield up to him her heart, on which ,no other human being had ever nade serious impression, No other human being ? Well, she confessed ‘to herself during her reverie she certainly had | been very fond of Henry Willamette,butthat was three or four years ago, when she was “a mere | child, not more than fourteen years old; and he was quite a youth at that period, much too young to think of marrying, at least Signin * to the European views on that subject. herself her admiration of the rule which pre- scribes that the husband should be somewhat Pe older than the wife. ew ‘How silly it was of her and Parry,” she ‘thought, “ ever to have talked of keu!” ‘Thee on - a ' 1 x ‘
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i GOING TO THE BAD, were but two children, who ought to have been punished for their precocity. And yet—and yet, how handsome Harry Willamette was, how chivalrous and noble in his bearing, what a per- fect gentleman in the best. acceptution of the word!”’ She recollected how her heart had throbbed within her when she read of his deeds of dar- ing in the war, whenshe heard him everywhere extolled for his personal bravery in the field, and the clearness of his mtellect at the council fire. Poor Harry ! terrace at Homburg, while she was walking with Sir Frederick. He had recognized her, and seemed as though intending to approach her, but when he saw the company she was with, he merely raised his hat and passed by. - * What will Harry think of the news that I am Zoi: g to marry this English aristocrat?” she wondered. She had seen. him once on the who handed her a card, On the card was printed, ‘‘ Colonel Henry B. Willamette.’ Minnie started in astonishment, Her mind shad been ‘full of the boy who, so far away and so long ago, as it seemed to her, had been her playmate and her companion, and here he was seeking admission at her door. i **Show Colonel Willamette up instantly,” said she; and: the well-trained waiter hastened to obey her orders, returning in a few minutes and ushering in the new visitor, » A young man of about six-and-twenty, very little above the middle height, and of a slim and wiry build, with dark complexion and jet- black, curly hair; his. features small and regu- lar, his shaven, with the exception of a thick, overhanging mustache: he had large, blue, melancholy eyes, fringed with long, dark lashes, and the general aspect of his counte- nance was intellectual and refined, grave and earnest. His left coat-sleeve was empty, and was hooked on to his breast-—-the good limb which it used to contain had been splintered by a spent ball and rendered useless, as he was fight- ing by Meade’s side at Gettysburg. Colonel Willamette entered the room with a somewhat embarrassed air—so different, Min- nie thought, from Sir Frederick's easy manner —and bowed to her politely but somewhat frigidly. _ Phis isa very unexpected, but very welcome visit, Colonel Willamette,” said Minnie, advan- cing towards him and holding out her hand. ** Pray be seated.” s She pointed to a more distant ehair, but the col apparently unobservant of the gesture, dropped into the seat recently occupied by Sir Frederick. ‘*Thad no idea you were in England,” she continued. . ‘‘ When did youarrive ?” ‘*But a day or two since '’ hereplied. ‘I have been loitering at Vienna until I have nearly outstayed the holiday I had allotted to myself, pnd now Lam on my way home.” _ .‘* Home to New York ?” she asked. | ‘To New York first,” he replied with a grave saile, ‘‘but shall not stay there long, I shall pe on to my old house on the Hudson, which have so often described to you.” | ‘* And which is so close to the Catskills that Teven pictured you as a youthful Rip Van Winkle in their gloomy recesses,” said Minnie, Jaughing. . ‘‘ Why do you not take some one with you to enliven the solitude of that gloomy pld house, colonel?” _ Take some one with me?’’ repeated the “Yes; did you see no Viennese maiden with blue eyes, and a silver arrow stuck through her abundant black hair, with whom _ you could ha 7 ( American to prefer my ' And just at that moment her reverie was|ing at him in surprise. broken in upon by the entrance of a servant, | was merely jesting, that I had re] — $$ $$ se At . <r own countrywomen to foreigners, Miss Adams. | given me, though it may alienate you from me, If I can get no American lady to share my lot, cannot lessen you in my love! Minnie, no I guess Orow’s Nest will remain without a mis-| matter what comes to you, my love will endure tress during my lifetime.” to the day of my death, and if you have any ‘IT would advise you not to lay down any | happy remembrances of the old days, I will ask such strict rule, colonel,” said Minnie, play-| you to give me one promise.” fully, ‘‘as you will, no doubt, depart from it. Why not, for instance, delay your return, and remain here ; our, English cousins are very lovely and very domestic, and I should think you would not have much difficulty in finding one exactly suited to your tastes.” ‘*Do you know what you are doing?” said Colonel Willamette, suddenly rising from his chair and approaching her; ‘*do you under- stand the amount of torture you are thus heed- lessly inflicting on, me? No,” he said after a pause, ‘‘you do not, for you are still a mere child, and too good, and too pure, willingly to hurt any one.” ‘*T am very sorry,” said Minnie Adams, look- ‘*T assure you that it no idea of wounding your feelings.” ‘* Of course you would not, how should you ?” said the colonel, shaking his head, ‘‘and yet, child as you were, as you are even now, you have sufficient womanly penetration to enable you to guess my secret. Miss Adams, I was bred a soldier, and nothing, I suppose, will ever rid me of the bluntness and outspokenness of my profession, hence my visit to you to-day. Years ago, when you and i played together as children, though I was much the elder, I con- ‘* And that is’—— ‘And that is, if ever you should want my assistance—no matter where you may be, or in what way you may require it—you will not hes- itate to send forme.” **T promise,” said Minnie, giving him her hand. He pressed it for an instant between his own, then respectfully raised it to his lips and went silently away. CHAPTER VY. KITTY. Tux shades of evening were falling fast upon the village of Brauxholme, and the wide space of ocean which lay at its feet was blushing red in the departing rays shed by the declining sun ere he sank beneath the waves. Brauxholme is a fishing village on the Devonshire coast, a cluster of houses swarming up the side, and overhanging the top of a huge cliff. Beyond thé fishermen and their families, there is little regular population, the few more pre- tentious cottages being occupied by the clergy- man, the doctor, and some quiet-going people, mostly elderly, who have settled there, either for the sake of the seclusion or for the cheap- ceived an affection for you which I have never,| ness of the living. been able to shake off; it has grown with my growth, and strengthened with my strength, despite the utmost efforts which, not knowing it would be acceptable to you, I made to stifle it; butall wasin vain. I thought at one time No place in a civilized and densely-populated country like England, could well be more seclud- ed. It is ten miles from any railway, and the only communication it has with the world is by means of the carrier's wagon, which three times I had conquered it, for it Jay dormant for} weekly jogs over to the market-town and thence months, until I met you last summer at Hom- brings such letters and parcels as may be await- burg, then it burst forth with renewed fury. | ing its arrival. There—there are- circumstances about that! An event which had happened during the meeting which made me particularly desirous | summer of this year seemed, however, destined to forget you, but it was not to be; your image | to work a reyolution in the fortunes of the place has haunted me ever since, and new, before I A famous London physician, whose wife was return home, I have come to ask you whether | in delicate health, which above all things re- there is any chance of what has been the dream | quired perfect quiet and pure fresh air for its of my whole life, being accomplished ?” He paused and looked eagerly at her, with | earnest, strained gaze, and quivering lips. Minnie met that gaze firmly, though her voice was tremulous in its tone, as she re- plied: treatment, chanced to hear of Brauxholme, from one of his fashionable patients, a noble lord, whose country seat was in the neighborhood, and ran down to visit the spot. He found it so exactly suitable for his pur- pose, that he determined to bring his wife ‘*Harry, for I must call you by the old fa- | thither at once. The great difficulty, that of miliar name, I am deeply pained to hear the) i providing her with suitable accommodation, words you have just spoken; believe me, I had | being met by an offer on the part of the clergy. no idea of this, when I teased you just now, man of the parish, a venerable man, whose wife but [ have never had an idea of the existence of any such feeling on your part since we were childish friends. ‘The feeling I entertained for you in those days, Harry, I entertain still I have a very deep regard for you, and I would be to you a8 your sister—but nothing more!” ‘Nothing more!” he repeated, with a hol- low voice. ‘‘Nothing more,” she said. ‘‘ Believe me, dear Harry, it pains me to say this to you, see- ing the effect it has upon you, but it would be worse than idle to give you hopes which could never be realized.” Instantly the colonel’s face grew black as night, ‘Is there,” he exclaimed, passionately, ‘‘is there any one else who is preferred—I beg your pardon, Miss Adams,” he added, stopping him- self by a violent effort, ‘‘ I have no right to ask you any questions.” ‘* T quite agree with you, Colonel Willamette,” said Minnie, with dignity, ‘‘it is time that this painful interview was brought to an end.” She rose from her chair as she spoke, and the colonel bowed and retreated towards the door. Then suddenly turning, he came swiftly back. ‘‘In what I last said,” he exclaimed, ‘‘I was a fool, and worse than a fool; but what I said to you before was God's truth. You have been the one sole thought of my life, and you: will continue to be so, for what has be- tween us to-day, and the decision you have had died about two years previously, and who on hearing the state of the case, was willing to place a portion of the vicarage at the disposal of the invalid. Dr. Travers assented gratefully to this pro- position. There was another objection. Mrs. Travers required careful nursing, and though the doctor’s fortune was sufficient to have enabled him to retire from practice, yet he took such interest in his profession that wife was unwilling he should give it up for the sake of attending to her in a place so uncon- genial to his tastes. , The old woman who acted as housekee and general servant at the vicarage, being stu- pid, as well as feeble, was clearly unfitted for the task. - . What then, wasto be done? The plan which promised so well was nearly falling through, until the vicar bethough him of Mrs. Moreton. Who was Mrs. Moreton ? } Mr. Harvey, the old vicar, on being appealed to, could hardly say. She was ® yery Dice young woman-—quite a lady, very prety and wonderfully kind to children and tothe poor. She had village about eighteen months, and during that time had rendered herself beloved by all, by her kindness and sym i per She had had some ex for last year, when a case of smull-pox in the he ; in nursing, too; nursing,too; i? +f + fe 2 —_ a a _—— — Pee z 2 —
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a 7 A : i. | ae — iy -_—— Ss eo ae Pot a bp ee ~~. i a oe sas * os we have been te fo apply to me in any time of need.” been brought into the village, from a foreign | that Doctor and GOING TO THE BAD. Mrs. Travers had taken their! his retreating figure as long as he could see pod which anchored there, and when | departure, the old vicar, Mr. Harvey, walked | it, and then returned to her room. She and all else ere frightened to tend the ‘poor strick- | down the village street, and striking off upa|the vicar had been conversing by the fire - en wretch, who was placed in an outhouse by | narrow side lane that led to the clitf, stopped | there, and darkness had come on rapidly, and himself, with only the infirmary doctor to visit | before a low, one-storied, whitewashed cottage | it was time to light the candle. him, Mrs. Morton no sooner heard of it, than | that stood by itself without another humun | She was taking a match in her hand for she took up her place by the sick man’s bad-| habitation near, overlooking the widespread | that purpose, when her attention was attracted side, and never left him until he was out of | ocean below. danger. ** That was bright,” the doctor thought, ‘‘ and will.” “Was she married ?”’ _ **Oh, yes,” Mr. Harvey said; ‘‘ but there was something—he did not know what it was —which caused her ta live by herself. Mr. Moreton was, he believed, engaged in some business which kept him greatly from his home.” He had never visited Brauxholme since Mrs. Moreton had resided there. At all events, whatever might be between them, Mr. Harvey was perfectly certain that it was not Mrs. Moreton’s fault; for a sweeter and better woman did not breathe. Dr. Travers was a man of the world, and though he smiled at the vicar’s earnest sim- : he could fully understand that Mrs. oreton might be as good as was represented, and yet have valid reason for living apart from her husband. Accompanied by the vicar, he walked round to the little cottage where she resided, and had an interview with the lady, the result of which was, that he came away almost as much infat- uated as his elderly companion. When Mrs. Moreton had the circumstances of the case explained to her, she expressed her- self delighted. to be of any assistance in a mat- ter in which restoration to health was concerned ; but decidedly and promptly declined to take any remuneration for her trouble. She would bo amply repaid, she said, if Mrs. Travers’s recovery was in any way due to her services ; and she was so. determined, and withal, 80 ladylike on this point, that Dr. Travers saw it useless to press it further. So Mrs. Travers came to Brauxholme, and was duly installed in the vicarage, and was duly tendsd by Mrs. Moreton, for whom she con- ceived a deep and lasting affection. “She is the sweetest and most lovable crea- ture in the world,” Mrs. Travers wrots to her husband; ‘‘and what is more, a perfect lady, well educated, and of excellent manners. I do not think her life isa happy one; she is labor- ing under some great trouble; but she does not veuture any confidence, and of course I cannot attempt to pry into her domestic affairs. She never speaks of her husband; but I fear, from two or three observations, which she has un- wittingly dropped, that he isa badman. How many women have bad husbands. Ah, Walter, how happy ought I to be in mine! ” Dr. Travers came down fromtime to time during the summer to pass two or three days with his wife, and saw enough of Mrs. Moreton to be satisfied that the praises bestowed upon her were not undeserved. _ Mes. Traversremained in Brauxholme until late in the autumn, when her husband fetched her back to London completely cured of all symptoms of her illness. Oa parting with Mrs. Moreton, the doctor presented her with a valuable diamond bracelet, worth several hundred pounds. ‘This is a present from myself and my wife, 9 dear Mrs. Moreton, and you miust not refuse to accept it. It may seem. strange to you that, knowing your simple taste and habits of life, I should have chosen such a souvenir, but to be candid with you, though I know nothing of your position or your means, I have an idea that you might one day be in need of money, and oe ; ill then find this bracelet very useful. erely for a temporary purpose, of course, for I trust that with the intimate relations oa which ing, and the deep obligation have laid us under, you would not hesitate the calm evening twilight, on the day . ' showed an amount of heart and a peneemors | The vicar unlatched the wicket gate and | passing through a little garden, which even at this sad time of the fall of the leaf seemed well laid out and neatly kept, rapped with his stick at the cottage door. It was opened by a young girl about sixtsen years old, with a bright, intelligent face. Immediately on recognizing the visitor the | girl’s eyes brightened, she gave a sharp cry in- dicative of pleasure, but uttered no words. The old vicar smiled and patted her shining | head approvingly. Then, pointing to the in- ner room, went through a rapid pantomimic action, The girl replied in the same way, but even more rapidly. It was her only means of communication | with the world, for she was deaf and dumb. Nodding his head and again smiling at her, Mr. Harvey passed by the girl, and entering the little sitting-room found himself confront- ed by a woman, who suspended her task of dusting the little ornaments scattered here and there with a feather brush which she held in her hand tu bid him welcome. Sweet-looking was the term most applicable to this woman, for her features were not regu- lar, and her charm lay in her expression. ~ Her eyes were large and gray, her nose a little too thick for classic beauty, her mouth somewhat large, With full lips, and small, wholesome-looking, white teeth, She was about the average height, and as she drew her- self up, with one hand holding back the truant dark hair, which had escaped from its knot and was straying about her shoulders, and the other extended in welcome, she towered considera- bly above the vicar, who, never very tall, was now shrunken by aye. ‘‘T thought you would come to see me to- day,” she said in a soft, clear voice; ‘ but I had almost given up expecting you, and you find me literally almost up to my elbows in work,” ‘‘You have been so long away from home, Mrs. Moreton, that I suppose you found things all in confusion.” ‘‘No, indeed. Poor Hannah is the cleanest and most industrious creature possible ; but | there are, of course, certain things which she cannot be expected to do, and which I, in my few minutes’ daily visit here, have not had leisure to attend to.” “You will have leisure enough now, Mrs, Moreton,” said the vicar, smiling. - . ‘‘Yes, imdeed; I already miss our dear friend very much, and what it will be when the winter comes on, I cannot bear to im- agine.” “You will have the satisfaction of thinking thatthe health which Mrs. Travers will be en- joying, will, under Providence, be mainly due to your kind attention to her.” ‘* Tt will be a great consolation to know that I was of use,” said Mrs, Moreton, quietly. ‘* Dr. Travers was anxious that I should go and stay with them in London during the winter, but I told them that it was impossible.” ‘‘Impossible! And why? . This is always a dull pluce in the winter, my dear, and this year you will find it duller than ever—-why not accept the invitation, and go?” “It would bé impossible,” she repeated ‘I cannot go.” ‘‘ Well,” said the viear, mildly, ‘‘you are the best judge of your own affairs, my dear, though I should be sorry enough to lose you, and it was only for your own good that I en- deavored to persuade you to go.” _They talked a little more of village matters, and then the old vicar bade his friend good night, and walked out into the dark night. . Moreton remained at the door watching | ing up anxiously into | by a low tapping on the window glass. | She paused and listened. The tapping | came again. | She stooped to the window, and raising it a | littie, suid: ‘‘ What is wanted ? W io is there ?”’ | “Tis I, Kitty; be quick and open the door!” At the sound of the voice she placed her hand to her heart, and staggered as though she had been shot. ‘* Be quick, Kitty,” came the whispered | YOlce again; ‘‘don’t you hear, ’tis I?” | With a great effort she recovered her self-pos- session and opened the street door. | The next moment a man entered with a felt | hat slouched over his eyes, and a heavy over- coat wrapped about him. | Throwing these off, he stood revealed by the flickering firelight as Sir Frederick Randall. ; | CHAPTER VI. "HUSBAND AND WIFE. |} Tue first thing Sir Frederick Randall did, | after ridding himself of his enenmbering | Wraps, was to step to the door and turn the key 4 | in it. | “You need not be afraid) Frederick,” | said Kitty, looking at him in sorrowful sur- prise; ‘‘there is no one here to intrude upon you,” “No one,” he muttered, turning round to her. ‘You have a servant, have you not? You don’t live in this place by yourself ?” ‘I have a servant,” Kitty replied; ‘but if you recollect, I wrote to you that she was deaf and dumb,” **So you did,” he said, with a short laugh. ‘That was a deucedly clever move of yours, Kitty, to take a dummy of that kind. It is not often one has the chance of getting such a {trustworthy person as that about them.”’ ** It was not done out of those motives, Fred,” | said Kitty, with a grave smile, ‘* but merely out of charity.” ““Anyhow, it comes to the same thing,” sad Sir Frederick, gruffly ; ‘‘ but dummy ean see if she cannot hear, and it’s as well to keep her out. Let me get near ths fire and warm myself a bit; there is a sharp-wind rising, and I was getting confoundedly cold waiting out- | side. I looked in at the window two or threa . eae and I thought that old fool would never ee ‘* Hush, Fred, hush! You must not speak of Mr. Harvey in that way; ho is my kindest and best friend, the clergyman, here, of whom I have written to you so often.” ‘‘T wish he had chosen any other time to <a visit to you, that’s all,” said Sir Fred. erick. “Well,” he continued, holding her a arm’s length, ‘* how are you, and how are you getting on? Youare looking bright and bonny as usual, Kitty. That mad and philanthropic scheme of going out to nurse some one, and of which you wrote to me, does not seem to have done you any harm.” R a I we er I’m any the worse for it,” said Kitty, chee ; ‘a little ti a y ired, perhaps, “Oh, one must not mind that,” said he, leaning back in the chair and stretching out his legs before the fire. ‘I suppose you had your meals every day with these people, didn’t you, for you have not written for any money latel for household bills? And it was a detioda good thing you didn’t, for I hadn’t any to send ou. ‘ _ ‘Are matters still going badly with then, Fred?” said Kitty, talking her eisstr basids him, laying her hund apes bie knee, and look. face, Ps ee ae
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_ hate being grumbled at!” the world that makes 12 “This trip to the continent, from which you | GOING TO THE BAD. courting me, down at my father’s little farm in Surrey, and asked me to be your wife, you | He looked at ber uneasily, gniltily, half shrinking from her touch, “It's a difficult thing that I’ve got to say, have just returned, did you no good, then?” | told me it must all be kept a secret because of | Kitty,” he commenced, bracing himself up to she asked. ) ‘None ; I rather lost by it than otherwise, if that could be said of a man who has nothing to lose. However, we will talk about these | matters afterwards. I have come over ex-. pressly to talk them over with you. Now tell | me about yourself.” / “There is not much to tell, Fred, though I | have something which I think will be a pleas- ant surprise to you, but I will keep that until | later. What an age, since I saw you! The | last time was in the spring, when you sent for | me to meet you at Exeter, and I should not have seen you then, I suppose, if you had not | been obliged to come down to some races in the neighborhood.” “Don't grumble, Kitty,” he said, savagely; ‘I | “Iam not grumbling, dear,” she said, draw- ing her chair close beside him, and putting her | arm through his. ‘‘I was only thinking what | a curious life ours is. However, to return to | what I was saying. For the last four months I have passed nearly every day and night at the vicarage, attending upon Mrs, Travers, rea ling | to her and nursing her.” /‘*You’re a great sight too good-natured, / Kitty, making yourself a servant in that way— you ought to have been well paid for such work | as that.” “I should have. been more than paid by their kindness to me. Mrs. Travers and the doctor could not say too much in my praise, and they were as affectionate and as loving in their manner to me as if I had been their own sister.” ** Affectionate ways don’t cost much,” growled Sir Frederick. “No,” said Kitty, rising and going into the inner room, ‘‘ but they gave me more sub- stantial proofs of their regard. What do you think of this, Fred?” she cried returning _ a small leather case, and placing it in his nd. ‘Goodness, Kitty!” he exclaimed, as he opened it, and his gaze fell upon the bracelet inside, ‘Where did you get this from ?” ‘Dr. ‘Travers gave it to me,” she said. “Is it not handsome ?” ‘*Handsome!” cried Sir Frederick. ‘It must be worth nearly three hundred pounds, I should say. Don’t you think,” he added, look- ing shiftily up at her, ‘ don’t you think it is rather unwise of you to keep a valuable thing Jike this in this lonesome spot ?” She looked anxiously at him for a moment, then burst into a forced laugh. “Lonesome!” she cried. ‘It may strike you as lonesome, but I think nothing of it. All the people about here know me, and no one would dream of doing me any harm.” Then you don’t think it would be safer for = take a of it for you?” en marking the changed expression of her face, he added : : ' ‘* Well, perhaps you are the best judge of such matters; and no doubt you would like to keep it by you, to look at now and then. At will gratify your woman’s vanity !” 6 Put it down to that, Fred,” she said, with a half-pained expression, and a slight shrug of her shoulders. ‘ Anyhow, let me keep it for the present. I have so few things of my own. Me Oh, keep it, by all means,” he said, vi- ciously poking at the fire; ‘‘don't mind me, I'm nobody, leave me to slave myself to | death ; that’s no matter of yours.” ‘* Oh, Fred, my own darling husband,” cried | Kitty, throwing her arms round him, and fall- | ing upon his neck, ‘how can you speak to me in that way—how can you reproach me 80 cruelly? Haven't I given up everything in life attractive, society, your sake, and do you ——— SS ee a an pacimneienidmanitieae mae — 8, home, all for ‘think I would care to keep a few paltry jewels your uncle. Well, we were married, apd six mouths afterwards your uncle died, and you told me it must still be kept a secret, for some reason, I could never understand why, and here we are living on in this wretched way sep- arated and apart—you gaining your livelihood —do not think I mean to be harsh, but ft is the truth—in a manner which is not fit for a gentleman of your position; I dwelling here in an assumed name with no one knowing whether I am wife or widow.” ‘‘T thought you were tolerably contented with it,” he said. ‘Did you?” she cried, her face brightening. ‘‘T am glad of that, because that shows I cannot have grumbled very much. But, oh, Fred, I have so longed to change it all —and do you know, Fred, as I sat over the fire last evening I felt to myself as though a change were coming.” ‘Did you?” said he, ina low voice, locking furtively at her, ‘‘ How was that?” **T don’t know how it was,” she replied ; ‘but I felt as thongh things were not going to be exactly as they have been for some time past; and do you know what I thought ?” ‘‘ No; how could I possibly tell?” “TI thought that the next time I saw you— and of course I had no idea it would be so soon—that I would.say to you, let us change all this; the life we are both leading is a wretched one. Year by year we are growing older, and there is no prospect of a change, unless we strike out boldly ourselves. Let us leave England, and begin life again in a fresh place. The sale of this bracelet will bring money to pay our passage and to give us a new start in life. There is no need of you to keep your title, which has never been any use, but only an incumbrance to you; and you have plenty of talent, which will enable you to make a career in any walk of life you may choose. Let us do this, Fred, for God’s sake ; and get quit of this wretched existence we are leading !” ‘*And where do you propose that we should go to?” he asked. ‘To America, Fred ; I have been reading all about it in some books and newspapers which Mrs, Travers lent me, and talking about it with the doctor himself. He knows several Americans, and they all say that if people only go out there with determination and patience, they’are sure to get on well.” ‘Tell me, Fred,” she added, raising herself from his shoulder an looking earnestly into his eyes, ‘will you think of it—will you do it? It will be hard for you I know, at first, to give np the friends with whom your life is now passed, and to content yourself with me ; but you will find I will be very loving to you, very docile, very obedient, and do everything you wish, ’ He was silent for a few minutes, and sat with knitted brows and folded arms, as though some great struggle weve passing through his mind. Then he spoke, keeping his face averted from her, and with his eyes fixed upon the ground: “It would not do, Kitty,” he said; ‘it wouldn't do at all! Weare neither of us fitted to go roughing it in the way we should have to do if we carried out your suggestion ; we have not been brought up in the ba to bear it—at least I have not, I know—knocking about in the steerage of a ship with a parcel of Irish emigrants, and having to fight our way out to the backwoods, ‘and struggle or starve there! It’s all very well to talk about, and sourids very romantic and spirited, and all that, but it wouldn't pay. You are right enough in saying that something must be done—that some change must be made—and that is what I have come down to talk over with you.” ’ “Go on, Fred,” she said, laying her hand on his, only too happy to think that she was to be consulted in his plan. make a plunge into this subject; ‘* but it has to be said, and therefore, I may as well go through it. The fact is, [ am broke, dead beat, cornered. IT have but a very little money |in the world, and I do not\know where to look for any more I am deeply in debt, and [don’t see a chanceof my creditors holding out much longer. Now, this being the state of affrirs, there suddenly comes to me a chance of bcing able to clear off everything, to set myself quite free, and to be a rich man for the remainder of | my life. What do you say to that?” ‘*Say to it?” she cried. ‘‘ There isnot much doubt as to what one would say in such a posi- tion, if the chance is one which you can hon- orably avail yourself of; if it involves your do- ing nothing of which you ought to feel ashamed accept it at once.” “That is just the point, Kitty,” he said, after some little hesitation; ‘it involves my doing something which I cannot bear even to think of.” ** And that is ?” she asked. “‘And that is parting from you,” he said, looking askance at her. She strove to keep back her tears, but they were glistening in her eyes as she said: ‘*T had hoped that that was all over. I dou’t think I should much mind what happened so long as we were together; but Fred, we have been parted so much lately, I have seen so lit- tle of you during the past year and a half, though I suppose I must not mind the separa- tion for a few more months, if it were to con- duce so much to our future happiness. It would not be for more than a few mouths, would it, Fred ?” His brow darkened, and the three red paral- lel bars appeared on his forehead, ashe thought to himself: ° ‘*She won't take the hint, and I shall have to speak plainly to her.” **Look here, Kitty,” he said aloud, turning to her, ‘‘ the prospect is as good for me as I have said—better even; and there is only one obstacle to it, and that is you!” ‘“T_I an obstacle to your prosperity and happiness, Fred ; how can that be ?” ‘**Since you won’t understand me,” he said in a very dogged voice, “‘and since you com- pel me to speak in plain terms, I must repeat that you are the only obstacle to my success in life. If I were not married to you I could have wealth to keep up my position properly, could live happily and like a gentleman. As it is, 1 am a poor, broken, hunted-down outcast, and all on your account.” ‘*Oh, Fred, Fred!’ she cried, sobbing vio- lently; ‘‘ what cruel words! How do I stand in your way ?” ‘* By being my wife!” he eried; don’t you understand me? If I were—if I were free, I could marry a woman with a large fortune to- morrow, or as soon as I wished—there is one at this moment dying to have me! I should not love her, Kitty, of course; I should never care for her one bit as I have cared for you—as I should care for you still !” She had gradually slipped away frem his arm, and was sitting upright on her chair which she had drawn aside, cold and impassive as a statue, ‘*As you would care for me still,” she re- peated, ‘‘when you were married to another woman ! do not understand the position !” ‘Don’t you see?’ he exclaimed. ‘* Your father and mother are dead, your brother is in Australia, or somewhere, and there is no one knows of our marriage but our two selves. Now, suppose we agreed to forget that such a ceremony ever took place between us, and I married this woman who is so fascinated with me? I should be your husband all the sam except in the eyes of the world. I x never care for her, but I should come to see you, and see more of you almost What should I be to youthen? I , Lew ak tim a brake Pe ey Se es Oe eee af £2 Bee ge
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or s= wt Sh Rm ® MAY REESPme FORA 4 T gee very plainly. Me than I have done since we were married, and I} should be able to give you plenty of money, Kitty, gaa you might live in ease and comfort —<don't you see ?” ; ‘* Oh, yes,” she replied, in a hard, cold voice, You wish to sell yourself to some rich woman who has taken a fancy to you, and because I am in the way, and you could not conclude the negotiation without my consent, you wish to make me an accessory to the bargain. I am not to let the world know that Iam your wife. I am to try and forget it myself, and in return for that, you will come and see me very often, and will give me money and fine clothes, and those sort of things—just as if I were your mistress, in fact—is not that what you mean ?” * You put it rather roughly,” he said, still looking down ; ‘‘ but that’s about what I mean —what do you say ?” **Say,” she cried, springing up and confront- ing him; ‘‘that I wonder that even you, with all your hardiness, and all your selfishness, should have had the courage to make such a 20h a to me; that I wonder that I should ve fallen so low, that you should have dared thus to address me. I have been a patient and a loving wife to you, Frederick Randall. For two years I have struggled on, nearly always | grap alone; and for some of the time in this de-| serted, out of the way place, living on a pit- | tance barely sufficient to keep body and soul together; and even for that I have had to write you constantly, while you—I know it, though I never mentioned it before—you have been - enjoying yourself as best you might, and lead-| ing a free and dissipated life. I have done all this because [ loved you—because I was your wife; but now, when you ask me to deny that title, to give up that position, in order to pan- der further to your selfish interest, when you ask me to degrade myself in my own eyes, and when you propose to degrade me in the eyes of | the world, by letting people think that I am | merely your hired mistress, I refuse, distinctly | and decidedly, I refuse !” whe brought her hand heavily down upon the tale as she said these words, and glared at him with eyes which were blazing with scorn ana fury. Sir Frederick Randall sat back in his chair, | regarding her with a look which for a few mo- ments was as savage as her own. Then with a motion of his hand, as if lightly tossing something into the air, he burst into a Joud, discordant laugh. ** I thought I could rile you,” he cried; ‘‘ but / I didn’t think I could do itso effectually as that. Why, Kitty,” he continued, rising from his chair, and putting his arm round her waist, | ‘‘you did not think I meant it, my girl, did you; you didn’t think for a minute that I was in earnest ?” _“T did think so, Fred,” said Kitty, holding back from him, ‘‘ and I can scarcely think other- wise now.” ‘‘ Bah !”’ he cried, ‘it’s only done for a joke ——just to try you, and nothing more. I know you are devoted to mo, and could not bear to with me, and allthat; but I wanted to ” you say 50. [did not know whether, as we have been parted so much, that your feeling _ for ine might have worn off, and I wanted to Ne ue try you, and I did—didn’t I, dear ?” ‘You did, indeed, Fred," said the girl, quiet- ly; ‘‘so much so, that I hope you won't attempt / anything of the kind again.” 2 was buried in thought now, and dil not Mappeax to hear her; so after glancing at him she repeated the words. “Eh!” he said, witha start; ‘‘not I, indeed; don’t be afraid of that; a joke of that kind doesn’t bear repetition; but [did come here to Say something to you, Kitty, and that some- my what your own proposition foreshad- owed.” ‘* How do you mean?” she asked, earnestly. *“‘I mean that I feel just as you do. That this life of separation is nothing worth, and must come toan end. Henceforth our lot in lifo must be together—not fh America, dear: | an GOING TO THE BAD, ig we will find some nearer place than that; and not here, either, for there is nothing to be done in an out-of-the-way hole like this!” pretended it wasa joke as the only way of geting’ out of it. Well, if you won't fall into my plans, my lady, you must take the consequences, A light came into the girl s eyes, a bright light | that’s all.” of hope as she said: **Do you really mean that? Are you going to take me away? Am Ito remain with you, to share your life with you?” **You are, indeed,” he replied. ‘**You don’t look me in the face when you say so, Fred.” ‘*T can do that easily enough.” And he could, and did. Falsity and deceit were Such constant practices of his, that he had no difficulty in investing them with the outward semblance of truth. ‘* Then indeed I shall be happy!” said Kitty, nestling closely to him. ‘I know there is a good time in store for us, and that all we have to do is to keep straight in the world, and trust in one another, and any help that we want in starting we can get from Dr. Travers: he said as much to me, By the way, Fred, I have not shown you his portrait.” As she opened the drawer she turned laugh- ingly round to him saying, ‘‘You need not be jealous, though he is a good looking man, and really younger than he appears in the photo- h—see !”” He took the portrait from her hand without saying a word, and held it to the firelight. Suddenly he dropped it upon the floor. ‘*What was his confounded name, did you say ?’”’ he asked sharply. ‘*Travers—Dr. Travers, What is the matter, Fred ?” He had picked up the portrait by this time, and was looking at it again. **T could swear it was the same face,” he muttered ; ‘‘a litle older, perhaps, but never to be forgotten by me! Anda doctor, too! The coincidence is strange, to suy the least of it!” What do you think of my friend, Fred?” said Kitty, coming up to him and looking over his shoulder. **An intelligent face,” he said. you ever hear his Christian name?” ‘* Often and often—his wife always cails him Walter,” “The same, by the Lord!”” he muttered. ‘« And you say there is no chance for this—this Travers coming down here again just now?” ‘*No chance of his ever coming here again, Fred, unless his wife’s health should require it, and he does not seem to think it will; but Iam to see him in London when I go there—you will take me, won't you?” **Oh yes,” he answered, ‘‘I will take you, And now, Kitty,” he said, rising from hischair and putting on his overeoat, ‘‘[ must be off. I left my horse at the end of the village. In about a fortnight you may expect to see me again, and then you must be ready to accom- pany me.” ‘**You will come to take me away ?” she said, clasping her hands. ‘‘ How delightful! You will be sure to bring down money for the rent, Fred, for that will have to be paid up, you know, and there are one or two little things else to be settled—it won’t be much, dear, and you will soon save it when I am keeping house for you again.” ** By the way, I wouldn't give any hint that I was going off, Kitty, or they might be asking you questions about what you were going to do, and that sort of thing, which would be difficult for you to answer. Take them by surprise, you know; that’s the best way, I think.” ‘*As you please, Fred,” she said; ‘* but I should like to say good-bye to Mr. Harvey.” ‘*Oh, well, you could do that when I come down here; plenty of time for that, then. Now, good-bye—look out for me in about a fortnight’s time.” He held her in his arms for a minute, and then quitted the house. As he strolled down the road, he stopped. **Dick Phillimore was right,” he said; ‘‘ she would not listen to it for an instant. I saw there was no use in pressing it, so dcd red round and “And did ee SaaS Ee And with set lips and scowling brow he started forth once more upon his journey. CHAPTER VIL TEMPTED. ‘*Cursz the bacon!” said Dick Phillimore. ‘* It’s quite raw on one side, and quite black on the other. It’s the fault of this infernal fire, I suppose, which is altogether too low, and yet I daren't go down and ask the landlady for any more coals, for fear she should request me to settle that little bill.” Mr. Phillimore knelt down as he spoke, and taking a splinter of wood, a fragment of a bro- ken box, in his hand, tried to rake a few ashes together in the best way possible. He had on no coat, but was dressed ina very shabby pair of trowsers, and a torn and dingy shirt. His hair was uncombed, and his jolly cheeks bore traces of a beard of three days’ growth, and there was no question that his whole appearance Was poverty-stricken and woe-begone. ** It’s deuced hard,” he said, mournfully sur- veying the small wire gridiron on which the scorched bit of bacon lay. ‘‘I had kept that as a tit-bit for this morning's breakfast just to help me get down this horrible decoction of burnt horse-beans, which they call ccffee, and now it is not fit to eat. Richard Philli- more, my boy, you are down on your luck and no mistake! Where are the swell clothes with which a few weeks since you delighted the eyes of the fashionable world? Gone to the pawnshop! Where are the swell apartments in which you received your friends? Changed for this sky-parlor in a fifteenth-rate street in Soho. If something doesn’t turn up presently—and pretty quickly, too, I shall haye to apply for relief to the parish ; and under the present ab- surd constitution of affairs, the parish won't give me anything unless I do some work in ex- change for it. Mighty unpleasant kind of work, too, such as breaking stones, or picking oak- um, or hard manual labor of that kind, which never agreed with my constitution. What is there that can possibly turn up? Nothing but Fred, and he 1s such a slippery dog, there is no knowing where to have him. I begin to sus- pect, too, that Fred is pretty well played out, and that if he don’t carry through this little American arrangement he will have to make short work of it, and try his lick on some dis- tant shore. What a close fellow he is! How sly and cunning! Now, though I am his part- ner and his pal, and his chum in everything, I have not the least idea where he is at the pres- enttime. I have a notion that he has gone after Kitty, but he has never told me so, has never even mentioned to me where Kitty has been living all this time, “If my ideas are right, I think he mi have spared himself the journey. From wh I have seen of Kitty she is as true as steel whem taken the right way; but she wouldn’t stand any woman s coming in between her and and if he tries to persuade her to that, he will soon enough find out the difference. ‘**He’s a clever fellow, too, especially with women. It was wonderful to see the way he got hold of that little Yankee girl and the in- fluence he began to exercise over her from the first. There isno doubt that these people have plenty of money, and I only wish it could be picked up in some other way. I ama great deal too soft-hearted; that’s the fault with me where women are concerned. I don’t like treat- ing them badly. There is not a man inthe of his last penny or his shirt, if I wanted it myself, but I can’t deal that way with women. ‘* If one could only get up some good swin- dle, and put this old Adams into it—a bubble company of some sort, a tin mine down in Corn- w:,or .raw y ia firica— Lut I haftu't ven at <2 a s 5 ful st ~~ we rae ba puty a = +, i world that I would be particular about robbing ©
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_got enough money to pay for the stationery |I had to bear upon it, made her see, as I/ can doit now. But what on earth are you ‘and postage stamps, to say nothing of the thought, how plain it would be for both our in- | driving at?” advertisements. Hallo, here’s somebody com- | terests—and she refused.” | ‘I was thinking,” said Sir Frederick, speak- ing up stairs. I wonder if it's the landlady| ‘‘ How did she take it?” asked Dick Philli-| ing slowly and looking nervously ronnd—‘“T after the rent? No, the footstep isn’t heavy, more, leaning back in his chair, and looking up | must tell you that I made it all straight with enough.” | at his friend ; ‘* quietly ?” her before I left—told her it was only a trick His reflections were interrupted by a sharp; ‘‘Quietly!’ echoed Sir Frederick; ‘‘as| that I had played upon her to try her, and that tap at the door, and without waiting for per-| quietly as a tigress would, if you were to en-| henceforth we would live Fogle together, t mission to enter, Sir Frederick Randall strode | deavor to steal one of her cubs out of her den. and I would acknowledge her as my wife—T into the room. | Quietly! She stormed like a tragedy actress; | WS thinking that suppose I could put off the He was dressed pretty much as he had been | spoke out about my selfishness in leaving her | marriage with this American girl for some two on the occasion of his visit to Brauxholme, | to struggle on, on what she called a pittance— | OT three months, and that in the meantime you wearing the same heavy overcoat and overlap-| she is about right there, she certainly has had and Tand Kitty were to take a little cottage in ping cap. | some rural district, not a great distance from little enough money—and accused me of wish- | “Hallo!” cried Dick Phillimore—“ ballo, | ing to degrade her by making people believe | London, so that I could run up and see oe Minnie Adams occasionally.” r Fred ! Ther as strongly as*I cou What’s the meaning of this? Are the sheriff’s officers after you, my boy? If so, this is a very bad place for you to run to earth in; | they will find you here easily, depend upon jit.” | would come and see her all the same.” ‘Hold your prate," said Sir Frederick, an- } / she was my mistress! She got that notion in her head because I told her I should not care He paused, and Dick, who had been listen- about a woman I was pressed to marry, but | 1g to him open-mouthed, struck in : ** Poor Kitty,” said Dick Phillimore, grily ; ‘‘ there is no one after me, and nothing | his head ; ‘* poor, dear Kitty!” to fear; the only reason for my wrapping my- self up in this way was, that it is not exactly the quarter in which a man would care to’ be reeognized as visiting his friends.” ** You are right, Fred,” said Dick Phillimore, not in the least annoyed, ‘“‘and it isn’t a quar- ter that [ would remain in half an hour longer —but for one reason—that I can’t get into an- other. It is no good my asking you if you have breakfasted, because if you have not, so much the worse for you, I hady’t enough for myself, and, consequently, have none to share with my friends.” **Do you mean to say that you are as hard up as thet ?” asked Sir Frederick. **T mean to say,” said Mr. Phillimore, slowly fumbling in his pocket, and producing two coins therefrom, ‘‘that this threepenny-bit and this halfpenny constitutes my sole means of making a legal tender in the coin of the realm ; and I will defy you to pick out from any asylum you choose any one sufficiently idi- otic to call threepence halfpenry riches.” **T am not much better off inyself,” said Sir Frederick, throwing himself into a chair and plunging his hands {nto his pockets. ‘It’s terribly annoying to be so cramped for money, when there is a prospect of having such a big ing within one’s grasp.” «Tt is always terribly annoying to be pressed for money, dear Frederick,” said Mr. Philli- more. ‘But tell me more about the big thing—how does it progress? What aro the chances 7” . *‘ Partly good and partly bad,” said the bar- onet, tapping upon the floor with his feet. ‘I have seen the young lady, and made her an offer.” -“'The deuce.you have! What a wonderful fellow you are? [never proposed to a woman in my life. And did the young lady accept ‘ou 7?” ‘‘She did, then and there, without any hesi- tation.” . ‘That's fine! Now what about papa—didn’t he hesitate at all?” ‘‘He knows nothing of it. I told Minnie not to say a word to a soul about what had transpired between us, until I returned from a little journey I, was about to make.” Mr. Phillimore emitted a long, low whistle. ‘You can understand, perhaps, the object of that journey ?” asked the baronet, looking hard at him. “T conclude,” said Mr. Phillimore, ‘‘ it was to see Kitty.” ‘Rightly guessed,” said Sir Frederick. ‘And you have seen her ?” “'T have. ‘‘ Explained whut you wished ?” “‘Sufficiently.” ** And the result ?” «She refuses,” said Sir Frederick. “« By the Lord, I knew it,” said Dick Philli- more, bringing his hand heavily down upon the table. “Yes, sir,” said Sir Frederick, rising from “his chair, and nervously walking up and down the room with short, ie steps. ‘‘I put it to d, brought all the tact ‘* Yes, that’s all very well,” said Sir Frederick, sere ly ; ** but what about poor, dear Freder- ick ?” *‘Poor, dear Frederick was an idiot ever to think that his plan was practicable, It might have been done with some women; a good pension and a new line of life would be an ob- ject to them, but not with such a woman as Kitty. The American scheme is blown into the air, dear sir, and no two ways about it.” ‘* By all the saints, it shall not be blown into the air,” said Sir Frederick, pausing in his walk, and glaring at his companion; ‘‘but I will carry it through one way or the other. ‘*Certainly,” said Dick Phillimore, ‘‘neyer say die, and that sort of thing. I admire your pluck; but what is the other way ?’ ‘‘Do you really want to know?" said the baronet, in a low voice. ‘* Well,” said Dick Phillimore, producing the previously mentioned coins from his pocket, ‘‘as these are the only two portraits of her majesty—not like her, by the way, too young, and an arrangement of the Jair such as I never saw her wear—as these are the only two royal portraits which I possess, and as we have for some years past been hunting in couples, dur- ing which you have provided most of the provender, I confess to a natural interest in the subject.” ‘See here, then,’ said Sir Frederick, seat- ing himself at the table, on which he leant his arms, and brought his face close opposite to his companion’s ; ‘‘I have not thought it out much; it is all in the rough as I lay it before you, but an idea has crossed my mind that— if this plan is carried out, it is clear that Kitty must be gotten rid of somchow—is it not ?” “Tf you are to marry Miss Minnie Adams— and the law against bigamy is not annulled— it is perfectly clear that your present wife must be gotten rid of,” said Dick Phillimore. “Stop that fooling and listen, man,” said Sir Frederick. ‘‘You and Kitty had been al- ways very good friends, have you not ?” “I think so,” said Dick. ‘‘She used to think me funny and odd, and laughed at my queer ways—oh, yes, she and I always got on very well together.” “Do you think she would trust you ?” asked the baronet. “Do you mean with money?” asked Dick Phillimore. ‘If s0, she would be the first person that ever did.” ‘* Pshaw !” said Sir Frederick, ‘‘ we are talk- ing serious business. I mean, do you think she could put confidence in you—do what you tell her—act as you advised ?” “To a certain extent, yes,” said he. Sir Frederick was silent for a few minutes, Then in a lower tone, he said : “All the drinking, all the card playing and general dissipation which you gone through during the last few years have not obliterated your medical knowledge, I suppose?” ‘Not in the least,” said he. ‘At the"worst times I could always dip my head into a bucket of water and steady myself sufficiently to comprehend the con tition of a case, and I | Frederick. ‘* Little cottage, yes; but how is the little shaking a to be paid for, and what's to be done }in it? ‘*T would manage to pay for it,” said Sir ‘*As to what is to be done in it, I should look to you for that.” ‘* Look to me?’ echoed Dick still in aston- ish ment. ‘*You are dull and senseless to-night,” said — his friefid. ‘‘Suppose we three were living there together, in the same way that we have done once or twice before, and suppose Kitty were to fall sick ?” , ‘*No chance of that,” said Dick; “ one of the healthiest women in the world, splendid development of chest, magnificent organiza- tion, proof against almost anything.” ** Almost anything!” whispered Sir Fred- erick, **but not proof against the constant watching and attendance of a skilled medical man, with a knowledge of the exact properties of drugs, whose advancement in life, nay, whose very,existence, so far as life’s comfort and luxuries are concerned, depended upon her death.” ‘* What!” cried Dick Phillimore, starting up. ‘‘ Why, you scoundrel! you infernal vil- lain! Icomprehend you at last! You want to poison this girl, and you have selected me as your tool. You know me to be a drunken, dissolute, wretched card-sharper, scoundrel if you will, and you think it easy to persuade me into being a murderer too !”’ ‘Silence! hush!” said Sir Frederick, seiz- ing hold of him. ““T won’t be silent,” cried Dick Phillimore, shaking off his grasp. ‘‘ Don’t lay your hands on me, for even this wretched, dirty shirt would be polluted by the touch of such & scoundrel! You have overehot the mark, Sir Frederick, I think. I will take advantage of a manata game of cards, and would do my best to clean him out in betting; I would do all I could to disable him in a fair, stand-u fight, but I would not take his life. How mue less would I harm a poor girl for whom T have a kindly feeling, and who, as you yourself have said, places confidence in me.” « ‘“JT-I didn’t mean ”—— baronet. ‘*Don't try that on with me,” cried Dick, stammered the ‘‘ for I won't believe you as easily as she did. You did mean what you said, and henceforward you and I part company forever. This is not avery swell apartment,” he added, looking round, ‘but it is too good for sucha crawling serpent as you. Get out of it !” and he point- ed to the door. “So this is your gratitude, is it, Richard nt Phillimore ?”’ said Sir Frederick, slowly rising; ‘‘this is the way you talk toa man who has many a time stood between you and starva- tion. All right; be it as you say. I shall live to see you rotting in a ditch yet!” ‘“ And I shall live to see you swinging on @ gallows!” cried Dick. ‘‘ Clear out now, while | there is time, for, by the Lord, I cannot control myself much longer!” Mia = Sir Frederick Randall, who had by this time reached the door, turned round s!owly, shook his fist menacingly at his companion, and dis- appeared. aka ‘*There’s a precious villain for you!'’ mut- a ~~ ‘3 ea Up ae k , “f leat @ rm,
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GOING TO THE BAD. tered Dick Phillimore, sinking into his chair as | The girl comprehended the pantomime in- soon as he was alone. ‘‘Now Richard P., stantly, and understood that her mistress was ae you have got to do is, to clear your senses | inquiring what she had been doing in the and stand between that girl and harm, for my | direction pointed out, and her face at once dear Frederick will carry out his plan, now | darkened. that he has once made up his mind to it with! Then she commenced her explanation in ot abi ¥ th my aid or without it, so there is no time to be , wee lost. IfI only knew where Kitty lived, I would give her warning. However, I shall manage ae to find it, I dare say. I have untied a bigger knot than this before now, and I must bring my teeth to work as well as my hands.” CHAPTER VIII. A DESPERATE DEED, Just about ten days after her husband had paid his unexpected visit, as Kitty was one morning looking out of her bedroom window, in the intervals of dressing, her attention was attracted by a movement among the stunted bushes which fringed ihe edge of the cliff. At first she took but little heed of it, thinking probably that it was occasioned by some bird or animal, which had become entrapped there, and was endeavoring to force its way out. There must, however, have been some strange ; fascination in the place, for Kitty found her ‘ eyes, from time to time, reverting to it; and, ; at length, suspending her toilet operations, she opened the window, and leaning out, gave herself up to the elucidation of the mystery. There was a light thin haze, what is com- monly known as a sea-fog, rising from the sur- face of the water, and rendering dim and | shadowy all the objects which had been encir- eled in its embrace; but Kitty, whose eyes had long been accustomed to these atmospheric in- fluences, soon perceived that the object which sh taken for an animal was a human being ; and, after a long and searching gaze, discovered that the person whose actions she was watching was none other than her servant Hannah. What was the deaf and dumb girl doin ‘a such an hour in such an extraordinary and gerous position. at n- dumb show, so rapid that to eyes unaccustomed to it, it would have been totally unintelligible. To Kitty, however, it was as plain as spoken words. The girl closed her eyes for an instant and laid her cheek upon her hand, then opened them suddenly, and pointed to the heavens. “She woke early this morning,” said Kitty, keeping up her running commentary as she observed the girl’s motions, ‘went out, at- tracted by the freshness and beauty of the day. Scarcely had she closed the door behind her, when she saw a man walking along the edge of the cliff, a stranger, too, whom she had never ‘seen before. What was he like? Good hea- |vens! is the girl mad or am I? She iwust ' repeat that again!” And she made her a sign to do so. Instantly the girl made a motion of pulling a cap over eyes to indicate the place where the peak came to, then threw her arms round, as though wrap- ping herself in a huge heavy coat, and walked with lumbering footsteps up and down the rooin, as though encumbered by its weight. ‘*My suspicions were right!” said Kitty, at the close of this p:rformance. ‘‘She must mean Fred—he must be somewhere in the neighborhood ; it is about the time he said he would return.” : But Hannah had not finished her imitations. She skulked softly up and down the room, she | peered furtively over her left shoulder, she shad- | ed her eyes with her hand, and looked down, as | though from the top of the cliff, measuring the | depth of the drop to the beach below. Then quickly looking round, she raised her eyebrows as though she had discovered she was watched, and pretended to make off with hurried steps. ‘*Exactly,” said Kitty, ‘it was Fred. He er face, drawing a line beneath the | Kitty looked with horror as she saw the girl | Was waiting about here, doubtless, until he lying almost flat npon her face, and creeping | thought it safe to come tothe cottage; and closer and closer to the edge of the beetling cliff, , when he saw the girl noticing him he took to now dragging herself along by her hands and_ his heels. I recollect how fearful he was the letting her head hang over, she seemed to be | last time he was here, lest he should be seen gazing into the depths below. by any one, and how he asked particularly Then, shading her eyes with her arms, she | about this girl. I must frame somie excuse for would peer out along the cliff, not looking to- ' getting rid of her for the day, for, doubtless, direction, towards the bold headland, which | clearing up matters here ; and taking me away #e2med to stand up sharp against the horizon | With him; and when all is settled | will send and blotted out further prospect. jbim on ahead, while I remain behind for an “What can have come to Hannah this morn-| hour or two, to take: farewell of Mr. Harvey ing?’ muttered Kitty to herself, ‘Any, one and poor Hannah.” to see her would think she had taken leave of According, after breakfast, to the dumb girl’s her senses, and indeed, if I had chosen to! great astonishment and delight, her mistress _ believe the people of the Village, who are as | conveyed to her the intelligence that she could > Psa supersititious as they are simple, I should long | have that day for a holiday; and she deter- Be ago have been convinced that the poor crea- | mimed to enjoy it, by riding over with the old ture was deranged. Hitherto, however, I have! carrier to the market town, and spending the had no reason to doubt that Hanuah’s infirmity | hours between her arrival and her return in has in no ,way damaged ber common sense, a | staring open-mouthed in at the windows of. the quality which she pypeets to me to possess in shops, Which had for her au unfailing attrac- more than the ordinary degree. Heavens!” | tion, she cried aloud, alarmed at the new movement| There was no knowing when her husband on the rl’s part, ‘she will certainly fall over | might arrive at the cottage, so Kitty thought the cliff. Hannah ! Hannah ! How absurd of | it necessary to dispatch Hannah as soon as me, forgetting that it is impossible for her to | possible; and as soon as the girl was gone, she hear me. Well, she seems to have had enough | set herself to work in sweeping and tidying of danger for the present, and is hilhac | up the place. She had been scarcely engaged , home. I must endeavor tolearn from | in this occupation ten minutes, when a her the cause of this extraordinary behavior.” | shadow fell across her; turning round she lege pty ji git Gessing she went | saw Sir Frederick at the window. . © ttle par'or, Where the snowy| He points to the door, and the next instant oes aerated already laid, and her breakfast | she had opened it for him. _ She had 5 ly 5 , dumb girl reat N agped ogc: santa his coat and cap, and kissed ‘her on the fore- face, advancing straight to her mistress, took head, I must have taken you all unawares, up her hand and kissed it. ey. and yet you could scarcely have been 1 3 f you had expected me.” Kitty nodded in return and patted the gixt’s| '««T did e Veto 243 hea. iT : Pp girls) I did expect you,” she said, looking saucily hen leading her to the window,-pointed | at him. ] ppt i int * the cliff, aud turning round,} « The miscbief you did !" he cried. ‘‘ Oh, wards the village, but far away in the opposite , Fred has come down to fulfill his promise of | ‘* That’s well done,” he said, as he threw off! ghtly on the breast. you remembered what I said, and looked for = %i3 he we hy my return about this time—that is what you meant ?” ‘*Not at all,” she said ; ‘‘ [knew you were in the neighborhood this morning, and natur- ally expected your arrival here.” ‘Who told you I was in the neighborhood ?” ‘*No one.” ‘* You saw me yourself ?” ‘* No, indeed,” ‘*Don't play the fool, Kitty,” he said, angrily. | * What does it mean ?” ‘Only this, Fred,” she said, laying her arm | caressingly upon him; ‘‘poor Hannah, the | deaf and dumb girl, whom you know attends ; upon me, conveyed to me in her pantomimic | language, this morning, that she had seen a | stranger walking on the cliff, and looking over |it at the sea below; and by what I gathered | from her description of the man’s dress, I con- | cluded it was you,” ’ “Oh, that was it, was it,” growled Sir Frederick, still somewhat surlily, ‘And what ' has become of dummy now ?” | ‘*I knew you would come here, and that you would not want to see her, so I gave her a holi-! ' day, and sent her off for the whole day.” “*That was quite right,” said Sir Frederick ; » “T hate allthose kind of creatures—cripples, idiots, and dummies—-and can’t bear to have them staring at me.” ‘*Poor Hannah,” said Kitty ; ‘* she is very harmless—-however, she is safe out of the way. And now, Fred, tell me what on earth brought you here so res he the morning.” “‘I came to Pallington, by the mail, and walked over in the night. It was earher than I anticipated and I got here by daybreak.” ' **But what on earth were you doing on the cliff? Hannah seemed to convey that you were peering about in a most inquisitive mans ner.” ’ ; ‘Hannah's a fool,” said Sir Frederick, grufily. “Twas only looking about for a way to get you out of this place.” ‘To get me out of this place—not by way of. the cliff, Fred, surely ?” ‘Yes, by way of the cliff,” he said. ‘Whe fact is, that some friends of mine are cruising about here in a yacht,and I thought the’ best and the safest way for usto slip quietly off, and in order to prevent any inqusitive fools hitting upon our track, was to.ask these fel- lows to give us a passage fora dayor two, land us at ‘Torquay or Sidmouth, or the first place at which they happen to touch, so I went up the cliff to s2e if there were any signs'of them, . or if I could discover any path by which I could reach the shore.” ** And did yowsee any signs of them ?” | - ‘* No,” he answered shortly ; ‘* they cannot have got round here yet.” here yesterday } | ‘* There was a yacht sailing off afternoon,” said Kitty. ‘The deuce there was !” ‘* Yes, but it could not be the one you mean ;‘ ) for the coast guard to whom I spoke, told me’ she was an American vessel.” ' Sir Frederick Randall started at the word. ™ ‘“Then,” he said hastily, ‘‘ I dare say it was the same; the fellows on board of her are full of nonsense, and they may have shown Yankee colors just for the fun of the thing.) What has become of her?” f ' ‘‘She sailed off to the westward, and when I went out for my evening stroll; she was out of sight.” : ; sr She will be back in time, I dare say,” said Sir Frederick, with averted face. ‘We will go out on the cliff and look after her presently. Well, how have you been going on?” ‘Very well, Fred. Ihave not said a word about my going away, Of course, as you bade me not; but I have been quietly-putting my things together and am quite ready to start.” ‘* That's right,” he said. ‘It will be better far for us to get away before this dumb wretch returns.” ‘* Where are we going to, Fred?” “Thave not yet quite made up my mind ; but somewhere near London, of course.’ ¥ ‘‘Not into London itself, dear, I hope -yow know how hateful the city is to me. In ig Ay, 4 a " ¥ Br BARC 7 gee Ary * $time et * ce -
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. GOING TO THR BAD. glare and bustle and noise—some quiet place| ‘‘Oh, there would be no chance of our meet- in the neighborhood will do, won't it ?” ing her, if it is that you are thinking of. She ‘*Oh! yes, that will do well enough,” said | goes with old Goodlake, the carrier, and will Sir Frederick. ‘‘You know I must be in the! return snugly ensconced in the recesses of his bustle and noise, as you call it, during the day, | cart, while if it were daylight, and the tide were for my chances of money-making lie there ; | out, we should go by the lower road in the val- but yon can have a quiet place in the suburbs, | ley of the rocks; but I thought you talked ofa ' PSN RMT SEE SEEN LEASES ESRI Soe eS A IR. aw SEIN ESTEE Fe Pe A + ERS RLARED I STE ‘gaid Sir Frederick, shortly. an1 I can come out to you in the evening.” ‘* That is what I would prefer,” said Kitty. *‘And you are going to acknowledge me as! se wife, and introduce me to your friends, | ed 2” ‘* Oh! of course,” he replied carelessly. “Yes, but I mean yournice friends, not such as Mr. Phillimore.” ' Fred started. ‘* What do you mean by that?” he asked, hurriedly. ** Well, Mr. Phillimore is a good kind creature, | and I like him very much in his way; but yon know he is rather dissolute, and not quite the | style of company you ought to keep now; you are going to be a proper married man, Fred.” “Dick Phillimore won't trouble you much,” ‘‘You haye not quarrelled with him, I hope,” asked Kitty. ‘‘ He was such a good | fellow, and se kind to me just as we were mar- ried, and always sounding your priises so loudly --you could not quarrel with Mr. Philli- more, Fred." ‘Oh, I shouldnt quarrel with him,” said Sir Frederick ; ‘‘only I feel just what you say about his being scarcely a fit companion for me wader the present circumstances, and so we will drop him quietly, that’s all.” ‘‘Poor Mr. Phillimore; perhaps when he sees how changed you are, Fred, he will take pattern after your example and reform.” — ‘‘ Yes, perhaps so,” said the baronet; ** but I think we have given sufficient time to discuss- ing Richard Phillimore—let us talk of other things. Do you think the people here will be much surprised to find you are gone, Kitty ?” ‘“Why, yes, Fred, of course they will! have come to be looked upon now as one of the regular inhabitants of the village ; and do you know I have been worrying myself a great deal thinking over the deceitful part I have been acting towards these good people, and how odd my behavior willseem in slipping off without i farewell of them. - However, there is one comfort, I shall not leave any debt behind me. You brought the money for therent and the other things, didn’t you, Fred?’ ‘Oh, yes, of course,” he answered. ; ‘Well, then, before we start, I will take it round to Mr. Harvey, and leave it with him when I say good-bye. He can tell the village ‘people to-morrow that I was obliged to go, without giving any reason—they will accept anything he says.’ 3 **Do you think,” said Sir Frederick, looking down into the fire, ‘‘that there will be much niry after you?” ‘Not if Mr. Harvey tells the people he knew that I was going, and that it was all right.” _. *¥es, but,” said Sir Frederick, ‘‘suppose Mr. Harvey was not in when you went to him, that you could not see him for some reason or othr, would there be much outcry when the people found you were not there?” ‘No, L think not,” she replied. ‘‘If any hav had happened to me—I meanif any at- tent at robbery had been made, and there wer one or two suspicious tramps about the villag> this time last year—they would be able to see traces of disorder in the cottage; but, sseing that all the things were straight, they would conclude that I had been called | away somewhere; and before they started | their inquiries, Mr. Harvey would have re- ceive | a letter from me explaining all.” “Yos," said Sir Frederick, who had been | plung din thought for the last few minutes ; | ‘*exa tly; I see. And where isdummy spend- Sng lier holiday ?” ‘+ At Pallington; she always goes there when- | ever she has a chance, to stare at the shops— | sh~ ‘< inst like a child, you know.” ‘oo Wuich way did she go?” yacht, which you expected to take us up Fred?” “So I did,” be said; ‘‘and it will be there right enough, and I suppose we ought to go out and look for her. Put on your hat, Kitty, and come. By the way,” he muttered, ‘“‘ have you got any spirits in the house? It is a} strange thing to ask such a temperate creature as you, [ know, but I am tired and chilled with my night’s walk, and I think a little brandy will do me good.” ‘* Fortunately I have some brandy,” she said, ‘* part of the stock which Dr. Travers brought | A . ‘down from London, and insisted upon my keeping in the house in case of illness.” She placed the bottle before him, and he poured out a wineglassful and tossed it off. ‘‘That’s better,” he said. ‘‘ Now, 2s soon as we are ready, we will go out and look for the yacht. Stay, you go out first and see that there is ho one spying about.” ‘**You don’t know the customs of the place, Fred,” she said, with a smile; ‘‘ there is never any one about here at this time. I told you so,” she said, after looking round, “the coast is quite clear.” He had left his huge overcoat behind him, but had put on his heavy disguising cap, and pulled it low down over his forehead: his shooting coat was buttoned closely round him, and he tucked in the ends of his neckcloth, which were fluttering in the breez«. So they walked out together, Kitty stopping for an instant to tie up the skirt of her heavy merino dress which she wore, and which rather encumbered her progress. ‘‘No sign of your friends yet, Fred,” said Kitty, after they had been strolling idly along for ten minutes. ‘* You are right,” said he, “ but they will not disappoint me; [ have perfect faith in them.” He looked stealthily around ;. not a human be- ing wasin sight, nothing living was to be seen, save a few sheep some distance off nibbling the scant herbage. They were descending a bit of undulating ground, a little indentation on the face of the cliff, between two bluffs, which rose before and behind them high and towering; below them, several hundred feet down, lay the broad ex- panse of ocean, calm and spotless as 2 mir- ror. A thick, heavy rain-cloud for a moment ob- secured the sun, the wind had dropped, and not the faintest sigh of a breeze was to be heard. All nature was dark and hushel and fitting for his hellish purpose. The girl was walking on the side nearest to the edge of the cliff, within a few feet of it, ‘See!’ cried Sir Frederick, suddenly. “What is that creeping round the head- land 2?” The girl glanced at him, and then made a length of time poor Kitty had passed a peace« ful, if not a happy life. Then he stopped. There was the window from which she had /So recently given him a smiling welcome; there was the door through which they h passed together, she confiding in his love and hopeful as to the future; he with his blac¥ heart restless and agitated at the thought of the deed which it had conceived, and which he was about to execute. The deed was done now! There was no crying off—no going back from it. “Hush! What was that?’ He wiped the beads of perspiration from his clammy forehead, and putting his hands to his ears, bent down to listen, Nothing! nothing but the distant tinkle of the sheep-bell or the hoarse wild cry of the sea-birds high up in the air, wheeling in cir- cling flight above his head. “Curse the birds! why did they scream like that?” It reminded him of the shriek | which she had given, which seemed to pierce his heart, and which even at that moment was ringing in his ears. See! the birds fly away now, but the noise in his ears still continues; he must rid himself of this folly; he has his work to do, and must go through with it. No one in sight, he makes sure of that, look- ing cautiously round. Then, with straight, sure steps, so different from his former gait, he makes direct for the wicket-gate, unlatches it, hurries through the garden, and entered the room, The bracelet—let him get that, and he will wait for no more; he knows there is nothing else worth taking, She kept it in the inner room, in that chest of drawers most likely ; He tries all—one, two, three. Yes, there lies the dark leather case, scarcely hidden under one of the simple pretty cotton dresses which poor Kitty used to wear. He seizes it, places it in his breast, and is hurrying through the parlor, when he stops. ‘* What is that she said ?” he mutters, ‘*that if rebbers had been here the place would be in rapes yas)” It is better to give them that idea, it may divert suspicion.” Then, returning to the bed-room, he pulls out the drawers, and throws their contents in a heap upon the floor, overturns the table in the parlor, and is seizing a burning brand from the grate, when he checks himself, ‘* No," he says, ‘it would be folly to fire the place ; it would give the alarm too quickly,” He picks up his coat and wraps it round him, pulls his cap over his eyes, and ison the thresh- old, ready to start, when he staggers forward aud listens eagerly. **A scream,” he cried, ‘‘ a piercing, thrilling scream ; it rings in my ears now ; it will echo there forever.” Ho turns back into the house once more, and searches for the brandy bottle, from which he had drank that morning. He finds it, places it to his lips, takes a long draught, and puts it into his pocket , then he starts forth a murderer, branded with the brand step or two forward, looking in the direction of | of Gain, and with his wife’s innocent blood his pointed hand. ‘Tt must be the boat,” he ered, ‘' you can- not catch it from there! See—yonder !” The girl made another step forward, and the next instant, with a rapid action of his arms, he thrust her over the edge of the cliff into the yawning space. She uttered one loud, long, piercing cry. Shutting out the sound from his ears with his hands, the murderer turned and fled in the direction of the cottage, Staggering like a drunken man, with his knees knocking together beneath him, now sliding on the slippery surface of the short dew-covered grass ; now stumbling, as his feet caught in the holes made by burrowing ver- min, but always pursuing his headlong career, Sir Frederick hurried on until he came in sight of the little cottage, where for such a crying up against him from the ground. -_ About half an hour after the occurrence of these events, a gracefully-built and elegantl appointed schooner yacht came round the heat land, leisurely drifting with the tide and with | the half capful of wind, scarcely sufficient to fill the few sails whieh she carried. | The angry clonds had disappeared and the sun was shining forth in his glory, Stretched out on a couple of rugs on the yacht’s deck, and basking in the genial rays | were two gentlemen, One of them was our old , acquaintance, Colonel Willamette, the other was _the owner of the vessel, Mr. Hoyt, an American gentleman of fortune, whose passion was yacht- ‘ing, and who, during the past season, with his _ beautiful craft, the Columbia, had sailed and — - 7
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GOING TO THE BAD. ) several matches with the members of the: ‘‘ Ay, ay, sir!” said the sailor, at his keep-} back to her happiness being that Sir Frederick : . English yacht clubs. | er’s jab in a moment. j had insisted npon the marriage taking place in Both! gentlemen were smoking cigars and' ‘By the Lord, I was right!” cried Hoyt, | a very quiet manner. quietly enjoying the tranquil beauty of the | aftera minute's glance. “It is a human be-; Mrs. Adams had hoped to have hada long pion scenery. The silence was broken by Mr. Hoyt. ,ing—a woman, I should guess, from what I) list of aristocratic ‘can make out from the clothing. She must tet ” sal ow | i » edg he cliff, and ‘“Gome now, Harry,” said he was I not have slipped over the edge of t if, a tight in persuading ped to defer your departure been caught in her fall by some projecting for a week or two—isn’t this Devonshire scenery | spur or bush, what I can’t clearly make out. beautiful? I recollect your saying last year, | One thing, however, is clear, that there is not Aer ‘ that you much chance of her being alive. Whoever | when you. .were ervising with. mo, 4 she is, she must not be suffered to perish with- | /out help. Hallo there, Davis, man the gig, | never saw anything to beat Narragansett Bay, but [ think this is prettier—not so bold, per- haps, but softer te more beautiful —confess | and stow away & mattress, and hy couple of that yon are glad you came !” | Slings init. Give me the surgeon’s instrument wr : ‘ | case, and a roll of lint, and my brandy flask. fae Geer Sec yrecey enough, Willmar, aed | Look sharp, man, it may be a case of life and you have done every thing you could to make death 1 the trip agreeable,” said Colonel Willamette, | @®*2- ‘ : ,; , * But how on earth are you going to climb att ap ae > agar y pera 9 = _ | the face of that cliff?” asked Colonel Willa. 7 ml - ‘th da = hich Thad fixed [| mette. ‘‘ It looks sheer straight up.” om ry pa l nar oly: th tT de th rmei tee ‘* We shall find a way, depend upon it,” said i ge ale gl radia er hgeay eee Hoyt. ‘‘ You never found a sailor beaten yet agiin; I had pictured the old house to myself when there was a woman to be helped.” one yd - “ a as SEER To that I en | ‘Nora soldier either, for the matter of that,” SEPA? OF | PMN. OAo rT ho ng an ID said Colonel Willamette, buttoning his jacket. the sam solitury state which I have done for ™ T am along with you im this !” eR enn ite fess 1 ‘I thinke| “Jump in,” cried Wilbur Hoyt. “All dng of Minnie Aaa Hee ae Stl think: | seady, men!” he exclaimed, as he followed his ing of Minnie Adams, Harry; what will Cure | pi ond into the stern sheets, ‘Steady all— you of that infatuation a i give way !” : 1 eee! -_ — ag a treed And the next moment the little boat went y, ‘‘nothing but time—an oubt if- even : . : fart} that would have the power, for till the last day sri) vee TEs utter City Ceeeei ee 'OF She of my.life, I shall think of her as I could never - of any other human being !” ‘* And is the case quite hopeless, my friend?” | “Quite, Wilbur, quite! She cut away the last plank beneath my feet, when she told me, _ she could regard me as a brother, but with no | D ; hb ball 9” «other feelings.” | Do you hear that bell? “'Phat’s at said Wilbur ©. Hoyt, pufting! , ‘‘ Hear it? I should think 30; it has been ‘reflectively at his cigar, ‘it’s rough when it Hnyng dene enough.’ se om ‘comes to that. Love is a fraud, Harry; why nd ain’t you going to answer i CHAPTER IX. TOO LATY, guests to grace the wedding, but her future son-in-law had informed her that this would not be in any case, as the members of the aristocracy had not yet returned to Lon- ; don, and it was not considered the “ correct | thing” to have fashionable marriages in the off season, So the worthy couple had agreed to every- thing Sir Frederick proposed, and the baronet _had succeeded so well that, aided and abetted by | Mrs. Adams, he had induced Hiram P. to settle a very large dowry upon Minnie. ‘* Only on one condition, though, Sir Fred- erick,” Mrs. Adams had said, ‘‘ and that is, that we fix ourselves somewheres close by your up- town residence, and that I see Minnie every day. Idon’t propose that we should go back to New York city, to settle down among a lot of loafers and dead-beats, which is always worrying Hiram’s life out of him, to lend them 'athousand dollars here, and a thousand dollars there, or to scoop them a fortune out of Wall | Street ; so I have concluded to locate ourselves in London, where we can get the worth of a hundred cents for every dollar we spend.” | It was not without a strong protest that Hiram P. had consented to this part of the | programme, for the English way of living did | not suit him at all, Like most Americans, he was gregarious, and to be shut up in a large room, with only the members of his own family for society, seemed to him pretty much as bad as solitary confinement in the penitentiary in Philadelphia. Not that he was a talkative man, or in any way given to exchange his ideas with his fellow- ; creatures, | In the old days, at Titusville, he would sit ! for hours together round the stove in the hall ; { Sf OF ae vt Ey -dou’t you do as I do—do without it ?” ‘Time enough; no hurry; it’sthem Yankees! of the Crittenden House, his hat tilted over his cg SP SER ae OOS, ELE — AEP AES RD A LG Li ARLE ATI AAI FS ag? « 1 ‘*I wish to God I could,” said Colonel Willa- | in twenty-eight. They’re used to niggers in| eyes, his boots neatly balanced on the stove- ‘ motte, ‘‘but my love for Minnie Adams is a their own country, I understand, and think we | top, at level with his face, and a large, brown Se é portion of my life, and both will end at the have got nothing to do but to attend upon them. | spittoon handy for reference, without uttering same time !” We must let ’em see we ain’t to be drove; we | ten consecutive words. **I believe you,” said his friend, ‘‘and I am sorry forit. It is a blessing not to be consti- ‘tuted in that way. Now, I am very old, but ‘im my time I have known some nice girls—real cunning, elegant young ladies—but beyond | 8!’s going to be married; and a very nice-look- | taking a sleigh-ride or dancing a German, I would not give a cent for the best of them !” ** Who's gassing now ?” said Colonel Wille mette, with a grave smile. ‘‘ There is no ‘more tender-hearted mun living than Wilbur ©, Hoyt—none who would be more ready to or danger to yourself.” you ‘at the ordinary—quantity before ‘befriend, in a manly honorable way, any wo-| Your motto. Who's the happy man, man who needed it, no matterat what trouble | |must, Thomas.” | . ‘* They are going to be married to-morrow, ain’t they ?” | ‘Some of em, Thomas; not all. The | Ing young girl she is.” ‘*'That’s according as people thinks—there ain’t enough of her for my taste.” ‘**You likes plenty for your money, don’t Thomas? That's what they say of you homas ?” ‘*Sir Frederick Randall, baronet,” an- swered Thomas, making a mouthful of the * Bully for me!" cried Hoyt, laughing. | words. ‘How is that for high? If ever you are un- der the weather pecuniarily, Harry, you can | always earn ten dollars of me on board the Columbia, as my trumpeter. How lovely this is ; the groen and red of these cliffs, and far away climbing u cruising with its side. I had Tom Daleham gto compare these cliffs to but Staten Island, only declaring that it was quite as **Oh, oh, a tip-top swell!” ** Well, don’t know about that,” said Thomas. ‘‘He was in the habit of coming to some billiard-rooms where I was waiter a year or two ago, and he used to be precious seedy then; in the distance the little. white village | trying to pick up flats, I used to think, and I have an idea that that is his game now, and that me last month, and he is such a| he has picked two good ‘uns in these Yankees bay New Yorker, that he could find noth-| and their daughter. All right ; right away, Im coming.” This was the conversation carried on be- retty. Just look at those two bluffs, stand-|tween two of the waiters of the Star and ng up like two giants guarding the small! Garter Hotel, Richmond, a fashionable suburb Tavine between t that ?” He pointed as he spoke, and the colonel, following the direction of his arm, saw on the face of the cliff a dark object standing out in bold relief .gainst the white chalk. _ “Tt looks like a sheep, has just slipped over the cliff, and has been caught midway,” he said, after a long gaze. _“ Sheep—no sheep would look like that!” cried Hoyt, springing to his feet. «« More like a bundle of clothes, and [have astrange fancy there is a human being inside of them. Here, or some animal that | father and mother, duly em, and—why! What's|of London, to which the Adams family had removed for a few days’ sojourn, and from which the marriage of their daughter was to take place. For all had been finally decided between Occasionally he would ejaculate ‘‘ Say,” but he never said anything himself, or, ‘‘ Wal;” but that was merely a safety-valve, for fear young | constant silence should cause him to explode. He disliked the English method of eating and drinking, detested the huge joints, grieved miserably over the missing delicacies of fndian- corn, buckwheat cakes, cold slaw, raw beats, clam chowder and cranberry sauce, and de- clared there was not a man that he yet met uality is|throughout the length and breadth of Great Britain, who could fix up a Santa Cruz punch that was worth drinkihg. It may be readily imagined that Sir Frederick himself was not well pleased with the idea of being hampered with the old people’s company _ ; after marriage ; and but for the frightful con- dition of his affairs, he might have endeavored to obtain better terms. He was annoyed, too, that he was only to receive an mre: y income on his wife's behalf, and not to touch any of Mr. Adams's capital, though the income to be paid to him was very large. : — But Hiram P., so easy going in all other mat- ters, was resolute and obstinate in this, He would not hear of the proposition for a | moment; declaring that he had made his own fortnne, and would manipulate it in his own way until his death, when it would all go to Minnie. And in this matter Sir Frederick had not Mrs, Adams's assistance, for she sided with her husband; and declared what Hiram P. said was Minnie Adams and Sir Frederick; and her | only right, and must be held to. appealed to, had not refused their consent, though it is only fair to say that Hiram P. had hesitated for some time, and only gave way under the ex- treme pressure brought to bear upon him by his wife. That worthy lady was in an ecstasy of delight Pete!" he cried, to one of the seaman on| at the notion of having a baronet for her son- watch ; ‘‘ hand me my glass, quick !” jin-law and a titled dacghter; the only draw- * * > * * so * 1 It was the evening before the wedding, and Minnie and her loyer were seated with their chairs drawn close together before a blazing fire in the little room, at the Star and Garter, _— the girl had appropriated as her bou- oir. Sir Frederick was to dine in Lon@fn that night
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at a farewell dinner that was to be given to him by some of his bachelor friends. ‘‘Tt is almost time that I should go, dearest,” he said, drawing her head fondly to him; ‘‘ but before I start, I want to ask you one question, Be What has made you so thoughtful and pre- ; occupied this afternoon? I can understand that the great change in your life which is about to take place, would necessarily have its influence over you, but you have been un- usually so, even to me-—what was the reason, Minnie ?” Wi “Do not ask me, Fred,” said the girl with a ¢ shudder. ‘‘I thought I had managed to con- ‘ oeal anything like sadness from you -don’t ask me what it is!” i ‘‘Now you make me more than ever anxious to hear,” he exclaimed. ‘‘ Minnie, I insist.’’ ** You have the right, Fred—or you will have to-morrow, and I can refuse you nothin;.' ; ‘Listen, then. This afternoon, while wait- ing for you, I strolled away from the hotel into 7 Richmond Park. I wandered further than I 4 had any intention, and at length came upon a camp of gipsies, nestling down in one of the little dales of the park, their fire burning, and men and women seated round it. I was a little alarmed at first, more especially when ‘ one of the girls on seeing me, rose, and ran bi towards me. But she said she only wanted to be tell my fortune, and when I offered her a shil- i; ling she refused to take it untilshe had perused my palm. ‘*T gave her my hand, and she scanned it eagerly. ‘Then looking up at me she shook her head, and said: ‘You are not a wicked woman—no, yourface is too innocent and hon- ye) est for that, it is unwittingly, and without your ¥ own knowledge, that you are doing this fearful 45a act.’ ‘What fearfulact?’Iasked. ‘Bringing ha ruin upon the body and soul of one who has * is,’ the girl continued; ‘for I cannot—will x not say!’ ir *¢* Tell me one thing?’ I asked. be punished for this?’ ‘No,’ said the girl, ‘for she whom you thus wrong is an angel, and would befriend you in your extremity, thus heaping colds of fire on your head.’ She Ba then released my hand and ran back to the Y camp—Fred, what does this mean ?” a. - ir Frederick had risen from his chair, and h's brow. ‘“Mein?” he cried; ‘‘some lying, knavish : nonsens? of these juggling gipsies, concocted ey to befool you! To whom could you do any a injury?” | = **To no one, except through you, Fred. You once told me you had never loved—really loved —any other woman ; of course, I knowa man like you must have had many flirtations— and worse—but I mean really loved,” ® ‘Quite true; I swear it!” he said, andhe looked her calmly in the face: e: ‘It is enough, dear,” she said, laying her Se hand in his. ‘‘I am satisfied. To-morrow I are, eam yours—now good-night.” ; * * * * * ¥ - Just before noon, the next day, while the lee bells of old Richmond Church were ringing out a merry peal, a Hanson cab, driven at full ‘a speed, dashed up to tho gate of the church- oe yard, where several stylish-looking vehicles . were already gathered. Out of the cab jumped a man, his face pale ok « and haggard, his dress mean, his step falter- ing. " f Has the ceremony began?” he asked of the ‘i bystanders. ‘*Just over,” said oneofthem. ‘‘ See, here is the happy couple coming out of the church.” The man it was Dick Phillimore-—turned a advancing, gasped out: Pe} ‘* Too late! too late !” ‘ ' Down the ehurchyard came the wedding party, the bells ringing, the bystanders hur- rahing, Sir Frederick Randall bending over his bride, and the old people beyond glowing ‘oan with exultation. done you no harm —ask me not how or what it | scene of pleasure. ‘Shall I | slowly round, and seeing a litttle procession | GOING TO THE BAD. — EIST A aE ¢ ‘‘ No, not too late,” muttered Dick Phillimore | when I first knew you, sometimes thinking that to himself ; ‘‘ I may yet save her !" | the squire would have proposed to her lady- | ‘Stay !” he cried, rushing before the bridal ship after Lord Downham’s death, and as she | pair, just as Sir Frederick was about to hand | would certainly have accepted him, instead of | his wife into the carriage. ‘Stay, Miss Adams | being Dr. Travers, the famous London physi- ;more. I should have been here before, but I, geon to the Westminster County Jail, or in | have been ill, very ill.” |some other equally wretched position.” ‘Mr. Phillimore !” cried Minnie. | ‘But you would have had me with you, ‘Stand aside,” shouted the baronet, ‘‘stand | Walter; the advent of fortune would have made aside !” |no difference in my love.” ‘Oh, Frederick, what is this?” cried Minnie, | ‘No, dear one,” said her hnsband, kissing trembling. ‘ her cheek,-‘‘I know that; but it is a pleasant ‘‘He is mad,” whispered Sir Frederick ; | thing now that it has come; and as feeling the ‘‘you have heard him say he has been ill; he | pulses of peers is moreagreeable than physic- is mad—stand aside, sir!” | ing prisoners, on the whole I am glad that the By this time he had handed Minnie into the | squire did not propose for Lady Downham,” carriage, and as Dick Phillimore pressed after; And now we may as well make clear what her, Sir Frederick struck him to the ground, ! has been obscurely hinted at. and leaping in, closed the door. | Within six months after the scene in West- The postillions started off, and before the minster Jail between Walter King and the con- alarm could be given, the hind wheels of the | yict No. 201, passing under the name of Rus- carriage had passed over Dick Phillimore’s | sell, the discovery of vast quantities of coal on head, as he lay there senseless in the road. Squire Travers’s estate produced a revolution in the old gentleman’s affairs, and converted him ' from a genteel pauper into one of the wealth- |) iest men in his county. The squire behaved very well under his chan Four months had elapsed since the wedding Of fortune. He expressed his desire that the |of Minnie Adams with Sir Frederick Kandall, ™#rTinge of Walter King, with his niece, should and the London season was just getting into 'mmediately take place; and at his death, full swing. which happened a few months after, he left all It was between six and seven o'clock of a bis property which was not secured by entail, to Walter and Lucy, with the condition that the |former should assume the family name of | Travers, and that he should not give up the parts of the town, carriages were driving up | ¢x¢ellent practice as a physician in London, and down, either bringing back their oceu- Which he was just beginning to acquire, for at pants, who had been paying calls and shop- least twelve months after his inheritance of his ping, or waiting to convey their proprietors, | 2€w wealth. ; | then engaged upon their toilets, to some fresh _ There was but little need for the squire to | Reve made this injunction, as Walter was so | Ina cheerful, well-built street leading from | happy in his profession under its new phase, Grosvenor Square to Hyde Park, a plain, un-| that nothing would have caused him to retire | Shere but admirably-appointed broug- from it, save the necessity of devoting himself am, with a pair of small fast-trotting horses, to watching over his wife’s health ; and this, evidently on business intent, cut in and out | thanks to the excellent effect of Mre, Travers’s amongst the more gaudy vehicles which were | Visit to Brauxholme, where the sea air, the negligently rolling along, and stopped before | quite, and poor Kitty’s watchful nursing had the door of one of the smaller mansions. /completely effected her cure, was now done A middle-aged, grave-looking gentleman away with, alighted, and bidding the coachman return for| So Dr. Travers flourished and was happy; CHAPTER X. AN UNEXPECTED APPARITION. pleasant April evening and the streets were filed with men returning from business to their homes, while in the more fashionable 3 stood leaning against the mantel-piece, wiping | him at ten o’clock, opened the door with his happy in his studies: happy in his power of latch-key and entered the house. | healing the sick and consoling the afflicted ; | He passed through the hall end made his | happiest of all, perhaps, when, as now, he sat | way to the dining-room on the right hand, but | in his home with his wife and children around lere he reached the ‘door it wae opened from him, reflecting on his early privations and on |the inside, and a handsome lady, holding by his present comfort. the hand a pretty little girl of some five or six, The dinner was over, and the doctor, after the years old, stood in the entrance. _ enjoyment of his two or three glasses of port ‘Yes, mamma, you were quite right,” said wine, was lying back in his easy chair, his slip- the child, running to the gentleman. ‘‘She pered feet stretched out towards the fender, has such quick ears, papa; she heard the street | for the evenings were yet chilly, and just be- door shut, and she knew it was yon.” | ginning to enjoy a doze, before going up to ‘‘Dear mamma is always right,” said the | dress for Lady Downham’s entertainment. entleman, stooping down and taking thechild| The children had gone to bed, and Mrs, in his arms. ‘‘It is your old p.ipa come back | Travers, whowas their instructress, was arrang- | to you, Ada, and very tired he is,” |ing some of their lessons fur the next day, ‘You are over-fatiguing yourself, Walter,’.| when the door opened, and the servant an- said the lady, laying her hand fondly upon his , nounced that a lady wished to see the doctor. shoulder. ‘‘Come in now and rest yourself! ‘|What's that?’ said the doctor, rousing up. a few moments before dinner. There is your | and rubbing his eyes: ‘‘a lady to see me at easy-chair, and Ada will run up and fetch your | this time of the evening—what is her name, slippers. If you go on in this way I shall in- James!” ; sist on your retiring from practice; you know, ‘‘She would not give me any name, sir,” you could do so with perfect case, and itis replied the servant; ‘‘merely said she wished only as a recreation that I allow you to con- | to see you on particular business.’’ tinue in the exercise of your profession.” “What a nuisance!” -¢ried Mrs. ‘Travers ; ‘*My sweet Lucy,” said the gentleman, ‘‘ my | ‘‘ when you were just getting a little rest that fatigue is only temporary. When I have had | you need so much, It is too hard that you my dinner and a little rest I shall be quite my-' should be annoyed at such atime. Walter, I self again, and as I have no patients to see to- | declare, I would not see her! Let James tell night, I intend to escort you to Lady Down- | her you are engaged.” Bigy ham’s.” | ‘Well, you see, my dear, said the doctor, “Tam. so glad of that,” said his wife, ‘‘for | struggling into an upright position, ‘‘it is pro- Lady Downham would have been disappointed | bably an urgent case, or the poor woman would if you had not gone there, and we have been not call upon me at so late an hour. Where acquainted with her so long, and she was so is the lady, James ?” : Ree much attached to dear uncle that I always like| “She is in the library, sir; I thought it to please her.” | uncertain whether you would see her, and told “Yes, indeed; I recollect, in the old days, ber so,” —do you know me? I am Richard Philli-| cian, I should have remained Dr. King, sur- | was «
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**Go to her and say that I will be with her in & minute.” / n the servant had left the room the doc-/ Christian name; ‘ you will find us friends who | tor sdid to his wife: “‘T declare, I must have been dreaming, Inmcy; I thought we were at Brauxholme again, walking by what used to be poor Mrs, More- oe ton’s cottage, only quitea different person lived there then—some one whom we did not recog- ' nize atall. Well, I must not keep this lady waiting any longer.” And with these words the doctor left the room. i He crossed the hall, and entered the library. As he closed the door behind him, a woman, dressed in black, rose from the chair on which sie had been sitting, and throwing back her vail from her face, advanced to meet him. As the light fell upon her features, Dr. Travers retreated a few steps. ‘Good Heaven!" he cried, in astonishment, ‘‘am I still dreaming, or iy it Mrs. Moreton?” ‘** You are not dreaming, doctor,” she replied, in the old familiartone, as sweet, but somewhat more melancholy than ever. ‘‘It is she whom you knew as Mrs. Moreton.” ‘‘Why, my dear, good creature,” said the doctor, advancing and taking both her hands in his, ‘‘ this is indeed a joyful surprise! We— we thought you were dead! ” “I sometimes think it were better if I had been,” said Kitty sorrowfully. ‘* Better—-nonsense, nothing of the sort,” said Dr. Travers. this cold room ; come in at once to Lucy; you must have an immense amount to tell us, and she will be delighted to see yeu.” He took her by the hand as he spoke and led her towards the dining-room. ‘*Let me go in first,” he said, when they reached the door, ‘‘and break the news to my wife ; she is 80 much attached to you, and we have talked over your fate so often, that your sudden presence might upset her.” “Lucy, dear,” said he, entering the room, **the y who desired to see me is an old friend, one to whom we are both tenderly at- tached, but whom for some time we have ‘4 mourned as taken from us.” : ‘‘Good Heavens, Walter!" cried Mrs. Tra- v ‘“*you must mean Mrs. Moreton?” . “*T do indeed,” said the doctor, ‘she is re- stored to us—she is here!” And the next moment Kitty was in her friend's arms. ** Now sit down at once,” said the doctor, placing her in an arm-chair close by the fire, ‘Have youdined? Will you have nothing to eat? No! well then you must have a glass of ol wine, Nonsense, don’t deny me ; I insist, 5 ou know my way of old; if my patients don't take what I prescribe, I withdraw. from the case. There, that’s better,” he added as she laced the glass to her lips, ‘‘and now, then, “4 ell us all about yourself. That is, if it will not pain you to doso.” “No,” said Kitty, with a slight struggle, ‘I came for that purpose; or, rather, I came to ask your advice and assistance, and knew that ; I could not expect either without giving some Ky account of what you must have considered my 3 strange disappearance.” ‘* My dear friend,” said Dr. Travers, leaning a> forward and touching her lightly on the hand, ahs ‘pray divest your mind of any such idea, In the intimate relations established between us eA and you last year, we conceived for you an at- tachment and esteem which nothing could _ Shake. If you have anything to ask of me, and ou prefer to be silent as to what has happened you within the past few months, ask—with a conviction that if it be possible, it will be granted.” “No,” said Kitty, suddenly, “it is due to ou that I should teli you all!’ And not mere- y, that—I must speak. I must relieve my mind; I feel as if further silence would kill me, ~ and I k the merciful Providence that rais- ed up for me such friends as you, to whom I can 1. seat in the perfect aad aie that my con- c respected, and that what go no further’ Fart pdt ‘** But don’t let us stay in | GOING TO THE BAD. ‘* More than that, Kitty,” said Mrs. Travers, calling her friend for the first time by her will sympathize with your sufferings, and do | all in our power to alleviate them.” | ‘They have been somewhat great,” said Kit- ity, pressing her hand. ‘‘It has often struck me you must have thought it strange, con- sidering the intimate terms which you permit- ' ted to exist between us, that I never spoke to condition of life, at the time I was a resident in your house. You knew not whether I was wife or widow, and in your delicacy you asked me |no questions. I ought to have spoken then, | but my tongue was tied. There is no such | restraint upon me now, and I will tell you my | story. ‘T was the only daughter of a small farmer in Surrey, a man who had been rich once, but had lost his ‘means. He took pride in me and gave me an education above the average run of that given to girls in my position. When I was about the age of mineteen, I made the acquaintance of a man--a gentleman he seemed in appearance and manners— whom I had seen occasionally from my win- dew passing across the fields. He told me he was staying witha shooting party at a neigh- boring country-seat, and had been much struck with me. I, in my turn, was fascinated by him, and we used to meet frequently. He pro- fessed great love for me, and at length asked |me to elope with him. I refused—I had more strength of mind than he thought—telling him | 1 would never bring disgrace upon my father’s name. ‘Then he consented to marry me at a town some five-and-twenty miles away, where neither of us were known, on the condition that my father pledged himself to secresy. So it came who would have done anything to secure what he imagined to be my happiness, agreed. ‘The plea which my husband offered forthe course was, that his uncle, whose fortune and title—for he was a man of rank—he expected to inherit, was a woman-hater, and never would forgive his nephew, if he married. ‘My husband’s name is the only thing I shall conceal from you in this story ; there is no necessity for me to mention it, and I have striven, as far as possible, to forget it. ‘‘He was a bad man—shifty, thriftless, and dissolute. We lived together for a few months, sometimes in London, sometimes in odd coun- try places, a precarious, hand-to-mouth exist- ence, for he was a gambler, and had no re- sources, save his winnings at betting and at cards, ‘Then he told me it would be necessary for | you of my antecedents, or indeed of my actual | | ‘* How horrible! " cried Mrs. Travers. ‘* What an infernal scoundrel!” said the doctor. ‘*T need scarcely say that I refused the prop- osition with contempt,” continued Kitty ; ‘and directly I did so, he changed his course, pre- | tending that he had merely asked me as a joke, jand to try whether I still cared about him, |adding, that in a very short time he would re- turn and take me from Brauxholme to live with him as his acknowledged wife. | ‘Fool that I was to believe him. He came | back ; finding that he could not rid himself of 'me by fair means, he must, during his absence, have conceived a most diabolical plan, which he at once, on the very day of his arrival, pro- ceeded to carry into execution, ‘He lured me to the edge of the cliff, and, under pretense of calling my attention to something below, he—-I can scarcely say the words—thrust me over the cliff!” As she spoke these last words, a'strong shud- dering fit swept across her, and she covered her face with her hands. Mrs. Travers rose from her chair, and facing round to Kitty, took her in her arms. ‘* Be comforted, de ,»”’ she whispered, “‘you are safe here now.” ** Yes,” said the doctor; ‘‘ but how on earth : did she get here after that act of murder on that villain’s part ?” ‘From the time I felt the thrust which pre- cipitated me over the cliff,” said Kitty, ‘I knew nothing until I found myself lying in bed in a small but neat room, overlooking a portion of a pretty town, built on the sea- shore. A grave, elderly man and a motherly- ooking woman stood by the bedside, watching | me with some anxiety, After looking at them a little time, I strove to speak, but the gentle- man held up his hand in admonition, and the woman smiled and laid her finger on her lips, and after I had heard the deca BAY, ‘She will recover now; I will write and tell him so to-night,’ I relapsed into unconscious- ness. ‘‘When my senses returned to me I was in the same place, but the woman only was pres- ent. ‘From her, at various intervals, I learned that I had been brought to her house in a senseless, speechless, and, as it was thought, almost dying condition. I had been borne there in a litter by some sailors belonging toa yacht, the owner of which, an American gen- tleman, had desired that every care should be | taken of me, paying the woman liberally, and / giving an address at the Yacht Club, Torquay, where he desired her to write to him frequent- ly and inform him of my condition. ‘*Ag soon as my strength permitted, I ques-. | tioned the woman as to the state in which L me to leave him for a while, and bade me set-| was found, She knew nothing of it, she said ; tle myself in some retired place, where he| but she gathered, from what the gentleman. would send me, from time to time, such money | said, that I must have fallen from some height, as he could, and come to see me when he had } and after the examination by the surgeon, who the opportunity. I chose Brauxholme, and! was sent for immediately, he expressed some settled myself there, as you know, but he sent! gurprise that no boncg were broken; my ner- me very little money, and up to the time when| yous system, however, had experienced a I knew you, he had never been to see me, severe shock, and brain fever setin. I lay ill ‘His uncle was dead, and he had inherited | for weeks, hovering between life and death; the title; but the old man, suspicious of his , and during this period the American gentleman nephew’s character, left his money elsewhere, | came over, it appears, several times from ‘l'or- ‘‘ My husband still wished for some reason | quay to make inquiry after me, and see that I or other—I never could make out exactly | was properly attended to, 1 what—that our marriage should be kept a} ‘‘ From the time of my reeovering conscious- secret; and though I repeatedly urged him to | ness, my strength slowly returned, and in a make it known and let me live with him as his | few days I was able to sit up. One morning wife, he always refused. the woman told me that the American gentle- ‘One day—I shall never forget it—the | man was below, and wished to know if I would very evening after you left Brauxholime, he | see him. ; appeared at the cottage. He had been away! ‘‘Of course I said ‘yes,’ and he came up. for sometime on the Continent, and had re- A tall, good-looking man, about thirty years of turned, he said, poorer and more pressed by | age, with the kindest face and sweetest voice debt than ever; there wasa way by which he|imaginable. After five minutes we seemed to could get rid of all his difficulties. He named | be friends of long standing. He told me that it to me, but I scarcely have the courage to|as he was sailing round the coast, just off mention it to you, so base, so shameful was it. Brauxholme, he had discovered, through his ‘Well, then he proposed . : te nounce my position as his wife, in order that} cliff; that eventually this somethin a girl with ager to be my helpless body, which had he might marry again——marry and. bout, I was madly in love, and my father, S who was devoted to him!” that I should re-| glass, something hanging midway down the | sailors managed, with much difficulty, to
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tines BEES ee 2u rescue from its perilous position, and that he ' had had me conveyed to the rooms where I found myself. ““T cannot describe to you the manner with which all this was told, nor the delicacy with | which Mr. Hoyt—that is his name, Wilbur C. , Hoyt—made light of the obligation under which | he had laid me, nor could I describe to you the curiously instinctive way in which he gathered that there was something in my story which I fain would hide, and how quietly he accepted my position, as it then was, without inquiring for any details of my previous life. ‘* He begged me not to think of quitting the apartment; and, indeed, it would haye been impossible, for my strength had but very par- tially returned. ite supplied me with books and fruit and flowers, and came over several times to see me, always treating me with the friend of his family who had been confided to his care. **At length, one day, I told him that, now that my strength was sufficiently recovered, I must no longer be a burden on his kindness, ‘* He looked up suddenly, somewhat pained, as I thought, and begged mé to explain my pluns. ** Thon I spoke out frankly, telling him that | GOING TO THE BAD. a nn ee had been murdered, and your body thrown | anly taste,and neatness, which she possessed in into the sea; forwhen Hannah, your dumb the highest degree, soon rendered the little servant returned from Pollington, whither, it / place so pleasant-looking that when Dr. Travers appears, you had sent her for a holiday, she | arrived he could not help expressing his aston- found the cottage in a state of the greatest | ishment at the air of comfort which pervaded. confusion—boxes and drawers ransacked, and, ‘Just like you, Kitty!” he said, looking their contents thrown out on the floor, and around him with a pleased smile; ‘just the no traces of you to be discovered. The neigh- way you used to manage in that little band-box bors searched the shore and the cliffs for days, | of yours at Brauxholme. I verily believe that and at last were compelled to give in to the | if you had remained with tliat rascally husband | ; greatest respect, as though I had been some. my past life must be a blank, even to him who had preserved it; that I was destitute, and eonld in no way hupe to repay him for all tnat he had done for me, but that for the future I. had kind friends in London who would help me on. Mvanwhile he had won, and must be con- tent with, my eternal gratitude, ) *'Mr, Hoyt was silent fora moment after I had ceased speaking.” ‘Then he said: ‘He accepted the position, perfectly ; that he had never attempted, by word or deed, to intrude upon my confidence, imagining, he scarcely knew why, that there | was something in my story which I desired to | couceal, and expressing, in the kindest words, | his full conviction that whatever I might have suffered was owing to no fault of mine. He was only too delighted,’ he said, ‘tohave had | the opportunity of being of service to me, and / all he would ask of mein return was to tell | him the names of my friends in London, and to let him hear, from time to time of my wel- fare.’ “TI ventured to name you, dear friends. I thought there was no harm in that; and Mr. Hoyt said that the doctor's name and fame were quite familiar to him. ‘* Then he took his leave ; and the next day he wrote me a delicately-worded letter, enclos- ing a bank-note for my expenses to London, and begging me to consider that in him Provi- dence had raised up for me afriend only too glad to be of service to me on and in every pos- sible occasion.” | others. “What a noble fellow!” said the doctor, jumping up, and rubbing his hands. Mrs. Travers said nothing, but sat gazing intently on Kitty, the tears streaming down her | ‘face ‘“Well,” said the doctor, “then you came straight away here ?” ‘Only by slow degrees,” replied Kitty, ‘‘for T had over-judged my strength. I made short journeys, resting by the way, and only arrived | in London this afternoon. I need scarcely say that I came to youso soon asI had se- cured a lodging, and unpacked my things.” ‘Secured a lodging !” cried the doctor, look- ing round in ludicrous amazement. ‘‘ What does the woman mean?- These are your lodg- ing: —this is your home—you are never going to move again from here, I can tell you.” * Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Travers, putting her arm around her friend; ‘‘the rest of your life will be passed with us.” “We will talk of that presently, dear friends, ” said Kitty, with a grave smile; ‘‘ but now, tell me what you had heard of me. Harvey had written to you?” Of Gourse, Mr. (she fell on ; “ Of course he had,” said the doctor, ‘‘ and written to us fn the most agonizing state of ‘mind. He and all the villagers ‘:onght you | “ . Me A ater re vie ie tay 37 ; er SR Lacteee 2 Pi Sie Phy general belief, and mourned you as dead. However, here you are safe and sound, thank God, and here you will remain. I will just ring and send round for your baggage ; this lodging must be given up at once.” But Kitty laid her hand upon his arm and looked up into his face. } ‘** You used to say I was a very obstinate woman,” said she, ‘ and in that respect I am just the same since my illness. Those lodgings must not be given up, and I am not coming to live here to be a burden on your bounty.” » “Our bounty?” cried the doctor. we owe you more thun we can ever repay 7” ‘Is not my recovery due to your nursing ?” erfed Lucy. ‘‘I know all your kindness,” said Kitty; ‘* but I wish to be independent, and to earn ) my Own living.” ‘* Karn your own living !" repeated the doc- tor; ‘‘earn your own fiddlesticks! Do you want to bea governess at a shilling an hour, | or buy a sewing-machine and take in plain needlework ?” ‘* Neither one nor the other,” said Kitty ; but [ think I know of a position in which I) may support myself, and be of some good to Travers, at Brauxholme,” she continued, turn- ing to the doctor, ‘* you were pleased to speak approvingly of the way in which I discharged my duty.” ‘‘Approvingly !” cried the doctor. should think so,-indeed ; the softest step, the lightest hand, the sweetest manner, the most unwearying attention I ever found in all my experience,” ‘If IT really possess these qualifications,” said Kitty, ‘‘ why should they be wasted— why should I not earn my bread by un. dertaking the professional duties of a nurse ? In your practice, yon will have many oppor- tunities of recommending me to patients,” The doctor was silent for a moment. ‘*Have you considered this fully, dear— | do you mean it seriously ?” ‘* Most seriously,” she replied, Then,” he said, ‘‘I think you are a noble woman about to enteron a noble carecr—we will talk of it further in the morning. Now you must retire to bed. I will walk with you to your lodgings.” “You will do nothing of the sort,” she said. ‘* They are quite cjose here, in a small, quiet street, at the back.” ‘You shall not go by yourself,” said the doctor. ‘I will send James with you, and to- morrow we will discuss your future.” Before Kitty retired to her rest that night, her knees and thanked the Al- mighty Father who had preserved her life to be, as she hoped, of use and benefit to her suf- fering fellow-creatures, CHAPTER XI. KITTY’S VISITORS. On the following morning, Kitty arose early and set herself to get her room into something like order. It was not a very satisfactory task, for, though the apartment itself was clean, and to a certain extent comfortable, there was no glorious view of sea and sky, suchas she had been accustomed to. The window looked on to a small dull street, of unpretending houses, through which there was but little traffic, and which was con- sequently, the chosen resort of organ-grinders and all kinds of itinerant musicians, but she bustled about, and by the exercise of that wom- . \ 4 “ us ai “) L een , 7 . es < ‘ t : etek hy ey 1) hole a. PO COe sie ees Raya SOK: aN ‘* Don't | When Il was in attendance on Mrs, | oe ia of yours, and he had been sent to prison, as he undoubtedly would have been, sooner or later, | When you went to see him you would in a few | minutes have made his cell as cosy as a lady’s boudoir, bg ‘* Don't talk about him; don’t mention him, pray,” cried Kitty, with a shudder. | ‘I did not do it thoughtlessly” said the doc- | tor, taking her hand, and looking at her with | grave affection out of his dark hazel eyes. “I did it purposely. But for the present, I want | to talk to you about something else. The de- termination which you announced to us last night. was it a sudden thought, or was it one which has been for ssme time on your mind?” ‘‘Tt came to me during my long hours of convalescence, and which seemed to be sent to me by Providence.” *‘And you are still determined to abide by it?” ‘Tf you and Mrs. Travers see no objection. You are the only friends I have in the world, with the exception, indeed, of Mr. Hoyt, and by you I will be guidedin everything Ido. Do you appenre of my plan or not?’ “For the present, yes,” said the doctor. ‘There are & great many cases coming within the range of my experience, in which » woman like you, with your qualifications, would be invalunble as a nurse ; and since your inde- pendence of spirit is so great that it will not allow you to live with us, I shall be enabled to put you in the way of earning an excellent liv- ing for the present, and so long as you may require it.” “That will surely be for the remainder of my life,” said Kitty, with a smile. ‘**T um not so sure of that, said the doctor, looking hard at her. “You are mysterious, dear friend,” said Kitty. ‘ Why not speak out plainly to me?” ‘Well, you see, my dear Kitty,” said the doctor, with rather an embarrassed air, ‘‘I am so engrossed in my professional practice and studies, that I do not give much attention to anything else ; but Lucy is a woman of wonderful observation, and she must evidently have something in her head, though she has not told me what it was, for when this morn- ing we naturally began talking about you. in the course of our conversation, Lucy several | times touched upon the horror of your position in being bound to this man who has treated | you with such barbarity.” | “It is done, and can not be undone,” said Kity with asigh; “it is my lot and I must bear it.” “Only with your own free will,” said the “Tf the world were aware of the hor- the law doctor. rible cruelty practiced upon yon, would see you righted.” ‘-You mean that I could get a divorce from him,” said Kitty. ‘‘Ohno, no. To do that I should have to make public his name, and all my miserable life’s story—and what would be the use, [ask ; what would be the use?” “‘Use!” said the doctor, eyeing her very hard ; ‘“‘it would enable you to prevent him from claiming any of the savings which you may acquire in the profession which you pro- pose to undertake.” ‘He will not attempt that,” said Kitty; ‘he is base enough, but not bold enough to at- tempt to cross my path again. Moreover, he thinks me dead, and there is but lhttle prob- ability of his ever hearing that I stil! exist.” ‘It would have yet another advantage, Kitty,” said the doctor ; ‘it would enable you to marry again.” ‘‘That would be an advantage, indeed,’ cried Kitty, with flashing eyes anc head erect, ‘*and one which I should have, no doubt, a speedy opportunity of provin’. A women
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with a dim and shadowy past, of which she dare not speak, and with a position of hospital hurée for her future, is not likely to receive many tempting offers of marriage, even it her taste lay that way, which mine does not. No, dear, kind friend, we will not, if you please, enter upon this subject again. Let the past be forever dead to me, and let my future of woman’s work open for me as soon as pos- sible.” **Your wishes shall be obeyed, Kitty,” said the doctor, as he took his leave. ‘*I will see to it at once.” When the doctor had gone, Kitty fell into a reverie over his proposition, from which she was roused by the entrance of the servant, bringing her a card. On this card was printed the name ‘‘ Wilbur C. Hoyt.” ‘*Mr. Hoyt!"’ cried Kitty, in astonishment: ‘why, how in the world did he find out I was here? Of course, I shall be delighted to see him: bid him walk up at once.” ** You are very welcome, Mr. Hoyt, * said she, when that gentleman appeared; ‘ not less so because so totally unexpected. I am curious to know how, in this great city, you managed to discover a person so thoronghly unimportant as myself?” ‘‘There is less of magic in it than there GOING T) T EB !/D. honest and honorable, I must not be fastidious as to the means by which my bread is earned.” For a moment Wilbur Hoyt made no reply, sitting with his face averted, and evidently struggling with some strong internal emotion, Then he turned to her, with pallid cheeks and quivering lips, and said : moment that I first saw you, pale and deathlike, | fearful cliff. From that moment. almost until the present, I may be said to have been watch- |ing over you. Ihave seen you struggling back from death to life; I have marked your quiet sufferings, your patience under pain, your forti- tude and resignation. Iam a rough man, and ordinarily not observant, but no touch of your | womanly sweetness has been lost upon me. ' Do not draw back, Mrs. Morcton, but hear me ,tothe end; believe me, all I say is true and | honest and straightforward. If you knew any | friends of mine, they would tell you that I was a strange, unimpressionable creature, wander- ing and Bohemian in my tastes, and the last |man on earth to be influenced by a woman. | Hitherto they have not béen wrong in this | peldinate of my character; my mother died ‘** You embolden me to speak to you sooner ‘than I had previously intended—to tell you | | what has been growing in my heart from the | _lying senseless in my arms on the face of that | — ‘to gain, Mr. Hoyt, and that, provided it be'me go my way and fight for my existence in the great battle of life, resting assured that there is no one whom I esteem more highly, whom I think of with deeper regard than your- self.” She rose as she spoke, and gave him her hand. He took it, pressed it to his lips, and went. slowly away. CHAPTER XII. GATHERING CLOUDS. Tue house which had been engaged for Sir | Frederick and Lady Randall was situated in Park Lane, overlooking Hyde Park, and was a very splendid mansion. Of the quantity and quality of the furniture, it is sufficient to say, , that it had been ordered by Mrs, Adams herself, who had astonished the respectable Bish up- holsterer by instructing him to ‘‘ fix” as much gilt moulding, and blue velvet, and looking- glass as the rooms would possibly bear, to lay -down carpets so thick and soft that you could | not hear on them the foot-tread of anyone, ‘‘ no more than if he had got his Arctics on,” and generally to complete the decorations in that floridly expensive style, which is only to be | Seen in certain parvenu drawing-rooms, and in seems in the first glance, Mrs. Moreton,” said | young, and I was my own master at an early | the Quarter Breda, sacred to the Parisian co- Wilbur Hoyt, smiling, though in rather an un- | age, and have knocked about the world without | cottes, easy manner, pearance was known to me, coming out of the door and getting into his carriage. Recollect- ing you had mentioned his name, a sudden idea struck me that you might possibly be living here; I knocked, sent up my card, and was fortunate enough to find you.” ‘* That was quite a coincidence,” said Kitty. ‘**T had no idea you were fn London, When did you leave Torquay ?” “Torquay? Let me see—Thursday week,” said Wilbur. ; **Thursday week; that was the very day I left Waterbeach, only doubtless you came through at once, while I rested at several places on the way.” ‘*Oh, indeed,” said Mr. Hoyt, ‘‘that ac- counts for it.” ** Accounts for what?” “Nothing,” cried Wilbur. embarrassment. ‘‘I beg pardon, Mrs. Mo- reton; the fact is, 1am rather absent some- times; you must have noticed that I have a habit of thinking aloud. And you are better ?” ‘Ob yes, thanks; I am quite well now.” *‘And you have found your friend Dr. Trav- ers, I see ?” ‘Yes, he and his wife received me most kindly, and they have consented to the new scheme of life which I proposed for myself and I am to enter upon it at once.” ‘New scheme of life!” said Wilbur Hoyt, bending forward; “and what might that be?” ‘‘T did not mention it to you before,” said Kitty, ‘‘ because I did not know whether it was practicable to carry it out; but you have shown “I happened to be passing by, much chance of coming under any softening | and saw your friend, Dr. Travers, whose ap- | influence. I should not quite know how to framé my speech to a lady under ordinary cir- cumstances, much less in a matter of this kind ; but what I want to convey to you is this, that I love you very dearly, and I have come to ask you to be my wife.” “Do not answer me now,” he added; “I have taken you by surprise. I had no inten- | tion of declaring myself thus suddenly, though the desire has been for some time in my mind ; } but I cannot bear to think of your taking the | position which you speak of, and—say, will you have me, Kitty? I feel I cannot live with- out you! The night that you left Waterbeach,. I too started for London. I came straight on, | trusting to chance to find you. I have walked | up and down in front of Dr. Travers’s house, and have behaved more like a maniac than a rational being. ‘This kind of passion is worse } ; with manifest with me, perhaps, because I never suffered from it before—will you take pity on me, and | be my wife ?” Her face had no more color in it than his, as she looked up. ‘*T might tell you,” she said, ‘‘that what you ask is impossible, but you merit greater confidence than that. I owe you a debt of | gratitude which I can never repay, and”—— | ‘*Do you think it is on that ground I appeal to you?” he asked, indignantly. © | “I know it is not,” she said quietly; ‘‘I be- lieve fully and frankly that your feelings for me jare as you state. How should I requite the | kindness you have shown to me, if I were to accept you at your word, and taint your future life ?” ‘Taint my future life!” he repeated; ‘‘ you The well-bred upholsterer, who was a man of taste, had received an excellent education, and 'when out of his business, lived in capital style, smniled inwardly as he took the order, but pro- ceeded to have it executed exactly as_it had been given. It was wothing to him, so long as the money was sure, and of that there was not the smallest doubt. Money, money everywhere; a plethora of wealth brought over by these newly enriched republicans, to which even the highly charging, largely paid tradesman of London were upac- customed. Such a trousseau for the bride, such triumphs. of Parisian millinery, such hats and bonnets, such brocaded silk dresses, so stiff and strong that they stood on end by themselves, with trains of such enormous length that though Minnie managed them artistically, her father | was always getting his feet involved in them, and was never able to approach within a quarter of a mile of his daughter whenever she was in full dress. Such jewelry—huge bands of gold, with two or three large precious stones set solidly in the midst of them; such writhing snakes, with glowing, ruby eyes, or sparkling emerald eyes, and tails, and scales glittering all over with brilliant gems; such pale pink coral neck- laces, and diamond horseshoe brooches, and all sorts of valuable crnvm nts for watch and waist- belt. Money inside the house, in the furniture, as has been already stated, and money galore out- side. In the stables, such splendid ; the pick and pride of the most celebrated Lon- <r don dealers; heavy horses for Sir Frederick's such kindness to me that Ihave no right to|are mad. I make no inquiries as to your past; withhold any confidence from you. Iam going to be a sick nurse.” ‘*You, Mrs. Moreton? You are not jesting with me ?” ‘No, indeed, I am speaking the plain and simple truth. Probably you doubt my qualifi- cations for the position,” she continued, with a smile; ‘‘but, then, recollect you have only geen me as a patient.” “Tallow you full qualifications for every- ey om is sweet and kind and womanly,” said Wilbur Hoyt, with earnestness; ‘‘I could imagine but few public positions, in which you otal shine to more advantage. If my voice betrayeda tone of astonishment, it was prompt- ed by the idea that you should voluntarily seek an occu that must entail upon you work to Ww you may physically be unequal, and which may be distasteful in its kind.” ‘You seem to forget that I have my living |I know you to be an angel of purity and honor.” | ‘Let my past rest,’’ she said, shaking her | head sorro ‘*There is no dishonor, I ‘trust, but there is misery enough. Listen, Mr. | Hoyt: Iam a married woman, and so far as I | know my husband is alive.” | He recoiled for a moment. Then looking | suddenly up, he said: ‘‘So far as you know, then, he may be dead, or if not dead in fact, dead to you; I mean that the law might inter- fere between us and release you from him,” ‘‘T do not say that might not be, but do you think that I would come to you on those terms ? Do you think I would suffer your friends to int the finger of scorn at you? Do you think could bear to see your generous heart lacer- ated by the taunts and jibes of the world? Hear me now, once and forever: Let this sub- ject be dropped henceforth between us, and let brougham, and light, elegant ponies for milady's phaeton, saddle-horses, taught to prance and caper in the park, drawing the attention of all spectators, but, in reality, safer and easier than an arm-chair; hunters,and strong, steady horses. for night work. Mrs, Adams walked through the house when all was finished, and looked at everything, and ronounced it all to be ‘* real elegant.” Hi ., With his hands buried deep im his trousers’ kets, and with his hat on the back of his ead, did the same. ‘**T have done this,” he said, ‘‘ on the egryees there ain’t been no dickering about it. have footed up the bill,and it reaches I guess Sir Frederick, baronet, can’t go back on me, or say there is anything one-horse about what I have done for him. Sir Frederick did not make any complaint on. that account. o at For the first few months after his marriage, — Ly aes «tng oh ies ate ae ae ee, air ¥ a ¥
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a _ is known as the most courteous he thought he had never been so happy in his life. He was a vain man, and it wasa source of intense gratification to him to find that his bride was universally admired, and the mere GOING TO THE BAD. ' est man in London, came to one of Lady Ran- | dall’s receptions. He was observed to start as 'he entered the room and look round. But it was only for a moment; he recovered him- | self directly, entered into conversation with his | One night he was lying asleep, when he sud- ' denly heard that fearful shriek which Kitty had ‘uttered, as she disappeared from his sight over the edge of the cliff. There was no mistaking it, it was exactly the sound which he re- fact of the possession of money was sufficient | hostess, and made himself rerharkably popular | membered so well, which had rung in his ears to give him positive pleasure. He had suffered | generally; but, though constantly invited he | for weeks after the occurrence. 80 many privations, had gone through so much | | has always endeavored to blot that evening | mental misery in shiftily scheming and caleu- lating how the next meal was to be provided, that, to know that he was not merely beyond the reach of such griping penury, but there | were in his pocket-book crisp, rustling Bank of England notes which he might handle, in his purse bright gold pieces, which he could count, was to him an actual delight. He walked through and through his own fine rooms, gazing at the furniture, the pictures, and the ornaments, with the conscious pride of @ proprietor, and seemed never tired of dwell- ing upon them himself, or of calling them to the attention of his friends, And all this was to Minnie’s explicable joy. She had been very happy during her honey- moon in Paris, but had dreaded the return to London, lest her husband be taken with old friends and old companions, and fall back into some of his early ways of life, of which, you may depend, she had not failed to be in- formed. Such a course of conduct, she knew, would not merely make her intensely miserable, but would infallibly tend to bring about a rapture of the friendly relations then existing between her father and Sir Frederick. For Hiram P., though ordinarily easy-going and affectionate, wasa stern and implacable man, When, as he imagined, anything like a breach of morals was involved. In his own domestic life, as is the case with most American citizens of his class, he had been oy and loyal, and though, as his wife has said, e was frequently in the old days, in the habit of sitting about the hall of the Crittenden House, Titusville, he was a strict temperance man, and never touched a card in his life. He idolized his daughter, too, from the bot- tom of his heart; and if he had found that sho was in any way neglected by her husband, who at the same time was running into evil eourses, the wrath of Hiram P. would have been great, and would certainly have made it- self felt. But Minnie began to think that she had been anticipating evil unnecessarily, for the first few weeks after they returned to Londoa, and took possession of their new home, were as ry as possible. Sir erick was out a great deal in the daytime, it is true—at his clubs, he said, and at various places of business—but in the even- ing he either took her to the theater or re- mained at home to help her entertain her company. For they hada great many visitors, and al- ready knew quite a large number of people; and when they threw their house open in the evening, 8 they did two or three times a week, the rooms were crowded. The English nobility was very sparsely rep- resented ; but there were French counts, aud German baronets and Spanish marquises in scores, and they were most of them very dis- tinguished-looking men, particularly about their hair and beard, and they wore little scraps of ribbon at their button-holes, and some of them had jeweled orders round their necks. Some of them, too, but not many, brought ladies with them, whose style of dress alarmed _Minnie very much indeed, and caused Mrs. Adams to utter sundry strong ejaculations, smacking more of her early life in the out- spoken oil regions, rather than of her more re- cent experiences in polite society. And Minnie noticed with surprise, somewhat touched with regret, that very few of her own countrymen and countrywomen visited her, and that such of them as did come never re- The Secretary to the American Le tion, who the kind. never went again to Lady Randall's house, and | from his memory. Did Lady Randall heed all this? She was an odd mixture, which was not, however, very spirited at the same time, and she would un- her, had it not been for her devotion to her | husband and her great delight in noticing with | what apparent steadiness he was condnueting | himself. of the rooms, which was greatly patronized by many of the distinguished foreigners, with whom Sir Frederick would occasionally take a hand; but he laughingly told his wife that they played for very low stakes, and, to | do him justice, he never seemed to be elevated by success or depressed by failure at the end of | the evening. Not that Minnie would have minded very | much, so far as she was concerned, if her hus- band had continued his old habits of card-play- ing and betting. It would have grieved her because it would have inevitably have come to her father’s ears, and she knew how severe the old gentleman would have judged such a lapse from his stern code of moral. But so lony as there was no question of any other woman inthe case, so long as she felt her husband's heart was her own, and that he was not playing her false in any way, or at- tempting to intrigue with any one else, sae was content. The doubt, from which her mind had never been entirely free before her marriage, came with thousand-fold vivlence over her on her wedding-day, when Dick Phillimore had made that futile attempt either to hinder the ceremony cx to impart to her some important information, she never could clearly ascertain whioa. But from that moment Sir Frederick's kind- uess had been unexampled, and he had never alluded, in any way, to that strange rencounter at the church door. Nothing farther had ever been heard of Dick Phillimore ; and Minnie, if she thought of him at all, imagined that what her husband had said about his having been, mad, had really some foundation, Did there not rise up between Sir Frederick Randall and his present happiness a memory of the clouded past—a thought of one who had been to him gentle and loving, even as Minnie was; who for his sake had borne neglect and solitude and poverty, and whom he had basely and brutally betrayed? Did not Kitty's pale face rise up in wrathful accusation against Ler would-be murderer ? No—not at least for many weeks after his marriage. He had been so accustomed to drug and dull his conscience by vain sophistry, that he had succeeded in reducing that usual- ly relentless monitor to a state of perfect quietuds, In the interval between his flight from Brauxholme and his marriage, he had indeed suffered such tortures of apprehension and re- morse as he had never known before; but these vanished under the consolation of Min- nie’s love, and under the gratifying effects of the new position which he occupied, and of the wealth of which, for the first time, he found himself possessed. The time, however, was at hand when his short-lived happiness was about to be shatered —when the trum call of conscience was to startle him from his fancied security, and to ring loudly in his ears and through his soul, with a power for which he had never given it credit. uncommon, being both sensitive and high- | doubtedly have been hurt or wounded to indig- | nation at the affronts thus negatively put upon | There was indeed a eard-table set out in one | It pierced his | brain like an arrow, and set his heart throbbing violently. | In the utmost terror, he sat upright in bed, | with the perspiration pouring in great drops | down his forehead. Minnie, aroused in her sleep, gazed at him in | affright. ‘‘ What is the matter, Frederick ?” she cried. ‘Heavens, how pale and troubled you look }” ‘‘Did you not hear it?” he cried, seizing her by the arm with a trembling grasp; ‘‘did you | not hear it 2?” ) ‘* Hear what, dear?” ‘*You must have been dreaming, Frederick. I heard nothing; or, even if there were a | scream, it probably came from some drunken person in the street. Go to sleep, again, dear, and forget your fright.” | He muttered something to the effect that he would do as she suggested, and turned away. He tried to follow her advice; he closed his | eyes and shut ont all external objects, only to | render a thousand-fold more bright and virid— a thousand-fold more grim aud ghastly—a | thousand-fold more repulsive and horrfiic what | was passing in his guilty soul. See now! Foran instant tired nature asserts her sway, and under the influence of bodily fatigue he loses consciousness and slips away into the land of dreams, Ah, what feverish | visions haunt the murderer's pillow! There is | Kitty, as he first saw her, smiling atthe window |of her father's at piaerpg Sm all the nttractive grace of youth and rustic beauty! Shoe swims towards him with a gliding motion, and laying | her head on his breast, and putting her arms ‘round his neck, tells him that she has come there to him, her sole and sworn protector. | By her side, suddenly and incomprehensibly, appears the gaunt form of Hiram P. Ad extending his bony hands filled with bank- notes, which, on the sleeper’s attempting to clutch them, changed into dry, crisp, rustling leaves, or black, powdery tinder. They are all gone now, and the scone ig changed. He is by himself on a wide wild heath ; on it the stunted bushes, growing here and there, are black and charred, as though 'some devastating fire-storm had recently swept across its surface, What is that in its midst ? A gaping chasm, black and cavernous as the mouth of hell! It looks dark and dangervus, but he has an indefinable longing to approach it. This strange shape, too, bent and crooked, yet with something of a woman’s outline, beck- ons him luringly onward! ‘‘ What is this,” the hag says, as she points with her skinny fore- finger: ‘‘'To thy fate, Frederick: Randall! To thy fate |” He hears and strives to pause, but the hag clings to him, and floating by his side, urges him towards the cavern. On a sudden flashes ‘into his mind a chance for liberating himself. As they near the edge of the pit, he seizes his companion by the throat, and hurls her into the abyss. As she falls, and ere she disappears from his sight, her face changes, and in place of the hideous features come Kitty’s pallid beauty and agonizing eyes, He would shut it out from his sight; but his attention is riveted by another apparition. Up: rising from the pit comes an enormous serpent, with many undulations, hurrying towards him, | He turns and flies; but the serpent is upon. him; he sinks beneath the pestilential vapor of its flery breath, and as it twines itself round and round him, he, writhing in horror, turns, his own, the mocking features of Richard Phil. limore, i His last chance has passed--se the t hisses in his ear; he makes one supreme et “ee “re oy by ts ” A scream—a loud, long, piercing scream.”’ . ams, . to elude its grasp, and with a smothered ery he a | and finds in its flat head, laid so close against ii : 5 qT ee” es ee! ee” a ee eee ee oe « = ee eh ee oe = ' > ee te a (Og re eT, ep ee, Oe a Ge wae |
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. _ wakes, and sitting up, gazes in trembling terror . round hiza. | His wife slept peacefully by his side. He | bent down, and gazed hard at her, as though, | in his guilty conscience, fearing that the influ- ' ence of his dream had extended to her, bat her | breathing was soft and regular, and her sleep / calm and untroubled as that of a child. _ Then he stole from his bed and crept into the adjacent dressing-room, where, unlocking ‘S a dark-oak bureau, he took from it a bottle of brandy, and filling a wine-glass to the brim, _ swallowed its contents. _, He drank another, and another; then with tottering footsteps, returned to his bed and soon fell into a heavy, stertorous slumber. From that night a fatal change came over Minnie’s home life; and she, who had been so _ happy, began to experience all the misery she had dreaded—ay, and more than she had ever} possible for Minnie to communicate with her | imagined could have fallen to her lot. ' Under the influence of the haunting terror } if 7 . a ceased to rack him, under the burning stings of his accusing conscience, drugged and deadened, now seemed to have awakened with gigantic power, Sir Frederick Randall lapsed at once from the decent life he had been leading, and sought to drown his fears in dissipation of the wildest kind, He drank freely and constantly; passed night after night away from his home, and — he returned there in the early hours of é@ morning, his unsteady footstep, and his Manner, which was sometimes coarse and brutal, sometimes loud and boisterous, would betray the depth of his potations. Even in his sober moments, and at such times as he was at home, his treatment of his wife was entirely changed. Gone were the pleasant smile, and the soft voice; vanished forever the caressing manner, the delicate at- tions, so lavishly paid. Sometimes he would sit for hours, silent and moody, gazing va- éantly at nothing, inwardly brooding over the one terrific event of his past life, and wonder- ing whether it would evercome to the knowl- edge of man. At another time he would be _ savage and wrathful, breaking forth into wild outbursts of rage, and upbraiding Minnie, if she ventured to speak to him, in the bitterest terms. Poor Minnie! her life was indeed changed. The idol of her adoration had been upset from its altar, and proved to be made of very com- mon clay; the man whom she had s0 wor- _ shiped, whom she had invested with all the at- _ tributes which in her girlish romantic ideas appertained to his ancient lineage and high position, stood revealed to her affrighted gaze - now as a brutish sot, now asa reckless savage. - Minnie had that strong horror of the effects of drink which is universal among the better classes of the American people, and it was _-with difficulty that she suppressed the loathing which crept over her, when, after waiting through the weary watches of the night, she ‘would see her husband return from such asso- a ciations and companionship as she did not dare — ‘ to think of, either helplessly intoxicated, or tanh i im his worst passions inflamed by excess of liquor. tris rer her misery was such that it must be borne alone. There was 10 human breast which she could make the depository of her secret sorrow. In her heart there yet lingered a ; spark of hope that the sun of her happiness - | had not set, but was merely obscured by a 4 fleeting cloud. Theman who had been so de- 4 voted and so chivalrous, could not have changed his entire nature thus suddenly, and Minnie thought herself that even should all other things fail, there was one event impending which must, assuredly, bring him back tothe paths of de- is = ceney, aud to her side. --—- But with that natural keen perception, Minnie felt that did but a breath of her husband's so iereg reach her parents’ ears, there ® iately ensue such an outburst of tion as would render Sir Fred- than ever, and do away ‘ oui 4 TILAGs 1 4 Py, . i OE isc, PE which now, whenever he was himself, never | chance for its alleviation. | es GOING TO THE BAD. with any chance of his reformation. She felt | that if she could have talked the matter over | with her mother and father, telling them just | as much as she chose, and concealing from _ them the worst features of the case, it might | have been possible for her to obtain from them such remoustrance and interference as would | have been of good effect. But Hiram P. Adams and his wife were no longer in England. A cable, message, containing information as to the state of certain bank and railway stocks | in which that eminent American citizen was | largely interested, had caused him to return somewhat precipitately to his native land, ac- | companied by his wife, who, as they were in the habit of saying in commercial circles, ‘‘ was the better man of business of the two.” On the subject-of her worries, it was im- parents by letter ; so she kept her sorrow locked in her own bosom, reckoning but upon one | Tiat one chance was, that there had arrived about to become a mother. In that new phase of existence, she hoped not merely to find interest and pleasure sur- passing anything she had hitherto experienced, not merely to find occupation capable of wean- | ing her thoughts from the contemplation of the | misery which had fallen upon-her, but a very | charm to which that misery should succumb, and at the exercise of which it should fade | away, without leaving a trace behind. Surely to the potency of that spell even Frederick’s. recklessness must bow. | In the birth of their child he must acknowledge the | strength of the tie existing between them, and replace her in that position as empress of his heart and sharer of his confidence, from which she had been so cruelly, and, so far as she could see, 80 capriciously removed. But even this chance was but a remote one ; months must elapse before its effect could be proved, and during that interval, Minnie knew, from what she was already beginning to feel, that her health would be broken, her spirits depressed, and that at the very period when she most required support und consolation, she should be left lonely and friendless. Nevertheless she strove to bear up as md ; she might against the grief which oppressed her, and was struggling onever, hoping against | hope, when an event occurred by which the | whole current of her future was turned. | CHAPTER XI, THE BRACELET. AmonG those persons in the earlier period immedi- | ately following y Randall's marriago and establish- ment in London, who were in the habit of appearing at | her receptions, there was one lady who, from her so- | cial position, stood apart from all the rest. This was | }home delighted. good looks. _iM Vc Cll LLL LLL LLL LLL LLL LLL LLL heard nothing of his early friend. He wrote to her om his accession to the title, knowing her conservative feeling, and hoping that the fact that he was entitled to take his place among the old families would restore him to her regard. The old lady, however, took no no- tice of his letter, and Sir Frederick neither saw nor | had any communication with ber until aiter his mar- riaye. But when all the world was talking about -the ex- traordinary luck of that scanip, Sir’ Frederick Randall, in marrying an American heiress, and raving ubuut the beauty of the girl and the wealth of her perents, the Countess of Wilmington ’s curiosity was sustrobgly excited that she could not resist writing a letter to Sir Frederick, recalling old times to his memory, and stating her intention of calling on bis bride. The visit was duly paid, and the Countess returned Sir Frederick had gouve off, she thought, in appearance, and Jost that freshness and frankness wtich furmed an essential portion of his There was a strained, worn lock about him, which spoke of dissipation, the old lady sad, and argued but little for his wiie’s happiness ; but with Minnie, Lady Wilmington wus enchanted. She ad- mired her earnest tuce and slight, girlish figure ; she declared on her return that she hud never seen a Frenchwoman better dressed than Lady Randall,while Minnie’s periect traukness, and simplicity vt manner, much impressed the old women o: the world as eviden- | ces of the highest breeding. An invitation to Grosvenor Square followed imme- which so long|to her the sweet consciousness that she was | diately, and Lady Wilmington hud the satisiaction of finding her verdict indorsed by all who saw the Leau- titul American bride. Sir Frederick was much yprat- ified at the unmistakable effect his wiie created, and very much astonished at the cordiality with which he himself was received by a nun:ber of men who, tor the | last few years, had deliberately ignored his yer ary 2D but who were now delighted to take him by the ha and to beg him to present them to Lady Randall. Of course the Countess of valorem ste was invited to Lady Randall's reception at Park Lane, and equally of course she went; but like many otter ) erscua, only on one occasion. The old lady's ligh breeding was not proof against the horror which she ielt at the persous with whom she found herself surrounded—a horror which she did her best, ineffectually, to conceal. She sat on a sofa at the extreme end of the room, keeping Minnie by her side as much as the latter’s duties of hostess would pormit ; and, during her ab- sence, gazing at the assembled company through ber double eye-yglasses in curious astcnishivent. At the first sound of the announcement of her carriegs, she arose from her seat, bade Lady Randall good-nig ht, and took her departure, and, though often invited, never entered the doors again. She pleaded her age, her ina- bility to come out at night, etc., and led Minnie to un- derstand that she would always be welcume at Gros- venor ten Lady Wilmington’s invitation to Sir Frederick was not so pressing; but then he had never been thurough- ly reinstated in her good graces. There was no duubt, however, that for Minuie the old lady really entertained a warm regard which the gin reciprocated, looking up to the Countess as one of her best triends. Why, then, at the time of her distress, did not Min- | nie seek for consolation and advice at the hands of this triend so experienced in the world’s ways? Alas! she could not do that: the difference between them, both in age and position, was so great, that Minnie jelt it would be impossible to open her heart and expluin to Lady Wilmington the delicate @@fficulties which sur- rounded her, with a possibility of being understoud, She was wrong. There is no greater prooi uf simplic- ity and ignorance of worldly matters than to envy those who enjvy rank or riches, and to argue theretrum their position and happiness. There was no one in the world who would more keenly have sympathized with Min- nie’s distress than this old woman in a brown wig, who had an enormous fortune, and was reyarded as one of the leaders of English fashions. But she had not always cecupied that position, any more than she had not always worn a Lrown wig. There was a time when Florence Wilmington was a the Countess of Wilmington, who, though a widow, | beautiful woman, with hair arranyed on either side of and of advanced age, still maintained a reputation for | her (face, with plain, Madounalike bands, as was the being one of the brightest women in the higher circles, | fashion of those days; and at tit time, all her study and one to whom access and introductions were eayer- lin life was to please her young husband, whom she ly sought by all those desiring to be considered within | worshiped’ from the bottom of her scul—to tend the the pale of the best society. | poor and sick among his tenantry, and todo her dut: Sir Frederick Randall's mother had been a distant | in that station of life in which Providence had p connection of Ludy Wilmington, in whose house she | her. had oceupied a position as part companion, part gov- | erness, aud had always been treated with great consid- But after a little, the young Earl of Wilmington grew tired of the dull, respectable ** goody-goody ”’ lite, as he phrased it, which he led at his ancestral seato! Lum- hurst, and tuok his wife to spend a season in London, | Once arrived there he plunged into all the dissipations relation was not broken off, but continued until the ) which the city offered to a man of his rank ana wealth. day of her death, some years afterwards. ) Aud then a change came over Florence Wilmington, Of Frederick, when a boy, Lady Wilmington used to | She saw that her husband, whom she had so worshiped, take much notice, admiring his good looks and his | no longer cared for her, while she was the object of eager precocious ways. Mr. Randall being very poor,her lady- admiration by other men; she saw how women, far inferi- ship’s purse was drawn upon for the boy's education; | or to Lerselfin beauty, accomplishments, and that pecu- eration and regard, When Laura Savill, as she was called, was married to Mr. Randall, the intimacy between her and her grand and when he became a young man he still enjoyed, and might have continued to enjoy, a vast amount of her favor. For Lady Wilmington being essentially a woman of the world, did not look with any horror upon the vari- ous frivolities and amusements, albeit not strictly moral, which were incidental to youth. It Was ony when she tound that her protege was associating wi low people, and that the style of his dissipations was such as is not telerated among gentlemen, that her ladyship’s purse-strings were drawn, and the good- looking young man who, since his boyhood, had been aconstant inmate of the Wilmington mansion, Gros- yenor Square, found its doors closed nst him. For several years, during the time he was re rere | hiftless Gebauchery, Frederick his career of s. Ran liar aristocratic elegance which is so ae der the part, were considered queens of society and she de- termined, that if spurned by one, she would nut be ignored by all, and took her measures accordingly. By the next season the young and beautiiul Countess of Wilmington was the acknowledged reigning belle of London, and the leader of the tashion, described some- times as a desperate flirt, sometimes as a heartless co- quette, but always spoken of as one whose voter | was desirable, and with whom, if you would stand in society, it was necessary to keep on friendly What men made her, she continued to ain. 1 good, womanly qualities which nature had given were frozen up and choked by the Csgpien Pamn world ; but their source was still Bave flowed freely st the touch of Minnle's hand, - ‘ —
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be > Only Minnie did not knuw this; she was simple and! Hiram P,. Adams, who is now a riined man, who has ' at last. unsophisticated, and imagined people to be pretty much as they seemed, so the appeal was not made, But although the suffering girl could not find it in her heart to take her elderly friend into her confidence, she never ceased to love and respect her. Lady Wil- mington's was the one house to which, after her hus- | band had shown himself in his true colors, Minnie took pleasure in going, and she was glad to find that Sir Frederick never made any objection to her doing 80. It seemed a satisfaction to him, in the intervals of | his riot and debauchery, to think that he still heldsome position in society, through the reflected medium of | his wife, and that by her his name was represented in one of the most exclusive circles in L ndon, He did not often propose to accompany Minnie to | Lady Wilmington’s receptions, being tolerably certain of receiviug some very sharp castigation from the | tongue of his outspoken hostess, and he had plenty more congenial ways of employing his time. , He had become a confirmed tippler now, and was very seldom sober after dinuer time, while his morn- ings were passed in a helpless, half-maudlin state, en- deavoring to pull himself together sufficiently to be ready tor the evening's amusement, One night, the Countess of Wilmington was going to hold a reception of extra grandeur; a royal duke was to be the distinguished guest on the occasion, and all | the fashionable world of London was squabbling for invitations. One of the first carda sent out was forwarded to | Minnie, accompanied by a little note from the old | Countess, in which she begged, as a special favor, that Lady Randall should come to her that evening. Stories ot Sir Frederick's conduct had reached the old lady's ears; and hearing them, she was reminded of | the worn and anxious expression of Minnie’s face the last time she had seen her. In a private conversation, the girl might be able to school her face, and thus to prevent the expression of her feelings ; but the old) lady shrewdly thought that by watching Minnie, when she thought that there was no one observing her, and | when, consequently. she wouid be off her guard, her state of mind would be more easily guessed. To any one young, and without care, such a fele as that which she had prepared for his royal highness ought to have afforded the keenest gratification ; and | Fm Wilmington would watch her young friend, and | if she saw the absence of delight, and the presence of | weariness, ennui, or worse, she would know that the, rumors which had reached her ears were not without | foundation. ) So Lady Randall agreed tu go, little suspecting that she was to be the object of so much scrutiny ; and to her great astonishment, Sir Frederick announced his | intention of accompanying her. In former days, she | would have hailed this announcement with delight ; | even a short time previously she would have heard it | with satisfaction, but now it came upon her with ! dread. She dreaded lest her husband, now always more or less under the influence of drink, should com- mit himself, and draw down upon himself, and perhaps upon her, the observation, if nothing further, of Lady | Wilmington’s guests. Of course she hinted nothing of this to Sir Frederick, but greeted the intelligence with that mournful smile wibhcly had taken the place of the frank, free laugh of happier years. he night of Lady Wilmington's reception arrived, and Minnie was seated at her glass, with Elise, the French mai, who had been with her since her arrival in Europe, long before her marriage, in attendance upon her, putting the finishing touch to her toilet. Sir Frederick had dined out, as usual, but was to re- turn home to ‘accompany his wife about eleven o'clock. That hour had already arrived, and Minnie was sit- ting in anxious expectation,,when she heard his step at fhe door. It was not staggering and undecided, as was frequently the case, but swift and hurried. Minni: turned pale, and unconsciously looked at | Elise, who, though there had never been any actual confidence between them, was devoted ‘to her mistress’ interest, and pretty well understood the position of | affairs ih the household. The next moment the door opened, and Sir Frederick | entered the room. His tace was flushed, his eyes) Diazed, and in the impetuosity of his movements there was a scarcely suppressed ferocity which alarmed Min- nie tly. | ‘* This is a pretty piece of business !"" he exclaimed, in thick, hoarse tuncs ; “ this is a nice thing for a man to come home and find his wife tricked out with jewels and gewgaws, when he has just learned that he is a pauper, without a penny to bless himself—take them off, I say, and don't stand staring there !’’ ee erick!” cried Minnie, half frightened, half angry, ‘‘do you know we are not alone ?”’ “TI can see fast enough,’ he cried—can see that woman there, whom you pretend to call your servant, but who is, in reality, your accomplice. I have no doubt you and she knew about it long ayo!’ ** Leave us, Elise, please,’’ said Minnie. Then when the a had quitted the room, she added : * Now, Frederick, be good enough to tell me whatis the matter?’ “Exactly what I said,’’ he cried. “ We are paupers, beggars—can't you understand? Just before I left the club I saw the last edition of the evening paper—here it is,” drawing it from his pocket ; ‘listen to what it “Latest from New York, Panic in Wall Street! Sus- sion of payment by the Reliance Security Bank. Mbraiwes depression in the sbares of the Saugatuk General commercial uneasiness.” “Who was the president of the Reliance Security Bank? Who was the largest owner of the Saugatuk Railroad shares? Why, your infernally idiotic father, GOING 10 THE BAD. a es ee) pulled me down with him in his fall!" * Frederick,’’ said Minnie, rising with dignity, I can- not sit calmly by to hear my father spoken of in this | way. It what you say is true, you ought to feel for him, rather than heap these objurgations upon his head—recollect he has always been a govud triend to you.” “Curse him !"’ shrieked Sir Frederick; “I wish I had never seen him, or you, for the matter of that. No you don't! he cried, as she made an attempt to pass him, “I am not to be put down by those airs of injur- ed innocence and outraged virtue !"" “ You cannot expect me to sit quietly by while you | siy such things of my father, ’ suid Minnie ; * either leave the room or let n.e leave it.’’ “IT shall do neither one nor the other,’ said Sir Fred- erick, brutally. “ It is your duty to sit by and listen to mie just as long as J please to talk; and tosuch acharm- ing creature as you, to do your duty must be only a , pleasure, Stand back !—do you hearme? I will show you that I will be masterin my own house!” He had taken up his position between his wife and the door, and as she attempted to reach it, he stood before her, barring her progress, aud swaying unsteadi- ly to and fro. Minnie’s blood was up ; she drew herself up to her ull height, Jooked scofnfully at him, and made straight jor the door, until she wus within bis ari’s reach, and | then— Then to his eternal shame and disgrace, be it written, | he seized her in his aris, and after a short strugyle, flung her heavily to the ground. In falling she struck her head against a sharp corner of a carved oak chair, and lay there stunned and motionless. Sir Frederick looked down at her for an instant, without a trace of pity in hia face. “I told you I would be master !’’ hesaid, ‘ To-mor- row morning, when I come to talk to you, I shall find | you in a different mood !"’ And he left the room. * * * * * * * “What is it, do you say ?’ said Dr. Travers, some ten minutes after, as in dressing-gown and slippers he stood in his hall talking to a breatiiless man-servant, “Case of premature labor? My good fellow, l am not an accoucheur ; you will find Dr. Blacks in Green | Street’’—— “ Oh, sir, do come, pray do come!’’ cried the man; “Lady Randall is so ill!’ “Tcannot, my good man, I—stay, Lady Randall, did you say? that must be the American beauty of whom I have heard my old friend, Lady Wilminyton, speak 80 often,” he muttered to himself. ‘‘ Well, it is close at hand, and I will look round and be of what service I can until Blacks arrives. Give me my boots and coat, James! I will yo with this man at once.” The doctor was as good as his word. with the messenger,and in © few moments was by Minnie’s bedside. A red mark, already turning to black, on each of her arms, anda broad bruise on hei temple, gave the ex- perienced physician some insight into the nature of the case ‘There has been violence,’’ he said to himself; “a domestic row, probably. Who is this lady’s hus- band?” he asked, turning to Elise, who stood by the bedside. “Sir Frederick Randall,"’ said the girl. “Sir Frederick Randall,’ muttered Dr. Travers. “That must be the scoundrel whom I rescued from @oath in Westmnister Jail. I recollect hearing some time ago that he had succeeded to his uncle’s bar- onetcy. He seems to be pursuing his old course with a vengeance |” An hour afterwards, Minnie’s symptoms looked serious. ‘*Is there no one here,” asked Dr. Travers of Elise, “who can watch over her and be about this lady ? Has she no mother or female relations ?” *Milady’s mother isin Amerique,” said the girl; “and she has no other relations, or, indeed, friend. Mrs, Gibbs, the nurse, was to tend her, and she has been sent for.” “Yes, yes,” said Dr, Travers, hurriedly. “ Mrs. Gibbs would do very well in her way; but there must be some one élse of superior intelligence to attend to this case. ‘‘Here,” he added, after scribbling on a piece of paper, “send off a messenyer with this directly, to Mrs. Moreton, 24 Park Row. This is a mat- ter,” he said to himself, “‘in which Kitty will be ofin- estimable value.” The messenger had hardly departed, when Dr. Tra- vers, in the intervals of his attention to the patient, was walking softly up and down the room according to his habit. f He stopped by the dressing-table, on which lay the ornaments which Elise had removed from her mis- tress's hands, arms and neck, the ornaments in which she had arrayed herself for Lady Wilmington’s recep- tion. What makes the doctor start as though he had been shot? He bends down over the dressing-table, and trom among the LEN sina mass of jewels, selects a diamond bracelet, and holds it up before his eyes. “ The same,’’ he mutters, cer a pause; “ the same; I would swear toit anywhere; the bracelet that I gave to poor Kitty at Brauxholme, and which has never been seen since that ruffian attempted to kill her.” “Say, my girl,’’ turning to Elise, “do you know where your mistress yot this bracelet—has she had it long ?”” “Ob, yes, sir,”’ said the girl; “along time, It is her favorite ornament; it was given to her by her husband ou the day of their ami, “Good God!” mutters the doctor to himself, “ hy her husband? Then I Bare Renctrated Kitty's secret He started off | | married and deserted her, and I have just sent for her | to play the good Samaritan to his suffering wie!’ CHAPTER XIY. COALS OF FIRE, In the course of his professional career, Dr. Travers had otten been called upon to exercise his jucyment in delicate matters, but never had # more knotty point | been submitted to him than tiiat which he now felt himself called upon to solve. He had sent for Kitty, and, recognizing her prowpt- ness in sll important matters, he knew that in atew minutes s..¢ would be there—there in the house of her own hus.aul, the man bound to her by all the tics of law and ionor; the man who hal not werely basely deserted her, but had endeavored to take her life, and had given her Jegitimate place to another; and it was out of mercy for that other one that Kitty had | been sunimoned to tend her in her extremity—to exer- cise on her bebalf all her womanly sottiiess and pa- tience—to do for her what there was none of her own kindred to do, “A very nice mess I've made of it,’ muttered Dr. Travers to hinself; “very. I have always found that | there is greatcommon sense in the vulgar proverb, that ‘ There is no use in crying over spilt milk | rather think that I will not go back trom what I have done, but hold to and make the best of it; and Iam not sure that out ot this apparent blunder of mine I shall not tind the means of punishing my quondam friend, Mr. Russell, the convict, now developed into Sir Frederick Randall, the bigamist, and the attempted | murderer of his first wife. “ Well, mademoiselle, what is it ?*’ he added, turnlng to Elsie, who had just entered the room. > “The woman for whom you sent is down stairs and waiting to see you.” 3 “The woman—the lady, if you please, mademoiselle; be good enough to understand that, and let the other servants know that this lady must be treated with every respect during the time she stays in this house. I will go down and see her at once.” In the dining-room he found Kitty, with a rather con- | temptuous expression on her face, “You are a good child to come so promptly,” said he, | laying his hand upon her shoulder. “ Have you any | idea whose house you are in?” “Not the least,” said Kitty, “except that I gathep / from the general style of the furniture and decorations the place must belong to some rich yulgarian 7?" | ‘Not so,’’ said the doctor; “ though I allow you have | ample grounds for such belief. This house,” he con- tinued, watching her closely, “belongs to Sir Frederick | Randall,” All the color left Kitty's face, and the fingers of her haud resting on the table clasped together spasmodi- cally ; but she said nothing, and gave no further sign of discomfort. “And I have sent for you,” said the doctor, still watching her closely, ‘to attend upon Sir Frederick Randall's wife.” He had tried her tov far. The blood came rushing back into her cheeks, and, springing to her teet, she cried: “‘L will not doit! I will leave this house thisinstant!” Then, her strength failing her, she sank back into her chair, ‘Oh, my God! it is too much; you know not what you ask 1” In an instant Dr. Trivers was by her side, holding her hand, and speaking to her in that earnest, voice, which always brought her comfort. “Yes, my dear friend,” he whispered, “I knowall; but I had no suspicion of it when I sent for yon! I have guessed it since; how, I will tell you at some future time. The knowledge I have arrived at has not changed - determination, and must not influence yours, Whatever wrong has been done to you by this lady, to- wards whom I ask your kindness, has been ium and ignorantly—| need scarcely remind you that abe has no idea of your existence—and, though I have never set eyes upon her until this evening, I feel convinced that, even in these comparatively early days of her married life, she is suffering fron the brutality of the juan Whom she believes to be her husband, and you have so much in common between you.” Kitty was looking up at him with earnest gaze. “Is she so very ill?” she asked, “She is very ill,” replied Dr. Travers, “and above all things, she will require kindness and sympathy, such as—there are none of her own folks to speak i: her—such as you know xo perfectly how to render,” “And you expect me to do this service to my en- emy 7" Q ** 7 do not allow that this lady is your enemy at all, Kitty; and, even if she were, you are a religious wo-’ man, and know what is said—‘ Therefore, if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink; = : 80 doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his nead,’’ “J do not pretend to be influenced by any such spirit of Christjan charity,” said Kitty, without rais- ing her eyes. “And yet you showed that you were when you gave up whole days and nights to nurse my wife, who was then a total stranger to you, and were not the obliga- tions of humanity shown, in regard to ei cf t American gentlemen who found you, and, at th Z a of their lives, rescued you from your perilous po- sition ?”’ Kitty was silent for a moment: then a shudder pass- ed through her frame as she said: dart “You cannot expect me to meet this man ?’”’ “Ido not expect any such sacrifice, nor da J satel: pate Fa bea is Ao chance of a meetin; you takin ace. m what I have Lady Randa 1's maid, it would seem have for some time lived on bad terms. Sir Frederick Randall is the man of title who a aud l- ween sme | ee |
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GOING TO THE BAD. “which this man occasionally exercised on you, when } ‘ou were in his power, does not seem to have dimin- Toned; m the contrary, from what I learn, it has in- creased under the influence of drink, to which he has succumbed. My notion is that in one of these par- | oxysms of folly, he has made a personal attack upon | his wife, and that when he recovers his senses, even he | will be so ashamed of himself that it will be sometime before he puts in an appearance.” «But suppose he should come, what should I do!— oh, what should I do!’ said Kitty, covering her eyes | with her hands. ; | * Exercise your common sense, my dear child,”’ said | the doctor, touching her lightly on the shoulder. You have plenty of it, and you know perfectly well that this man can do nothing to you by force; on the} eontrary, he will be more likely to shun you; and—by | the way,” continued the doctor, ruminating, “that | gives me rather a good idea, and makes Me more than -evex anxious that you should remain here, Lady Ran- dajil’s room will, at my express orders, be closed against every one but you, the French maid, and the profes- sional nurse ; and if Sir Frederick Randall should arrive | | that has been going on within deredin her sleep. The hand which lay outside the! coverlet, was unclasped and stretched forward, as though in supplication. Upon neither of the watchers by the bedside. accus- tomed as they were to scenes of sorrow, were these signs lost, and Kitty, bending down, took the wander- | ing hand in hers and impressed a gentle kiss upon the soft cheek, . When she recovered herself, she saw the doctor look ing at her with moistened eyes. “You are an angel,” he said; ‘“ I know the struggle ou, andam periectly satisfied as to its results. Now Tvill leave you with this poor girl. I don't think you will meet with any annoyance from Sir Frederick; but in case you should, recoliect I am close by, and do not hesitate to send for me instantly.”’ Wheu the doctor had taken his departure, Kitty | seated herself in the chair by the bedside, which had been previously occupied by Mrs, Gibbs, and pondered | over the stranye destiny which had brought her there. That slight and fragile girl, lying there before her had all unconsciously been the stumbling-block in her man, but conld not discern his features. ‘* What do you want?” he asked, sharply. * You,” said the stranger. The abrubtness of the tone nettléd Sir Frederick, who exclaimed : **Do you know who I am, sir?’ ‘‘Perfectly,’’ said the other; “‘ shall I tell you? No. 201 in Westminster Jail. Russell, the forger—Randail, tue wife murderer !"’ “Hush | for God's sake,” — Sir Frederick, holdiag up hise hands in agony; “‘Who are you?—how came you here 7" “Tam Dr, Travers,” said the stranger, “in attend- ance on the lady who believes herself to be your wiie.” « Travers,’’ repeated Sir Frederick — “ Travers ?”’ Where have I heard that name before?” “You have heard it mentioned by your legitimate wife, whom you sent to live at Brauxholme; but , it was not as Dr. Travers you first knew me, You knew me as Walter King!” , “ Walter King ?’’ ‘“‘Ay, Walter King, the surgeon of the Westminster and attempt to dispute my authority,I live se close | life, the attraction to which her husband had suc-} Jail! On a certain eyent-ul night im your life; you that Lcould be sent forin a moment, and I think I| cnmbeu, the prize to obtain which he had conceived, | mude to Walter King a promise—do you recollect what could manage to prove to him that it would be better and, as he believed, had compassed, the idea of mur- | it was?” for him to let me have my own way.” ‘Tell me, doctor,’’ said Kitty, looking at him inquir- dering the woman who stood in his way. By that at- | tempted act of brutality, he had entirely obliterated | ingly ; “from one or two things which you have said, | any lingering regard which Kitty might have felt for T have an idea that you know Sir Frederick Randall.’ | him. If he had deserted her; if even, as he threatened “T have met him,” said the doctor, with a peculiar ; during their first interview at trauxholme, he had ig- | smile, “and think I have influence enough with him | nored her existence, and denied that she was his wife, | to induce him to do what I wish.” she would still have had tor him some remnant of “You seem to have that kind of influence with every- | love—sue would still haye remembered that he was 1 body,” said Kitty ; “and I am not likely to prove an | the first who won her young heart in the days gone | crimeupon crime, until the worst of all is reached, an exception tothe rule. I will do anything I can to be | by, and would have dreade@ coming in contact with | you stand forth a murderer?” -of service to this lady.” him, lest the softer feelings of her naturesnould pre-| “ Murderer! *’ “ Bravely spoken, my dear |"'said Dr, Travers. “You ) vail, and she should place herself once more in his | “Ay, black even among murderers—assassin of her ; may depend upon it you will never reyret that. deci- r -sion. Now let us go and see the patient.” “No,” said Sir Frederick, hesitatingly; ‘I do not recollect what it was!” : **Men of yourstamp seldom do recollect such mat- ‘ ters—I will remind you of it, When, in my mistaken ‘ pity and compassion, [ aided in the subterfuge by ; which you.escaped the legal sentence you were suffer- ing, you swore tomethat you would repentand re- form? How have you kept your word? By heaping A th power. . | whom you had sworn to cherish and protect, and When, however, she realized to herself that that base | from whom you received nothing but love and devo- When they reached Lady Randall's apartment they found it already set to rights by Elise’s careful hands. | “The ball dress, the jewels, aud tue vrnaimentg had been | ut away, andthe professional nurse was sitting, by | the side of the bed, in which Minnie lay, wrapped in a} profound sleep and breathing quietly. The nurse rose on the physician’s entrance and made | him a little bow. She had not previously been brought | -intv eontact with Dr. Travers, as their operations did not lie in the same Jine, but she had often heard of the : physician, and was prepare to obey him implicit- ty. “Good-evening, Mrs, Gibbs,’’ said Dr. Travers. “I have heard of you, and I am very glad to see you here, and to know that Lady Randallis in such good hands. "This Lady, Mrs. Moreton, is a friend of mine and Lady Randall's, and in the absence of any memopers of the fawily, she has kindly consented to remain here a few -duys, and exercise a general superintendence.” To attain success in the medical protession, a knowl- ‘edge of diplomacy is a most essential requisite; and this knowledge Dr. Travers possessed in the highest “degree. The few words of politeness just spoken had flatt ‘red Mes. Gibbs's professional vanity, and conyeyed to her the explanation that no interference with her ‘social position was intended by Kitty's presence in the house ; so she smiled graciously on the doctor, and ‘bowed pleasantly to Mrs. Moreten. “Nothing to popes about the patient, 1 suppose Mrs. Gibbs ?” asked the doctor, humoring her. “Nothing at all, sir,’ replied Mrs. Gibbs, “She dropped off into a sleep just after I arrived, and has mever moved since, By the way,” she said, lowering wher voice, “did you—did you see this?” and she quietly pointed to the bruises on Minnie’s arms and temple. r “Yea,” said Dr. Travors, lvoking hard at her; “ex- sactly ; l understand what you mean. I had seen them, and had given orders that no one but yon and the French maid, and Mrs, Moreton here shall be admitted nto this room—no one, you understand?” “] and cowurdly attempt at murder was no act committed on the impulse of the moment, but had been deliber- ately planned and premeditated, her heart,so far as Fre lerick Randall was concerned, grew stone within her, and her only feeliny towards the man whom she had once worshiped with such devotion, was one o: creeping horror and detestation. t So tar as Frederick Randall was concerned, was there, then, anyone else whose image, rising before her mind, was dwelt upon more tenderly ¢ What was the strange psychological influence which induced Kitty, as she sat there, watching the slum- bering girl, tu tuick of other persons of Ameri- ean birth, who had recently played a part in her life’s drama, to recall the handsome, genial presence of Wilbur Hoyt, to bend forward as {though Hstening to his kindly voice, then to throw herself back in her chair,and clusping her hands before her, to sit musing over her lust interview, to recall the noble offer which he hal made to her, the brave, respectful manner in which he had accepted her rejection of him. Ah, it was hard to give up such a wealth of love as that,to make up her mind, for duty’s sake, to pursue her solitary path through life, knowing all the time that such @ noble heart, and such a stalwart hand, were at her service, and that their possessor’s dearest lope would be to help her in her heed, What ahappy woman she might have been, even now, after all the troubles and storms through which she had passed, it she had only the courage to stifle the still, small voice ofconseience, and look upon her- self as free ;—eveu now, while sha was far more fitted to appreclate the generous nobility of Wilbur Hoyt’s nature than she would have been in her early youth. His tenderness, his delicacy, his innate, gentle sym- pathy, would have been wasted upon the young girl, whose maiden fancy had been captivated by the regular features and somewhat vulgar dash of Frederick Ran- dall—what would she not give if—— What breaks in rudely upon Kitty's reverie, causing her to spring from her chair, and with fright imprinted on every feature of her face, to bend forward, turning | tion.” ** How do you know this ? How do you dare to ”"—— ‘Silence man, and do not provoke me, but listen to what I say, I tel l you at that time that if you broke your word I would give you no second chance, but would hunt you Ccown—now I mean to do it’ H> lifted his hand as he spoke, and shook his fore. fingersvlemniyin the air; then turned ronnd and walked slowly away, -“" . Sir Fredertek Lsudall gazed vacantly beZore him until he heard ti.o slamming of the street door, and knew that his ilreadei visitor was gone. Then with ashaking hand, he poured ont a glass of brandy, and swallowed it with a gulp, * Hunt me down, will he,”’ ho said, as, after turning out the " he walked slowly up the stairs, “Idefy him! What proof has he of—of—what he talkedabont? Who could ever bear witness against me that—Oh, my God! what is that ?”’ He fell back against the wall as he spoke, and stood with fixed eyes ylaring at a female figure with a lamp in its hand, which coming out of his wife’s room, crossed the corridor and disappeared, Frederick Randall uttered no loud cry, his hin prod seemed paralyzed in his mouth, his heart seemed te turn to ice within his body, and muttering feebly, “ Kitty’s ghost !"’ ho fell senseless to the ground, ~~ _-_—— CHAPTER XV, 4 IN THE ASYLUM, “ Witt ten miles of London, and distinctly visible from oue of the great lines of railway traffio, situated on the summit ofa hill, and which forms an appropri- ate crowning ornament, stands a magnificent mansion. Passengers by the train, lifting up their eyes from theie newspaper or their novel, as they are whirled rapid'y by, and glancing through the carriage window, might tuke it to be the ancestral seat of some great nobleman, or what in these leveling times is more likely, the newly-erected mansion of some mushroom milionaire. her head aside and listening eagerly ? / A man's voice, the well remembered tones of which | thrill her with shuddering horror—the voice of Frede- | rick Randall, high pitched and angry, such as Kitty remembered init the early days of their marriage, when creditors were clamorous, and money was short, The voice seemed approaching; then she heard “TIT understand fectly, sir,” said the nurse. thought it might be that way.” 1 “It is that way, I regret to say, Mrs, Gibbs. I think alittle cooling lotion, pethaps some plain vinegar and weer ae be applied there, if you will kindly look after it.” The nurse nodded, andleft the room to fulfill her It has that appearance now, as it stands out + fea and clear and cold in tle soft, spring moonlight, sr is A" surrounded by gardens, b autifally kept, has out- =~ buildings and barns and stables; everyt: speaks iy of the enornious.xpense at which it must main : tained. But if instead of being merely whirled by in the nearer and nearer. . train, you had made a closer inspection of the grounds, ; errand. Then Dr. Travers turned round and beckoned Kitty to G approach the bed. e obeyed with painful hesitation, but the doctor atepped torward, se his arm under hers and led her gently to the Minnie lay there, her cheeks deathly pale, her eyes losed, her lips apart, revealing her white and even teeth; over the pillow her long, fair hair lay floating in ‘a tan and one small hand, almost ri dly lene was outside the coverlet. Kitty bent over the sleeping figure in admiration. This, thon, was.the girl for whom she had been de- serted, to secure the possession of whom her murder jad been attempted! Kitty knew this as she gazed down f upon her unconscious rival, but no pang of jealousy animated her breast. Pe “ She was not in fault,” she thought to herself, «she ba ae no knowledge of my existence—of there being an y tacle to her marriage! Moreover, ifit had not been quick, heavy footsteps comin Great Heavens! what shall she fo? She had only time to throw herself on her knees and busy herself with the fire, when the door opened, and, without seeing him, Kitty was aware of her husband's presence. “There,” he said, in a loud, defiant tone, and with a short laugh. ‘I don’t want tocome in, I don’t want to disturb you, nurse, nor any of you, but, by the Lord, I will show thatl am master here! Pretty thing, indeed, where a French maid is to forbid me my own room, telling me it’s by the doctor's orders. Ishould like to see any «loctorinterfere with me! How is your patient, nurse ?—getting on pretty well? I don't want to interfere with you;” and without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel and lett the room, bang: ing the door after him. With his laugh of defiance still on his lipa, Sir Fred- erick Randall went swaggering down the stuirs into the you would have found that the walls were high, and difficult to climb, and guarded at the top by sharp, iron spikes, so arranged as to prevent the possibility of their being surmounted; that all the lower windows, and many of the upper, were fitted with strong bars ; that the doors were lined with sheet-iron, and that inside and outside the house, trained and vigilant sentinals wereconstantly onthe watch. Sometimes, in the d silence of the night, there would ring out upon/the ears of these watchers, a shrill shriek of m al terror,a yell.of savage fury, a burst of hopeless, helpless laughter, and occasion- ally, but en rarely, there would be wild sights within the w as well as wild sounds. Men, pos- sessed of abnormal strength, and lashed with purpose- less fury, battling like wild beasts with those employed to restrain them ; women, whining over the lost in- ‘she it would have been anotber,for such @ man there always women to offer and it was a mere case of ; he was ready to sell himself to the highest It isa pity, too,” she mused, “that one so A earn oar should haye been derick Ba "s way.” beautiful,’’ she whispered, raising her- ‘0 “She is very ‘self, from her long congener. 4“ is ve such awful troubles the doctor, “and '’—— very young to tan uttered a low moan, and shud. | dining-room. He walked up to the massive ouk sideboard which stood at the end of the apartment, and unlock- ing it, took out a small queer-shaped bottle containing brandy, and was just about to pour out some of its contents, when he felt a touch on his shoulder, The butler, who had long since gone to bed, and left the house in charge of what he called “the medical people,’ had turned down the gas before going, and there was very little light in the room. Sir k, turn'ng sharply round, conld make out that he was contr. uted by 3 gentlemanly-tooking fant taken from them years before, but still ever pres- ent in their distracted thoughts, or clamoring hoarsely against the treachery of men by whom they had been betrayed ; forthe magnificent mansion is the county asylum, and of its inmates, nine-tenths are * dnight clangs out from the bell of the little forming part of the premises, and one of the wat who has dozing over the fire in his little reom, the = as are still chilly, starts owe to make his rounds. - , 43 he passes down the ec@-lor, ho pushes conn ree a eee . iy: oe
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GOING YO THE BAD. movable trap in every door and peers curiously into } each cell. As the light of his lamp flashes through the rture, some of the occupante raise themselves on | be some method. Yet, even ina state of madness as distressing, and ! apparently as hopeless ot cure as this, there seemed to | then; I thought Irecognized his face; I used to see ‘the warders of the asylum noticed ) him at race meetings ant places of that kind, with that “ Phillimore ?” said one of the visitors, “I know bim a their elbows and stare athim through their blood-shot | that in his periodical .u:bursts, his fury seemed al- | man who is now Sir Frederick Randall.” eyes—now with fright, now with anger; others curl | ways to be directed against tue same person. Not one down before the blinding glare, and bury their heads of them, nor any ove connected with the asylum, but | repress, ran through Dick Phillimore’s frame. A start and a shiver, which he tound it impossible It was beneath their pillows, or cover them with their tossing | some one whom the unfortunate man had known in his | however, unnoticed by any one, tlie attentiow of all For all who are awake, the warder has a kind word, and of many he mukes inquiries as to their condition ; | some angwer shortly aud abruptly, others babble so long and-so incoberently that he is compelled to term- inate the interview by wishing them yood-night and closing the trap-door; but in one instance he differs themame, was always present at such times. more’s great desire. of. his Jamp, at some little distance from the cell, and proceeding to the dvor cautiously on tiptoe. With all the warder’s cunning, however, the occu- pant of the cell isa match for hin:. He has not been asleep; he is wide-awake, and actively enyaged in and nothing could ronse him till the next attuck. | change in the adininistration of the asylum, and the new superintendent, Dr. Hudson, who wus informed by his retiring predecessor of the peculiarities of Philli- working away noiselessly at something in the corner of | mores case, took yreat interest in them, and ma e | hia cell. Nosvoner does'the officer's stealthy footstep | them the subject of special study. fall upon his ear than he suspends his operations, and creeps quietly to his truckle-bed; the next instant he has flung himself upon it, has pulled the heavy blanket over him, and with his hancs folded beneath his head, is in the semblance of a sound sleep. In the: ourse of his study, it occurred to the new superintendent, who was comparatively a young man, unfettered by the do-- | trines of the old school, that there were times when Phillimore’s brain-power returned to him, lucid inter- vals, during which his memory of past affairs returned, Through the window, which, though situated at an | and he was capable of appreciating what was passing unusual height from the ground, is glazed and not! round him, guarded, the rays of the moonlight strike into the cell; Dr. Hudson mentioned this ideato two or tlree of former life, and who, though his lips never pronounced To pet at this object of lis rage, against whom he ut- tered the most frightful threats, was Richard Philli- In his adjurations to the keepers nut to stand between him and his prey he would be- come most rational; but when the fit was over he trom his usual mode of proceeding, divesting himself | would lapse into the same melancholy state as before, | | Itechanced that about this time there occurred a and fall upon the recumbeut figure. From the ont- side the officer opens the trap in the door very sharply, and.looks in. From the couch comes the noise of hard his colleagues, and was laughed at for his pains. They held that Richard Phillinore was undoubtedly mad, and must remain so until his death; and the warders | being atttracted by the lady who suid: |. “Oh, by the way, talking of Sir Frederick Randall, | have you heard the story about him? He married an ; American lady, you know,a Miss Adams, a country- | woinan of yours, Mr. Hoyt, and they say he beats and | treats her shamefully !"’ “Good God! muadame,”’ “you cannot mean that ?”’ “I do, indeed,” said the lady ; “and what is more, it is reported that since Sir Frederick has discovered that ; his wife's fortune is not so large as he imagined it to be,—indeed, some say that her fatheris rnined—he has quite deserted ler.” “This is, most probably, some exaggeration,” said | another gentleman. ‘It was only the other day I saw Sir Frederick entering his house in Park Lane, and I am pretty nearly certain Lady Randall was with him.” “Well, it ay be as you say,” said the lady, “let us | hope itis.” Then turning to look at Phillimore add- ; ed, in alow voice: “And to think that this poor crea- ture once was one of us and enjoyed all the pleasures os oan ee sad spectacle, dout you think so, Mr. oyt?”’ But Wilbur Hoyt was buried in reflection and con- , tinued so until the party moved out into the corridor. cried Wilbur Hoyt, in horror, No sooner were they gone, than Richard Phillimore, atter a ylunce to see tuat the trap in the door was closed rose from his attitude of dejection, and paced the room with rapid strides. stetorous breathing, and thie warder, glancing ter Ld and keepers were of the same opinion. ; sees Outlined on it the loosely lying limbs and shrunk- | But Dr, Hudson was right. Not merely were there times when Richard Phillimore recollected the past, = the } en frame of hia putient. This quict fit still continues,” he mutters to him- and was cognizant of the present, but in these lucid in- self, ‘‘I don't think we shall have any more trouble | tervals he was invested with a kind of sly cunniny, not with Dick for sometime to come.” | nncommon with these whose insanity is partially in- Another glance, aud sutisfied that all is correct, he | termitteht. softly closes the trap, and goes on his way. | any improvement in his condition from his attendauts. Then the man on the bed, first clearing the blanket | from his ears, and then raising his head inch by inch, still liable to occasional accesses of maniacal fury, and struggles into an upright position, and listens to the| that no representation which he might make of his retreating footsteps. As they die away in the distance, | restoration to reason would be regarded as anything he slips noislessly from the couch, and as the moon-/} else but a delusion; the ouly way, he argued, to obtain light’s rays fall full upon his upturned listening face, | his liberty, was not to attempt to prove his sanity, but he stands revealed as Richard Phillimore, | to bring his wits and faculties to work, whenever he It would have taken, however, much more than a| had the command of them, to devise the means for cursory glanee to recognize in this quaint, fantastic, | successfully escaping from the asylum. figure, the joval Dick Phillimore of former days. | What use was liberty to Richard Phiilimore? In the Gone were the ruddy complexion, the rotund ;form, | place where he found himself he was kindly treated the large and maasive linibs; the hair was still stort | and watched over; and life to Richard Phillimore, with and stubby, but iron-gray instead of blackin hue, and | his broken health and wrecked fortunes, could scarcely the fat aud pendulous netherlip, which informerdays | have any zest. Why, then, did he so hanker after lib- He knew tliat he had been mad for months, that he was | ridding the earth of this monster.’’ * “Park Lane,’ he muttered to himself; “ that’s where they said he lived; let ne repeat that until there is no chance of iny forgetting it. Park Lane, and he beats bis This cunning prompted him to conceal | wife! Oh. Heaven, keep my brain clear and help me i: my great purpose, that I may be Thy iustrument in * * * * * The next morning, ata very early hour, Dr. Keidson was aroused by one of the keepers, and five minutes after the alarm-bell on the top of the building pealin forth, unnounced to those recognizing the suund, th one of the inmates of the asylum had escaped. CHAPTER XVI. ON HIS TRACK. WHEN Colonel Willamette heard his sentence of dis- missal fron: Minnie Adams’s lips, he knew that that son- hung out as an unmistakable sign of the good living to which it was accustomed, now shrunken and drawn, quivered with nervous uneasiness, and in the teeth marks, with which it was covered, bore witness to the agitation to which it was the victim; the very shape of the head seems. to have changed, to have become narrow and more compressed, the cheeks have fullen in, the cheek-bones have formed huge hollow settings for the brightly blazing eyes; the once rounded chin has become peaked, and the shoulders that stood out so bluff and square, have fallen away, and go sloping off at an angle like those of any boarding-school miss. This was some of Sir Frederick Rundabi’s work. When, j at the door of the church, on the occasion of his mar- riage, he struck his qnondam friend and associate to the ground, he little thought that the statement which he had made to his wife, to account for Dick Philli- more's incoherent ejaculation and attempt at interrup- tion, of the ceremony, was about to be verified. _ When the bystanders raised the maimed and bleeding man, an ponyepen him to the hospital, it was found, not merely that his limbs and skull were fractured, but that in his then enfeebled and dissipated state, the .. shock to the nervous system had been so great that it . was more thana matter of doubt whether his mental faculties would pot be forever impaired, _ As, bit by bit, he recovered his bodily strength, it be- gan to be more and more evident that this view of ,the case was correct, and that Richard Phillimore was r After a littie time these symptoms increased to such _ ‘a degree, that he was moved from: the hospital to the _ asylum, where we now find him, and where he was re- das one of the regular inmates, incurable and not to be discharged until death would give him his release. Con to his previous character, while in his right | mind, which, though loose and dissipated, had been kindly and easy going, Richard Phillimore’s madness - was of the cruel and savage type. When he was first brought to the asylum, he was a * raving maniac, whose wild fury rendered it dangerous fe any one to attempt to approach him, and whose ‘ seemed to be one paroxysm of passion, without an * fntervening period of quiet. Had the poor fellow pos- sessed the strength which characterized him in bappier days, it would have been necessary to keep him under the cl t confinement; and even as it was, and, al- ' though the rule of the establishment was to allow pa- . tients such freedom and kind treatment as was con- sistent with safety; it was foralong time found ne- _ cessary that Richard Phillimore stonld be depriyed of the ary Serta of making violeut use of his limbs, _ and that he should be guarded day and night. _As time wore on, this excessive and continnons fury _ seemed to die away, recurring at irregular intervals of _ two or three weeks, and then lasting for a day or two, in all their former strength. In the interval between tiem the patient lapsed into a state of the profoundest dejection and melancholy, trom which nothing could | erty and freedom ? Because, once obtained, they would enable him to | carry out the one object of his existence, the one idea which, waking, or sleeping, med or sane, never ceased to haunt him—the desire for revenge on Freder- | ick Randall; for the blow which he had received at the church door remained burnt into his brain. When these frightful puroxysms came upon him, in which he struggled with his attendamts with the strenyth and | ferocity of a wild beast, it was Frederick Randall's form that he saw before him; it was Frederick Ran- dall’s throat that he Jonged to clutch! Otice let him wreak his vengeance on that man, and he would; be | content with any fate which might await him—to be | brought back to the asylum even, to be taken to the | scaffold, was all the same to Richard Phillimore. In ridding the world of Frederick Randall he would have 'accomplisued the object of his life, and would have been careless as to what became of him, To hoodwink the officers of the asylum, then, it was necessary that be should keep them in ignorance of anything like improvement in his condition ; aud he succeedel so well that he was unsuspected by all save Dr. Hudson, Tu these lucid intervals, which became more and more frequent, he occupied himself wholly with devising the means of escape. He calculated that if he could reach the window, and | succeed in breaking the glass withoutattracting atten- tion, he could easily squeeze his body through the aper- ture; but he knew not what difficulties he might have | to encounter on the other side. These he was deter- | mined to risk, and he applied himself night and day, | Whenever he thought he eould caleulate on having ;80me minutes free from observation, to working at the smooth surface of the wall, and endeavoring to scrape therein ledyes for his feet and hands. It chanced thit, on the morning succeeding the moonlight night just deseribed, a party cf ladies and gentlemen, among whom was Wilbur Hoyt, came to visit the asylum. Dr. Hudson happened to be absent at the time, and they were shown round by one of the assistant superintendents, who dilated with minch gar- rulity on the various cases which he brought under their notice. When they reached Richard Phillimore'’s room they found him sitting on the bed, with his hands folded be- fore him, and his eyes downeast. It happened to be one of his best days, when his faculties were all alive ; and ashesat there, apparently senseless, he eagerly drank in every word tiiat was uttered, “No improvemeut in this case?’ asked the superin- | tendent of the keeper in attendance. ** None, sir,’’ replicd the man; ‘ except that his wild just as you see him, for days together, never saying a word, and taking no notice of anything.” | work. tence was final, and ugreed to accept itas such. Ney- ertheless, altliough he knew perfectly well that his duty lay at home, he could not reconcile himselt to the idea of quitting the landin which she was residing, until the actual fuct of her marriage raised an insuperable barrier between them: and so. as we have seen, he ac- cepted the offer of a cruise with Wilbur Hoyt, and con- tined for soine time in his friend’s society. These few weeks were not without their somewhat sad and dreary lesson for Henry Willamette. When, through the combined efforts of himself and his friend. poor Kitty hal been rescued from her impending en. ger and conveyed to a haven of safety, the colonel saw, in Wilbur IHoyt’s extraordinary solicitude both at the time of the rescue and afterwards, a curious example of the mauver in which men, however they may scem to be made of impenetrable stuff, are forced, by tho mere luws of nature, which succumb to a womau’s in- fluence, even though that influence be passive and not. exerted. tz There lay Kitty, helpless and senseless, and there, in constant attendance upon her, was Wilbur Hoyt; a man who had arrived at his present years of discretion entirely free and heart-whole, though he had been ex- posed te yarious kinds of ory samt in various of the world, and who yet had become suddenly Pitot uated, and vanquished by the grace,and perhaps, by the helplessness, of one he bad seen but little, a d who had never spoken to him a word, Ff Henry Willamette was, by natnre, far more roman- tically inclined than Wilbur Hoyt, and had his affee- tions not been previously engaged, it would have been quite easy for him to fall in love with a creature so pretty and graceful as the woman they had rescued from death, the unusual style of the surroundings yiv- ing an additioual spice to the sentiment. As it wus, he rejviced silent.y at the fact that his friend's heart seemed at last. to have been touched, and without mak- ing any evident sipn, did Ins best to fan tle flame which, to his surprise, kindled in Wilbur Hoyt's. breast. . : At that time, «f course, the secret of Kitty's previous history being unknown to him, thefe seemed no reasom why a union between her aud Wilbar Hoyt should not finally take place, and Colunel Willamette halt-pleased,. hali-annoyed himself, picturing these probabilities. His pleasnre lay in imagining a future so different from | that which he had hitherto thought had awaited hia dear friend ; but his mind was tortured at the thought that nosuch happiness was iv store ier him, and that the rest of his lite must le passed celibate and solitary. ‘ Time passed on after this fashion until the announce. ment in the newspaper of Miss Adams's ‘iiartiage with | j attacks are notso irequeut, [thimk.. He sits there, | Sir Frederick Randall broke upon C yee Cee e quietude, and sent him once more roving through It f “ This is rather a curious case,” said the superintend- | with Wilbur Hoyt—he could not condemn his ent, turning to the visit rs. “This is a man named Phillimore, a gentleman by birth, and an educated man, to the eompanionship of a man who was pre-ocen was impossible, he felt, to remain any longer Died, absent, and dispirited, nor dare he carry out his orig. ro ehim. He would sit still, silent, and motionless, | Who, on his first admission here, was one of our most | inal intention of at once returning to America. _ _. partaking of but little food, and either incapable of un- | ferocious patients, Our new superintondent thinks | felt that in the dreary solitude of that old bour>, on derstan a pe pennant in his refusal to answer any | there is some possibility of effecting his cure, but the | the Hudson River, with nothing but his own thoughts - question that might be put to him. " rest of usare not so sanguine ‘for his mind to dwell upon, he should go mad. *t Ay” ey « *
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- He thought that he would try Paris for a while. In former days he had often enjoyed himself there, and he hoped that the spell would work again ; so, plead- business, his best excuse, he took hurried leave of the astonished Wilbur Hoyt, and started off by the tidal train, taking up his quarters, in the first place, at the Grand Hotel. The Grand Hotel, however, at Paris, like the Lang- | ham, in London, is merely a slice of America cut out of the great continent and transplanted to a foreign soul. guests nothing but American inattera are discussed— Rew York and Washington scandal by the ladies, Wall ttreet speculations and Pennsylvania avenue political jobs by the gentlemen. At one time in his life Henry Willamette had found all this particularly amusing, but now it speedily be- camo distasteful to him. He should have enough of that sort of thing, he thought, when he reached his own home ; moreover, the two capitals of London and Paris were now in such constunt communication that the gossip of the one permeates at once tothe other, and on thé second day ef his arrival Colonel Willamette heard the circumstances of Miss Adams’s marriage with Sir Frederick Randall discussed witha freedom which was anything but pleasant to him. He was not inerely annoyed at the familiarity with which the young lady’s name was bandied from mouth tomouth, but was much pained at the manner in which her newly-wedded husband was spoken of, a manner which tended to confirm all the eyil things which Henry Willamette had hear! about him, And indeed, was this to be the end of it all? Minnie Adams, whom. he had loved as the idol of his life, as the apple of his eye, had refused to listen to his rayer ; had plainly rejected him when be sought her or his wife. Well, he was a man, ani could bear such & sentence, as it had been borue Ly hundreds of worthier fellows ; but if, in awarding to another the | position which he so much desired, Miss Minnie, in her girlish empty. had fallen into a trap—if the man whom she had honored by her preterence proved to be unwortny of her, proved to be such a dissolute vaga- bond as common gossip represented him, then Henry Willamette knew that the bluw would fall on him with far less severity than on her, whom he would have died to save. Writhing under the torture of these reflections, the Colonel determuned to quit Paris and to make his way home. Once arrived there, he would, he thought, throw himself with such zeal and energy into the task of remodeling his paternal domain, and fulfilling his duties generally as a landed proprietor, that he would have no time to brood over the unsatisfactory past or the gloomy future. So he started away from Paris by the night mail, and arriving in London early in the morning, caught the train for Liverpool, and proceeded there direct. He thought it very likely that Wilbur Hoyt might be in London, but he would not wait to see him or any other of his friends. The one sad experience by which his whole life had been changed, sat as yet tuo heavily on his heart to allow him to make ita topic of conyersa- tion even with such an intimate friend as Hoyt; and with the others, who were ignorant of the relations in which he stood to Minnie Adams, the recent marriage would undoubtedly have been discussed in @ manner which it would have been very painful for him to listen The Cunard steamer “ Cuba’’ was to sail for New York at an early hour the next morning, and her officers, all good men and true, most of whom had some slight ac- uaintance with Colonel Willamette, were pleased at the sight of his name on the passenger list, aud yrected hin with a hearty welcome when he stepped on board the next morning. But they were greatly astonished and not a little disappointed when im place of the bright, genial, jovial man of the. world who had sailed ~ With them before, they found that the Colonel, for the most part, Secluded himself in the solitude of his state- room, and that when, as at meals and a few other occa- sions he did come among them, he. was. polite indeed, and courteous, but moody, silent and pre-occupied. » » The ship had a capital run, and arrived at New York » Wthin.ten days of her departure from England; butas they neared their destination, eyen before the pilot had come on board, Henry Willamette had ayain changed his intention. He could not make up his mind at once to encounter the dreary solitude of Crow Nest—his old home on the Hudson River, He thought it would be better for him first to spend a few days in New York, making an excuse to himself that there might be some business for him to attend to there, so he took up his quurters as usual at the Albermarle Hotel ; and that j sree the frequenters of the Union Club were sur- vy see his well known iace once more amony em, None but Americans inhabit it ; the dishes are | American, the hours are American, and among tlie | GOING TO THE BAD. 28 he always staked found their way into some of the less scrupulous of the newspapers. The habits and actions of a young man of position, such as was Colonel Willamette, are not to be hidden long the buzzing gossip was not confined to men of | Henry’s own set, but circulated freely among his elders. Many of these gentlemen of high commercial stand- ing and social position, who had been for years inti- mate with the Willamette family, siiook their heads gravely when they heard of the Colonel's proceedings, and expressed their wonder that a man who, for so | many years had set such an admirable example to his compeers, and had achieved such distinction in his profession, should suddenly break out into the dissipa- tion of gambling, with all the eagerness of the veriest tyro. One of these old family friends, a certain Major-Gen- eral Barlow who, in early life, had been intimate with Henry's father, and who, during the war, had served in the same division of the army with the Colonel, though he was but slightly acquaiuted with him, hear- ing at his club some oi the floating gossip about the young nian, made it his business to inquire further into the matter: and, having satisfied himself that there was some foundution for it, determined, if possi- ble, to take measures for arresting Colonel Willamette in the downward career he was pursuing, General Barlow was a shrewd old man, with plenty of knowledge of the world. He reckoned that a young man discreetly brought up and hitherto excellently behaved, as Henry. Willamette Lud Leen, would pot suddenly have lapsed from the paths of propriety, with- ; out some strong prompting motive, That motive, the | General's experience led him to look tor in either the | Joss of money, or thecaprices ofa woman, The General kuew that Henry's fortune was ample, and that it was not tor the vulyur sake of gain that he plunged into the excitement of play ; but he was entirely ignorant ot | the young man’s inner life,and thought it unlikely tuatone so good-looking and agreeable should have | suffered in his experience of the fuir sex. Neverthe- less, the old veteran, who could neyer have been a | handsome man, recollected how well Le had been treated | by the ladies in his early days, and having 4 large faith inthe utter capriciousness of women, thought it pos- sible that Willamette, with all nis advantayes might have been attacked with some symptuis of the univer- sal heart disease, In such a case, according to the old general's idea, there was nothing like a change of sublject—“ one nail drives out another ;"' to use is homely phrase; and his notion was that if Henry Willamette was laboring under the effects of an unrequitied attachment, his recovery would be most easily effected by giving him a new passion to dwell upon, Nor was the General quite unselfish in this matter. He was a widewer, with an only daughter, whose beauty, liveliness, and accomplishments had already obtained for her the pseudonym of “ Belle Barlow ” in those fashionable circles of which she was a distin- guished ornament. Miss Barlow had plenty of suitors; but they were not precisely of a type which was pleasing to her father. They were mostly young men, possessing an average amount of fortune, which they had acquired, and to which they were daily adding, by transactions in Wall Street, wherein most of their time was occu- pied. The General, who, as an old soldier, had not had much opportunity of money-making, did not re- gard the possession of a fortune as a disqualification tor his intended son-in-law, but he looked for some- thing beyond, It was his hope that one to be so nearly allied to him, and to whom he loolied as a transmitter of his family honors, should be a man of sume. birth; not merely a living representative of the powers of shoddy. Henry Willamette was the descendant of an old Knick- erbocker family, and, in addition to this inheritance, had won military rank and social distinction. There was no onein the entire list of young men of the day whose alliance could be more desirable ; and the Gen- eral determined to leave nothing undone towards bringing about a match between lis daughter and Col- ouel Willamette, Nor was Belle Barlow at all disinclined to aceept the fate which her doting tather plotted for her. Shehad bern an outrageous flirt, as all the munceuvering mo- thers and other pretty girls who, during the past three seasons, had frequented the rocks at Newport, or the promenades at Suratoga, were ready and willing to testify. She was abright, brilliant girl, an excellent dancer, and full of that smart, emul! talk and social repartee, in the use of which the American lilies so far exceed She could be tender, too, and under a bushel, in a city like New York; and before | | Belle Barlow rather laid herself open to attract his ad | miration and bring him a captive to her side. And Henry Williamette, what was his feeling in the ‘matter? Was the memory of that old love which be had cherished so long and so tondly, and for which he | had borne so much, still strong enough to guard him trom temptation, or did he sufler Limself to succumb to the fascination of the beautiful girl, who showed herself so ready to receive her attention. Truth to tell, the life which the cclonel had been lead. ing of lute seemed somewhat to have impaired that keen sense of right and wrong, wl.ich was at one-time bis must distinguishing characteristic. His thoughts did not | advert to Minuie so irequently as formerly ; he seemed | to have accomplisued his olject in temporarily banish- | ing her {rom Lis mind; and when he saw Belle Barlow | evidently inclined to receive with favor any advances he might make, a pew idea tovk possession of him. Why should he pine away longer in playing the de- spairing lover to one who had so decidedly rejected him, | and who was then, probably, enjoying herself with the husband of her choice. Why should c not let Minnie | Adams—he meant Lady Randall—and all the world see, that though refused by her, he could yet be accepted by agirl equally beautitul and standing higher iu the estimation of tashiouable society. The delusive demon of pique and slighted hopes had possession of Henry Willamette at that moment, and | under its influence he might have fallen beyond the | possibility of recovery, but for an incident which oc- homtay when he had been some two months in New | York. One night, or rather early one morning, after ay rand ball, at the close of which he had escorted Miss Barlow to ber home, he returned to his roomsin the hotel, and | putting on his dressing-down, sat down before the fire to smoke a contemplative cigar beiore retiring to rest. He had not yet proposed to Miss Barlow; but during that whole evening he had found her so charming that he had almost made up his mind to pay her a tormal call, aud ask her hand on the morrow. Never betore had he scen her look so lovely, he thought. As he lay back in his chair, lazily puffing at his cigar, the recol- lection of her brilliant eyes, sparkling with a thousand enchantments and provocations, and the low, tremnu- lous tone in whieh she had responded to his whispered wor)s of compliment, filled him with soft, sensuoue de: ight. Ou ev imore she seemed to move around and about him; ence more he seemed to perceive the subtle per- fume peculiar to herself; once more he felt her warm breath on his face, He closed his eyes, the better to realize the creation of his fancy, and immediately sunk into a deep slum ber. Then there came to him a dream. He thought he was at home at Crow Nest on the Hudson, lying in the library in his favorite position, stretched at his length before the huge log-fire; the family pictures on the walls, the books, on the backs of which the firelight danced so lovingly, were all old, well-remembered friends. Presently, on looking up, he saw gliding to- wards him, whence it came he knew not, a Btrunge vapory figure which, bit by bit, assimilated into hue juan shape, and took upon itself the likeuess of Minnie Adams. Uer head wus bowed; but as the firelight played upon her face, he saw that the expression was ghastly pale, and very, very sorrowiul. He would have spoken to her, but she raised ber hand, and shaking her head despairingly, suid in wournful tones : “ You to desert me, tou! Were not your last words, on our parting, ‘that whenever I wanted you, you would be near me? How have you kept that prom- ise? God knows your aid is wanted now !”’ Then she faded irom his sight. Henry Willamette sprang to his feet. It was broad daylight, and by his side was standing his servant with a letter in his han), < “It has just come from the ship, sir,” he said: “it was brought over by the purser, and is marked * spec- inl’ and ‘immediate, so I thought 1 would run the risk of rousing you, and uot findiug you in your bed-. room I came in here.” The colouel took the letter, and opened it with trem- bling hands, It was from Wilbur Hoyt, and contained but a few lines, They ran thus: “My Dear Henny:—The rumor runs throueh Lon- don, that Sir Frederick Randall—you know who | Pt only too well—has taken to drink, and under its inffu- ence, is treating his wife shametully. I would spare you details, but it is said that on a recent occasion he forgot himself so fur as to assault her. I have just heard from Mrs. Moreten, whose information is un- doubted, though obtained in a very curious way, that Lady Randall has been removed. from her hysland's. | their English cousine. e house, and that there is no chance of tl re almost sentimental on occasions; she had a good together mais Knowing you, as I dour, che Gente stock of poetical reading, which she used judiciously ; : ae . / aah could make herself, if she chose, agreeable to any ret ge re ng sc lk ~ wees shortly eo} hg style of man, | But Belle Barlow was somewhat tired of the eternz] | Colonel Willamette read the last | round of dance, dinner, picnic, =e tates so éaras time, and emiled grimly. rf Paragraph a secoud at least, her position of unmarried girl was concerned; | “You judge me rightly, Wilbur, ol } Y oe a she ould do when she had changed her condition , he. ‘ This fits well with my poet ms eer ion and was duly mated was 4 different thing, | wer side; but first I must demand a settlement touu She by no means proposed to give up the enjoyments | him.” of life. No, she would apply herself to them with| The next day Colonel Willamette sailed for Europe. ; keener zest when she had taken rank as a married wo- of the night in the excitement of the gaming-table. | man, A husband was in her eyes @ necessity for every sinninnctedy | Not that Henry Willamette was ever to be found in any |gitl who hed been @ certain nimiber of, seasons before 1 of the almost public gambliug-rooms with which that! the world; and as her father had niore than once men- city of pleasure is infested, for he was by nature too | tioned to her his desire that she should show nerself sensitive to permit any open exhibition of bis excite-| willing to receive any attentions which Colonel Willa- wert; but in the private rooms of the clubs, and at | mette might make, she acted like a dutitul daughter, and : tw bouses of some of the fastest young men of New | consen Nay, more, pleased with the Colonel's per- Yorx he was a constant attendant, and rumors of bis | sonal appearance and proud of tle distinguished charac- varying success at play, apd of the large amounts which | ter which she had heard given to hiu in all quarters, A'l hailed him with delight, for Henry Willamette was @ universal favorite, and many were the pleasure- plans, dinner parties, and social gatherings of all kinds f at once p.oposed to him. He accepted them all with avidity; and those w had known him longest and best, were Dabththed a oan the eagerness which he showed in pursuit of anuse- ment ofa kind which was formerly understood to be distastetul to bim, He dined out constantly; at his dinner consumed quantities of wine, and passed the greater portion CHAPTER Xyq. THE MASKED BALL Tue statement which Wilbur Hoyt had mad letter to his friend, Colonel Willamette, that Fas ma dall had left her husband’s house, was substantially correct. aa So soon as the acute portion of Minnie’s illness wag
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i ‘ » 7% at) ya y "> = el: 4 > low-creatures, and not to the conside hie ollection of the outrage to which she had been sub- jected, she felt it impossible to hold any further rela- tions, or even to remain beneath the same roof with | one who had treated her with such brutality. It was a curious characteristic in this young yirl’s mature, that in this tearing away of the vail from before her eyes, in this shattering of the idol which she had hitherto so fondly worshiped, her feelings. underweut an entire revolution. The yielding softness with which ‘she had hitherto borne her husband's neglect and ob- jurgations, was Changed into hard, implacable deter- amination; the fond, clinging love, amounting almost to worship, with which she had regarded him, became | 4 positive loathing, exhibited so strangely, that the kindly watchers by her bedsids tound it advisable, as far as possible, to avoid all mention of his name or any allusion to him. It was Kitty’s bright intelligence, and unwearying attention, that first discovered this alteration in the | stat: of affairs; it was to Kitty that Lady Randall clung outburst of passion.” | ‘You do not know him,’’ whispered Minnie, clinging to her; ‘‘you do not know what I have suffered up to | this time—the coldness, the cruelty, the insult, all | culminating in this coward’s blow. Other men might be sorry for what they had done, but he, never! You | do not know him!’ “No,” said Kitty, sadly, and with a deep sigh, “that | is true, Ido not know him !” And while the two women were thus taking sweet counsel and making common cause together, what was happening to him who had been the bitter curse of both their lives? What was Sir Frederick Randall doing ? | Living at a faster rate than ever, and crowding more and more dissipation into the twenty-four hours. | After recovering from the fainting fit into which he | fell on seeing what he imagined to be the ghost of his | | murdered wife, he had his portmanteau packed, and at | once removed to a neighboring hotel. | He was not acoward by nature. Itisa great mistake SETS ‘a » = Ps <p iP ris ga i» * 4. GOING TO THE BAD, cB Re SEES BS hee a Ne Cree ee eS ee eee 18 Es Ee ee ee a eee se LEE Lehre ver, so soon as her senses returned, and with that rec- | ended. Your husband will, most probably, repent his { score,’ said the doctor. “I tell you candidly, that if Lady Randall had followed my counsel, she would have placed this matter in sucha light before her father, , that you would have had no further help from him ; but, though so young, she is very proud, and she has a horror of the idea that you, whose name she unfor- _ tunately bears, should be reduced to the old state of | fugitive mendicity in which she found you.” “Sir!” cried Sir Frederick. “IT speak very plainly to you, sir,’’ said the doctor, *‘ because [know you. By your loud talking you will not frighten me—Iam not a dueling man, and if f _ were, there is no code of honor, I believe, to compel me | to go out with a person who has been convicted of for- ‘gery. Let us go back to the point, if yon please.” Sir Frederick frowned and bit his lip. Then he said: '“Tdon't see that we can live much more apart than we are doing at present.”’ “Probably not ; but Lady Randall intends giving up | the house in Park Tne, so fur as she is concerned. She | has hud but little pleasure there, and most of her as- -as to an elder sister, never satisfied when she was out| to suppose that a bully must necessarily be a coward; | sociations with it are mourniul ; she intends retiring of her presence, never so happy as when she lay with | and though Sir Frederick Randall was unmanly enough, | into the country, and the one condition on which you her own hand locked in Kitty’s, looking up, with | as we have seen, toinsult his wife ani even to strike | will continue to receive any «llowance from Mr. Adams atreaniing eyes, into her sweet sympathetic face. Nor was this sympathy one-sided. Although Kitty her, he had but little physical fear. He had confronted death before now, in the hunting- | is, that she shall be unmolested by you.” “ Very well,” said Sir Frederick, “let her have her had first underfaken the place which Dr. Travers | field or within twelve paces of an opponents pistol- own way. By the way, there are a lot of my things urged upon her, from a mere sense of duty, and with a certuin repugnanee at the idea of being brought into contact with one who, however innocently, had been the actnal cause of the attempt which her husband bad made upon her life, and who had supplanted her dn his love, it was impossible for her, with her sweet womanly feeling, long to remain unmoved by the help- lessiess of the pretty creature lying there before her in ti bance between life and death, or obdurate to the caresses and attention which, as soon as she became conscious, Minnie lavished upon her. In the little bedside conferences which occurred be- ‘tween tie two, the key-note was often struck which | woul l cause Kitty's nerves to tingle, and so upset her | equanimity as almost to render it impossible for her, r the moment, to reply. *- IT have been wondering where you came from,”* said Minnie to her on the second morning of her convales- ene; * you seem to have dropped from tlie skies, seein so strange tome, when I came to myself to find you there—you, whom I had never seen before, moving about so softly and so gracefully, touching me so tenderly, and attending to my every wish—and yet it seemed qnite natural, too. How did you come here, Mrs. Moreton |” “I came here at the request of Dr. Travers, who is an old triend ot mine, Lady Randall.” “ Oa, do not callme Lady Randall!” said the girl, with a flushing face, ‘‘do not address me by that horri- tle name! But you arenot a professional nurse, like Mrs. Gibbs—you are a lady, one can see that in every It | | barrel, but in each of these cases the danyer that threat- ened him, and which he met without blanching, was something which he could understand, Not so, this strange, mysterious presence, this haunting spirit, which, at times, he was disposed to believe was but | the mere result of his own guilty conscience, and, at other times, regawded as a supernatural visitant. He would not stayin the house on the chance of meeting it again; of that he was determined. The ( house, too, now was hideously dull and dreary, the air of sickness pervaded it, no one in it, aave Dr. Travers, whom he detested, and the people of the household who erept about with hushed footsteps and solemn aces, He would be betterin the hotel, where all was life !anj bustle, snd where he might come in and go out without being observed. Soto the hotel he went. Once settled in his new quarters, he gave himself up to his wild courses with renewed zest. He found he had been mixtaken in imagining that bis futher-in-law 4 speculations into which he had entered, or the finan- cial ruin must have been averted, for the sum which he was accustomed to receive from Mr. Adams’ bankers | on the first of every month, continued to be regularly paid. No nian in London, having plenty of mony to spend, | more especially where he has the advantage of a title, | need look far for boon companions. | there that I must haye, you know.” “There aro but a very few of the smaller ornaments of the houss which Lady Randall cares about taking with her—a list will be made of these, and all the rest of the furniture will be left for you. In anticipation of | your compliance with this proposal, Mr. Adams desires thut the house should be let, anda tenant bas been found who is ready to take it, and to pay you a price for | many of the fittings, if he can obtain possession within | the uext six weeks.” | ** Deuced sharp work,” growled Sir Frederick. The doctor looked at him curiously. we | “Ishonld scircely have thought that you would have been inclined to grumble at much harder con- ditions,” he said. “ However that is no business of }mine, Am Ito understand that you agree to these terns ?”’ “ Yes, I suppose so,” said Sir Frederick, sulkily. “ When will the house be free?” “It is free now,’’ said the doctor. “ Lady Randall had been at all compromised by the bank and railroad | has left it sonie days.” “ye deuce she has!" cried Sir Frecerick, in aston- “Well, then, I may as well move into it, Has she left any servant ishment. fanl suave my hotel bill. | there?" | No one but the old housekeeper.” | Ol, well, Iwill take my man with me and get my meals at the club—I shall be there only a fow days, I }stppose. I will go up there at once—there is nothing Sir Frederick Randall, impecunions and shifty, dody- | more to be said, I suppose?” ) ing the Jews, and sponging upon everyone he met, was “Nothing,” said the doctor, and without another movement, in every word you utter. Where did you | a very different person from the open-handed baronet | word, he bowed gravely, and quitted the room, learn to be so wonderfully handy and attentive in a} with money in his pocket, who entertained splendidly, | sick-room ?”’ ‘Such things come by uature, I suppose,” said Kitty, with a sad smile; “ but I have had a certaiu amount of experience. I was with Mrs. Travers during along and svrious illness, and it was, doubtless, re- membering my management of his wife at that time, that made the doctor ask me to come to you.” # And you came at once; how grateful I ought to be to you and to the dear doctor for thinking of you. Do yuu know, as IT have been lying here, I have often been watching you, when you thought [I was asleep, and I have come to the conclusion that ’—— « And that is ’’——said Kitty. « And that is, that you have seen some great trouble —trouble which you have strugyled with, and, to a certain extent, conquered, but which has still the power to throw a dark shadow over your life; there is a certain and subdued a in your looks,in all our actions, which tells me that.” “4 “You should not judge by looks,” said Kitty, bend- ing down over the bed to hide the tears which were springing to her eyes. “ Whatever may have been the trouble of my life, I have gotten over it, thank God |” “Not so,’ said Minnie, raising herself in the bed as well as her feeble strength would permit, and throwing | her arms round her new-found friend; ‘‘theso tears prove the contrary, You must not mind my talking to you in this way, for it is not without a purpose, That wedding-ring on your finger shows you to married, and [ feel convinced that your sorrow is akin to mine— what that is, there is no use now in attempting to hide from you.” “ Pray do not speak of this,” said Kitty, in a trem- bling voice; “you do not know how you distress me. ’ “Tam right,’’ whispered Minnie, pressing her tightly in her arms. “I only mention the past that I may .speak hopefully of the future. So soon as you and Dr. yers tell me that [can be moved,I shall quit this house, never to return to it. It would be impossible for mé, after what has occurred, to remain ‘under the e roof with—with Sir Frederick Randall, even if he esired. By his conduct, he has released me from my -yows of obedience, though I have no idea that he would still consider them binding. Iam rich, or at least my father ia,and aught he has,is at my command. You I wi! go away together, and never part for tho re- mainder of our lives—will you promise me that?” “No dear,” said Kitty, bending down and softly touch ng Minnic’s lips, “I will not make you such a yTomise as that, as it would be useless, and worse than nseless,on my part. Whatever may have been my trials ‘in the former portion of my life, I have determined to devote what remains of it to doing good to my fel- ion of myself. ” she added, setting her lips tightly and using ‘astrong effort to bring out the words without hesita- tion, *thongh this is an unfertunate episode, yon mnat ot |b uped tic happitne.. of your married Ui ¢ as “$5 Lam to be a bachelor,” said Sir Frederick to | betted and gambled freely, and ulways paid when he | himself, when he was leit alone, “‘ with all the freedom j lost. The former was cut univ srsully, the latter was | and a good deal more money than lever had before— | declared, by a certain set, to be the best fellow alive. | considering all things, I don’t think I have done so | Ot coursa this certain set were not persons recognized | badly !”’ | in good society. They were men with queer charicters, That night he returned to the deserted house in Park and women with nocharucters at all; but they were! Lane. bright and pleasant company in their way, aud intin- | * * bd * * nd * itely more amusing to tho easy-going baronet then Two days after this interview, in the evening, a cab they would have been if they bad had morc inteilectand ; drove up to the door of the Tavistock Hotel, in Covent better morals. With them, he was a kind ofking, and | Garden; a gentleman was on the pavement, eagerly in their society, under the combined excitement of late | acanning the seb bee. vehicles, and, as the occupant of hours, high play, and deep drinking, he was rapidly destroying the remainder of his health. Oné day at noon, aftera heavy carouse on the previous nizht, Sir Frederick arose, and feeling even more shaky {and forlorn than was usual for him in the morniny, j was trying to get down some breakfust when his ser- vant handedhim acard. He glanced at it, looked up angrily, reflected for a minute, and then said : “Tell the gentleman I cannot see him.” “Oh, yes, you can,” said a voice outside : and imme- diately afterwards Dr. Travers entered the room. “Oh yes, you can; Lam sure you will see me on a matter of business!" “By what right, sir, do youintrude into my privato {apartment?” said Sir Frederick, rising in great wrath. “Is this your private apartment?’’ said the doctor, very quietly, for the servant was etillin the room. “I was looking for No. 201, ocenpied by Mr. Russell; but sinee you are here, Sir Frederick, Lum pleased to have the opportunity of calling upon you.” “Leave the room,” said Sir Frederick, turning to the | as a kind of skunk, who ought to be put out of the — ah ; man, “Now, sir, may I ask the reason of this persecu- tion. You know that I am at yourmercy, and have come, I suppose, to insult and trinmph over mo!” “1 have come for no such purpose, Sic Frederick Randall,” said the doctor with grave colduess, “If L had consulted my own feelings, I should never | the eab stepped to hand. ‘Wilbur! cried the new-comer, returning his friend’s grasp, **this is kind. I scarcely expected to 860 You SO soon.” “ My dear Henry,’’ said the other, “I received your | telegram from Liverpool and determined at once to meet you. Come into the hotel, now, you must be hunyry and tired ont.’” As they reached the hotel, Henry Willamette leaned upon his friend, and said : : “T ain not tired overmuch, or h either; but if I wero starving and pos eee with fi , I could not reat until I had accomplished my pu which has brought me here—the purposes of ~. al : * And tliat is ’!'—— asked Wilbur Hoyt. ‘First to punish him; tlien to succor her.” “TI thought those would be your views,” said Wilbur Hoyt, quietly; ‘‘and I appland them highly. I am afraid I am not particularly Christian in my ideas on these matters. I look upon this man dall ' ; way; and the sooner the world is through with him the better for us ull, Now go to your room, and put © meanwhile, I will order on your evening dress; dinner.” ‘ | They were sitting at dinner, and Wilbur Hoyt, full of pity for the greaf change which had come over his have seteyes on you again, but I come on behalf of | frieid’s appearance, was thinking how stern and graye that unfortunate lady who believes herself to be | your wife, and whom I have been professionally at- tendiny.”’ “She is not dead ?” cried Sir Frederick eagerly. He knew that by the terms of his marriage settlement in the eyent of her death without children the annual income paid to him would cease. “No.”’ said the doctor, for a moment taken aback by this sudden display of interest. Then guessing at what was probably passing within Sir Frederick's mind, he said, with additional disgust: “She is not dead, and in order to prevent any chance of your do- ing her any further harm in an excess of rage—and I tell you that through youn she has very nearly lost her life this time—she is determined to live separate from Fo a ““What about the allowance?’’ said Sir Frederick, “She mnst not go writing to her father ’—— | “Youcan, 1 imagine, inake yourself easy on that he looked, when Colonel Willamette, bending | sal-l ; : ‘Why did yon ask me to put on ‘my evening dress ? T hope you have no idea of any gayety in barwpech for n the mood,” me? I need scarcely say Iam not “Tecan well understand that, Harry; and yet, I pros pose to take you toascene of so-called Tovent Gatton |is a great masquerade to-night at Covent Theater, and I haye tickets and dominos for us two.” “I must decline, Wilbur; it would give me no amuse- ment.” | tion.”’ “Occupation at a masquerade! What do yo “Exactly what Isauy. This ie just the place we shal] be likely to meet a certain scoundrel, whom — of.” ~ ‘you have crossed the Atlantic in search “Ah,” said Willamette, with a start, go y'a lly, und if wo meet him’—— he ground, he seized him by the | oe y we & 4 : “Probably not; but it will give you some oocupa- Pitt uu a 4 on Xba we Sit xe re
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od — “Ofcourse you will be with me through the mat- ter ? “Do you doubt it *” F “No, honestly I do not; but understand, Wilbur, her name must never be mentioned. The provocation must be an insult arising out of some chance word, dent, of the moment.” “Tun tand perfectly. In such a jostling crowd as that, it wil) not be difficult to manage.” When dinner was concluded the two gentlemen | strolled into the theater, which, lighted up and beauti- | fully decorated with floral wreaths, presented a very | festive appearance. It was early as yet,and there were | but comparatively few persons present, so that the two | priests retired to a small box on the yrand tier, which Wilbur Hovt had secured, and watched the proceed- Lyre. Therein they remained for one or two hours—Hoyt sufficiently amused in watehing the vagaries of the | crowd; Colonel Williamette constantly pcering round | him with eager, strained gaze, apparently in ecarch of | some one who did not arrive. At last he sprang to his feet and touched his friend on the arm, and Wilbur Hoyt knew in a moment that the man was there. The stalis and pit had been boarded over, and the space thms cove was filled with a seething mass of dancers and promenaders. “He is there,’ said Colonel Willamette, bending | Hoyt saw the man with flushed face and brilliant eyes, whom he recognized as Sir Frederick Randall. A fe- | male in a rose-colored domino was on his arm. ; “Come,’’ said Willamette; and they descended the stairs. Fate seemed to fayor them, for, as they had nearly arrived at the foot of the grand staircase, they were jostled against his companion who were ascending. The Baronet looked up angrily. «Take care where you are coming to, sir!’’ he said, looking yelp f at Willamette; ‘and don't push against this lady!" “Tam not in the habit of hurting women by push- ing orstriking them, Sir Frederick Randall,’ said the colonel, looking straigut in his face. Sir Frederick Randall had been drinking heavily, and his blood was up. ‘What do you mean by that, youcnrsed scoundrel ?”" he said, “A gentleman, I believe, neither swears nor quarrels iu a lady’s presence,” said the colonel, with a bow. Then, bending towards his opponent, and whispering in his ear, he said; “ I will await you here for the next | ten minutes !°’ Sir Frederick nodded, and disappeared with his com- | panion, j Ten minutes afterwards, Colonel Willamette rejoined | Wilbur Hoyt in the box. ‘*Heis all right, ne said, handing him a card. | “ Here is the name of the man who will act for him: you will find him in the supper room at table number tour, Arrange that we may leave by the seven o'clock train to-morrow morning, cross over at once, and fight / on Calais sands." | ; } ee by CHAPTER XVIII. -) ‘ { ; P . THE AVENGER, THR. postile meeting between Colonel Willamette and = Sir Frederick Randall, of which the former had spoken : ih : 80 lightly, had not been arranged with as little diffi- | ——s euity a8 the colonel made it appear in his conversation |. -with hie friend, Wilbur Hoyt. Not that Sir Frederick | ke was any less ready to quarrel, or even to push the | y quarrel to an extremity, than tins would-be antagonist; | Bites bu@it is probably more difficult to arrange fora duel | \ _ in Kngland than any other country in the world, and | aS this urises from the fact that the few personal en- a 2 counters of late years have been things to be laughed | ou at rather than wept over, and that a considerable | te” umount of ridicule is attached to the mere idea of a ¥ cuel, Bad ae Sir Frederick Randall, who was, like most men, _-—s without any sense of humor, keenly susceptible to tue | a thought of being ridiculed, was equally susceptible to ~ the punetillio of his rank. His moral character might | “lg be as bad as people said it was, but he had the dignity by of his position to uphold, and it would be impossibls, | Lh. he felt, tor him to go out witli some unknown mau | rai 4 ih whose social status no one conld guarantee, 2 (, en eover, another fatal source of inconvenience was | “he t to be found in the rose-colored domino hanging on his » arm. This lady had recently made the acquaintance of | way Sir Frederick, who had taken a great fancy to her, and | __ finging that he was rich, unsparing in his presents, and | ek ~ eek lavistrin his hospitality, she naturally did not desire | _ the oceurrence of anything which might threaten to | __—- put an end to their intimacy. _. Andshe was wonder!ully quick and observant. By ot ee —_ women the rapid, bristling conversation ex- a | es changed between the two men would not have been ob- ; 4 ey or if observed, would not have been compre- _ hended. : ense Carachon was a Frenchwoman who, for the ive years of her life, had been known as one of the wittiest, most audacious actresses on tle Parisian | al stage, and who had been the cause of many desperate ? oe _ quarrels among the hot-headed youths of that gay me- a * ft so that although she understood but few | __ words of the English language, her-quick intellect, ex- 73 perience, and knowledge of pantomime enabled her at 5 = Sy to perceivé what was the purport of the discus- the'e : he” | determined on. | what he had merely ;iven as an excuse to Hortense was } onel Willamette. GOING TO THE BAD. ' stranger, aul that she forbade him, if he valued her re- | gard, to proceed further in tue matter. it was an old boast of Sir Frederick Randall's that he hever permitted himself to be taken aback or allowed his face to show the emotions passing throagh his mind, so he turned to his companion with a louk of | surprise and a half-laugh, and said : . “You fancy yeurself quite able to understand English, Hortense, but you are evidently upa:quainted with ' American, and it wasin that langua;e thut that geutle- man just now addressed me. His manner is short and brusque, I allow, but it is manner aud nothing more. You will recollect that the viconite who introduced me to you, told you TI had marricd an American lady—you see I know he told you every thing about me—and the fact is, that that gentleman is her brother.” “The more reason that wiiat I say is true,” respond- ed Hortense, “and that he should try to find occasion to quarrel with you.” “There is no qttéstion of quarreling at all,” said Sir | Frederick. “LIhuve, as you know, determined upon separating from my wife,and her brother has come over with a View of making finul arrangements. I must devote the next day or two to him and my lawyers, and in a week's time the affair will be fluished. Here woe are, at the door of our box; let rme ask you to excuse me for five minutes; you will find several friends there, and at the end of tuat time I will rejoin you.” So saying, and having seen his fair companion safely down, and following tlre direction indicated. Wilbur | Withiu the box, Sir Frederic), bowed and hurried to re- | join Colonel Willamette. He found the colonel stamping up and down the cor- ridor. Phe usual coolness of the English barvnet, who had by this time sobered down from the debauch of his dinner, formed & marked contrast with the pus- sionate impatience of the American, “Tam here, sir,” said Sir Frederick, lifting his hat with special courtesy, ‘to receive your apology for the double insult you have plaeed upon me—first, by rudely pushing against my companion, and secondly, by the offensive nature of your words,” ‘You had better learn then, at once,” said Colonel Willamette, “that you are expecting what you never will receive. actions anil my words.”’ Sir Frederick looked at him curiously. He saw at once that the insult had been premeditated—the duel For a moment he wondered whether really the case; whether this man was really some re- lation of Minnie's, determined to punish him for his conduct towards her. A strange thrill ran through him like an electric shock. Was the time really come when he was to answer for all his misdeeds? Was this man so snd- 'denly appearing before him, 80 desperately intent on the purpose which possessed him, the destined instru- ment of his punishment? In that moment Sir Frederick Randall Jost his self- control ; ateeling akin to that which crept over him ‘when he saw, as he imagined, the ghost of Lis mur- dered wife, seemed again to take porsession of him ; but he quickly recovered himself, and setting his teeth tightly together, turned upon his adversary with furious determination. “Let it be, then, as you say, sir,’’ he said. “T too, am fully prepared to resist any attempt at being bullied or coerced,’ You have used language to me for which I demand an explanation—you refuse tu give one '’— “T will give you any explanation you choore at the end of my pistol-barrel,”’ said Colonel Willamette ; * but in no other way,” “Ido not see,” said Sir Frederick Randall, slowly, and regarding the colonel with hauteur, “that as yet, Ishould be justified in giving you thé satisfaction which you seek. My rank and position in society are well defined ; but what of yoursY’’ “T am an American yentleman—a colonel! in the army "—— ‘Everybody is acolonel in the army in America,” said Sir Frederick, with a sneer. “ Your sarcasm, sir, leaves me unharmed,” said Col- “T hold a commission in the regular army of the United States. I have served not without distinction, I may say, in the recent war. You can make inquiry for yourself. My name is Henry Wil- lamette, and’—— “How should [know you to be the person you repre- sent yourself?” asked Sir Frederick. “TI can refer you to the American Legation,’’ said Henry Willamette, excitedly; “but that would take | up teo much time for the business I have in hand. My most intimate personal friend is Mr. Wilbur Hoyt, who, as owner of the ‘ Columbia,’ and a member of the Royal Yacht Squadron, at Cowes, is well known in the best English society.’’ Sir Fredericd Randall bowed. “I am acquainted with Mr. Hoyt's name, though I have never had the pleasure of meeting him,’’ he said. “Mr. Hoyt will act for me in this matter. That, I presume, is sufficient reference,” said Willamette. **Quite,” said Sir Frederick, penciling on a card. “ This is the address of my friend, Major Murdoch. He is at this ball, I know. 1 will make it my business to lunt him up, and send him to the Army and Navy Club, where, in an hour's time, Mr. Hoyt will find him. We can leave all preliminaries to them.” *« All minor prelininaries,” said the colonel, “ but we may ourselves agree as to the time and place. The time, to-morrow; the place, Calais sands.” “You are somewhat peremptory, sir, in your de- On leaving the American gentleman, with whom he Iam fully prepared to uphold both my | 29 | said. “Hortense is in a great state of mind. Says: ‘she overheard a row between you and some eee ‘and that there is sure to be miurder. 1 told it was all stuff, but she would not be pacified until 1 came.” “ There is some foundation for what she says, Mur doch,” said the baronet; *‘and I was just now seeking for you. Aslwas walking with Hortense, I was in- sulted by a man, who turns out to be an American col- | onel. I thought at tirst, he had pushed against me by | accident, but it proved, afterwards, to be an insnit | wiven with a manifest purpose, and that purpose to / provoke me to a meeting ”’ * Indeed |"' said the major. ‘‘What is his object? | Did you ever do him: a bad turn?” | “His object he keeps to himself, but I have a suspicion of it. However, that is neither bere aor: | there.” ‘*Yes, but who is the man ?’’ cried the major. “ You | eannot go out with every fellow!” | ‘ Thisis a gentleman,” said Sir Frederick Randall, raising his hat. “He has namedas bis friend, Mr. Wilbur Hoyt.” “I know,” interrupted the major; ‘ good-tempered,. hospitable Yankee ; man who owns the * Columbia.’ | Saw him at the Cowes ball, last August—very decent sort of a fellow—fora Yankee.” « That is the man,” said Sir Frederick. ‘I have told. | this gentleman, whose name is Colonel Willamette, that Mr. Hoyt will find you at the ‘Rag’ in an hour’® time—you had better go there and prepare for him.” | “ Allright,’ said the major, “and you get home te | bed. I will just step round to Winton’s and tell him to- | prepare Hortense and the rest of them for your ab- scence, Go home and get a few hours’ rest; you are 4 | pretty cool hand in these matters, I know by expe- | rience; but you have been knocking about a good deal | lately, and keeping late hours, end lifting your elbow toomuch; your nerves ure a little unstrung—by the way, did this Yankee say anything about when and | where?”’ | “He was urgent for both,” said Sir Frederick. morrow on Culais sands.’’ * Calais !’’ cried the major. | confounded channel es always upsets a man, and ‘renders his shooting hand unsteady. However, one ' comfort, you are a good sailor. Now good-night. I will come on to Purk Lane as soon as I have seen Mr. Hoyt, | and leave a note with your nian, Foster, telling you where to meet me.” The mujor was moving away, but Sir Frederick called after him,’ Stay ; wait a minute—is there nothing more to be said?’ | “ Nothing—nothing, my good fellow,” said the major, hastily. ‘‘We ar*stolerably pressed for time as it is— pood-night:’’ and he hurried away. Sir Frederick remained looking after him until he | disuppeared in the crowd. “Murdoch js right, I suppose,” he muttered to him-- self, “LI had better go home and get what rest I can, und yet IL seem to have the strangest Yoo to going to that house—the strangest desire todo anything, no- matter,what, to fill wp the time and keep me away from it.. If I go through this affair well, I will change my whole style of life—cut this never-ending round of dissipa- tion, and seek for rest, and health, and variety on the | American prairivs, or the Norwegian fiords. ' safely through this—what is this strange presentiment. | that seems to hang 8 gloomily over me? I have been | face to face with death betore now, and never felt this | strange sinking of the heart—this sense of animpen fatality which oppresses me now—I ani ont of tone alto- gether, and as nervous as a girl. A course of Germam ! baths, aud then a three months’ camping out in the | fresh air, with plenty of exercise, and nothing but fresh | water will make another man of me.” He yawned as he spoke, and pulling himself together | with a mighty effort, strolled ont of the theater. The» | usual crowd of roughs, link-boys, and hangers-on, was: ~ “pea round the doors, and one of them ran fora cab. Sir Frederick gave him a smail fee for his trouble, and was stepping into the vehicle, when be suddenly drew back. “What's that?” he cried, pointing into the corner of | the carriage; “‘ who is sitting there?” | The linkman put in his bead and looked round the ‘cab. On withdrawing it, he said: “I don’t see any thiug—what do you mean?” “It is gone now,” said Sir Fredcrick, after a hasty ‘glance. “Stand aside, let me get in.” The linkman closed the door upon him, and as the cab drove on, turved to his mates, and said: “ That cove’s off his head. I thought he’d got the delirium tremens, or something of that sort. est if — | I didn’t think by his face he had seen a ghost in the ‘carriage; and there was nothing there, not eveh vou's uuse-bag."? : Sir Frederick Randall threw himself back in the cab, and pressed his hands upon bis eyes. What was the | matter with him? Was he going to have a fit or a par- | alytic stroke ? Unquestionably, he had seen something —some undefined shape--lying there in the vehicle; but on mentioning it, he had only exposed himself to ‘the ridicule of the bystanders; yet,even at that mo- | ment, he was half fearful of lookipg towards the cor~ ner of the vehicle where he had seen the figure. = All right now; nothing there; he wae a little un- ” To- “What a nuisance! that / «Just sent to look for you. my dear Frederick,” he- I get. = strung, that was all; but he could set thatrightina | ‘ | moment with a glass of brandy. He recollected | in a few minutes the cab must pass by one clubs, and as they passed the door, he stopped the dri- ver and descended. : . The bh of his _ i
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77 Sir Frederick noticedit. ‘“ What the deuce are you looking at, John ?’’ he asked. “Nothing, Sir Frederick,” replied the man; “having @ little doze, Sir Frederick—woke up suddenly, that's all.” Sir Frederick passed into the billiard-room, and called for a glass of brandy. There were only a few j men there, just finishing a game of pool. He knew 7 none of them, but thought they seemed to eye him curiously, so he tossed off his liquor and withdrew. The generous spirit renewed the beart within him; as he passed out of the door the hall porter noticed the chauge in his face. “Looks like himself again, now," “Ruining himself by late hours—what the devil ople sit up late for, when they are not obliged to, tor their own pleasure, I never could understand,” No shadowy figure in the cab now. With his breast aglow, Sir Frederick does not even throw a glance be- fore him, but bids the cabman to drive op to Park Lane and jumps into the vehicle. Hia train of thought has changed very much, and his anticipations are now roseate-hued, Heshall shoot this man who has insulted him; he feels that! Not kill him, but merely sufficiently disable him to. pre- vent the possibility of his hectering over or bullying English gentleman for sometime to come. “What could have made the man, a total stranver, anxious tv pick a quarrel with me, unless indeed, he were a relative, or a relative of Lady Randall's or perhaps a former lover?” Sir Frederick smiled grim|y to himself, as that idea came into his mind. “If I thousht that were the cause,’ he said, ‘I would cer- tainly kill him! I haveno particular love for milady, : butif [did not makean example of the first man who " tries to bully me for her sake, there is no knowing how many more I may have to deal with.” “Home atlast!’’ Not even a policeman to be seen in the long perspective of the} leserted street, not a fvot fall on the ear. As Sir Frederick slams tue door of the cab on quitting it, the noise re-echoes among the surrounding buildings, and he hears the rell of depart- ing wheels long after the vehicle is out of sight. ‘or he does not go in on the instant, but stands on the doorstep, his hand in his pocket searchiny wr his key, his thoughts wandering. Something of the old feeling of horror has come upon him again, but he strives against it. He finds the key, lets himself into the hall, aud closes the door behind him. The hall strikes cold and chilly, It is lumbered with packages of things which he has selected irom among the furniture aud ornaments, and which he is going to send to the store-house. It is quite dark and Sir Frederick stumbles against these packayes, as he groupes his way towards the marble slab on which Foster, the valet, isin the habit of leaving a candle aud matches for his master. Here isthe slab, but the candle is mot there, nor are the matches! Then Sir Frederick recollectgs that he ha.l given Foster leave to go into the country for two or turee days to see his relations. The valet will not be there, then, when Major Murdoch comes the next moruinz, and he, Sir Frederick, will have to be roused up to near the message which the Major brinys. Angry at his own forgetfulness, the baronet cautious- , ly feets his way through the hall and along the broad passaye opposite, atthe endof which is theroom in which he has slept since his return from the hotel. There are matches there, he knows; knows, tov, where to lay his hand upon them, Why does ne pause, on reflection, half draw back, and then, leaning forward, strive to peer into the darkness beyond? Wuy does he turn his head aside, and listen eagerly? Can it be real, that sound of hard and regu- lar breathing, or is it merely his imagination ? Another instant and he stepped into the room; the matches are there, as he expected, on the mantle-shelf, and he has no difficulty in striking a light. As the gus flares up, he looks quickly round him. Nothiny out of place—all as he left it. And yet this strange, nervous feeling continued, He draws his breath thickly, and glances stealthily around him. Look at the bed. It is made of mahogany, in the French fashiou, broad and heavy, and there is no space between it and the ground fora man to hide. Not so the wardrobe, in the far oorner! Its deep roeesses would afforii asplendid place tor concealment—and its heavy doors stand au inch or two open; he may as well close and turn the key in them; he will feel safer then. Hy advances for this purpose, when suddenly the wardrobe doors fiy open, and something—he knows not what—springs out | Tu an instant he is on his back, the something (which he now makes out to be a@ man) kneeling on his chest, with one hand pressing tightly on his throat, and the Cther pulling at a rope by which his arms are lassoed zad bound, He would cry aloud, but the grip at his throat is too tight owing tighter, too, at each attempt he makes to 8) . The suffocation becomes terrible, Are his senses leaving him? No, he feels a hot breath in his tace, he hears » deep voice in his ear. And this is what it says: “Die, dog! die! Here yon lie, helpless and hopeless —no one to hear yut cry—no one te lend you aid. Your hour has come, Frederick Randall! Do yeu know whose knees are on your chest—whose grip is at your throat? Dick Phillimore’s—Dick Phillimore, whom you insulted and atruck, who has owed months of mad- ness and misery to your brutality, now has you in his power, and avenges himself and Kitty Moreton at the same time |’ ee ae * * * * * “eh 4 old housekeeper rapped at her master's door neat morning, and, atter waiting some time without getting a answer, cnsered the room. he muttered, oe d rt - - a ¥ ry ¢ GS TN is Be OY See ote) OE A GOING TO THE BAD, ing; and the first thing that struck her sight was the dead body of Sir Frederick, curled upon the floor, with his arms lashed to his sides by a rope, and the face horribly discolored. CHAPIER XIX, AT LAST. AT a little after seven the following morning in the midst of a cold, half frozen rain, which was slowly fall- ing three gentlemen were walking up and down out- side the Charing Cross Railway station, were together, the third alone, but all eagerly serutin- ized the occupants of the cabs which were driving up in quick succession, an all turned away in apparent disappointment after each inspection, Suddenly one of the two who were patrolling together laid his hand on his companion’s arm. “It is Major Murdoch, Iam certain of it,’’ he said, “‘T caught a glimpse of his face just now as he passed, | and recognized him at once—he at. least is punctual.” * What is the good of this punctuality if his princi- pal does not keep his time ?”’ said Wilbur Hoyt; excit- edly. “Itis the other man I want to see—this one is merely an accessory.’ “You do not think Sir Frederick Randall is shirkiny, do you, Wilbur?” “My dear Henry,” said Wilbur Hoyt, “ you are irrit- able to a degree. There is train starts, and I have no doubt Sir Frederick will put in an appearance. Meanwhile, control yourself, I beg. Your excitable manner is attracting the attention of everybody present—pssengers, porters, and all."’ “I cannot help it,” said Colonel Willamette, “ when I think of what that poor girl hus suffered at the hands of this scoundrel.” “Yes, yes,” interrupted Wilbur Hoyt; “but there is no necessity for taking all the worldinto your confi- dence, Just wait here an instant while I stup up to the ee and,see what he has to say about his friend’s de- ae, Major Murdoch recognized Mr. Hoyt at once and greeted him courteously. “You and your friend, who is, I presume, Colonel Willamette, are doubtless surprised at Sir Frederick | Randall's non-appearance. I was at his house after leaving you last night, but could make no one hear, so 1 imagined it not unlikely that his valet is absent, and that he, having no one to call him, has overslept him- ; self. However, I have sent up my servaut to tell Sir Frederick to hurry down here, and expect him at once.”’ A cab came tearing up as the major spoke, and a man jumped hastily out, and looked round him. “Here, Willis,’’ cried the major, “ what the devil is } the matter with the fellow,” he added in an under- | tone. “He looks as white asa ghost.” Then the man advanced, and touching his hat, drew the major on one side, ‘*This man Randall is a coward, after all, I believe,” ) said Colonel Willamette to his friend; ‘he has sent some excuse by his servant. Do you see how annoyed | the major looks ?”’ “Pray be quiet, Henry.’’ said Wilbur; “ your impa- | tience is quite out of place, Besides, that is not an) expression of annoyance on Major Murdoch's face, it I | take it rightly ; it is something else."’ As he finished speaking, Major Murdoch advanced towards him. bowed on his breast. ‘My servant brings me very serious news, geutle- meu," he said, in a low voice. ‘‘My poor friend, Sir Frederick Randall, is beyond your vengeance, Colonel | Willamette.” strong demand; and the lavdlord is for “Good Heavens! What do you mean?" cried the | person to wait upon two Jadies who eon ~ cia colonel. gaged it, and entreat them to receive an addition to ‘‘He was found, half an hour ago, in his dressing-| their party. The landlord finds the ladies ready dressed room dead, and from all, the evidences, there is no doubt that he has been foully murdered.” Colonel Willamette staygyered back, ‘‘This is too horrible |’? he cried. ‘Is there no trace of the assassin? Is there no mo- tive for the deed ?” asked Wilbur Hoyt, “ At present none; but the discovery has only just been made, and all is now in confusion. Of course, our intended business is atanend, You will excuse me, gentlemen ; I must see what use I can be in Park} Lane.” The major raised his hat, and bowing courteously, jumped inte the cab which had brought his servant to *he station and drove rapidly away. When tiie vehicle disappeared, Wilbur Hoyt, who had been looking after it, turned, anit found his friend buried in thought. “This is an unexpected and asad ending, Henry," he said, taking the colonel’s arm; ‘bunt the result is the same as if the object of your mission had been ac- complished. Sir Frederick Randall is dead, and his wife is avenged without your having the sin of his blood on your head.” * That ia true,’ said Colonel Willamotte, “ but I was prepared to take that risk upon myself. The image of this man, falling by my bullet, has been before me more than once, as you will easily believe, and was contemplated by me with the utmost sincerity ; but the thought of his falling by the hand of an assassin is too horrible, and I cannot yet it out of my mind.” “TI can understand the feeling,” said Wilbur Hoyt. “It will be @ horrible shock to Lady Randall, but the thought that she is now free should bring its consola- tion to her—and to other people.” * * * * * * * The news that Sir Frederick Ramdall had been found murdered in his own house, spread like wildfire through London, was tho general topic ef conversation at the clubs, and iu all society. Two of them | et five minutes before the | He was very grave, and his head was | LLL LLL LLL LLL LLL enero The shutters were closed, but the gas was stilt burn-{| The deceased baronet was know n in all sorts of | circles ; in some, intimately, in others, by sight and by ,Tepute; and many and various were the comments ; made upon him and his career, which had ended so | horribly. Ofcourse every’exertion was made to trace the murderer, and to ascribe some cause for the murder, but in this lust particular, the police were . entirely in fault. | Sir Frederick's watch and purse were found in his pockets ; not a single article ot value was missing trom the room, and it was evident that robbery was not the | motive by which the perpetrator of the crime had been | actuated, That the deceased had beon killed out of revenge , Seemed equally unlikely, He was known to live in a loose dissipated set, but of late his transactions of play had been much more moderate than formerly, and had been marked by none of those wild outbursts of passion, { which in earlier times, when the sums for which he } ; Bambled were really an oLject to Lim, characterized hig proceedings. The fact that Sir Frederick had sent away his valet | for a few days’ holiday, at first generated an idea that } jhe had committed suicide, but this notion was dis- | pelled by the testimony ot those who first found the body, and who declared tiat the mauner in which the Of | arms were lashed to the sides, must have been the work of another person. So the popular excitement ran throngh its usual | phase, The Park Lane mystery, as it was called, was the favorite tupic of the newspapers for some days ; the | police were alternately praised and bu.lied in the press; finally some other subject of iterest urose, and the murder of Sir Frederick Randall was cnly remenibered | by those who had a direct interest in it. | Abouta week atter the murder, and while town and | country weré still ringing with its etails, a laborer on | @ farm, within twenty miles of London, going at early morning to his work, saw something huddled up by | the side of a barn. iA Going to it, aud turning it over, he found it to be the dead body of a man, horribly emaciated and thinly | clad, On its being carried to the dead-Louse and exam- , ined by the parisi surgeon, that fuuctiouary declared | that death had ensued from want of nourishment, and | from exposure to the cold. The case was rather an awkward one, , country which boasts of its civilization; but, fortu- | nately, the dead nan was not a resident of the neigh- | borhood; he had come trom distant parts, and nothing was known about him, Sov that the coroner's jury, alter 4 very short deliberation, returned a verdict in | accordance with the evidence, and the subject of its | investigation was speedily hurried into a pauper’s grave. Sv there was none to know that that wretched rem- nant of mortality, over which the officiating clergyman red om cotemiaty contested Shrcual a decoction of the | burial service, had once sn jovial, geni : ‘> ' Richurd Phillimore | r wees . * cecurring in a ! * * * * * \* | Winter has passed away, and spring is fast intosummer; the landlord of the little inn at Roland- sick on the Rhine is in expectation of a swarm of tour- ists, coming to inspect that lovely neighborhood, and j is mening preparations to receive them by painting his ig hotel and reorganizing his stock of horses, carriages, ou | anules, and boats. pnw, | With the latter, however, he is somewhat behind- al hend, and there is only one cratt—and that a sufficient- ly cruzy one—to ply betweeu the mainland and that | favorite resort of pleasure-seekers, tho little island of Nanenwerth. For this boat, even at #0 early a season, there is for the excursion, and remurks,as he has indeed re- marked before, being an observant man, that they are young and good-looking. These facts did not render the host less polite, and | he is all bows and shoulder shrugs, The honorable ladies Lave engaged the boat; that there is no coutroverting; would they object to the presence of two gentlemen—most honorable gentlemen, und from their owu country, England—who wished to make the excursion, and who are pressed for time ? The smaller and slighter of the two ladies looks at her rimace expressive of companion, and makes a little g discontent; but after a whispered colloquy between and signi- them, the other lady turns to the landlord, fies their permission. jai After the landlord has expressed his gratitude for = their condescension, and taken his departure, the lady \. who had spoken to him turned to her friend: “We could not do otherwise, dear,’ she said; ‘and, as he takes you for an Englishwoman, it will serve to impress him somewhat fayorably, and do away with the idea that all my country-people are so ill-tempered sap} atl wf { “I suppose you are right, Kitty,” said her co: - ion; “but it does seem hard that our little bit of aes mantic trip should be spoiled by the introduction of two prosaic Englishmen, who will say ‘yes’ and ‘ah’ and ‘indeed,’ and glance over the convent in which poor Hilda passed her life, with as much apathy and coldness as if they were inspecting 4 cotton factory in = own gloomy soy sins “ You certainly are not po to my countrymen, _ dear,” suid Kitty, with a smile; but, Spechipa: premy two may not prove so terrible as you suppose. At all events, at the distance, their looks are ratherin ¢heil’ aE% ae Th favor.” ke, and Lady ee pours as may hs % saw she—who was in direction was two gentlemen Seotiade. preceded ing landiowd. ~ a
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#4 , GOING TO THK BAD. ik és rae arctan me Er —— Fr , . She intended to take but a cursory glanco; but! He spoke with heat and passion. Lady Randall! ‘‘Then you knew that ?” i something iu the walk and movement of one of the | looked up at him timidly. “I knew everything,’ said Wilbur Hoyt. “Itisa “— figures seemed to attract her attention. She startet | and looked again ; then turning rapidly aside, said to her friend : *« Ovie of these gefhtlemen is known to me: Willamet would rather not meet him now —cannot we tura away ?”’ “ Both of them are known to both of us,”’ said Kitty, who had been following her glance, “ but it would be impossible to miss them now without manifest rude- ness—they are here ?” “This way, most honorable gentlemen,” said the chattering landlord, approaching. ‘“ Here's the little ‘ship which will take you—and here the :nost honvra- ble ladies who are to be your accompanists.” As they neared the ladies, the two gentlemen raised their hats; but as soon as Colone Willamette, who was tlie first to look up, perceivec Wady Randall, he uttered au exclamation of surpria, Nor was his companion, Wilbur Hoyt, less astcnish- ed. But the greeting between the tour was very quitt and undemonstrative—‘ quite Euglish,” Lady Randall called it afterwards—and almost in silence they took their places in the boat, and were ferried across the rushing river. Colonal But when they reached the other side, and were walk- passed between them, Wilbur Hoyt said: ing in what had been the garden of the convent, with- | out any pre-arrangement they divided i:.to two couples, Lady Randall and Colerel Willamette walking first, and Wilbur Hoyt and Kitty following them at some little distance. ‘This is a strange meeting, Lady Randall,’’ said the colonel, striving to speak with alight and unembar- easse.l air, ‘Very strange, indeed,”’ said Lady Randall, looking aside ; “but what a beautiful place! There is a legend * connected with it, is there not ?”’ anar ly —"7 ‘ j A te Hat “Tnere is,’ said the colonel, eyeing her sternly. “The brave Roland, a German knight of old family aud tried valor, was called away to the Crusades, and leit his betrothed Hilda mourning his absence. Alter some years, a false report of his death arrivud, and Hilda, in despair, took the vail aud became a nun in this very conyeut, of which we now see the ruins. Roland was not killed, as rumored ; and on his return, finding that his loved one wus lost to him forever, he took up his abode in the castle yonder across the river, where his only solace was in watching Hilda as she walked in the garden with the other nuns.” F “Men were devoted in those days,” said Lady Ran- all, “Anddo you think that no such devotion exists now?" asked the colonel, bending forward. ‘‘ Do you think that even at this present day, there are not men whose lifeis one dull blank, owing to the way in which they have been treated by women— who have placed their affectiona on one alone, who can receive the consolation from none other, and who on their lives solitary and celibate as the poor wretch n the tower yonder, mourning over what might have been ve ; you have heard me speak of him, and [ | | further conversation was carried on in so low a tone, ** How do you know this ?*. she asked. characteristic of our nation that we.do not sleep over “From bitter experience,” he said. “ Nearly two | anything when we take itin hand. When you hinted at | years ago Il asked you to become my wile, telling you you were the only woman I ever loved. You refused | me then, and I agreed to accept my fate. I have ac- | cepted it in silence, but it is not theless bitter {’’ She was silent still, and after a pause, he con- tinued: “The last words 1 said {8 you at that time, were to implore you to send for me when my presence was required. If one is to believe what the world says, that time came, and I heard nothing from you.” “Do you on nothing for my pride ?’’ she asked, **No,” he replied quickly. “I do not allow that, against the happiness ot my life. “Nor shall it,’ she excliimed, “ By becoming a nun, Hilda took an irrevocable step; my misfortunes She looked up, and their eyes met. In both of them tit I .-¢ ss ® : iia . h iy : . : & 7 ~~ 4 a. . a. A . 9 . an . ey ’ a \ A BY A » > + +! Khon 19 i" ’ 4 rs L Wes ae a7 . + ae, han ‘ae . ty
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62 The Maniac Bride. - —— - _ 1 The Masked B ide; or, Will She Marry Him? By Mrs. Reed Crowell. American Copyright Novels and the Cream of Foreign Novelists, Unabridged, FOR FIVE CENTS? 84 The Laurel Bush. By the author of “John Halifax, Gentleman.”’ 2 Was It Love? or, Collegians and Sweet- | 85 Led Astray. By Octave Feuillet. hearts. By Wm, Mason Turner, M. D. 3 The Girl Wife. ny Bartiey T. Campbell. 4 A Brave Heart. By Arabella Southworth. Bessie Raynor, the Work Girl, William Mason Turner, M. D. 6 The Secret Marriage, By Sara Claxton. 7 A Daughter of Eve. By . Crowell. 8 Heart to Heart. By Arabella Southworth. 9 aoe in the Worl I Married air Face. 3 4 6 Trust Her Not. By M t Leicester. A Loyal Lover. By Arabella Southworth, is Idol. By Mrs. ry Reed Crowell. he Broken Betrothal} or, Love versus Hate. By Mary Grace Halpine, 20 Orphan Nell, the Orange Girl. Agile Penne. 21 Now and Forever; or, Why Did She Mar- LN Him? By Henrietta Thackeray. 22 The Bride of an Actor. By the author of “ Alone in the World,” “ Clifton,” ete. 23 Leap Year; or, Why She Proposed. By Sara n. 24 Her Face Was Her Fortune, By Elea- nor Blaine. 25 Only a Schoolmistress; or, Her Untold Secret. By Arabella Southworth. 26 Without a Heart. By Col. P. Ingraham. 27 Was She a Coquette? or, A Strange Courtship. By Henrietta Thackeray. Sybil Chase, ByMrs. Ann§8. Stephens. 9 For Her Dear Sake. By Sara Claxton. The Bouquet Girl. By Agile Penne. A Mad Marri:ge. ByMary A. Denison Mariana, the Prima Donna; or, Roses and Lilies. By Arabella Southworth. The Three Sisters. By Alice Fleming. A Marriage of Convenience; or, Was Hea Count? By Sara Claxton. All Against Her. By Clara Augusta. Sir Archer’s Bride; or, The Queen of His Heart. By Arabella Southworth, The Country Cousin, Rose Kennedy. His Own Again. By Arabella Southworth. Flirtation. By Jacob Abarbanell. le ah to Marry. By Sara Claxton. Blin Devotion... By Alice Fleming. Beatrice, the Beautiful; or, His Second Love. By Arabella Southworth, The Baronet’s Secret. By Sara Claxton. The oa Daughter. By Alice Fleming. Her Hidden Foe, By A. Southworth. The Little Heiress; or, Under a Cloud, By Mrs. Mary A. Denison, Because She Loved Him; or, How Will It End? By Alice hn ag In Spite of Herself. By 8S. R. Sherwood. His Heart’s Mistress; or, Love at First Sight. By Arabella Southworth. The Cuban Hetress, By M. A. Denison. Two Young Girls. By Alice Fleming. The Winged Messenger; or, Risking All fora Heart. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. Agnes Hope, the Actress, By William on Turner, M. D. One Woman’s Heart. By G. 8S. Kaime. She Did Not Love Him or, Stooping to Conquer. By Arabella Southworth. Love-Miad, By Win. Mason Turner, M. D. A Brave Girl, By Alice Fleming. The Ebon Mask. By Mrs. Crowell. A Widow’s Wiles, By Rachel Bernhardt. Cecil’s Deceit. By Mrs. Jennie D. Burton. A Wicked Heart, By Sara Claxton. By Margaret Blount, 63 The Creole Sisters. By Anna E. Porter.. 64 What Jealousy Did. By Alice Fleming. 65 The Wife’s Secret, By Col. Juan Lewis. 66 A Brother’s Sin. By Rachel Bernhardt. 67 Forbidden Bans, By Arabella Southworth, 68 Weavers and Weft. By M. EF. Braddon, 69 Camille. By Alexandre Dumas. 70 The Two Orphans. By D'Enery. 71 my Young ife. By My Young Wife’s usband 2 The Two Widows. By Annie Thomas. 3 Rose Michel, By Maud Hilton, Cecil Castlemaine’s Gage, By Ouida. ae Black Lady of Duna. by J.8. Le ‘anu. Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. Rowson. Christian Oakley’s Mistake, By the author of ‘‘ John Halifax, Gentleman,” etc. 8 My Young Husband. By Myself. 79 A Queen Amongst Women, author of ‘“‘ Dora Thorne,”’ etc., ete. ‘6, 80 Her Lord and Master. By Florence Sara Claxton. . Campbell. Ces Db RieROOW wi tow pe pt * Ane bh MSOSRID Ch CB BHO CH Fb SikwW CHOOSE Qu HW HKO on PAM Sree 7 7 7 7 7 4 5 6 7 at, 81 7 82 Long Time Ago, og for High Stakes. By Annie a By the 86 Janet’s Repentance, By George Eliot. 87 The Romance ofa or Young Man, By Octave Feuillet. 88 A Terrible Deedy or, All for Gold. By / Emma Garrison Jones, 89 A Gilded Sin. By the author of “Dora | Thorn,” ete. 90 The Author's Daughter. By M. Howitt, 91 The Jilt. By Charlies Reade. 92 Eileen Alanna. 7 Dennis O'Sullivan. 93 Love’s Victory. By B. L. Farjeon. 94 The Quiet Heart. By Mrs. Oliphant. 95 Lettiece Arnold. By Mrs. Marsh. 96 Haunted Hearts. By Rachel Bernharitt. 97 Hugh Melton. By Katharine King. 98 Alice Learmont. By Miss Mulock. 99 Marjorie Bruce’s Lovers. By Mary Patrick. 100 Through Fire and Water. By Fred- erick Talbot. i 101 Hannah, By Mss Mullock. 102 Peg Woffington. By Charles Reade. 103 A Desperate Deed. By Erskine Boyd. 104 Shadows on the Snow. By B. L. Far- eon, 105 The Great Hoggarty Diamond. By W. M. yy ete a 106 From Dreams to Waking. By E. Lynn Linton. 107 Poor Zeph! By F. W. Robinson. 108 The Sad Fortunes of the Rev. Amos Barton. By George Eliot. 109 Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses. By B, L. Farjeon. 110 The andering Heir. By Charlies Reade Bernardin De St. Pierre. 114 °Twas In Trafalgar’s Bay. By Wal- ter Besant and James Rice. 115 The Maid of Killeena. By Wm. Black. 6 Sef By Henry Kingsley. The Wayside Cross, By Capt. Milman. The Vicar of Wakefield, By Oliver Goldsmith. Mand Mohan, poe ee of Warsaw. By Miss Jane ,orter. The King of No-Land. By B. L. Far- jeon. ’ Lovel, the Widower. By W. M. Thack- eray. An Island Pearl. By B. L. Farjeon, Cousin Phillis. Leila; or, The Siege of Grenada. By Ed- ward Bulwer (Lord Lytton). ! When the Ship Comes Home, by Walter Besant and James Rice. 127 One of the Family. By James Payn, 8 The Birthright. By Mrs. Gore. 129 Motherless; or, The Farmer's Sweetheart. By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. 130 Homeless; or, Two Orphan Girls in New York. By Albert W. Aiken. Sister against Sister. By Mrs. Crowell. Sold for Gold, By Mrs. M. V. Victor. Lord Roth’s Sin, By Georgiana Dickens. fa He Love Her? By Bartley T. Camp- ell. Sinned Against. By Lillian Lovejoy. Was She His Wife? By Mrs. Crowell. The Village on the Cliff. By Miss Thackeray. Poor Valeria. By Margaret Blount. Margaret Graham, By G. P. R. James, Without Mercy. By Bartley T.Campbell. Honor Bound, By Lillian vejoy. Fleeing from Love. By Harriet Irving. Abducted; or, A Wicked Woman's Work. By Rett Winwood. A Strange Marriage. By Lillian Lovejoy. Two Girls’? Lives. By Mrs. Crowell. A Desperate Venture; or, For Love's Own Sake. By Arabella Southworth. The War of Hearts, By Corinne Cush- man. : 148 Which Was the Woman ? or, Strangely | Misjudged. By Sara Claxton. 149 An Ambitious oroig | or, She Would Be An Actress. By Frances Helen Davenport. 0 Love Lord of All. By Alice May Fleming. A Wild Girl. By Corinne Cushman. A Man’s Sacrifice. By Harriet Irving. Did She Sin. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. He Loves Me Not. 7 illian arepy. Winning Ways. By aret Blount, WV hat She Cost Him; or, Crooked Paths, 1 1 1 4 By Annie Thomas. 1 122 mw a ee —_— eee eee —_—- = eo Ove CHK SCOD Qo a Noro SrorSe By Arabella Southworth. Girls Heart. By Rett Winwood. Bitter Mistake; or, A Young Girl's By Agnes Mary Shelton, elen’s Vow; or, The Mother's By the Late Mrs. EF. F. Ellet, 160 Buying a Heart, _By Lillian Lovejoy. 161 Pearl of Pearls. By A. P. Morris, Jr, 162 A Fateful Game. By Sara Claxton. Pat ak ft et lf ] SF Qokwonwe or ot Ot a iad bak bl kk | a3 8 OAD SSS AS el — —— The Creole Cousins. By P.S Warne. A Scathing Ordeal; or, May Langley’s Mad Marriage. a Mrs. Georgianr Dickens, A Strange Girl. By Albert W. Aiken. A Man’s Sin. sg nes Winwood. The Hand of Fate; or, The Wreck of Two Lives. By Arabella Southworth. Two Fair Womén. By Wm. M. Tumer, Ce Se Oo i] Tempted Through geen or, One Woman's Error. By Lillian Lovejoy. Blind Barbara’s Secret. By Mary Grace Halpine. A Woman’s Witchery. By 5. Claxton. Black Eyes and Blue. By Corinne Cushman. : The Cost of a Folly. By Georgiana Dickens. ’ ‘Khe Pretty Puritan. By A Parson's Daughter. ‘ Is Love a Mockery? or, Revenge is Sweet. By Arabella Southworth. Adria, the Adopted. By J. D, Burton. For the Woman He Loved; or, Fate- ful Links. By Agnes Shelton, 8 The Locked Heart, By Corinne Cushman. Parted by Treachery. By Harriet Irving. Was She a Wife? By Rett Winwood Under a Cloud. By Sara Claxton, An American Queen. By G. Mortimer. A Point of Honor. By Lillian Lovejoy. Pursued to the Altar. By Corinne Cushman. Put to a Test. By Georgiana Dickens. The Terrible Truth 3 or, The Thornhurst Mystery. By Jennie Davis Burton. Outwitted by Herself; or, A Mother's Scheme, By Arabella Southworth. Florette, Chiki of the Street; or, A Pearl Beyond Price. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. Her Guardian’s Sacrifice; or, A Name in the Balance. By Sara Claxton. A Woman’s Maneuver; or, Purse, not Heart. By Lillian Lovejoy. The Bitter Feud. By Jennie D. Burton. Breaking the Fetters; or, The Gypsy’s Secret. By Georgiana Dickens. The Mysterious Guardian; or, Little Claire, the Opera Singer. By Corinne man, In the Balance. By Arabella Southworth. Jule, the Jewess, By Dr. Noel Dunbar. A Sister's Crime. By Agnes Mary Shelton. Wilma Wilde; or, The Inheritance of Hate, By Jennie Davis burton. By Frances The Beautiful Demon. Helen Davenport. 200 Morley Beeches. By Corinne Cushman. 201 A Young Girl’s Ordeal, Sara Claxton. 202 Her Evil Genius, By Harriet Irving. 203 Passion’s Reprisal. By Lillian Lovejoy. 204 Elegant Egbert. By Philip S. Warne. 205 A Ministering Angel; or, Royal Thorn- leigh’s Mistake. By Georgiana Dickens. 206 Ouida’s Love. By Henriette E. De Conde. 207 A Hasty Marriage; or, Was She an 199 Adventuress? By Mrs.M.L. Fordham. _ 208 Bowie, the Knight of Chivalry 3 or,. What a Woman Will Do. By Philip 8. Warne. 209 Cherry; or, A Daughter of the South. By Arabella Southworth. 210 Carlyon’s Year. 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