Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 236) (1884 05 20)
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Entered at the Post Office ai at New York, NY Y., at Se cond Class Mail Rates. Copy righted in 1884 by BEADLE AND ADAMS. 50 a year. No 236, ‘VoL X, PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, 9 WILLIAM ST., N. Y. PRICE, | 5 CENTS May 20,1 1984, W IFE OR WIDOW? BY RETL WINWOOD. | c > = ok . 77 / LL S ‘I WAS SO MISERABLE—SO UNHAPPY! I MEANT TO SAY FAREWELL, AND THEN SEE HIM NO MORE,”
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2 WIFE OR WIDOW ? Wife or Widow? ETHELIND ERLE’S ENEMY. BY RETT WINWOOD, AUTHOR oF “ A GIRL’S HEART,” ‘ A DANGEROUS WOMAN,” ‘‘ THE WRONGED HEIRESS,” ETO. CHAPTER I. THE FIRST BRIDAL EVE. A mystica stir was in the house, Beautiful exotics decorated hall and’corridor, and flanked the grand central staircase with bud, blossom and arches of living green. heavy with the trope, and at the far end of the spacious draw- inz-room hung the traditional marriage-bell, pure, perfect and stainless as though fairy fin- gers had fashioned and suspended it. It was Ethelind Erle’s wedding-eve, Glen- oaks, the lovely country-seat of her guardian, Colonel age Falkner, had been profusely de- corated for the occasion. Most of the guests were already in the house, making the scene brilliant with their rich toilets and glittering | jewels. The windows stood wide open, their hangings of delicate lace swaying gently inthe soft May breeze that crept up from the placid bosom of |: the bay. The moon stood trembling on the east- ern horizon, as if eager yet half-afraid to pour its pearl-white flood over the slumbering hills and valleys and the waiting tide that washed the amber sand below. Fair as a dream of Eden was the scene. Before a cheval-glass in one of the upper cham- bers.stcoa“Dolores Gloyne. She was to be bride- maid, and wore the traditional white; but her olive complexion and usually ruddy cheeks look- ed quite ghastly in the brilliant light that per- vaded theroom, In her shaking fingers she held a scented note, “Come to me in the conservatory, Dolores,” it said. “You can steal away ‘easily enough in the crowd, I must see you alone, and may be our only opportunity. Vin as The young girl crushed the note impatiently in her hand, “T must go,” she murmured. “Vincent might do something reckless if I refused to see him. But it is very wrong to meet him clan- destindly after the promise grandpapa extorted from me.” | ; Catching up a shawl that lay on one of. the chairs, she flung it over her shoulders and pe ped to the door. There was noise and bus‘le enough in the lower rooms, but the corridor seemed deserted; and with a quick-drawn breath she flitted down the broad passage. Near the landing was a small alcove curtained The air seemed | rfume of violets and helio- | ** These flerce, headstrong passions are not the Lap that endure longest, or that will sulfer m “TI would die, if necessary, for my beautiful | bride. Is not that enough?’ | A half-mocking smile curled his lips, and he turned impatiently away. Dolores once more | gathered up her shawl, and ran swiftly on to the back staircase, If she wished to see Vincent Erle and return before the hour appointed for the ceremony, there was no time to lose. The shortest route to the conservatory la through the large dining-hall, where the wed- ding supper with its flowers, cut-glass and costly late was already laid out. The three or four se attendants scarcely noticed the muffled figure that glided, ghost-like, down the long avenue between the groaning tables, and disap- peared in the cool green shadows beyond. Not a single eye followed the girl with curiosity or suspicion. Dolores paused just within the conservatory, and was straining her eyes through the per- fumed obscurity of the place when a rustling sound fell upon her ears, and a man emerged from behind 2, trellis of the luxuriant bignonia. ““How long you were in coming, Dolores!” he exclaimed, catching her in his arms. She laid her cheek against his shoulder, and answered with a repressed sob: ‘‘Oh, Vincent! It was wrong for me to come at all!” “ Wrong?” “ T promised grandpapa, before leaving home, that f would avoid you. ‘Now you have tempt- ed me to break my word.” “Tt was cruel of him to extort such a prom- ise!” said the young man indignantly. “T know he has my best interests at heart. Poor grandpapa! It seems base and ungrateful to deceive him, when he has done so much for me. A shade of disdain crossed Vincent Erle’s handsome blonde face. ‘“*You take too grave a view of the offense, Dolores,” he said. “Egbert Challoner has no right to interdict these meetings.” *¢ Remember, he has been like a father to me.” ** That is no reason why you should submit to him like a slave. He knows that we love each other devotedly, and yet he has forbidden me the house, and commanded you not to see me, And why? Simply because I am poor, and therefore not an eligible suitor for your hand, It is shameful!” ” “ Hush!” whispered Dolores, in a shivering voice. ‘Try to bear with him for my sake.” ‘‘T have borne too long already.” “Don’t speak like that. It pains me to hear you. But it is not prudent to lger here. Tell me why you sent for me, Vincent, that I may return to my own room.” “T believe you are anxious to be rid of me!” was the half-sullen exclamation. “Oh, no, no. But you know aswell as I do with crimson damask. Just as Dolores passed | the risk we run in coming here.” this an arm was suddenly thrust out from the drapery, and she felt ‘herself drawn forcibly forwa : i i, t you, darling?” breathed a low, musical voice, : Dolores drew back with a startled exclama- on. **Raymond—youw here!” she uttered, glancing’ into the dark, handsome face so close to her own. s ‘You frightened me dreadfully.” The hand fell from her arm. “TI beg your pardon, dear cousin,” said the young man, in a cold, changed voice, alls are so confounded! rk that I mistook you for Ethelind. Why do you come stealing upon one muffled up like that?” “‘T have an errand down-stairs, and my white dress seemed so conspicuous,” ““Where did you leave Miss Erle?” F ‘She is still in her chamber, I suppose. Have you any message for her?” “Thank you—none. I can wait. Another hour and she will be my wife. Then I shall have no use for go-betweens,” There was so much exultation in his voice that Dolores again lifted her eyes quickly. The face into which she gazed was magnificent in its beauty, and most women found it irre- sistibly attractive. But a shiver of repulsion ran over the girl. Raymond Challoner was her cousin—almost her only living relative; nevertheless, she did not altogether trust him. “‘Thope you will make Ethelind a good hus- Raymond,” she said, earnestly. “ Am I not an idolatrous lover?” Dolores sighed, ** These | There was a moment’s silence, and the young man drew her still more close to his side. “There must be an end of this,” he said, in a low voice that wasscarcely audible. ‘‘ Weseem no nearer the consummation of our happiness than we were twelve months ago. I have made up my mind. When this wedding is once over, _ Ishatl go toold Mr. Challoner, and make a clean breast of everything.” Dolores threw up her hands, a look of real terror on her face, “Oh, Vincent! my heart misgives me. Pro- mise me that you will do Dobie rash. My grandpapa might curse me in his anger, and that I could not bear. Wait—be patient a little | longer.” er breath caught itself in hysterical sobs, had he not suddenly cred her from him. * Com yourself,” he whispered. ‘I am certain I heard footsteps,” Dolores clung faint and trembling to the trellis. After a moment of intense suspense, her worst fears were realized. Forth from the thick shadows thrown by two large stands of blossoming plants, stepped the bent figure of a nat oe old man, “Grandpapa!” she gasped. Mr. Egbert Challoner, for it was he, confront- ed her, his face crimson with rage. ‘* You vixen!” he hissed. ‘‘How dared you disobey met How dared ye meet this fellow in Sg pn cetien to my wishes?’ She sprung forward and clung to his arm, her tears falling fast, “Do not be an she pleaded. ‘ with me, dear grandpapa!” was so miserable—so ra oe ! and she would have hid her is § or | , ave hid her face on his shoulder | shawl, when slow, dragging steps descended the How could I keep my word with Vincent and my own heart tempting me to break it? I meant to say farewell, and then see him no more.” Rudely repulsing her, Mr. Challoner turned to Vincent Erle. ‘““ What excuse have you to offer for your dis- honorable conduct?” he haughtily demanded, ‘“‘ None,” was the cold response. “‘I have done nothing that I should not do over again, under like provocation. Let yourdispleasure be visit- ed upon me alone—that is all lask. It wasl who tempted Dolores to deceive you.” r. Challoner gazed steadfastly at the young man, without speaking, for several seconds. Then, contemptuously turning his back on him he grasped the hand of his Te gets aoanged led her back into the dining-hall, and carefully closed the door. ‘‘T am surprised that you should betray the trust Ireposedin you, Dolores,” he said, stern- ly. ‘*To avoid remark, I consented that you should come to Glenoaks and assist at the wed- ding of your cousin mond. Knowing, as ou do, in what disfavor I hold Vincent Erle it s strange that you should take a base advantage of the situation.” ““T know it was very wrong—oh, forgive me,” ‘You do not deserve to be pardoned,” “Tknowit. But—but—imy heart is broken.” Her head drooped, and she again broke into irrepressible sobs. . Challouer stood looking at her in sorrowful silence, At length she grew more composed, and leaning a little toward him, said in an eager whisper: ‘*T wish you would tell me why you are so bitterly opposed to Vincent. ‘You never assign- ed any good and sufficient reason for the dislike you profess to feel.” ‘“‘ He is nota suitable match for you.” * Because of his poverty?’ “That is one of the reasons.” “You did not oppose Raymond’s marriage with Vincent’s sister, Ethelind.” “ True. »” The girl’s lip took a scornful curve. ‘*T think I understand the real nature of the distinction you would make,” she suid, almost bitterly. ‘‘Ethelind was fortunate enough to fall heir to her mother’s fortune, while pvor Vincent has nothing. It is merely a question of bonds, bank stock and dividends.’ Ethelind is ** Nay, child, you are mistaken. a noble young woman—even the proudest fami- ly might feel honored to welcome her to its cir- cle. Vincent, unfortunately, does not resembl her in character or disposition,” ) The girl’s face suddenly became white and drawn as if with pain. “What do you mean?” she gasped. : “Simply , that I have no confidence in the man, or in his professions. Let that suffice. We will of him no more. You must give him up. I shall not brook a second act of dis- obedience.” Turning as he spoke, he left her without an- other word. Dolores stood for some moments liked one stunned. She turned giddily from the sight of epg ieee plate and snowy damask of the wed ing banquet as if it had sickened her. At length she groped her way up the deserted staircase, murmuring with livid lips: “ Ah! how little does my grandfatine guess of the shameful truth! And, God help me! how can I ever tell him? I am too miserable to live! Dear, dear Vincent! I cannot think evil of you —I will not! It would kili me. May God keep you true to me—true to yourself!” CHAPTER I. THE UNWILLING SUPPLIANT, LORES had scarcely regained the shelter of ca con room, and thrown aside her heavy ‘orridor. Looking up expectantly as the door soe cen, she Saw the bride-elect, Ethelind Erie, totter across the threshold. ‘ “Oh, my poor friend! What brings you here?” rted impulsively forward as she ted the prone? PWhiter than her bridal- robes, Ethelind stood before her, her fair oval face twitched with pain, and her eyes, so like violets in calmer moods, looking strai ht for- ward in a dreary stare absolutely appalling. ‘«« Hide me!” t él creature cried at length, imploringly. “‘ Dolores, you are my only friend. Lock and double-lock the door. I want no one but you.” ; Dolores shoved the bolt into its socket; th returning, she gently took Ethelind’s hand drew her to a seat. wine & & SMaenhew wd “a “ Saas P = =| ae =e, rae ty Bes
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an ‘ WIFE OR WIDOW ? 3 ‘What has happened?” she said, compassion- ately. ‘‘ Tell me all about it!” PE wast to get away—away from him /” cried Ethelind, wildly. ‘‘I—I—hate him. ‘Tis of no use struggling against t ong J It grows more and more intense. lieve I am mad to- night. My head is burning. Ob, Dolores, pity me! “T do pity you,” was the gentle answer. ‘‘Is this marriage so extremely distasteful to you?” “T would rather die than become Raymond Challoner’s wife.” Dolores sighed, and a heavy weight settled upon her heart. She had long ected that Raymond did not possess all the love of the bride he had chosen, but this active, intense re- pugnance shocked and surprised her. “Oh, why did you not speak of this before it was too late?” she exclaimed. Ethelind dropped her eyes and shuddered. “*T feel hike one Pn waking from a dream, I never fully realized what I done until to- night when I roused up to find myself arrayed in these hateful robes. Oh, if they were only my shroud it would not matter!” “Tt is wicked to say such things, Ethelind,” “Ts it? Idonot know. In the grave there is and rest. Oh, if I were only there!” — She started to her feet, and began to march restlessly up and down the room, her hand clasped tightly on her bosom. Like the ghost of a bride she looked with her ghastly face—in which the only spots of color were the violet- blue of her eyes—and her trailing satin robe over which fell, uncared for, the fleecy folds of the bridal-vail. At length she paused before a Japanese cabi- net that stood in one corner of the room. She remained there motionless so long that Dolores, softly ge pike, her, saw that her eyes were fix- ed upon a small dagger of foreign workmanship that reposed on‘one of the shelves. ‘Better death than a life of misery,’’ mutter- ed the half-crazed creature. ‘‘God is merciful —he knows my temptation and despair—he wil] forgive me.” ith a frenzied laugh she seized the dagger, and in another moment would have buried it in her bosom had not Dolores arrested the up- lifted arm. ‘My God, Ethelind, what would you do?’ * Let me alone! Whi did you seek to hinder m ‘My poor friend, do you not know that self- destruction is the one sin that Heaven itself can- hot pardon?’ A distressing wail broke from Ethelind’s lips, her limbs trembled, and she sunk down on the floor as if strength had suddenly deserted her. **T told you I was mad.” **T believe, on my soul, you are. Come, let Me remove your wreath and vail and you shall down on my bed until you are more com- Ethelind fiercely pushed away the hands t would have performed these friendly offices. “Let my vail remain, It is altogether fitting on Raymond should have a mad-woman for his e “There shall be no marriage! If no other Voice is lifted against such a wicked proceering Thine shall be. Oh, Ethelind, why di you cloak Your real feelings until this late hour? **Tt was a part of my madness,” she added, While eatiader passed through her. ‘TI have Acted like an insane person all thee weeks. It Was pique that caused me to accept Raymond alloner, Iplighted my trotb to him while my Whole heart belonged to another.” There was a silence. Dolores felt herself turn Paler, but she leaned over the stricken creature, Sently clasping her arms about her. ' “ Let me go to Colonel Falkner, your guardian, 4nd tell him all this,” | A sudden scarlet flamed over that pallid fave, &reeping up to the roots of her glinting auburn hair. She quickly arrested it, and said at length ha scarcely-audible voice: / £.. Do you think Colonel Falkner would help ad p. Ido.” -** Where is he?” __“Down-stairs, among the guests, I suppose,” 4 yoy well, You may find him, and bring ere. ’. Dolores poured a glass of water, and when thelind had swallowed it she led her to an easy- beside the open window. The curtains ere looped back and the moonlight streamed to theroom. The faint perfume of violets »ud onette was on the air, “Take e. “All may yet be well.” Having uttered these comforting words. she Pont out hastily. i. 4 Her own trotbles had no lace in her consciousness at that moment. She escended the grand staircase without giving a second thought to the curious eyes that were upon her, though a very audible whisper reach- her ears ere she gained the lower hall, “That is Miss Gloyne. She is to be bride- maid. Isn’t her dress becoming?” One of the servants stood near the drawing- room door, and to him she spoke in suppressed tones. ‘“‘T must see Colonel Falkner. Please ‘find him, and ask him to come here.” The servant bowed, and hurriedaway. Three minutes later, a tall, powerfully-built man of two-and-tbirty had taken her hand and was bend- ing overit. He was distinguished-looking rather than handsome. His eyes were large, and of a deep gray, his hair black. It was a face that never failed to attract. : “ John says you were asking for me, Dolores,” he said. ‘“-Yes, Colonel Falkner—Ethelind is in my room. Sheisin trouble, You had better go to her.” He looked at her with a glance of surprise. ‘¢ There has been no blundering in the arrange- ments, I trust?” “Tt isn’t that, Will you go?” ‘*Tt lacks but ten minutes of the hour appoint- ed for the ceremony,” he said, referring to his watch. ‘Yes, come quickly; we have no time they asia togeth the stai der th ) er up the stairs, under the afghans Of living green with which they were de- corated. At the door of her own room Dolores paused, and signed for Colonel Falkner to enter alone. ‘*T will wait here,” she said. He wentin and closed the door. A sudden thrill went to his heart as his gaze rested upon that drooping, listless figure at the window. He trom" «- & > drew nearer. = Ethelind, I am here. What can I do for ou? At the sound ef his voice she half-rose, with clenched hands, but instantly fell back again. “*Tf you do not save me,” she said, in a sharp, unsteady whisper, ‘‘ I am lost.” “Save you! From what?’ “ A broken heart—a blighted life.” Colonel Falkner looked at hercuriously. She was shivering, and her face shone deadly pale in the lamplight; but her blue eyes burned and glittered feverishly bright. “ Has pint frsaree done anything to offend you?” he asked, after a brief pause. ** Raymond! cried, vehemently. ‘‘I hate him. 1 dread his resence—I shrink from his touch—oh, would t I could hide away from him forever!” “Poor child! How long has this been so?” A hysterical laugh broke from her lips. “How long? It has never been otherwise. He was always distasteful to me—always.” Fo: ee then, did you betroth yourself to im His tone of gentle reproof seemed to sting her | beyond all her powers of self-control. toward him, she said quite fiercely: “And you ask that—you who might have saved me, by a kind word or a loving look, from this living death? Great God!” “* Ethelind!” “Let me speak, Itis betterso. The shame of the confession may kill me. But for your in- Leaning ** You are my ward, Ethelind—many years my ee I invariabty think of you asa child.” “‘ Suffering develops one early.” He turned partially away. “This is a profitless subject, my poor child. Let us dismiss it now and forever.” She rose suddenly, stood before him, and lift- ed her cold, white face. _‘‘Lhave sometimes suspected that a prior pas- sion had closed your heart agaiust me,” she said, inawhisper. ‘Tell me, is it so?” ** Men seldom reach my age unscathed.” Speaking thus, he drew from his breast-pocket a small locket studded with jewels, opened it and held it toward her. Ethelind bent to look. The dark, passionate, bewildering face that smiled on her from the ainted ivory seemed just such another as that or which Mare Antony flung a world away. ** ‘You loved the original of that picture?” she said, very low. ‘ay Yes. ’ “ * ” + oe you love her still, She gasped a little. - Did you meet her abroad?” “ Yes.” Another pause. For her life she could not go on with the interrogatory. She stood like a marble woman, the pitiless lamplight shining on her livid face. “‘T hope you were happy in your love,” at last — Te to say, with a-smile that was only pitiful. ** No, for it wrecked and cursed my life.” She tried tolook at him, but her eyelids droop- ed with a slight quivering that betrayed how Don’t speak his name!” she | difference I might never have given myself to | another. I hoped to forget you—in time. Oh, vain delusion! And I hoped that you, too, would feel a little prick of pain when we were parted forever. Good heavens! That was a madder thought than the other! Youdo not care how deeply I suffer.” lonel Falkner himself turned very pale as he listened to her ravings. In vain he tried to check them. The confession was as humfliatin to him as it could be to herself; and he reati the overpowering shame that must be hers when she came to her better senses, | waitin “Try to calm yourself,” he said, earnestly. “Just now you are excited and delirious, and know not what you are saying.” “ Bear with me a little longer,” she went on, in low-toned entreaty. ‘I scarcely know when this passion took root in my heart—ii seems as though it had always been there. At first it was only a child’s worship of anideal hero, But, during the six months that have elapsed since , ou returned from that long, long sojourn in Zurope, it has developed into the love of a pas- sionate woman.” Colonel Falkner gave a shrinking gesture, as if the words only pained and distressed . After.a silence he gained resolution to say: deeply her‘nature was wrought upon. Sudden- | ly her fragile figure began to sway violently, oe — es out both hands like a person groping ) 4 “*T am faint—I am ill!” she , He sprung forward and caught her in his | arms just as, with a long moan, she would have | fallen senseless on the floor. CHAPTER IIL A TORTURED HEART, CoLonEL FALKNER had been an officer in the late war, winning his title in wild scenes of car- nage and bloodshed; but it had never before fallen to his lot to see a woman in a deadly — and he found himself helpless as a child, A g of self-reproach thrilled him as he gazed upon her deathly-white face resting so unconsciously upon his breast. ‘May heaven forgive me if I have been in fault for this,” he muttered. Raising his voice he called sharply to Dolores, who had remained on guard outside the door. She entered, looking nervous and flurried., “* Mercy on me!” she ejaculated, taking in the situation at a glance. “The hour has struck— they are looking for Ethelind—and now she has fainted on our hands!” With ready presence of mind she removed the | bridal-wreath and vail, viciously tossing them into the darkest corner of the room; then wheel- | ed a low couch up to the open window. “Let her lie here, where the cool air will blow over her. That will do. Now lock the door, or we shall be invaded by every bridemaid in the house,” The caution did not come a moment too soon. Colonel Falkner had scarcely turned the key when an impatient’ knock sounded on the door, and a treble voice outside demanded news of the bride, who was missing from her chamber. “‘Ethelind is here, with me,” Dolores called out. “Goaway. We will join you presently.” “The hour has struck, and Mr, Challoner is at the foot of the stairs,” ‘Tell him to be patient,” She looked dismayed, however, as she bent over the senseless bride with smelling salts and eau de cologne. ; “This is no ordinary faioting-fit,” she whis- pered. ‘I feel half-afraid,” ‘* What is to be done?” “Let us wait and see.” Dolores recalled every remedy she had ever known to be employed in such cases, but all in vain. Not a single symptom of returning ani- mation came back to those rigid limbs and mar- ble-like features. “A physician must be summoned,” Colonel Falkner said at length, in a nervous tone. ‘She might die?” . her no good. You can Yes, we are doin slip out quietly. I will undertake to keep the | room clear until Dr. Lance arrives.” At this moment an imperative knock sounded on the door.
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4 _——- *‘ Open,” said a haughty voice. ‘I must and will know the reason of this delay.” “Tt is my mother,” whispered Colonel Falk- ner. ‘‘She must be admitted, of course.” He undid the fastenings, and Mrs. Falkner en- tered, looking very stately and grand in her black velvet dress, with the Falkner diamonds sparkling on her arms and at her throat. aA, ie , 1 i oe ‘The other arrangements I shalf give over en- tirely into your hands.” “You can trust me, dear lady.” ; Mrs. Faunce passed on, The instant she had disappeared Phoebe turned to her companion and said in a hurried whisper: “Joan, why does our mistress invariably ap- pear among us in that disguise?” | ‘She has her reasons for it, I suppose,” was the cold reply. “Tt is very strange. I have been here a week to-day, and have never seen her face,” ‘“Humph. Had you been here allthe weeks in a month, and months in a year, you might still Me compelled to make the same acknowledg- ment. “You might as well say I’m a fool, and done ~~ with it,” Phoebe angrily. exclaimed. { Joan smiled, shrugged her crooked shoulders, _ and went on equably with her work. te ‘‘T’ll see what she looks like before I’m many days older, and know the reason why!” Phoebe muttered, ge ‘*Humph! omy advice, and never med- dle with what doesn’t concern you. Itis the safest way.” *€ Joan, do you know why Mrs. Faunce so per- sistently hides her face?” { “I may—or may not.” ‘‘ Perhaps she has been frightfully disfigured — by small-pox.” = Joan made no reply. ‘Or had portions of her face eaten away by a cancer. No answer. = “Or is rendered hideous by some livid birth- _ mark.” i Silence still. ; “Why don’t you k, Joan?” Phoebe irri- — tably demanded. ‘‘ Does Mrs. Faunce go about vailed because her countenance is too frightful to look upon?” “You must draw your own conclusions; I have no information to give.” f Phoebe started up, as if tempted to throw her dusting-brush at the woman’s head. “You are a provoking old witch, Joan! Whatever the mystery, I am sure her husband’s death kad nothing to do with it, or with the se- clusion in which she lives. By the way, when and where did Mr. Faunce die?” _ ‘“‘T do not keep the family record.” ‘¢ What! you won’t even tell me that?” ‘*T prefer not to k of any matter that my mistress shows a disposition to keep to her- “Oh, I'd like to shake you!” Phoebe. ‘“Well, keep your secrets. One of these og te ‘Pp : | } | shall learn all about them without any from you.” “Perhaps.” by After a short silence, Phoebe added in a medi- — tative tone: “Tt is very possible that Mrs. Faunce has taken a vow to wear a vail for a certain period, — as a penance for some real or fancied sin.” s Joan smiled again. ¥ “Do you know why she settled down in this — bed lonel place? + “ And approve so singular a whim?” ‘‘No, I cannot truthfully say that I do a prove it. But Mrs. Faunce is very self-willel, and it is useless to oppose any eaprice she sets her heart upon carrying out.” bi} Having uttered these words, Joan shut her _ lips firmly together, and picking up brush and ~ broom, hurried down the pesnae as if anxious to put an end to the catechism. CBF heebe kept on at her work for some time _ longer; but curiosity had been excited to fever- pitch, and she suddenly resolved to gratify it at! whatever hazard. +4) ‘“‘Here’s a mystery right under my nose,” she — thought; ‘and that horrid old woman laughs at _ me and shrugs her shoulders as much as to say _ ‘Hands off.’ Tl find out what it means if [die , for it.” ; Glancing half fearfully all round, and listen-— ing intently for a moment or two, Phoebe sto! on tiptoe down the passage, and after doubli several corners, reached at length a door tha stood slightly ajar. cee In this room—a sort of boudoir—Mrs. Faunce tones. At length the r: rt E ae ies Pe sb.
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et: @ o™ ct @ oy oO 0.9 i * © a } } Reseell , a Oia en gee ot les » a a oe — rie Bee < — cima . ea ao RT aR WIFE OR WIDOW? 5 rate design concealing her from the view of any As she spoke, the strange woman stepped out CHAPTER VY. one stariding in the passage at the window, and as if some restless demon AT DEAD OF NIGHT. Stealing forward with a soft, gliding move- ment, Phoebe pushed her head inch by inch, be- yond the margin of the screen. Mrs, Faunce sat with her back toward her. The obnoxious vail lay ona chair withinreach. Her head, now fully exposed to view, was purely classic in its * outlines; immense coils of purplish black hair, pure and shining as bands of richest satin, sur- mounted it. Her countenance was hidden; only one ear, exquisitely tinted as a sea-shell, and the delicate formation of the shapely chin, were visible. The musical tones died apne Sway Mrs. Faunce must have caught a glimpse of the in- truder in the full-length mirror that hung oppo- site, for, uttering an angry exclamation, she suddenly caught up the vail, threw it over her head and face, and confronted the now thorough- ly-frightened gir’. ‘* What is your business here?” she haughtily demanded. “‘T—I—thought you rung,” stammered Pheebe, only | under the intense glare of eyes that seemed fairly to scorch her face, even through the thick folds of the vail they had to pene- trate hell. I believed “ Joan always answers a ; y understood. the arrangement was gene “Forgive me, madam. I meant no harm.” Mrs. Faunce made a gesture of impatience. _ “Enough. Your motive in thus intruding is clearly palpable to me.” e Oh, madam, I’m sorry enough now for what I have done,” ejaculated Phcebe, clasping her hands. ‘Only that you will forgive me.” ‘Very well. The first offense shall be par- doned, but I warn you not torepeat it. Noone, not even Joan, presumes to enter this room with- out first knocking for permission.” She haughtily waved her hand asa sign of dismissal, and when Phoebe had shrunk out at the door looking very crestfallen, this strange woman turned, and began walking up and down with hurried, uneven steps. “I might have known that the mystery in which choose to enshroud m rselh would awaken curiosity in vulgar minds,” she mutter- ed. ‘Shall I eg res bog whatever by this new caprice? Oh, pitying Heaven,” she cried, wildly throwing up her clasped hands, “ help me or I perish! Oh, would that I had slept in my grave long ago! It would have been better for me—far better for others!” Before the paroxysm had passed, Joan’s muf- fled ?-r--' was heard at the door. Mrs, Faunce’s face stu remained hidden, but the faithful ser- vant knew by her quick and labored breathing that something unusual had occurred, * Oh, madam, what isit?”’ she exclaimed, com- ng forward quickly. ‘*Are you ill?” ‘Only the old complaint—heart-ache.” ** You are trembling.” “Tt does not matter.” “Tam sure you do wrong to remain in this peony old place,” said Joan, earnestly. ‘lt a depressing effect. Do come away, dear child. Let us leave the country.” ‘‘Tet me alone. I prefer to remain at Lorn.” “Rut you are growing more gloomy and de- spondent every day we linger here, Do come away.” “ Be still,” Mrs. Faunce responded, in a tone of command, “I have a mission to fulfill. I - gannot go until it is accomplished. There is too much at stake.” ‘ With a laugh that fairly curdled the listener's blood, Mrs. Faunce caught up the long black mantle that was lying on one of the couches, and wrapping it round her, glided to the French casement opening upon the lawn, and proceeded to unfasten it with unsteady fingers. “at “Oh, my poor child!” cried Joan, springing forward, and clinging to her sleeve. “Surely Md not leave the house in your present m ‘Let me go et me go, I say!” “But it late—it will soon be dark. And look at the sky. In half an hour’s time, the rain will be pouring in torrents.” She pointed to the darkened heavens, along which a few fleecy clouds were scurrying unders neath the gray, unbroken soaps that covered up, like a pall, the pale stars that should have blossomed out of the twilight. Afar off could be heard the faint, low roar of old ocean, moan- ing like a stricken soul in pain, Mrs. Faunce pushed off the hands that sought to detain her. ~§ “TJ am stifling here,” she “The house ‘seems to be haunted to-night—haunted by mem- ories of the past. Ishall lose my reason unless I flee from them all. were in her feet, hurried over the weed-grown terrace, and down the neglected path beyond, never once pansing or looking back until she had reached and climbed one of the highest cliffs overlooking the bay. It was quite dark by this time, but as Mrs. Faunce bared her hot temples to the cool breezes that sighed and wailed around the place, she suddenly became aware that she was not alone, Close to the verge of the cliff stood the slender figure of a woman with a white cra shawl drawn closely about her bead. The pale glimmer of this wrapping through the dusk was what had first attracted the attention of Mrs. Faunce. Quickly replacing her vail, she stood motionless, staring at the unexpected vision. Only fora moment. Suddenly an odd sound, half-sob, half-scream, fell from the woman’s lips and she took a single step forward, crying with uplifted hands: ‘*God be merciful to me a sinner!” The next instant she would have thrown her- self into the treacherous gloom that had i up the precipitous side of the cliff, like a bodily presence, had not Mrs. Faunce clutched des- mn anagi hold of her skirts, and drawn her ck. * What would you do?” Ethelind—for it was she—raised her head, and looked fiercely, with glittering eyes, at the rson who had saved her from self-destruc- “But for ion. “Release me!” she cried, wild] a an te sho’ ve ou al] would have been over— ound rest.” ** Ay, such rest as awaits the suicide,” “Tt is easier to bear the torments of the damned in the next world than in this.” ‘“ Why?” ‘* Because there you will be driven to madness by neither the pity nor the contempt of so-call- ed friends.” Mrs. Faunce drew back, looking at the girl who could give utterance to such wicked senti- ments, with a new interest. It almost seemed as if a bond of fellow-feeling had sprung up be- tween them all at once. * Of course you think me very desperate, very wicked,” Ethelind went on, in a rapid tone; “and you are right. This is the second time I have been saved from the sin of taking my own life. And yet I do not wish to live, Ah, you may despise me, but you can never know through what sloughs of despond I have been called to ass! ‘What is your name?” Mrs. Faunce gently asked, after a short silence. ‘** Ethelind Erle.” Was it imagination, or did Mrs. Faunce actu- ally start backward a step or two, and clench her teeth, at the mention of that name? “‘T have heard of you.” Her voice certainly had an odd, constrained sound. ‘You live at Glenoaks, and are Colonel Falkner’s ward?” “Yes, And you?” ““T am the Mrs. Faunce who has recently pur- chased Lorn.” Ethelind dropped her hand on the woman’s sleeve, and looked up at her again, as if anxious to penetrate tho thick folds of the muffling vail. “T ought to thank you, Mrs. Faunce, for your efforts to save me—but how can I, when I do not even feel grateful? It is so hard to live—it would have n so easy to die! I had quite persuaded myself that I was justified in putting an end to my troubles.” Mrs. Faunce laughed derisively. ““Troubles?” she echoed. ‘ You do not know the meaning of the word. Poor, foolish child! Wait until your heart has been scathed and blistered by such anguish and shame as would have killed aay. other woman outright—then, in- deed, you will have some excuse for talking of self-destruction.” Turning as she spoke, without even a word of adieu, the strange woman began to descend the cliff with a slow and measured tread. When the darkness had swallowed up the deeper gloom of her retreating figure, Ethelind threw herself on a bowlder, and tossed back the shawl from her hot brow. But her face was now turned re- solutely away from the black abyss of gloom that had tempted her. The moments sped on, the darkness deepened, and presently a few scattering drops of rain be- gan to fall. The wind crept up from the broad bosom of the bay, damp and chill, and the rain fell faster and’ faster, but the miserable girl | cold, and Ir was past ten o’clock when a drenched, shiv- ering figure glided like a spirit up the elm-shad- ed avenue leading to Glenoaks, and crept close to the drawing-room windows, whence a broad glare of light streamed into the twofold gloom of night and storm, <A wild, white face glued itself for a moment to the glass, Within, all was warmth and brightness. Do- lores Gloyne sat at the piano, singing a pathetic old ballad. Colonel Falkner stood beside her in the attitude of an attentive listener. Raymond Challoner was listlessly turning a book of en- gravings at the other end of the room, his brows knitted, his handsome face looking dark and in- scrutable. Since the night of the interrupted wedding, he had not absented himself from Glenoaks even for an hour. The poor creature standing without in the cold and rain uttered a fierce, irrepressible c as her glance rested for a moment upon his hand- some face. It was the passionate expression of the hatred that filled her heart. Then she drew back quickly. Had the sound reached Colonel Falkner’s ears? At any rate she saw him start, and turn his eyes toward the window. Ethelind slunk away like a guilty creature. Where should she go? All the doors would be locked at that hour of the night, and she did not wish to exhibit herself to the servants in her drenched condition. And yet the general glow and comfort within seemed strangely de- sirable all at once. Crouching in the wet shrubbery, Ethelind no- ticed presently, a little further on, a second gleam of light. It proceeded from an apart- ment Mrs. Falkner used as her own private sit- ting-room. Shaking the rain from her gar- ments, Ethelind crept up to the window, and tapped softly on the pane. * Who’s there?” said a voice, “Let me come in,” panted Ethelind, trving to peer into the room through the folds of crim- son silk drawn aeross the window. “Iam wet through.” ‘*Who’s there?” again came the angry de- mand. “Tt is I—Ethelind. For heaven’s sake, Mrs. Falkner, do not alarm the house.” The next instant she heard a heavy step cross the floor, the curtains were flung back, and a resolute hand opened wide the window. But it was Colonel Falkner’s face—not his mother’s— that Ethelind saw, almost touching ber own. He had seen her at the drawing-room window, after all. “‘Child, are you mad?” he uttered, drawing her quickly into the room. ‘* Why have you yo ee yourself in this reckless fashion?” he made no reply, but stood before him with heaving chest and glittering ey: s. “This is wrong, wick Ethelind. I am shocked at your conduct. You have no right to tamper with life and health as you are doing.” ‘Who cares for life—or health?” she broke out passionately. ‘‘I’m tempted to rush back into the pitiless storm again. “No, you shall not, though I am compelled to prevent such an act of folly by brute force.” Falkner now drew near. She had been standing at a little distance, trying to rally from the shock and fright of the sudden sum- mons at the window, and the abrupt manner in which her son had burst into the room, “Thadn’t the least idea it was you tappin for admittance,” she said, dropping her han on Ethelind’s shoulder. ‘“ You gave me quite a start. We thought you were up-stairs, in your own room, scarcely able tositup. Instead of that you have been exposed to this dreadful storm. Ob, you rash, headstrong girl! You deserve to be severely punished.” Ethelind wrenched herself petulantly away: “Let me alone. The rain will not nurt me. I do not mind getting wet. It cools the fever here,” and she cl both hands to her throb- bing temples. ‘You must takea warm bath, and puton dry clothing at once.” ““Why must I? I am not afraid of taking tting the fever, if that is what you mean,” Ethelind answered, seating herselt in one of the chairs. Colonel Falkner glanced keenly into her face. It was of an ashy whiteness, but wore a cold, hard, defiant expression, in which there was little that could be appealed to. Turning to his mother he said, in an undertone: “Please leave us alone for a few moments. She is in a very bitter mood. I can manage her still crouched there, with uncovered head, mo- | much better by myself.” tionless as a statue. Mrs. Falkner hesitated. In fact she felt nota little afraid of the influence this reckless, im--
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6 WIFE OR WIDOW ? pulsive girl might exert upon her son. But the emergency did not admit of delay, and she re- luctantly retreated. Ay a og or Colonel Falkner said, in softer accents, bending over the girl the moment they were alone together, ‘‘I hope you will be per- fectly frank with me and tell me why you talk and behave so prseary- ‘s “Thave told you—I told you that dreadful night,” she answered, panting faintly. ‘‘It is only forty-eight hours since—it seems like so many years. My madness began then.” ** Poor child. it possible that the contem- plated marriage has caused you all this mis- ery ? As she did not reply, except to droop her head still lower with a shrinking shiver, he added, after a pausu: “Oh, why did you so recklessly pledge your hand if your heart could not go with it?” ‘«That is over and done with. If my motives are not clear to you, I shall not explain them further.” “Such a wicked marriage ought never to be consummated.” She suddenly flung up her hands, with such a gasp as a drowning person might have given. ‘Will you save me from it?” she whispered. “'T will do anything in my power. I have al- Ready spoken to Raymond Challoner in your be- alf. * And he?’ ‘* Puts in the plea of his absorbing love, and refuses to release you. He says you will be- come reconciled as soon as the ceremony is once over.” “Do you believe it, Colonel Falkner? Do you think I can ever learn to look upon him with toleration?’ “*T cannot tell. You are astrange girl, Ethe- lind. I should be at a loss what to predict.” Her scornful laugh rung out startlingly loud. ‘“This miserable affair will end in my doing mischief to Raymond Challoner or myself. So much you may safely prophesy.” “ Hush, Ethelind.’ ‘During the past. few hours I have felt des- perate enough to kill him!” , _ Colonel Falkner drew himself aloof, and a cold expression of disapproval crossed his face. He sternly said: ‘*T really cannot listen to such delirious ray- I command you to be more guarded in your speech.” _ “Tam your slave—I obey,” she derisively an- swered. There was a silence. While it lasted Ethe- lind sat with her face hidden in her hands. At length she looked up and abruptly said, in a hoarse, eager whisper: “‘T want you to tell me more about that wo- man—you know who I mean. You wear her picture over your heart. What is her name?” “ Olympia Verne.” * Where is she now?” Her body lies in the grave; her soul is, I trust, with God.” The solemn reply, so utterly unexpected, star- tled and awed Ethelind for amoment. The nex she was conscious of a fierce thrill of joy. It was only a dead rival, after all, that she had to fear in this man’s affections! “Tam glad,” she exclaimed. ‘I must have hated the woman if she had lived,” Colonel Falkner’s features seemed to be slow- ly hardening into marble. ‘‘ Ethelind, you shock and grieve me,” he said. ‘‘I can bear no more, Will you not go quietly to your room?” “Yes, I am ready to go now.” She rose, gathered up her dripping shawl, which had been suffered to slip from her shoul- ders, and with astrange smile on her face, went out. Colonel Falkner followed her, after a brief in- terval. His mother stood in the hall alone, when he entered from the sitting-room. She looked at him uneasily, and whispered; ._. “Ethelind has goneup-stairs. She is literal- ly drenched to the skin. What is to be done?” . “Nothing,” he answered. ‘‘ You cannot com- el the perverse child to take care of herself. It is the best policy not to go near her.” Mrs. Falkner sighed tig ‘“T never saw a person change so for the worse. Until after this engagement with Ray- amond Challoner she seamed all that was sweet- tempered and tractable.” : He quickly averted his face. The subject of this marked change in Ethelind was one he felt unwilling, for several reasons, to discuss. His heart ached with a pain akin to remorse when he remembered that be had himself unwittingly ~been instrumental in bringing it about. ears as wellasin **We must lenient in our ** Ethelind is still a child in | experience,” he said sently. \sbear that fact in mind, and be judgment.” Vou can always find some excuse for her _ conduct,” muttered Mrs. Falkner, impatiently. | ** However, I hope you have the good sense not | to suffer yourself to be drawn under the spell of | her youth and beauty.” , | “My heart is dead and buried in a foreign rave,” he answered, in a low, constrained tone. ‘Tt can never be resurrected.” Mrs. Falkner glanced wiley at her son, and breathed another sigh. She knew that he al- luded to some sorrowful episode in his life abroad—a history so sad, so touching and full of heartbreak that he had never found courage to relate it, even to her. Even now ske not question him. ‘‘ Hthelind looked like a mad-woman when she passed me a few moments since,” she said, re- turning to the former subject. “I am really afraid she will do harm to herself, or somebody else, if this folly goes on much longer.” The same sickening fear had been beating at Colonel Falkner’s own heart, and he said quick- ly: Vie shall keep a watchful eye on her move- ments for the present. Is there a vacant room in the same corridor where I could sleep to- night?” “None. What do you apprehend?” Mrs. Falkner replied, looking amazed at the ques- tion. ‘The impetuous child might attempt to leave the house again, and I would be near to pre- vent the commission of such a reckless and fool- ish act. e ‘‘ Mr. Challoner’s room is near the entrance to the corridor. Ethelind would be compelled to ¢pass it in going out. If you wish, I will make some excuse for assigning to him a room in the other wing.” “Pray do so, said Colonel Falkner, eagerly. * And it is quite unnecessary that any one else should be told of the arrangement.” “Very well.” An hour later Colonel Falkner found himself comfortably ensconced in the room in question, one of the handsomest in the house. Extin- guishing his light he paper to the window, and threw up the sash, The raln had ceased, and the moon was visible, threading its way through silvery rifts in the cloud, Pale gleams of lightning could be seen, ever and anon, play- ing about the horizon. The air had grown sul- try and sluggish all at once, and he leaned out at the window almost gasping far breath. Di- rectly underneath was the flat roof of the ve- randa, and he finally eS ge out altogether, ex- panding his chest to catch what little air was stirring. The waves, as they lapped the distant beach, still kept up their low, monotonous monologue and a startled night-bird, now and then, fl screaming by. But no other sounds broke the solemn silence. The windows of Ethelind’s sitting-room could be seen from where he stood, and her bedcham- ber was next beyond. No gleam of light issued from the one or the other, however, and after watching and waiting for another hour, Colo- nel Falkner re-entered his own room, and leav- ing the window still open, threw himself, dress- ed as he was, upon the bed. N Still thinking of Ethelind, of her foolish ngs sion for himself, which he felt utterly unable to reciprocate and of the distressing predicament in which she had involved herself by ee into that rash engagement with Raymond Chal- loner, he finally fell asleep. After a long interval he awoke with a start, that he was not alone. | his eyes he saw dimly, as in a dream, the dusky figure of a woman bending over the bed. Be- | fore his half-stunned mind could gather a realiz- ing sense that the shadowy presence was a reality, however, there came an odd sound, like a strangled groan, a dusky hand cleft the air, d he instantly felt a sharp, stinging, balf-mad- | Bie tea 4 ¥ oe _ bungling, and drawing away, with a sigh of re- dening pain in his left arm, as if some sharp in- strument had buried itself in the quivering esh, Colonel Falkner was a brave man, and though nearly crazed with pain, not a sound escaped his lips. Turning an intent gaze toward the window, he saw the woman hurry toward it with a rustling sound, and slip over the At this instant the moon gp, em suddenly through the clouds that had obscured it, and its cold, pale light fell ayy on the midnight as- sassin ere she J Her face was in ow, but Colonel Falkner | other below the wound,” saw distinctly the dark outlines of her dress, contrasting strangely with the ak white- been drawn be over her hexd and shoulders and fasten- ed under her chin. He thought he recognized that shawl, and a horrible, sickening suspicion caused his brain to whirl and his heart to stand ness of a crape shawl that CHAPTER VL. WHO DEALT THE BLOW? ‘For fully five minutes Colonel Falkner re- mained as motionless as though the would-be murderess had accomplished her purpose, and life itself had ebbed away. But, at the end of this period the pain in his wounded arm became too excruciating for further endurance, and he poms the bell-rope that hung just above his e Another five minutes of the keenest torture elapsed, and at length a heavy step approached the door. <A sleepy-looking servant, bearing a lamp, looked in. “Did you ring, Mr. Challoner?” the man asked, as he s rubbing his eyes just inside the door. “It is not Mr. Challoner, John—it is I, your master.” The man took another step into the room at the sound of Colonel Falkner’s voice. A strange look of surprise was on his face, ‘Bless me!” he ejaculated. “I was not aware that you had changed rooms with Mr. Challoner. Do you want anything, sir?’ “‘ Come here, John,” said the colonel, quietly. “T have heen hurt, I think.” Hurt?’ The man end up to the bed, his face growing white as a sheet as he leaned over it. The first object he beheld was the bristling head of a dagger, outlined against the snowy counterpane Colonel Falkner had drawn over him when he first threw himself on the couch. ““My God!” he gasped. ‘ What is the mean- ing of this?” ‘Don’t stop to ask questions, man. Do you think you can pull the dagger out? It has pin- ned my arm so tightly to the mattress that I am unable to move it.’ . ; John set down his lamp, but his hands were trembling to such an extent that at the first trial he only succeeded in loosening the dagger. A shiver of pain ran through the colonel’s frame. Only by clenching his teeth could he refrain from screaming outright. 4 ‘‘Take care, Nowthat is better. Thank you, John.” When the dagger was fully withdrawn, and the counterpane thrown back, Colonel Falkner saw that his wounded arm was already bathed in blood. But his first thought was not of him- self, ‘John, let mo see thé dagger,” he said, ins faint voice. The servant held out the gory weapon. One glance sufficed. It belonged in the house—was, fact, the very same that had lain in the cabi- net in the room occupied by Dolores Gloyne. “Who could have done this deed?’ inquired John, in amazement, ‘It is impossible to tell, and we have no time to waste in idle conjecture. have already lost more blood than is good forme, You may cat off my sleeve, and bind up the wound as well as you are able.” “But I-have no scissors.” “Take your pocket-knife—or the dagger. 1 am sure,” speaking with a wince of pain, “that the latter is sharp enough for your par je Colonel Falkner was deadly pale, and his fea- tures all distorted with pain, but the perfect | self command ‘he exerted over his physical na- experiencing a sudden, mysterious consciousness | ture had the effect of reassuring the frightened he instant he opened | servant. After some difficulty he succeeded in tearing away the sleeve, y RNa the wound to view. It was a ghastly sight, and the blood still flowed from it copiously. ‘* Now take my handkerchief and your own, and bind them tight! This command was executed after some lief, John said, earnestly: “Tn my opinion Hadn’t I better fetch Dr. Lance? “Yes, you may go at once, Steal away quietly, without alarming anybody in the houe. “Who will watch you, sir?” “Tf you are e tious, I shall do very well? while you are away.” n was beginning to whirl, and penis but, | ly numbness to creep round his heart. Me hid his writhing 4 the one above and the ce in the pillow, John ke a fi y that’s an ugly hurt, sir.» ey Pron Ps
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Se ——— oer” ee the room without realizing the critical condition in which he left his master. Proceeding to his own sleeping-room, the man finished dressing himself, jammed his hat over his eyes, and was papry sng: from the house, when the door of Mrs. Falkner’s chamber opened, and she step d into the hall. She ecar- ried a lamp, and had drawn on a white dress- ne apwe and thrown a shawl over her shoul ers. ‘“* Where are you going, John, at this hour of. the night?” she asked, recognizing the servant after the first startled glance. He stood stock-still, gasping with dismay. His white, working face told its own story “What is wrong?” she demanded, in a fright- ened voice, dropping her hand upon his arm. “Tell me the truth at once,” The poor fellow lost his presence of mind en tirely, and blurting some unintelligible words, of which the bewildered woman could only dis- tinguish “‘ murder,” and the name of her son, he broke from her hold and rushed into the open air. Mrs. Falkner groped her way up the stairs, like one upon whom sudden blindness had fall- en. When she entered the room aboye, the bloody dagger lay.right before her on the table, where John had left it, She sprung to the bed, faintly panting. $5 i, Philip! Oh, my son!” He had swooned with pain and loss of blood. The poor mother believed he was dead. She fiung herself down beside him, and filled the whole house with her screams, Ethelind Erle was the first person who,aroused by Mrs. Falkner’s cries, came hurrying to the chamber. She had put off her wet garments, and was dressed all in black. Even the plain collar and cuffs she usually wore with so simple a toilet, were properly adjusted. Evidently she - had not been in bed at all that night. She did not speak, she did not cry out, After a single horrified glance at the weltering figure on the couch, she sunk down on the nearest chair, and hid her face. But ever and anona shiver shook her from head to foot, Raymond Challoner, Dolores Gloyne, and the other members of the household made their ap- pearance soon afterward. There were broken cries and ejaculations, and a great hurrying to and fro. Raymond was the first to recover his presence of mind. ‘‘Oh, who has done this deed of horror?’ he exclaimed. seein put out her trembling hand and caught 1s “Ts itis it—murder?”’ she gasped. ‘Of course. Colonel Falkner was not the sort of man to take his own life. What could have been the assassin’s motive?’ *Robbery, perhaps.” “No; don’t you see that the poor man’s watch and rings are undisturbed?” He hesitated a moment, an odd expression crossing his face, ‘“*T wonder if that deadly dagger-thrust was not intended for me? This is the room I have al- =e occupied until to-night. The assassin could not have been aware of any change in the arrangements; and in the darkness one per- son might easily be taken for another.” Dolores looked startled and frightened. ‘What a dreadful thought!” she exclaimed. Raymond turned silently away. Yes, it was dreadful! It made his flesh creep. Yet the more he reflected upon it the stronger grew his ¢onviction that it was even so, Suddenly a long, loud scream once more con- centrated the thoughts of all a the injured man and hismother. Mrs. Falkner had raised herself on one elbow and was gazing intently at her son. ‘* He lives—he lives!” she faintly panted. There came a faint quiver about Colonel Falk- ner’s drooping lids, and a long sigh heaved his bosom. He was just rousing*out of the swoon into which he had fallen when the servant-man left him. But, to those gathered round the couch, it seemed as if his spirit had unexpect- edly seme from the confines of the other wor —-- — CHAPTER VIL THE STRANGE VISITANT. COLONEL FALKNER’S eyes were dazed and wild when at last he opened them and stared all round. ‘Where am I?” he said. ‘ What has hap- pened?” ’ Mrs, Falkner could not answer for her sobs. Bending down, she laid her face close to his, and held him fast for a moment. At length Ethelind rose and tottered toward WIFE OR WIDOW ? the couch. The instant the wounded man saw ber, he seemed to shrink away with a gesture of loathing and horror that was utterly beyond his control. “Don’t let her touch me!” he cried. * Ethelind .answered nothing, but sat down again, looking stunned and helpless. After a long interval Dr. ce came. He dressed his patient’s wounds, gave him a seda- tive, and when the fever and pain had some- what abated, began to inquire into the manner in which the injury had been received. Colonel Falkner became sullen and reticent ina moment, “‘T would rather not speak of it,” he said, shuddering violently. ‘‘ Let me alone.” ‘“Wewish tc expose and punish the person who attempted your life, if you can point him out,” said Mrs. Falkner, gently but resolutely. He shook his head. “T can give you no clew.” **The man entered through the window, of course?” “Theman? Itwasno—” The words faltered on his tongue. Turning his face to the wall, he added, in a changed voice: ‘*'You must not question me—I am not fit to discuss the subject. I can tell you nothing.” Nothing more was said after that. His wound was of a painful rather than dangerous charac- ter; but he bore the suffering without a mur- mur. The only instance in which he gave way to his. feelings was when Ethelind persisted in remaining in the room, E “Take her away,” he cried, violently. ‘I can’t endure her here. She drives me beside myself,” Mrs. Falkner was puzzled. She could not un- | derstand why he should betray this sudden anti- pathy toward the heart-broken girl. “It isn’t at all strange,” said Dr. Lance, in an undertone. ‘Of course his wound makes him feverish and nervous. Persons are often unrea- sonable and whimsical in such an illness.” Hours had passed, and the next day was well advanced, when Colonel Falkner, rousing out of a stupor that was not sleep, though closely re- sembling it, heard his mother’s voice speaking earnestly to some one just outside the door. A few minutes later, the thud of horse’s hoofs could be distinguished, galloping down the ave- nue. His mind was justin condition to take alarm at trifles. ‘** Who has gone away?” he asked, calling his mother in. ‘‘ Thave sent John to the nearest village on an errand.” “ What errand?” She hesitated a moment, but he repeated the question in a firmer voice than before. ‘* Vincent Erle is in New York, you are aware, attending to some matters of business he went to arrange, three days ago.” “Well?” ‘“‘T have telegraphed for him to see Detective pte and send him.down to Glenoaks immedi- ately. Colonel Falkner uttered a startled cry. The detective’s name was well known in the neigh- borhood, he having been employed in a notori- ous burglary case in the village, some two months before. ‘‘Oh, mother. Why have you done this?” ‘¢ Because I am determined to get to the bot- tom of that affair of last night,” she answered in a low, resolute tone. “No person’s life shall be threatened, with impunity, in this house; least of all my son’s.” It was too Jate for remonstrance, so he tried | tocalm himself and said: ‘** Of course you will act your own pleasure in the matter. But it will be of no use, I warn you, to bring Detective Ferret here,” “That remains to be seen.” For some time he lay silent and thoughtful, a troubled look on his face. When he spoke again it was upon an altogether different subject. ** Mother,” he said, very low, ‘‘I’m afraid I acted rudely toward Ethelind last night, and again this morning.” “There certainly was something singular in your behavior.” “Tam very sorry. Will you send her to me that I may ask her pardon? Mrs. Falkner went out, and was gone some moments, but at length returned to say that Miss Erle was not in the house—that she had gone out for a walk early in the afternoon. The sick man breathed a sigh that seemed to express relief. ‘Never mind,” he said, ‘ You can speak to her when she returns.” It was not until after the lamps were lighted | in the evening that a pale, drooping figure stole into the room and approached the bed. Turn- ing on his pillow, Colonel Falkner put out his right hand, speaking her name. ** Ethelind !” She sprung forward with a gasp and a sob, seizing his hand, and covering if with her kisses and tears. “Thank God!” she exclaimed. ‘I feel that you are not angry with me now!” “Poor child! Roor, misguided child!” ‘** There is to be peace between us at last?” ** Ay, peace.” ** But — draw away from me, still!” she cried, suddenly and sharply. ‘‘I see a strange, shrinking expression in your eyes, as if you could not bear to look at me.” “Tt is only your fancy,” he answered, but he shuddered. “Tt is there—you cannot hide it from me, I thought at first it was gone; but it isn’t.” She crouched down beside the bed, sobbing as if her heart was broken. The sick man glanced at her roperan't ever and anon. “How can I persuade you that we are friends ence more?” he asked, at length. “* There is one test that would be convincing.” “What is it?’ “Send away every other nurse, and permit me to watch with you through the night.” Her voice was husky with passionate entreaty. She could not bear the thought of being dis- missed from his presence, and in the solitude of her room be mocked by the knowledge that pe suffered, and she could do nothing to relieve im. Her motive was misunderstood. Colonel Falkner stared aghast, at first, as if doubting if he heard aright. But gradually a very differ- ent expression stole over his features, ‘It is best,” he thought. ‘‘It will help stem the tide of suspicion. For her sake I must con- sent, But, oh, it seems too dreadful! I wonder that she had either the courage or the cunning to propose it.” : erfectly aware that the girl’s intense gaze never left him for a moment, he said aloud, af- ter a brief hesitation: “ Itis strange that you should voluntarily take u troublesome vigil on yourself—and you will find this anything but pleasant.” “Then you do consent?” she cried, eagerly. “‘T will not harass you in any manner—I prom- ise to sit quietly, not even speaking to you with- out your permission.” ‘* Yes, I consent.” She did not thank him in words, but her kiss- es and tears fell upon his hand more plentiful- ly than ever, and he was compelled to draw it away. Mrs. Falkner seemed displeased when toid of the arrangement—she had expected to nurse her son that first night herself. But she made no comment, Ethelind kept her word. When she re-enter- ed the room she did not speak to the wounded man at all, but sat down at some distance from the bed. And there she remained for hours, mo- tionless as a figure carved in marble, betraying no signs of life except at the rare intervals when ome womanly office was to be rendered. At first the sight of her pale face and great, staring eyes, always turned immovably toward the bed, troubled Colonél Falkner. But he be- came reconciled to them at length, and shortly before -midnight fell into a fretful sleep. His slumber seemed to be haunted by dreams, for presently he began to mutter ere sentences. Ethelind caught a name, at spoken more distinctly than the other’ words, | and yielding to the impulse of the moment she drew nearer, and bent over him. “‘T want Olympia,” he said, in a pleading voice. ‘' It is strange she doesn’t come. The miserable girl gave a groan of utter an- guish, and fell back in her chair. “Even his dreams are of that woman,” she uttered. ‘‘He never thinks of me!” While the jealous, half-frenzied creature sat there, with her hands tightly clasped on her bo- som as if to still its wild throbbings, there came a faint. sound, no jouder than the pecking of a bird, upon the window-pane. Looking around, she saw something dark, like a human figure, standing on the flat roof of the veranda, the other side of the glass. Hurriedly crossing the floor she threw up the sash; and as she did this a cold hand fell m her, ‘Ss she felt herself drawn irresistibly for- wara, ‘*Do not be frightened,” whispered a voice, which at first she failed to recognize. ‘1 do not come here for any evil purpose.” At this moment the lamp light streaming through the window fell brightly upon the fig- a Ra
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: a T=" _ astrange, hollow voice. a greater service than you are aware. I shall | 8 ure of the intruder, and Ethelind saw, with a thrili of superstitious dread, that it was the vailed lady of Lorn, Mrs. Faunce. ‘* How did you get here?” she asked, in amaze- ent. ‘*I climbed the iron steps at the far end of the veranda.” “Oh!” Ethelind remembered them at once— a flight of very steep stairs, that were consid- ered unsafe, and had long fallen into disuse. ‘What do you want?’ she abruptly demanded. “They tell me that he has been injured— Colonel Falkner! I could not rest until I knew | the worst. It seems like the act of a mad-woman | to come here like this. But ob, what I suffer you would pity me.’ Seizing hold of Ethelind’s arm, she cried in a husky, passionate voice: “Tell me the truth. Is he dangerously in- jured?” ‘* We hope—we believe he is not,” ‘**Thank God—thank God! Be merciful, and if you knew dant a lick tala ‘hé waning hours of that long night were hours of turmoil and heartache for the miser- able girl. When at last the cold gray dawn | crept sluggishly into the room, ber face locked / ghastly and worn, as if by the passage of years, Colonel Falkner himself soon observed her hag- | gard expression. “It was very good of you, Ethelind, to k ) this wearisome vigil,” he said, kindly. “But 1 fear you have overtaxed yourself.” She murmured some inaudible reply. “Go, now, and lie down, my child. If I want anything, I can ring for one of the ser- vants.” | | explicable. / | For her life, she could not help | echoing the word, and her tone was a bitter one. let me see him. Let me look once upon his face, | and then i will go away again!” CHAPTER VIIL DZTECTIVE FERRET. Mrs. FauNCcE did not wait for permission, but passed swiftly through the open window, and approached the couch. The ee lam had burned low, and now flickered fitfully, send- ing weird shadows trooping over the carpet, A being of thick shadows that gloom-shrouded fig- ure itself appeared, with its black garments and the thick black vail muffling head and shoulders, and effectually concealing every fea- ture. Ethelind could only stare after her in wonder and terror. Pausing near the head of the bed, Mrs. Faunce stood motionless, looking down at the sleeper. Some muttered words that sounded like endear- ing epithets, fell from her lips. Presently she her vail aside, with an impatient move- ment, and, still keeping her face in deep shadow, touched her lips to Colone] Falkner’s forehead. The lamp gave an expiring flicker, at the same instant, and went out altogether. From the direction of the couch came a smothered ery, but before Ethelind could Brope her way through the thick darkness, Mrs. Faunce was again beside her. “Thank you, Miss Erle,” said the woman, in ‘You nave done me not forget it.” She was gone before Ethelind could collect her wits sufficiently to reply. The frightened girl passed into the chamber, shut and fastened the window, and groped her way to the chim- ney-piece, where she had seen a ‘amp and matches standing, earlier in the evening. eo struck a light, she approached the bed. Colonel Falkner’s eyes were wide open, a strange look of wonder and eagerness in their ’ clear depths. ‘Who was in the room just now?” he asked. She dared not tell him. ‘*T have been here all the evening,” she an- swered, evasively. “T thought—I fancied—” He broke off abruptly, and a heavy sigh es- ca his ~ 3 * What did you think?’ she impulsively said. “Tt seems so strange, so wonderful,” gees. in low, husky tones, and pressing one han wearily to his forehead. ‘‘I must have dream- ed it, for i imagined that the grave had given up its dead, and she was here, right beside me!” “ Of whom do you speak? Of Olympia?” “ Yes—of Olympia Verne.” Ethelind drew back, a sick feeling of dread and horror coming over her. Had she really seen a ghost?—or what was the explanation of the strange scene that had Msrvar Spend ‘* Are you sure this Olympia Verne is dead?” she asked, presently, with blanched lips. “Sure? | | | ‘Ts it not possible that you may have been | deceived?” He shook his head. ** I saw her in the coffin, with my own eyes. There could have been no mistake, Oh, m God! it is too terribly certain that she is dead, and lost to me forever.” _ He turned slowly and painfully away, but Ethelind caught a glimpse of his face, and saw that it was fearfully distorted with anguish. “ Ah, bow passionately he must have loved that woman,” she thought. Resuming her old position, she dropped her throbbing temples on her hands. In vain did ghe try to reason out the singular scene to which she had been a witness. Had Mrs. Faunce known and loved this man. | Wandering **Colonel Falkner, why do you yee in ap- plying that hateful title to me? Child, indeed! his Se tae J I feel that I must outrival the ew himself in point of years.” A pitying smile trembled about the corners of his mouth. ‘Forgive me. I find it hard to realize that you are no longer the inexperienced school-girl your father confided to my guardianship, five years ago.” ‘Suffering has made of me & woman.” “True, Again I crave your pardon.” She rose, ald moved proudly away, without venturing a reply. But, the instant she gained her own room, and had secured the door, she threw herself on the bed, and burst out crying. The telegraphic dispatch Mrs. Falkner bad sent to Vincent Erle at New York reached its destination in due season, and during the course of the day—the second subsequent to the at- tempted murder—Mr. Ferret, the member of the detective police, for whom she had asked, made his appearance at Glenoaks. He proved to be asmall, ee man of forty, with a thin, smoothly-shaven face, and piercing light gray eyes that had an odd knack of seeming to read one through and through at a glance. rs, Falkner received him in her own room. She looked nervous and excited. There was something in the thought of having a police-of- ficer in the house that well might have croubled a more phlegmatic person than Mrs. Falkner— especially, which was her case, if this happened to be the first experience of the sort. ““Of course,” she began, turning a shade paler, as she pointed him to a chair, *‘ of course you come prepared to work in our interests, or you would not be here at all.” “T shall do what I can, madam,” was the grave reply. b bi good. Pray make your investigations as quietly as possible; and, above all shinee, spare my son any unnecessary catechising. e is too ill to be troubled.” Detective Ferret turned his gray eyes quietly upon her face. ‘*T know nothing of the case, as yet, madam, not even the smallest particular. 0 is to de- tail to me the circumstances that have already come to light?” E “T will. Making a determined effort she went over the case carefully, so far asshe was acquainted with it. Nota word was said concerning the sex of the would-be murderer, however, as Colonel Falkner had never spoken of his own discovery that it was a woman. The detective listened attentively. “It is proper to a here at the outset, if your suspicions are directed against any par- ticular person?” he said. Mrs. Falkner replied in the negative. ‘‘T am not aware that my son has an enemy in the world. And yet, robbery could not have been the motive that led to the crime. Nothing has been missed from the house—neither money nor trinkets.” ‘You expect me to discover the guilty party, and bring bim to justice?” “IT do. An attempted crime of this nature is not to be passed lightly by.” ‘* Very well. As I said before I shall do what I can.” He rose es he spoke. “With your permission, I will now go the round of the premises.” “Certainly. If any of my servants can be of use to you, you areat liberty to command their services.” “Thank you. I prefer tomake my own way among them, just at first.” He searched the house thoroughly, but_with- out finding any evidence upon which to base a proaches to the veranda roof, and of course the roof itself, were carefully inspected. The only clew discovered here was the print of a shoe in the dust that had accumulated on the iron steps leading up from the terrace. Buc whetner the print had been left by a large shoe or a small one it was impossible to tell, as the steps evi- dently had been dripping with rain at the time it was made, and the track had been elongated beyond its original dimensions. Mr. Detective Ferret began to grow interest- ed. ‘¢ Gleam of light the first,” he muttered, his gray eyes brightening. ‘‘Anda precious faint gleam it is! But crimes have been traced home to their Mag i oka before now, on evidence more trifling than this may prove to be.” Having vainly searched for other footprints Mr. Ferret at length re-entered the house, and at the end of two hours had ingratiated himself so marvelously in the good graces of the ser- vants, from the housekeeper down to the lowest scullion, that he knew nearly as much of the pri- vate history of each and every individual com- Posing the household as did the persons them- selves. In the early twilight he passed into the grounds to walk and ruminate. The chamber- maid had told him that the window of an ante- room, just beyond the chamber Colonel Falkner had occupied that fatal night, and looking out, like it, upon the veranda roof, had been found wide open the next morning, though she remem- bered having closed it herself just previous to retiring. He was revolving this fact in his mind, as he strolled down one of the dusky side paths, and vaguely wondering if, in spite of the tell- tale footprint, the culprit must not be one of Mrs. Falknor’s own household. Suddenly he stopped short and uttered a faint “Halloa!” The figure of a man gliding stealth- ily through the shrubbery, a short distance be- yond the path, attracted attention. Mr. Fer- ret stared at him, then rubbed his eyes and stared again, this time recognizing the stalwart, manly figure of Raymond Challoner! ‘x thes h!” the detective ejaculated to him- self, ‘* This means something. Mr. Challoner would not be stealing away in this fashion un- less he had a secret to keep. I will follow, and, if I can, find out what it is.” CHAPTER IX, EAVESDROPPING, PasstnG one thicket after another—all of which were passed in turn by the detective shadowing his footsteps—Raymond Challoner paused, at length, in an open glade near the avenue gates. Here stood a swarthy, Jewish- looking individual, leaning against a tree-trunk with the air of a man waiting for something or somebody. “Here you are at last, shir,” said the stran- ger, starting forward the instant his wandering aze fell upon the figure of the young man. ‘You don’t come a minute too shoon, let me shay, for your own good.” ‘“Hush!” Raymond exclaimed, in an angry voice. ‘I got your message; but [ didn’t come here to be threatened. What do you want?” Mr. Ferret drew as near to the speakers as he dared, and crouching down behind a clump of evergreens, impatiently awaited the answer. It came speedily enough. “What do I wantsh? It’s of no use for you to be asking such questions, shir. You knowish very well that I wantsh mine money.” ‘“Fool! You shall have it, in due time; only be patient.” “Dye waited and waited and waited, shir, but no good comesh of waiting,” retorted the Jew, enly. ‘‘ {must have mine moneysh.” ee I told you thafi you should. Be reasonable, vi. ‘I can’t be put off forever, shir; you_knowsh Y can’t. Bishness is bishness, shir. ere is the nishe young lady with a bagful o’ money you were going to marry?” Raymond drew back with a muttered curse, ‘* And so F he: heard that the marriage had been put off, and that’s what bronght you down to Glenoaks in such haste?” ‘*Mine interests must be looked after, shir,” was the dogged answer. ‘‘Theresh a good deal at shtake. “Of course thero is to be a marriage. It has been delayed a few days by the sudden iudispo- sition of Miss Erle. But it is to be celebrated in church, on Sunday morning.”
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**Shunday, and no mistakesh?” “ Yes ” “The day after to-morrow?” “Yes: You have no need to question me so closely; I do not wish to deceive you.” _ An ugly chuckle came from the Jew’s lips. “Tt wouldn’t be besht for you to try that me, shir, and I think you knowsh it. No man ikesh to cut his own throat.” Raymond was trembling. ‘Come this way,” be said, suddenly, ina husky voice. ‘I have more tosay to you; and this thick shrubbery could easily afford shelter to eavesdroppers.” He drew his companion toward the middle of the open space, and their conversation was re- sumed in a lower tone—so low, in fact, that Mr. Ferret found himself unable'to distinguish an- other word, Ten minutes later they separated. The Jew went out at the gate, muttering discontentedly to himself, and Raymond Challoner hurried back to the house. Mr. Ferret followed the latter. On the ter- race steps, as they drew near, stood Mrs. Falk- ner, a lace shawl ered over her shoulders, A pained, troubled look was on her face, which the fading light se hae out distinctly. Raymond walked ight up to her; and the detective, true to the instincts of his profession, fell behind, screening himself behind a con- venient trellis, ‘Tt is fortunate that I met you, Mrs. Falk- ner,” said Raymond, speaking in an agitated voice, ‘I was on my way, at this very mo- ment, to solicit an interview.” Mr, Ferret saw her turn, and look fixedly at the young man, sf What. can I defor you, Mr. Challoner?” she asked. ‘ ‘‘T wish to consult with you concerning my— my—marriage. Ethelind avoids me so persist- ently that 1 am unable even toexchange a word with her. Of course there will be no second de- lay?” ‘The marriage is indefinitely postponed; I thought you so understood it.” : Raymond gasped for breath. “But I did not so understand it!” he. cried, hotly. ‘‘And I cannot submit to unnecessary delay. The state of lind’s health can no longer be a plea for ming it.” e events that have ired in this house are sufficient excuse,” Mrs. Falkner haughtily returned. “To me it seems wicked and unseemly to talk of marriage and merry- making when a shocking tragedy has been s0 imminent.” “ You do not seem to consider my disappoint- ment. “*Propriety must be observed.” ‘Propriety !” came the fierce response. “What care I for the me forms of ienty | oe they separate me from the woman ve ‘*You have only to wait a reasonable length of time for the consummation of your happi- ness. “I cannot wait! Oh, Mrs. Falkner, prove yourself my friend in this emergency, and do away with all bor i “Impossible. I have consulted with my son and he agrees with me that the marriage must be indefinitely ge Seg ‘Good God Colonel Falkner also in league — those who seem determined to op- me ‘Tt is to this unseemly haste that he objects.” “IT know,” exclaimed the young man, writh- like one undergoing torture. ‘I have not been blind, all these weeks! Colonel Falkner’s reasons for advocating delay are transparent enough. The murderous attack on himself has nothing to do with them. He hopes the mar- riage will be given up altogether, and then he can himself lay claim to the hand of his beauti- ul ward.” -- ‘““Mr, Challoner, I am ashamed of you!” was Mrs. Falkner’s indignant response. _ , She was turning away when he laid a restrain- ing hand on her arm. ; ““Forgive me, Mrs. Falkner. I had no right to make such a remark. But, misery has driven me beside myself.” She drew herself haughtily aloof. ‘* Now that the subject has been broached, we may as well come to an understanding. At the first I favored your marriage wit” my son’s ward, but I do so no longer. Ha » you not seen that Ethelind does not love you, and only accepted you in a moment of pique or jealous frenzy?” ‘Love will come of itself, when she is once my wife.” “Not if her heart is given to another, and such is, I fear, the case.” aS ; } ram @. Set narmmnat weet em ve OR WIDOW ? WIFE “Humph! A romantic attachment, of which, a year hence, she will herself feel heartily ashamed.” ‘* She certainly ought to be cured of her folly before binding herself to another,” Mrs. Falk- ner coldly said. ‘‘ Why, the mere thought of this marriage drives her to the verge of despair and insanity.” “She should have weighed all this before be- trothing herself to me,”’ “'True—true.” “‘ I cannot release her from the engagement.” Mrs. Falkner gave ber head a haughty toss. “And. I, for my own part, cannot force the | girl into a marriage so abhorrent to her feel- | ings, You must plead your cause with her— not with me.” Hastily gathering up her shaw], she walked | into the house, without another, word. And af- | ter a brief delay Raymond Challoner followed | her, his brow knitted, his lips compressed. Mr. Ferret gave vent to a suppressed whistle | when at length he emerged from his temporary hiding-place. A new theory in regard tothe attempted murder was dimly penetrating his brain. In spite of Raymond’s self-control, he had heard enough to feel convinced that the young man was insanely jealous of Colonel Falk- ner. Might he not be the guilty person? There was the open window in the anteroom to be ac- counted for. He might have stolen out at itfor the purpose of. misleading suspicion, and in his terror and agitation forgotten to close it on his return. Two things, at least, were clear; first, that Raymond was jealous of Miss Erle’s guardian; secondly, that he stood in pressing need of money, which he had looked to the contemplat- ed marriage to supply—his intended bride be- ing on heiress in her own right. he footprint in the dust remained unaccount- ed for, by this theory, unless Raymond had de- scended the steps for the express purpose of throwing suspicion upon some outside party. ‘* The young wan will bear watching,” thought the detective. ‘‘He may know more of this mystery than anybody else.” An hour later he was sitting in his own room, thoughtfully pondering the subject, when a ser- vaut entered and said: ‘My master has been told that you are in the house, sir; and he would like a moment's con- recede me.” into the chamber where Colonel Falkner was lying, the sick man aan on his elbow, and looked at him earn- estly. “It was my mother—not me—who summon- ed you to Glenoaks, Mr. Ferret,” he said. “Tam aware of that fact, Colonel Falkner.” “ For my part, I would rather you had not a. The detective manifested some surprise at the frank admission, and Colonel Falkner added, abruptly, after a pause: ‘The affair was not serious enough to require an investigation. None should have been at- eRe Falkner thought differently.” A mpprons sigh broke from the colonel’s lips. At length, fixing a still more intense gaze upon: Mr, Ferret’s face, as though he would have read his very thoughts, he said, in a low voice: | ‘*T have a request to make—one with which I trust you will comply.” “It is only necessary to state it, sir.” ‘‘When you discover a positive clew to the mystery you were called here to unravel, will you come to me with the evidence before speak- ng of it to any third person?” t was the detective’s turn to stare, and he did, with all his eyes. “You would not even except Mré Falk- ner?” ‘*T would except nobody,” was the answer. ““Very well. I cannot refuse compliance with so simple a request.” “Thank you. This is a pledge between us, and I shall hold you to it. Now you may go.” Colonel Falkner dropped his head on the pil- low with an expression of unmistakable relief. His eyes cl , but a spasm of physical or mental pain caused the firm lips to quiver, ever and anon. “The mystery ret, as he slowly picked his way back to his own room. ‘Colonel Falkner evidently wishes ta shield somebody from public exposure. Who is it—Raymond Challoner or another?” deepens,” muttered Mr. Fer- | $$ _—____—_— CHAPTER X. THE TELLTALE SHRED OF ORAPE. DETECTIVE FERRET. began his investigations, the next morning, by again going over the veranda roof, and carefully observing every ‘mndow opening upon if. Of these there were uwo besides those belonging to the anteroom, and to the chamber in which Colonel Falkner | had slept that fatal night. ; | It would have been a comparatively easy | matter for Raymond Challoner—or anybody else in the house—to steal ont at one of the win: jows and in at another before engaging in t srime that had been attempted. ‘The co.onel’s door was not fastened, they say—the assassin might have gone stalking into | the chamber without let or hindrance,” thought Mr. Ferret, as his keen gray eyes royed from side to side. ‘‘But my theory of the crime makes, that fact of little consequence, The ilty person would naturally seek to cover up Fis tracks and avert suspicion; and every fa- | cility was here offered him, I'll investigate a | little further, and then report to Colonel Falk- ner, as I promised.” In less than five minutes after giving utter- ance to this soliloquy, the detective nadea fresh discovery—one that completely overturned all his preconceived ideas of the manner in which the attempted crime had been committed. This discovery was nothing more nor less than the finding a scrap of white crape, of the kind commonly called Canton crape, clinging to a nail in the wooden casing of the window that opened into Colonel Falkner’s chamber! The shutter had effectually concealed it when he made that first and more superficial examina- tion, the day before. | Mr. Ferret took the bit of -crape in his hands and looked at it attentively. It had evidently been torn from a shawl, for’a single knot of fringe still adhered to it. His experienced eye told him at a glance that the texture could not have been exposed to the weather where he found it, many days. Hurrying into the house, he asked for Mrs. Falkner, and was at once conducted to her sit- -room. ‘“* Madam,” he said, abruptly, “I have come to you for needed information. Is the veranda roof ever used as a place of resort by any of the women—servants or others—belonging to your household?” She replied in the negative. “Tlave any of them been on the roof since this miserable affair occurred?’ “To my knowledge—certainly not. None of them would be likely to go there.” Mr. Ferret now peda the scrap of crape. “Be good ee to tell me, madam, if there isa shawl in the house from which this frag- ment may have been torn.” Mrs. Falkner bent to look, and a strange ex- pression stole slowly over her face. ‘* Yes,” she answered, in a faint voice. “'To whom does the shaw! belong?” **To my son’s ward, Miss Ethelind Erle.” ‘*Send for Miss Erle, if you please, and ask her to bring the shawl to this room.” Mrs, Falkner immediately rung the bell, and gave the necessary beeing to the. servant who answered thesummons. After a delay of about five minutes Ethelind entered, looking pal anxious; but she brought nothing along. “T know not where to find the shawl for | which you asked. I have searched through my | wardrobe, but it isn’t there,” said aad, fn /a low voice, half turning away from the detec- | tive. ‘“* How long is it since you first missed‘it?” “ Several days.” “Pray be more explicit,” said Mr. Ferret, changing his position in order to get a better | view of her face. ‘‘ How many days?” | Her eyes drooped, but she made no reply. ) “You had it on when you were let into the | house the night of the storm,” said Mrs, Falk- | ner. eand “ Yes.” * And the night of the storm was the nicht of | the attempted murder,” thought Mr. Ferret, _never suffering his intense gaze to leave the girl’s face for a moment, | . “'TPheshawi must have slipped from my shoul- | ders on the way to my own room,” Ethelind said, after a pause. “TI did not miss it that | night, but I have not seen it since,” rs. Falkner approached the door, | “Remain here,” she said, briefly, “The ser- | Yants may know something of the missing wrap. | Pm going to inquire.” / Ethelind tottered to a chair and sat do ale and faint. Fully quarter of an hour clanest | before Mrs. Falkner returned, but during all |
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40 this while she aid not once speak to the detec- tive, or glance toward him. Mrs. Falkner “ Here is the shawl,” said the latter, speaking in a raised voice, the instant they crossed the threshold. ‘‘ It was found the morning subse- quent to the storm.” “* Where?” inquired the detective. Mrs. Falkner waved her hand toward the housekeeper, and said: “You may tell him.” va) pres it up on the lawn,” said Mrs. Bates, step g forw: and throwing the shawl over a A Ethelind raised her head. Even Mr. Ferret seemed startled. ** On the lawn?’ he echoed. aw the housekeeper, followed Mrs. | “Yes. It lay half-under a rose-bush at one end of the veranda. ** At which end?” **'The north—near those iron * pec torward and turned the shawl He sound and round. From one side a small portion of the fabric had been torn away, ep ory, a rag yo into which the fragment he held in his hand fitted perfectly. While he stood staring at it, a cold hand fell on his, Ethelind stood ide him, every drop of blood gone out of her ghastly face, “* That is not my shawl,” she said. “* Whose is it?” er cannot tell. I only know that it isn’t e. ‘“‘ Were there two white crape shawls in the house?’ belong to your cl her hands. “Tt is difficult to explain in what way it is dissimilar, and yet I can detect a difference. Not in color, not in texture, nov even in the depth and knotting of the fringe, but rather in the general appearance of the shawl. Thisis not mine,” she repeated. “ T hope you may be able to prove it isn’t.” ‘*My shawl would be discolored—I had worn it out in the storm. There is nothing about this to show that it has ever been wet.” The detective could discover nothing. He turned to Mrs. Bates, ‘* What was the condition of this shawl, as to being wet or dry, when you found it?” “Tt was dry, except. the dampness it would naturally gather from lying on the grass, after @ rain. “And every fiber of mine was soaked with water when I came in out of the storm,” said Ethelind, in a low voice. Mr. Ferret knitted his brows._ Was there ever & more aggravating case? He had shifted his theory of the crime once already—would he be compelled to do,this.a second time? “Permit me to ask a question of another sort, Miss Erle,” he said, at. length, looking as if he would read her through and through. ‘‘ Were you, aware that Colonel Falkner would occupy the chamber he did that fatal night?” t “TI was not,” she answered, trembling slight- ly; and dropping her eyes, ; ‘Until the was given, you believed that Mr. Raymond Challoner ha’ n. sleeping there, as usual?” “Vos” Mrs. Falkner now stepped forward, and said, in an unsteady voice: “The arrangement was decided on at alate hour of the evening, and I am quite sure nobody | knew of the change save myself, the parties | concerned, and one of the servants.” Mr, Ferret uttered an expressive “‘Humph! You may dismiss Miss Erle as soon as you please,” he said to Mrs, Falkner, in an under- tone, and then walked to the window. hen Ethelind had gone, he took up the ques- tion of the dagger that had been left sticking in | the wound Colonel Falkner had received. Of course he had already informed himself that the weapon belonged in the house. “Where was it usually kept?’ he inquired. “Ina cabinet that stands in the room Miss Dolores Gloyne now occupies.” “Send for Miss Gloyne.” When Dolores e her ip nega the de- tective abruptly confronted her with the dag- ger, and the stern demand: ** When was the first time you ever saw this weapon, Miss Gloyne?” She looked up with a startled glance, her face turning quite pale. “The evening when the wedding was to have come off.’ “ re was it?” WIFE OR WIDOW? Tn the cabinet of my chamber.” ‘What called your attention to it at that par- ticular time?’ She hesitated, looking frightened and distress- but Mrs. Falkner said, coldly: ‘You must reply to his questions, Dolores.” “T was sitting in my room,” replied the girl, trembling in every limb, as she spoke, ‘* when Ethelind entered, looking very wild and strange. I think she was slightly delirious. She caught up the dagger, all of a sudden, and threatened her own life with it. “She must have been in a desperate mood.” ““She was.” “Humph! What could have occasioned it?” “‘T think the proposed marriage was not to her ee Dd sh tain the dagger in her pessession?” ‘Did she retain the r er on “No. I found it in the cabinet, the next day, and threw it out of the window.” “Why did you do that?” Mr. Ferret asked, in surprised tone, “*T felt afraid that Ethelind might come across it again, when I was not present, and do herself mischief,” At this point, the detective attempted to catch Mrs. Falkner’s eye, but she kept her face reso- lutely averted. ‘‘Let the investigation be dropped for the present,” she said, after a brief silence. ‘I am not well this morning. You can come to me —_ by and by.” ith a sweep of her arm she dismissed both the detective and Dolores, closing and bolting the door behind them the instant they had gone out. Raymond Challoner chanced to be crossing the hall. Mr, Ferret felt like running up to him and begging his pardon for the unjust sus- picions he had entertained. But struggling inst the impulse, he walked straight on to lonel Falkner’s room, and entered. Fortunately the sick man was alone, Mr. Ferret Lt einen the bed, saying, quietly: ‘“‘ Here I am, sir, obedient to your request.” On the colonel’s face came a look of pain and terror. He gasped once or twice as if his breath were gone. ‘Well?’ he said, faintly panting. **T am certain that we both suspect the same rson,” sinking his voice to a whi : ‘That murderous blow was not intended for you, but for Raymond Challoner. You know, as well as I do, who is interested in putting him out of the re Colonel Falkner shuddered, and pressed his fingers over his eyes. é' “Hush! I think you know how to keep a secret, Mr. Ferret. Now go down to the library, and make out a check to any’amount that seems appropriate, and I will sign it.” “Very well. I understand you. You can trust me, sir—there shall be no scandal—none, at least of my making.” The interview began and ended with these few words. Mr. Ferret wrote out the check as di- rected, took it to the colonel, and it was signed ragga another sentence being spoken on either e. : An hour later the detective was descending the stairs with his light overcoat thrown over one, arm, and a manteau swinging beside him, when Mrs. Falkner opened the door of her sitting-room and spoke his name. ‘* Will you please come in, Mr. Ferret?’ He entered. A strange expression had set- tled upon the woman’s face that made her look ears older than she had looked early that morn- ioe. She made no comment whatever upon his preparations for departure, however. Perhaps she was not even aware of them. **] see now that it wasa mistake to attempt an investigation of what has occurred,” she said, speaking in cold, self-possessed tones, ‘‘I have decided to abandon it, Your labors here are at an end, but that shall make no difference with the liberality of the reward you have earned.” She was drawing a small writing-desk to- ward ber, when Mr, Ferret took from his purse the check he had already received, and held it out for her inspection. ‘* Your son has forestalled you, madam. He has already paid and dismissed me.” She looked round with a suppressed cry. ‘Then he knows—” * All that you know, madam. But there is nothing to fear. I never yet betrayed a patron. Good-by ” He put out his hand, and Mrs, Falkner drop- ped hers into it, sighing heavily, The next mo- ment he was gone. CHAPTER XI. A WOMAN’S DESPAIR. THE investigation had ew gone on, ended. and the mystery enshrouding the events of that memorable night remained as great an enigma as ever te Mrs. Falkner’s servants, and the small fraction of the outside world that knew any- thing of the matter. The conviction prevailed that Detective Ferret had found the case too difficult to be worked up advantageously, and had voluntarily abandoned it—a belief that Mrs. Falkner and her son, whatever their own pri- vate opinions, took care to encoura But the good mistress of Gle seemed a changed woman. She shut herself into her own apartments, shunning everybody. She even avoided the chamber which her son was con- valescing, as if shrinking from the sight of a human face, or the sound of a human voice. Early in the afternoon of the second day of this -imposed banishment, Ethelind knocked at thedoor of Mrs, Fali sroom. This sud- vee freak of et old lady’s and distressed the sympathe irl, and she lon to hear some tion oF it hen she entered, Falkner was sitting near the open window, her head leaned wearily upon one hand, her deadly-pale face turned away. Her whole attitude was that of a os whom some terrible grief or trouble has en. “You are ill—you are suffering!” Ethelind exclaimed, quickly crossing the floor. Mrs. Falkner vered, but she did not look p or speak. ‘** What can I do for you?” “* Nothing.” “But yuu have scarcely tasted food for two days. Dear madam, you are either sick, or in mental distress. In either case,I am anxious to help and befriend you.” ‘‘ You!” cried Mrs. Falkner, with thrilling and bitter emphasis, ‘It would be like quench- ing fire with fire.” ‘Oh, what do you mean?” “‘T won't tell you. Leave me! That is the only satisfactory thing you can do.” “T can’t bear to be sent away. Do let me help you,” said Ethelind, eagerly. She bent down and would have kissed Mrs. Falkner’s forehead had not the latter sprung back, utte’ a hysterical cry, and beating her hands before her, as if beating her off. “Don’t touch me! You shall not! I beg of you to go away. You can do me no good.” ainst the window-frame, such u She leaned an ression of horror and aversion on her face that Ethelind drew back, and after a mo- ment’s hesitation, left the room. In all her life she had never been so puzzled, so confounded. Since the aigat of her lonely vigil, the girl had avoided the chamber in which Colonel Falkner lay; but now, in her distress and per- plexity, she proceeded directly to it. No smile of welcome lighted ‘ay heey sick man’s face, how- ever, as he observed her approach. It seemed, nics to grow colder, , and more lividly white. ‘Is it you, child?” he said, in a languid voice. “What can I do for you?” Ethelind’s heart beat suffocatingly fast, but she tried to still it. Scarcely knowing whatshe did, she stepped forward and dropped her hot hand on the sick man’s, which was on the illow. He violently withdrew it, as if there ad been contamination in her touch— “Pray stand back,” he exclaimed. A livid grayness crept over Ethelind’s fea- tures and they seemed to all at once, into stone. “Colonel Falkner,” she said, in a dry, hard tone, ‘‘ you shrink from me as if I were a leper, a thing accursed. Why is it?’ ‘‘T am nervous,” he answered, composing himself with an effort. “I frankly acknowledge that I dislike to be touched. But surely you can look leniently upon the whims of a sick man?’ ‘“You havo been like this ever since that dreadful night.” ‘* My illness dates from then.” ‘You make an effort to hide the truth, but you cannot deceive me. You would rather clasp the fingers of a corpse than mine.” yr up pityingly, sorrowfully, into her pale face, ‘“‘Ethelind, I ae of you to cease. I hoped you had given up that fanciful notion forever.” “Tt is not fanciful!” she cried. ‘It would not hurt me so if it were. And now your mother treats me in the same inexplicable man- ner. “My mother?”
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“Yes. She turns away as if she had rather not even look at me. There must be a reason for this. Oh, do not put me off any longer. Tell me what it is!” She cl her hands and stood motion] gazing at in a beseeching way that touch is heart. ‘““My dear child, I beg of you to dismiss this foolish yg 44 he said. “It only makes you A elieve hay Bee mother and Iare the best friends you have in the world.” ‘You will not tell me what I wish to know?” “How can I?” “You are cruel! I shall not ask you again.” Uttering a passionate cry she turned away ‘with a flushed cheek and a lurid sparkle in her eyes. The afternoon was hot and sultry. Hurryin to her own room, Ethelind tied on her hat, an left the house. She felt as if she should ‘stifle in its close atmosphere. ; Thick masses of clouds were piled up in the sky, vailing the fervid sun. Some subtile mag- netism drew Ethelind’s feet to the sandy shore of the bay. Seating herself on a mossy rock, so low down that the curling tide caught, ever and anon, at the hem of her garments, she gave her- self up to perplexed though idle conjecture, Her half-mad brain utterly refused to advance a reasonable explanation of the strange treat- ment she had recently experienced at hands of Mrs. Falkner and her guardian. The human mind is wonderfully complex in its workings, and in some unaccountable way the thought of Golonel Falkner’s dead love soon be- gan to mingle itself with her musings, and quite unconsciously she traced the name “* Olympia” = the soft sand at her feet with her parasol- yt step crashed on the shingle a few minutes later, and looking round witha gesture of impa- tience, Ethelind saw Raymond Challoner ap- proachin It was the first time she had seen him afone since the interrupted wedding. In the house it had been a comparatively easy matter to shun him, and decline all se 2 dows for a private in- terview. But here, in this secluded spot, there seemed to be no chance of escape. "Bho balf- rose, biting her lip till the blood came. ‘At last!” the young man ejaculated, press- ing eagerly to her side, he expected to hear a torrent of wild words and bitter reproaches. To her intense surprise, there was deep silence for a moment. Raising her eyes, she saw that Raymond was staring at the name written in the sand with a very strange expression on his face. Olympia,” he said, suddenly. ‘Itis an un- asual name.’ She made no reply. “Where have you heard it, Ethelind? Have an friend who bears that singular appella- on ** I have not.” ** Why, then, did you write it there?” “I do not know, Because it struck my oe perhaps. I can give you no better rea- Raymond quietly seated himself on a second rock, at a little distance. Perhaps he was keep- ing a strong restraint upon himself. At any rate he looked little like a disappointed lover. “The name is of no consequence, Ethelind. I wish to speak of quite another matter—in fact, followed you from the house for that very pur- Pe How dared you dog my steps?” she cried, Be cas animpertinent thingto do. But you left me no choice. This interview might just as well have been held in the drawing-room at Glenoaks, had you so willed it.” She turned fiercely toward him. “‘ Now that you have forced your unwelcome presence upon me, pray tell me, in the fewest words possible, the nature of your wants,” she said, in a raised voice. “ Bthelind, my love, this is singular language to hold toward — future husband.” ; ‘No matter; I can’t disguise my real feelings, nor do I wish to disgui on* “‘T believe you hate me.” “I never said I loved you,” she cried, in a tone of violent, repressed excitement. ‘ How could L when it was never true?” *But you to marry me,” he an- swered, looking straight into her dilated eyes. ** Fool | was! I deserved to be ish- ed. And, oh, my God, have I not been “The m has been twice delayed, but through no fault of mine. Of course youintend oe ee © ean re and elench- ing her slender little ok: WIFE OR WIDOW? Do you wish a wife who dreads your touch —who shivers at the sound of your voice—who stifles in the air you breathe—who always feels an irresistible impulse to fly from your very presence?” “T cannot give you up,” he said. ‘My love is stronger than your aversion. It will con- sume the weaker passion.” ** Never!” “You cannot hold out forever against me. It isn’t in the nature of thi = He attempted to clasp her hand, but she drew herself post ye away from him, a steely glit- ter leaping up in her dilated eyes, **-You know what I suffer,” she said, wildly. “ All the trouble I have ever known has come to me through your instrumentality. Do you mean to curse my life still further? Do you in- tend to hold me to an engagement that I abhor —one thatshould never have been entered into?” “Forgive me, Ethelind, I must. It is my only chance of happiness in this world. More depends upon our marriage than you are aware. y shrink from what is inevitable? Even ifI were to release you, bn would gain pothing by my clemency. Twolives would be blighted in- stead of one. Under the circumstances it seems to me that I am justified in holding you to your promise.” “‘Oh, mercy, mercy! I believe you intend to break my heart! It ts broken already!” ; At this outburst cig begtige arose, and again vainly essayed to take her hand, while he mur- mured in low, tender tones: ‘* Ethelind, for both our sakes Ientreat you to look this matter squarely in the face. He, eee whom you have s0 fooli lavished your affec- tions, does not value them in the least.” “True !” she cried, a scarlet flush leaping like flame into her cheeks, only to recede the next moment, leaving them paler than before. “He will never dream of ma you his wife—never! You would wear out heart and life in vain. Colonel Falkner regards you with feelings of indifference, and he cannot change.” The livid lips , a low irrepressible moan ca from them. ‘Hush, oh, hush!” “The truth is bitter, but you must learn to bear it, Your weakness has only awakened sentiments of contemptuous pity in the heart of him Fa love not wisely but too well. Oh, Ethelind, shake off the mad infatuation. Bring all your firmness t) bear againstit. Let it be my blessed privilege to help and strengthen you. This mad, apless, deplorable passion can be conquered, and— He proceeded no further. The half-crazed girl pe a him with a wild gesture—a sudden sis 2 of the hand. ‘“*Hush!” she slowly panted. ‘‘ Don’t you see that you are killing me with your cruel words? Ob, let me go!” CHAPTER XII. THE STRANGE LADY. SPRINGING past him, Ethelind rushed wey along the beach, and climbed the steep ban peyond, With her white, working face, and eyes strained in dead affright, she looked likoa™ poor, lost, terror-stricken soul fleeing from the voice of doom. Raymond did not attempt to follow. He stood, wholly impassive, looking after her re- treating figure until it was lost to sight; thena heavy sigh broke from him. ‘Poor Ethelind. I really pity the girl. But cannot Me her ap. My love and my neces- sity alike forbid. e dower she will bring is cient to save me from financial ruin, and her Sweetness, purity and goodness will be the bee perhaps, of saving my erring soul from Biting his lips, and knitting his brows - ded, ina changed voice: - wept “T can’t stave off those rascally Jews much longer. aay are getting more importunate every day. Unless the marriage is hurried for- ward wi all possible dispatch, I am a ruined man. His handsome brows were deeply corrugated and he stood grinding his boot-heel into the ielding sand, as if, even in this trifling action, he found a safety-valve for the intense emotions boiling within his soul. A sudden peal of thunder aroused him. Looking up, he saw that the tempest was al- ready marshaling its forces. The jagged clouds had piled themselves together until one vast pall, of inky blackness, covered the western eaven. At the same instant he observed a woman’s a gliding along the sand, at some dista th a slow, majestic tread. The figure hel his attention by a strange sort ef magnetism. It was draped in black from head to foot, but its graceful poise and easy movements, even as seen through the intervening space, excited his curiosity and admiration. ‘*T wonder who she can be?’ he muttered. “Ah, [haveit. That black-draped lady is the new proprietor of Lorn!” Of course the gossip and marvelous stories still current concerning Mrs. Faunce, had reach- ed Raymond Challoner’s ears as well as those of other people; and, had he been less deeply ab- sorbed in his own affairs, at this particular period, he would have given them some shareof iengpicoly avandia figure, th ingularly enough, that mysterious figure, the instant his rested upon it, caused a strange commotion in his heart. He felt drawn forward a impulse over which he had no control. ere was an unaccountable creeping sensation in his veins. ‘*T must know more of that lady,” he mutter- ed. ‘* Somehow I feel S49 reluctant to permit her to pass from my sight.’ Yielding, without further resistance, to the spell that was on him, he hurried after the wo- man, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing her turn into an unfrequented path that led through a grove; for by this route the grounds of Lorn could be reached. “T was right,” he thought. ‘The lady is cer- tainly Mrs. Faunce. She is closely vailed, and I am told that the new mistress of Lorn always abroad with her face shrouded.” Still keeping some distance behind that black, liding figure, he followed on stealthily to a icket of acacias, not more than a dozen yards from the house, and concealing himself therein, saw Mrs. Faunce climb the terrace steps to a low French window that stood open, and disappear between the curtains of creamy lace that were quivering in the breeze. Baffled and perplexed, Raymond stood per- fectly still for some moments. “‘] would give my right hand for a good ex- cuse to invade that mysterious abode,” he muttered, peering curiously through the parted branches at the Scat Seow walls of Lorn. Three minutes later the desire of his heart was gratified. There came a blinding flash, a long, loud, deafening roar of thunder, and sud- denly the rain began to pour in torrents, as if the flood-gates of heaven had been opened. ‘‘ This is fortunate,” cried the young man, ex- ultantly. ‘‘The way is opened Providence. If I were a dog, Mrs. Faunce could not refuse to shelter me from this storm.” Emerging from the shelter of the acacia trees, he ran across the lawn, and dashed through the identical window where he had seen the lady herself disappear. The raging tempest would, he hoped, be ac- cepted as a sufficient apology for this act of rudeness, ; Mrs. Faunce stood near the center of the apartment, her shapely fingers busy with the fastenings of the vail that muffled her face. Startled by the noise of his abrupt entrance, she turned quigkty. For some seconds she stood motionless as a fi earved in stone. Then, receding from him, step by step, a long, aa blood-curdling scream broke from her A Hush !” said Raymond, eagerly: no occasion for alarm, Oh, fears.” But Mrs, Faunce only shrieked the louder, and beat her hands before her as if beating him off. ‘Listen to me, madam, I am neither a thief aor a cutthroat. I entreat you to compose yourself.” _She continued to retreat until her limbs tot- tered under her, and, faint with excess of emo- tion, she sunk down on a chair, groaning aloud. Raymond could but feel surprised at the keenness of her terror. There was something unnatural in it; and as he fixed his eyes on the lady’s figure, that seemed to shrink and cower beneath that intent gaze, the old creeping sen- sation be had experienced once before, came back, he knew not why. - ‘* Permit me to offer an explanation,” he said. “Surel you can control yourself long enough te ia fell back in her chair rs, Faunce fell bac er and cri in a hoarse, husky whisper; ; si a ae | ‘p me! F ne moment, madam. must, at — an “or aod this intrusion.” ’ nis He was slow vancing, but she screamed n, and, with a shudder of repulsion, waved away. “Begone!” “Madam is unreasonable. I have already pray dismiss your eo I “There is: She —_
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412 given my assurance that I am here with pacific purposes only. The sudden tempest induced en seek the shelter of your roof. My name is Raymond Challoner, and I am stopping at Glenoaks, the guest of Colonel Falkner.” Another tremor ran over her, but she drew a deep breath, as of relief. Gol” she faintly gasped. **Would you send me out into the pelting storm?” ‘*- You must not remain here. Only leave me.” Her voice still sounded hoarse and strained but when she uttered these last words Ra ymond detected a ring in it that caused his eyes to di- late, and glued his feet to the floor in a sort of sickening terror. ** Who—who—speaks?’ he stammered. Before she could reply, if such had been her urpose, the room door cir opened, and oan Withers entered hurriedly. Seeing a stranger standing in her mistress’s resence, the faithful old woman confronted im with a smothered exclamation of surprise, and a cry of anger. ‘Who are you?” she demanded. ‘ What are you doing here?” Raymond drew himself up haughtily. You glare at meas if I were acriminal. But I have been guilty of nothing worse than to seek shelter from the storm.” “Go away,” said Joan, lg * This is my lady’s private sitting-room. ou cannot re- main here.” A suppressed cry now attracted the servant's attention to her mistress. Mrs. Faunce had crushed her vail over her face with both hands, and was faintly panting. ‘Quick, Joan, quick! Raise me up, I—I— am stifling.” ; The old woman flung her arms round her, and drew the trembling form to her bosom. ‘*This is your work,” she said, darting angry yo at Raymond. f-leading, aeeeee poor Mrs, Faunce. Joan succeeded in getting her into the next room —her sleeping apartment. Raymond would batener ave lent his assistance, but bo gene disdainfully struck down his offered and. ‘* Don’t you dare lay so much as a finger on my. mistress,” she hissed. he young man heard an odd sound like a gasp and a sob, and the door was slammed in s face, and fastened on the other side. For some ten or fifteen minutes afterward | there was a silence as of death. Raymond stood with hushed breathing, uncertain what had hap- pened, whether Mrs. Faunce had swooned, or was dead, or had fallen in a fit. A feeling of awe stole over him. He even forgot to wonder what familiar chord bad been struck by the tones that, for a moment, stirred him so deeply apd so P tateed set He could only think of the e catastrophe that had befallen. At length a faint, rustling noise reached his ears, and, unable longer to endure the suspense, he knocked softly on the door. ments it was opened by Joan. ‘‘What do you want?’ she sharply demanded. ner. mistress—tell me of her—is she bet- r ** Yes. She has come out of her swoon, and will soon be able to sit up.” ‘* Heaven be praised.” In his joy and relief, et bee attempted to ato Joan aside, and step he woman sturdily resisted him. He pe on the After some mo- an indistinct glim of a figure lying couch—saw some dark object, probab drawn up quickly, as if to shield Mrs. features from his gaze—and that was all, face itself was beyond his line of vision. ae art I not speak to your mistress?” he said, y: ‘aunce’s Her wistful Joan sullenly waved him away. “Tmpossible.” “Only a word,” he pleaded, ‘I wish to as- sure Mrs. Faunce how deeply I deplore my share in this occurrence.” us She is in no condition to receive your apolo- gies. “Then I will simply kiss her hand.” «You are an impudent fellow,” Joan answer- ed, looking daggers at him, and drawing the door against her back, as she stood in the thres- hold, nearly shutting it, ‘ You have done mis- chief enough for once. Go away. The rain is over—you no longer have any excuse for re- maining.” Glancing from the window, Raymond saw that she had spoken truly. The clouds were breaking up in piles of softest fleece, behind which smiling streaks of azure were already to be seen. Reluctantly, and with many a back- ward glance, he left the house, to the room, But | | a vail, | WIFE OR WIDOW? Why did that woman a me 80 strange- ly?” he muttered to himself, as he wended his way through the dripping: shrubbery. ‘*Ugh! Tm all a-sbiver! It was like meeting a denizen of another world. If I could see her face, per- haps the mystery would be explained. at | can be her motive in concealing it from every- body, as she does?” CHAPTER XIII. TWO LETTERS, DINGLE DELL, the pleasant and fertile estate of the Challoners, was situated about twenty miles inland, near the suburbs of a large manu- facturing village called Grafton. The mansion itself was a modern edifice of red sandstone, with innumerable balconies and verandas, and round towers that crowned every available angle. The windows were large, and those on the lower floor opened to the ground, giving to the house a cheerful, hospitable as- pect that was Legrene Ro the extreme. The mansion had n built by Mr. Egbert Challoner himself, while ina teed tg Bo young man, Here he had brought his bride, and from these spacious halls had he buried her. The poor lady, in dying, left two children, a son and a daughter, to the care of her bereaved husband _ ledges of their mutual affection, ears went on, and the boy and girl grew to maturity. Both turned out badly; for want, it may be, of a mother’s guiding and restrain- ing hand. The son quarreled with his father, and left home. For years afterward he was lost sight of entirely. When at last he did re- turn, he came home to die. But he brought with him a lad of some five or six summers, his son, the fruit, he said, of a marriage he had contracted in the South. Of the boy’s mother he never spoke, except to say that he had lost her. There was evident'y some dark secret associated with the lady that he preferred keep- ing to himself. He died, and the mystery remained unreveal- ed. But, with his latest breath he left the little may mond to his father’s guardianship, a sacred charge. Meanwhile, the daughter’s fate had also been decided, so far as this world is concerned. At the age of seventeen she fell in love with her music-teacher, a handsome young English- man, named Gloyne, Mr. Challoner, as soon as he learned the state of affairs, dismissed the young man, and peremptorily forbade his daug ter ever to see or speak to him a; Wiillfully taking her fate in her own hands, how- ever, Dolores Challoner elo with her lover, ar a sere Married in vie pom, Hivad e dar mpestuous , & year r, she returned to Dingle Dell Sresed widow's weeds, Her husband had been suddenly stricken down with a malignant fever, and she had bu- ried him alone. For a time Mr. Challoner refused to see her. But she had been his favorite child, and when he learned that she had been bereaved, and had come to him destitute, bis heart relented. There was a scené of reconciliation, followed by the most bitter self-upbraidings, and father and daughter were at peace with each other, One week afterward, the little Dolores was born. The r mother had barely strength poy by to place her echildin the arms of its | grandfather; and then she closed her eyes, and | so died, Though already past the prime of life, Mr. Egbert Challoner thus found himself again left with two small children, a boy and a girl, as be- fore, on his hands. Would the same untoward fate that had overtaken his own children pursue these poor innocents, their offspring? He watched them anxiously, as the years waxed and waned. At twenty, Raymond was permitted to Europe. Of cer- mane the tour of tain acts of lawlessness and indiscretion of which the young man was guilty as soon as all restraint was removed, and as he began to min- gle freely with the world, the solicitous grand- father saw prophetic indications that greatly troubled him. But Dolores, until she acciden- tally formed the acquaintance of Vincent Erle, was all his heart could desire, gentle, patient loving and tractable. Though often harsh and stern in his treatment of her, he could not help lavishing upon the girl ali the wealth of love he | had given to her mother. He stubbornly refused, however, to receive Vincent Erle as his granddaughter’s future husband, giving as an excuse the idle habits and poverty of the young man, _ It was against his authority in this respect ig a ag betrayed the first signs of incipient rebellion, | At this period there were two other members of Mr. Challoner’s household to whom atten- tion should be directed—a handsome Quadroon called Madam Zoe, who had been his housekeeper for many years; and a distant relative of the family, Miss Jerusha Martin, a maiden lady, familiarly known as ‘‘ Aunt Jerry.” A month had elapsed since the events related in the preceding chapters, and for three weeks Dolores had been back in Dingle Dell with her andfather, when, one day, the mail brought wo letters that filled the old man with grief rage and consternation. unt Jerry was sitting with him in the front drawing-room when the unwelcome letters ar- rived. A tall, bony, angular woman of forty- five was Aunt Jerry, with a face that might have been pretty at seventeen, but was now ert vellow, unexpressive, and somewhat hard, with The two letters lay side by side on the salver, ae as the servant had brought them in, when . Challoner took up the one that happened to be nearest and tore it open. It proved to be an anonymous communication, warning him that, in spite of his prohibitio Dolores and Vincent still met in secret, an wat letters weré constantly passing between the overs. The old man was frantic. Starting out of bis chair, he danced around the room almost speech- less with rage. ‘Oh, dear! oh—oh—oh!” he ejaculated, whirl- ing round and round in his excitement. “ This is too much!” Aunt Jerry dropped the knitting with which she was employing herself, and ran toward him in alarm, She knew nothing of the let- rs. ‘‘ Egbert, what isthe matter?” she exclaimed. BS ‘hs I = 80 we geoage Be ‘Is it a fainting-fit, or a n or a pain in your stomach, or—what is it?” pe “TI am s0 overcome,” was all he could utter; and pausing in his gyrations, he dropped his head on her shoulder. Aunt Jerry began to blush, and to bridle. $§ Egbert,” she stammered, “‘ you—you— shouldn’t give way so entirely.” **Can’t help it! Murder will out! I am mis- erable—too miserable to live.” “Don't, don’t?’ ‘*T tell you it is impossible to keep my feelings to myself.” *‘Hush! oh, do hush!” said Aunt Jerry, her cheeks blooming like a yellow rose. ‘*] shall burst if I do!” ejaculated the excited an, ‘‘Then you needn’t. Speak, if you must.” The spinster, with the air of a martyr, leaned nasily upon his arm, and waited with averted face, for the revelation he had expressed his inability to keep back. It came in a form she had scarcely counted upon. “Read that!” cried Mr, Challoner, thrusting the anonymous letter into her.hand. ‘The idiots! The puling fools! They’ve driven me beside myself.” ‘* Who? what?” Aunt Jerry, lookin round in dismay. ‘‘I—I—don’t understand. O whom are you speaking?” “Of Dolores and that villain, Vincent = of course. Read the letter, and you'll know about it.” ‘*Oh—oh!” She sunk down on a chair, her hands shaking as if with palsy. It was some seconds before she could make out a single word of the letter, | The disappointment that had come to her was a bitter one, “*T wonder if it can be true?” she said, ina | husky voice, after a long silence. She felt con- strained to say something. ‘True? Of course it’s true. Why else should it be written there in black and white?” ‘“‘Tt’s a nasty, mean business tow be writing meg pra letters, I haven’t much faith in them.” ‘* Where’s Dolores?” cried Mr. Challoner, sud- denly recommencing his mad dance round the apartment. ‘‘ Find her! Bring her here. She shall tell me to my face whether this one means anything, or whether it does not.” Not choosing to await Aunt Jerry’s slow move- ments, however, he flung open the room door himself, and screamed down the hall for one of the maids to fetch her young lady in “ double- quick ” time. A few minutes later Dolores came tripping down-stairs, and entered. The instant Mr. Challoner’s irate glance fell upon the fi of the young girl, he stamped his foot, giving way to another burst of passion. “You vixen! you ungrateful creature! he a ae Rercae it
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‘ a ’ -* i ‘ WIFE OR WIDOW ? 13 cried. “ Is this all the reward 1am to get tor coddling you ever since you were born? Ohif, you were a boy, miss, I’d thrash you—thrash you within aninch of your life, do you hear?” _ Dolores had grown accustomed to his storms, and did not mind them much; but this one seem- ed more serious than usual. “What have I done to offend you, grand- papa?” she asked, in a trembling voice, *Done? You’ve disobeyed me, miss—will- fully disobeyed me; that’s what you’ve done.” “Tn what way?” “Tt’s high time you were asking that. Ob, you deceitful little vixen!” “Please tell me, grandpapa.” , “ Oh, you shall hear of your misdoings fast enough. Listen—then hide your head for shame! You’ve tried to hoodwink a trusting old man. But your treachery has been discovered, miss. ‘You are found out, miss—cut short in your sin- ful career, miss,” : Dolores clasped her hands, and looked appeal- ingly at her grandfather. ** You shock—you distress me,” she exclaimed. “ Then the shocking and distressing is mutu- al,” thundered Mr. Challoner, bringing down his hand on the table near which he was _stand- ing. ‘You've amazed, horrified me/ You've driven me to the verge of desperation. Hang it, I don’t even know which end my head is wr ig _ Aunt Jerry, in a very faint voice. “To think of being deceived by a chit ofa girl)” gasped the old man. “ Bu grandpapa—” “*Silenge, miss. You can not palliate your offense, I trusted you, and you betrayed me. ou knew very wellin what estimation I held that villain, Erle! And yet ou have been meeting him clandestinely, pe | writing letters to him, all these weeks.” ‘ Shameful!” cried Aunt Jerry. lores turned very pale, and sunk on her xe at tiie abd man's feet. ze gail randpapa,” she so am not so guil- ty as you have been led to think. Iam not. I ell you truly that I have not seen Vincent Erle since that night at Glenoaks,” Hem anata itial cocking.be bbls ban fase es,” she iti see with both hands, , : ? m god be has written to you?’ / ‘ Dreadful!” ejaculated Aunt Jerry. ‘When did you receive the last letter #om the scoundrel?” demanded Mr, Challoner. “Yesterday.” “‘Oh, you viper! Where is the letter? Give to me instantly.” I cannot,” was the low reply. “Cannot? Wh. ’ Hand it over, y,can t you, I'd like to know? *‘ I have destroyed it.” The exasperated old man gave a snort of dis- may. . Oh, you expected to be found out, did you miss, and took that way to secure yourselif i never heard of such misdoings, such duplicity.” ‘‘ Never!” echoed Aunt Jerry, who always made it a point to agree with Mr. Challoner. You may tell me the purport of that letter, This demand caused Dolores to start up sud- denly, and recede toward the door, her ha clasped tightly together again, her cheeks pallid with fear The letter had really made an ap- pointment for a meeting to take place that very evening, and was couched in such language that the poor girl had not dared disregard it. not ask me,’ she implored, “I cannot tell —_ Indeed I cannot.” you mean to say that you will not?” Dolores was silent. I am not to be trifled with,” stormed the a man. ‘You've tried me once too often. Follow, if P aes dare, the footsteps of your mis- : ded mother! I'll cut yon off with a shilling! Ui drive you from my door! I'll leave you to ee rot in the poor-house! That’s what ‘And you will be se % Aunt Jour rving her right,” put in ‘oor ores answered nothing. - tinued to recede toward the door. “i ee tesant pleading on her face; and suddenly, with a half- suppressed shriek of anguish, as if the scene had grown insupportable, rushed out, Mr, Challoner sat down, gasping for breath. He felt dee ly terribly in earnest. 1t pained him imap ly to think that his beautiful pet peng N. of whom he had been so proud, se affections upon one so unwor ‘the deemed Vincent Erle. renee Tt shall never be,” he cried; “ Dolores shall not throw herself away. One disgrace of that sort is enough in a family.” To hide his agitation, he now took up the second letter, which had been lying neglected on the salver, and tore it open. Instead of paci- fying him, however, this missive threw him into a greater rage, if possible, than the first. t was from a Jew broker of New York, who wrote to demand immediate payment of a debt of three thousand dollars which, the writer | claimed, Mr. Challoner’s grandson, Raymond, had contracted. The old gentleman could scarcely believe the | evidence of his eyes. He rubbed them, looked again, and at last the storm brokeout. If Ray- mond had been borrowing money of those ras- cally Jews, he might get clear of their clutches as best he could. Three thousand dollars! How, in the name of all that is wonderful, had the rascal managed to squander such a sum! ““He shall reap as he has sown,” roared the choleric old gentleman, “I'll disinherit both him an‘ Dolores.. And may I be shot if I ever, so long as I live, take another ungrateful brat to bring up.” Serres CHAPTER XIV. GROPING IN THE DARK, THE day had been dark and lowering, and night, as it closed in, brought no change in the weather. The rain fell in copious showers, slack- ening ever and anon, only to rally its wasted powers for a second’ deluge. Aunt Jerry’s room was in the same wing with the chamber occupied by Dolores. The amiable | spinster retired about ten o’clock, and had fall- en into what she termed her ‘beauty sleep” when the rattling of gravel again-t the window of the adjoining room rudely awakened her. She started upright, giving her night-cap a vicious twitch. .*La, bless me! What's that?’ was her mental ejaculation. ‘The sound came again—unmistakably the rat- tling of gravel as it struck in sharp contact wlth the glass. Immediately afterward there was a rustling in Dolores’s room, and Aunt Jerry heard the door softly o and close, and stealthy footsteps gliding down the corridor. Thought is quick, and the spinster’s suspicions took a definite turn instantly. “eT see, I see!” she muttered, nodding her head, “It’s that audacious girl stealing out to meet her lover. Oh, how can she be so for- ward? But it is my duty to put a stop to this sort of thing, and I'll do it, too.” Springing out of bed, Aunt Jerry hastily thrust her feet into the slippers that stood primly side by side, next to the wall. Then she threw on a flannel petticoat, and drew a shawl round her shoulders. It was of no use trying to make a grand toi- let, if Dolores was to be caught, she decided. The girl would get completely beyond her reach, She went ing down-stairs, and was just. in time to catch a glim of a white-ro figure as it flitted through the low window at the end of the hall, and turned into a path lead- ing toa small pavilion at some distance from the house. ‘* Oh, that’s where Dolores meets that precious scamp, is it?’ breathed the shocked spinster, “They imagine themselves perfectly safe in the pavilion, I suppose. How scandalous! My dear Egbert must be told of this, that he may exert authority to prevent such audacious proceedings in future.” Aunt Jerry quite lost sight of her peculiar costume in the sudden zeal she felt to put Mr. Challefier on the track of the culprits. ing to his room, which was on the ground floor, she knocked long and loudly. " ** Who's there?’ said a gruff voice, at length. ‘* Tt’s me—Jerusha.” “What do you want!” ‘Come right out, said Aunt Jerry, in an eager voice. ‘Dolores is in the garden with that scamp! I saw her steal forth to meet him not five ininutes ago,” “Meet whom?’ “* Vincent Erle.” Mr. Challoner was out of bed in an instant, and at the door, his yellow night-cap quite no- ticeable as he thrust out his head; for a dim light was always kept burning in this corridor, Aunt Jerry was reminded at once of her own head-gear, and, snatching it off, threw it behind her, at the same time giving her false front a twitch into its proper place. ‘“ Where did you say the idiots are?” Mr. Chal- loner demanded, hoarse with excitement, ‘Tn the pavilion.” . ae og er, % at : i ae 4 ‘aie a . arty id S49 Se ee ; ah er sie ya y aS Be Le a ee: ee Gee i ae . os Aetna aes te tt On EP < no aft ie on Say ee la ieealln 4 * 7 Nee a r ral ° oe ey i Aa < ’ . =e. bil” (ae SE } Wait a minute. We will go down and sur- prise them. Oh, the villain! the abominable villain! Ill have him arrested for tres Pil put a bullet through his heart. TU—Vlll—” Unable, for very rage, to utter another word, the choleric old man shut the door, and pro- ceeded to dress himself with all possible dis- atch. In three minutes’ time he was ready to join Aunt Jerry in the corridor. **Come,” he said, his tone not loud, but deep, as he dropped one h arm. They crept silently through the window. The rain had ceased for a moment, but the night was dark—so dark that objects could not be distinguished at the distance of half a dozen yards. The damp wind blew in their faces, and every tree, shrub and blade of grass was drip- ping with moisture; indeed the very ground seemed soaked and overflowing with it. They had not proceded far before Aunt Jer- ry’s flannel petticoat began flapping against her heels in a manner not altogether pleasant, for it seemed to have gathered up every particle of moisture from the path along which they had come, Suddenly she uttered a half-suppressed scream, and stood stock-still. ‘ ‘*What’s the matter?’ Mr. Challoner impa- tiently demanded. ' ‘* ve lost one of my slippers.” “ Lost if “ ae “Yes. It is stuck fast in thé mud.” “‘Never mind. You had better come on. It’s of no use searching for the slipper in this infernal gloom.” The prcresded, They were not a dozén ste fart Le Se ond cry issued from Aunt Jerry’s lips. ‘“Mercy on me! There goes the other.” ‘Hang it all,” cried the exasperated old man, ‘““why can’t you wear slippers that fit your feet, or else stuff em with cotton? We can’t be wasting time here.” Poor Aunt Jerry might have told him that the slippers were all right, only she hadn’t taken time to draw on her stockings, before putting them on; but it seemed scarcely modest to enter into an explanation of that nature, and she remained silent. So they started again, and Aunt Jerry’s fees “ Beneath her petticoat, Like little mice, peeped in and out.” as they went stumbling and plunging along the uneven ground—for somehow they had wander- ed from the path, and could not find it again. Once they plunged into a thorn-bush, and it took some minutes to extricate themselves. Mr. Challoner uttered anathemas, and the por spinster, as she rubbed her smarting feet, heartily wished herself back in her own room, and the offending Doloresin— . Well, in Africa! Their trials were by no means ended. Aunt Jerry had stepped a few paces in advance of her companion, and was hurrying on more ra- idly than at any previous time, when.sudden- y the solid ground seemed to give way under her feet, and she fell down, down, down, plung- ‘ing up to her knees in an accumulated mass of gree water. ~ ‘Mercy on me she cnstne: well raya 8 my brains out and done with it.” ‘*Tt would take precious little knocking to do t ” **Oh, ugh!” shivered the wretched lady. “What have I tumbled into now?” “Tt must be the pit 1 ordered Sambo to dig that some of the refuse might be buried in it.” “Oh dear, oh dear; wish I had never e,” ‘““Don’t be a fool!” snapped Mr. Challoner. “Here, give me your hand, and I'll help you ove” ’ This was easier said than done; but after a deal of pulling, scrambling and splashing Aunt Jerry stood on terra firma once more. * Thank fortune itis too dark for anybody to see the dreadful plight I’m in,” thought the poor lady only too vividly conscious of her mud-incas | feet anddripping garments. _ At this moment a few pattering drops of rain gave warning of another shower. r. Chal- Joner became erate. Grasping Aunt Jerry’s hand he pushed his way recklessly through the shrubbery and reached the pavilion ay oF at blowing likea length, quite out of breath an The rain was pouring in torrents when the disconsolate couple dashed into the friendly shelter thus afforded. Shaking the water from his garments, Mr. Challoner looked round the dusky little room, and began to swear. Nota living soul, save t or had been, so far as he could discover. *Tdiot! how dared you bring me here, ona ct and firmly on the spinstér’s | er on the way, however, when 4 sec- ’ “T might as— hemselves, was in the place,
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14 tomfool’s errand, like this?’ he yelled, turning upon Aunt Jerry, and shaking her till her false teeth rattled. ‘‘Oh, you'll be the death of e, “¢ Ah!—ugh!—oh!” prreten the thoroughly disgusted spinster. ‘‘I know they are some- where in the grounds. ‘We've come to the wrong Bees that’s all.” ** And I should think it was enough.” ; Fuming, fretful, fierce and furious, Mr, Chal- oner chattering with cold and misery. It was bad enough, of itself, to be caught in such a plight, but ‘‘ dear Egbert’s’”’ reproaches seemed the un- kindest cut of all. The rain lasted but a short time; Mr. Chal- loner and Aunt Jerry emerged from the pavil- ion as soon as it was over, and slowly and sol- emnly wended their way back to the house, Two dusky penres stood in the shadow of the veranda; but they separated hastily at the sound of footsteps, one of them darting into the gloomy recesses of the garden, the other vanish- in pe the open window. . Challoner swore, and Aunt Jerry groaned in spirit. But they were too wet, chilled and miserable for any action more decisive, and the culprits escaped. CHAPTER XV. ON THE VERGE OF DOOM, THE morning subsequent to that night of ca- lamity, Mr. Challoner was quite ill—confined to his room, though not to his bed. The fatigue and exposure he had undergone were too much for his enfeebled system. A wretched night it had been! He had scarcely closed his eyes for thinking of Dolores, and the pain her willfulness and disobedience caused him. It seemed too aggravating that she should have met her lover secretly so soon after their conversation of the previous day. The rain was over, and the morning sunshine cake in at the windows; but no cheerful houights were awakened in the old man’s breast by its brilliant glow. He sat propped up in an invalid-chair, a dark look of trouble on his withered, yellow face, At last he summoned Dolores to his presence, The girl entered, anxiety and dread plainly de- picted in her countenance, She knew perfectly well that the interview to which she been called would prove a trying one. “Sit down,” said Mr. Challoner, sternly mo- tioning her to take the chair on the other side of the table. Instead of obeying, she drew near, and, sink- ing at his feet, lifted her clasped hands and wistful eyes. ‘You are angry with me, grandpapa,” she sobbed, “and I prefer to remain here until par- don is accorded.” ** Rise, miss.” ‘But you have not forgiven me.” “Forgiven you!” hissed the angry man. “Take care! you have the presumption to at for mercy, I am not so besotted as to grant t * But, grandpapa—” * Rise a he fiercely exclaimed; “and draw further away. Your touch is ful to me. ‘One moment,” said Dolores, her face grow- ing livid] ly. “I have a confession to make. Let me make it here, at your feet.” “A confession?” “Yes; it is wicked, sinful, to keep my secret longer. Whatever the consequences, 1 cannot consent to do it.” ‘‘Humph!” came the sneering response, ‘TI suppose you are trying to invent a satisfactory excuse for your conduct of last night. Pray do not trouble yourself.” “You are mistaken,” Dolores returned, ina low, trembling voice. ‘‘The indiscretion to which I am about to confess dates further back eet apo led look of surpri 8 bent u er a puzz ook of surprise. “ Last night's act ra disobedience is crime enough for which to answer, miss. How ‘ou meet that villain after all I had said to you? w dared you, miss?” ‘*My promise was already given. I could not break it.” “Your promise?” echoed the exasperated man. ‘What is it worth? A pledge given to a poltroon, a sneaking villain—it was better broken than kept.” * Hush, ndpapa!l” said Dolores, with a flash of sudden energy. ‘Even you must not apply such epitbets to Vincent Erle in my pre- sence,” d the floor of the pavilion, while poor | Aunt Jerry crouched in one corner, her teeth | white, and her heart beating furious- | WIFE OR WIDOW ? e bbe Rica not, I beg to ask?” sneered Mr. i] alloner. ‘* Because he is my husband!” Had a bombshell suddenly exploded at his feet, Mr. Egbert Challoner could not have been more startled, more confounded. He leaned forward, with bated breath, staring at the girl halt incredulously. “What?” he eect, Dolores repeated the words. A ghastly hue overspread the man’s face as he gathered in their meaning. ‘You are trifling with me,” he said, witha faint, forced laugh. ee No, randpapa, I am telling the simple truth. That is why I met Vincent last night. He is my husband, and therefore his authority over me exceeds even your own.” At this instanta ay: wane groan came from the direction of the door. Aunt Jerry stood there with uplifted hands, her mouth and eyes wide open, drinking in every word. ** Shocking!” ejaculated the spinster. ‘‘ Auda- cious! What is this generation coming to? A stolen marriage! Oh, dear!” Mr. Challoner held her back with a sweep of his arm. ‘*Remain where you are,” he said, his white trembling. ‘I wish you to hear what this abandoned girl has to say for herself.” : ‘The shameless creature!” “When did this ekg be to which you so boldly confess, transpire?” he demanded, fixing his eyes sternly upon the face of the kneeling 1. B ne do not speak so coldly, grandpapa!” she Si Answer my question.” ‘“We were married last Christmas. I spent the day with a friend in New York, you will rhaps remember. Other guests were in the ouse, and soon after dark I stole away quietly for an hour, and met Vincent at a clergyman’s pnouse, where the ceremony was performed.” _ She controlled herself to speak calmly, but she felt faint and sick with suspense and misery. Mr. Challoner’s features seemed to harden into stone as he listened. ‘“‘What induced you to consent to a secret marriage?” he asked, after a pause, in a low, ominous monotone, “Tt was a foolish, wicked step,” sobbed the poor girl. “I felt itso even then. But I could not resist Vincent’s entreaties, and my own heart pleaded for him strongly. We believed you would forgive us, eventually, and were — waiting for some of relenting in your fee ngs toward Vincent to declare our mar- ‘Why have you declared it now?” ** Because conscience accuses me, and I can- ne feel reconciled to keep the secret another our. Mr, Challoner fell back, wiping the cold per- spiration from his forehead. “IT might have known how it would result,” he muttered. ‘‘Like mother, like child. This one was certain to come to the same evil end as > the otber.” “‘Grandpapa, say that you forgive me,” en- treated Dolores, lif her pale, pleading face, ‘* Now that it is too late, I bitterly repent of my disobedience, and wish I had waited for your sanction to bless my marriage. For my sake, conquer your preiu ce, and receive Vin- cent as your friend. ‘*Never—never!” cried the old man, ers ing to his feet, and looking down at the girl wit blazing eyes. ‘‘I will never forgive you or him for the base deception that has been practiced! Not a dollat of my wealth shall go to enrich you or that sccwendrel—that adventurer, Ill 80 make a new will—I’ll cut you off with a shilling. Now leave the room. Go, before I am tempted to curse you. Ido not forbid you the house— as yet! I prefer to take a little time in which to consider your case,” Tremblingly Dolores arose, for the storm of wrath she had evoked frightened and appalled her. Receding to the door, she tottered past the amazed Aunt Jerry, glad to make her es- cape. Ar, Challoner sat down again. His coun- tenance was ghastly as death itself could have made it. A manof strong prejudices, he was at least honest in all his convictions, and the in at his heart, just then, was the keenest he ever e ienced, Whether his estimate of Vincent Erle was ag or othe he could not nak clinging to t tenaciously. Far rather would he have con- signed his loved ddaughter to the grave, than given her to the protection of such a man. While he sat there pale, silent, suffering, a shadow suddenly intercepted the light from the window, and a man’s tall figure stepped over the sill. It was his grandson, Raymond Chal- | loner, but at the first glanee the old gentleman scarcely recognized aap looked so worn gard and miserable. For some seconds not @ word was uttered, but the two looked at each other in silence. ** Are you not going to welcome me?” Ray- Kege eombebes: 7" ; e young man was advancing eagerly, when Mr. Challoner put up his too “is a ‘Why do you come now?” he inquired. ** Permit me to fasten the door, and I will an- swer you. I prefer to keep this visit a secret. I left my horse in a grovedown yonder, and ap- roached the house on foot. It is fortunate that found you here, and alone.” Mr. Challoner sat staring at the young man in a bewildered way while the latter slipped the bolts into their sockets, and drew down the on Wad ina happened? Bis gneped, 43 pen , at length. “* Are youa ante criminal, that you aac pelled to resort to such precautions?” “Tt isn’t quite so bad as that,” Raymond an- swered, with a bitter laugh. “ the good Lord only knows how soon it may be.” ‘* What have you been doing?” “Selling myself to the Jews, body, soul and spirit, that’s all.” He threw himself intoa chair, a strange frown upon his face, and sat glaring at his grandfa- er. “I know,” sajd the latter, . “One of your creditors the impudence to write to me. “Did he? That’s not at all strange. The rascal! They are on my track at this moment. They'll stop at nothing, now, until they get their money. I have put them off with prom- ises so many times that they no longer believe in them.” Mr. Challoner grew cold as he listened. That agitating interview with Dolores had left him in noféondition to cope with a second trouble. It seemed too bitter, that 6 and shame sbould be brought upon him by both his grand- children! His soul sickened, his heart very nearly stood still. . hat do you want?” he asked, in a faint voice, “ Help, of course,” “T can do nothing. You had no business to involve yourself so deeply.” ** One must live,” was the sullen answer. ‘‘I have always looked forward to coming into the half of the i ene property: It am seem necessary, with suc expecta ons, to deny m self the comforts of life.” ‘ hig ‘*Comforts!” echoed Mr. Challoner. in a haughty tone. “1 have always given you a handsome allowance—more than enough % gra- tify every reasonable want, And now, accord- ing to your own confession, you have exceeded it, plunging yourself deeply into debt.” _ “Over head and ears, sir. It will take no Baits sum to relieve me, some thousands at the ‘* You expect me to advance the money?” “Tt is the only way in which exposure can be | averted,” | _ “How did you contrive to involve yourself se oe mond dropped his head. ** Ob, it is not necessary that you should an. | swer. Ican guess the secret, You lost money at play, sir; at the gaming-table,” **T do not deny it, sir.” ** You have promised me over and over os to give up the vice. I believed you had done Raymond trembled as he looked into his shes father’s cold, stern face. There was some- thing ominous in the old man’s calmness and self-restraint, It seemed like the lull that often comes before a tempest. He would muchsooner have, seen bim an and furious, “Tintended to keep my word, sir, I did in- deed,’ he said. ‘ But‘one is surrounded with so many temptations in a large city.” |. Mr. Challoner made no reply, and after a brief silence, the young man drew near, and _added earnestly: “Iam ruined unless you help me tide over — this crisis. Rumors of my embarrassed affairs will certainly go ab unless something is done imme y. Thatis why I came to gle Dell so secretly—the must be kept rom the public, at least until after my mar | iio Mee ike Pact ase ot goer troubles t. @ snDOW a 0; our | and perplexities?” he eae ? @
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6 —— WIFE OR WIDOW? 15 “No; I would not tell her for worlds. It would furnish her with the very excuse she wants for breaking off the marriage.” ‘‘Humph. It scarcely-seems the course of an honorable man, to conceal the fact of his em- barrassment from the lady he expects to make his wife.” “Circumstances compel me to take this course. Ethelind need never be told. When we are married, Jam resolved to turn over 4 new leaf. 1°ll throw cards and dice to the dogs, ae me out of this infernal mess, and you shall see that I can keep my word for once.’ “T have helped you once or twice before.” “True. But I have made up my mind. 1] romise to reform in good earnest, this time. ‘y me, sir. Icame here on purpose to make this secret appeal. No one—not even Dolores— must know of this visit. She might su something, and think it her duty to warn Ethe- lind againstme. Oh, sir, do not betray me.” There was another silence. At length Ray- mond said, uneasily : “lve done my best to tide this danger over, I left Glenoaks, some three weeks since, and went up to New York, hoping to succeed in staving off matters a little longer. But it was of no use. Unless you interpose, disgrace is in- evitable. Had Raymond come to his grandfather at any other time, it is probable his plea would not have been made in vain. But Mr. Chal- loner’s mood was a very bitter one. First, Do- lores had disappointed him, and now it was payra d. He almost felt like cursing them th. ‘“‘Let me hear no more of this matter,” he said, in a low, stern voice, his eyes burning with a strange expression. “If you have disgraced ourself, you did it in your sober senses. 1 have nm your dupe long enough; now, I wash my hands of you and your affairs. You have brought sorrow and shame enough upon my head. Now, I disown, discard you, From this time forth I have no grandson.’ Raymond slowly rose to his feet, a strange, ashy pallor overspreading his countenance bree. it had seemed as white as it well could ore. * You— ou—you areé—in earnest?” he gasped. “You shall see. Two years ago I made a will, dividing my property equally between you and Dolores, But the girl, too, bes disa Re ed me. Itis not right that ingrates should bene- fit by my death. You have evoked your own 1 eaten I hee resolved to ma ° a | will, and leave my possessions to found a hospital,” 4 Before Raymond could interpose, the old man had slipped back the bolts of the door, and touched the hand-bell on the table. “One of the servants will be here directly,” said, in a low, impressive tone. ‘‘If you still desire to keep this visit a secret, you can retire to my bath-room, yonder. By keeping the door ajar, you will be enabled to hear the instructions I shall give to the servant.” Raymond g once or twice, and then, scarcely knowing what he did, staggered into the eros, just in season to avoid wan seen € person who entered the apartmen he had - just left. It wes Madam Zoe, the housekeeper. The woman’s handsome face flushed, and she sent & quick, furtive glance in the direction of the half-closed door behind which Raymond stood ee and trembling, ere she said: : What is your pasate Mr. Challoner?” You may send one of the men-servants for my solicitor—Lawyer Grab. I have need of his services professionally, and he is to come with- out delay.” The woman’s strange black eyes dwelt for a moment fiercely on his face. Is that all?’ she said, turning at length to go. “Tt is.” “I will see that your wish is executed.” Scarcely had sha disappeared and closed the door, ere Raymond emerged from his hiding- Per dee ye ae i u have considered the ste 7% pro to take?” he said, in a husky voice, *, ®. Challoner silently Pointed to the window. s mething in his face told the young man that La Loy nothing to hope or expect from e u- tion. A rem 3 chill stole up from his feet to hee ead as he turned slowly away, out into the bri i 2 light. 6 felt that his doom waa Aas _ CHAPTER XVL A DEED OF HORROR. Sxenzctmne the most densely-shaded among the garden-paths—for he had discretion enough left to to shun observation—Ray- mond hurried on feverishly until he reached the pavilion. Here he paused, climbed the ste and threw himself prostrate on one of the benches, groan after groan breaking from his livid li At in h he heard the rustle of a woman’s and a cold, soft hand fell on his. He his head—it was Madam Zoe’s, “‘ Why have you followed me here?” he asked, sullenly, “‘ Because I knew you were in trouble. Dear master, do not drive me away—and oh, don’t look at me like that! Perhaps I can help you.” “No one can help me, now,” came the de- spairing answer. “My poor, poor boy.” end a you know aught of my trouble, Madam “T know every thing,” she replied, in a gloo- mytone. ‘I pos you Somesteating toward the house like a criminal, and my heart told me something was amiss. I listened at the door.” ae heard all that my grandfather said to me ** All,” said the woman. ymond sat up and folded his hands; all was darkness and d ° “Tam a ruined man,” he groaned. “Don’t say that!” cried am Zoe, in a fierce, thrilling whisper. “Mr. Challoner has no right to cant you off for a mere youthful fol- ly. Itisunjust. If he does it, some fearful re- tribution surely overtake him.” f The young man did not answer; he sat with his black eyes fixed intently on the floor. Madam sternly continued: “You have a right to half these broad acres. They would have been your father’s, had he lived. They must not be taken from you. I shall tell Mr, Challoner so.” “ And be driven away, as I have been? No, you must not incur the risk, Zoe.” “Do you think Icould remain if you were banished? No: the place would become odious tome, I could not even breathe freely under a roof that had denied shelter to you.” Raymond shuddered as he listened tothe wo- man’s words, spoken as they were with astrong, wild vehemence. She had always seemed to cling to him with a deep, self-sacrificing affec- tion. He could not understand it. He never had. } “You are the only friend I have left at Din- gle Dell,” he said, softly. “T shall never fail you,” returned Madam ao dropping her hand caressingly on his shoul- r “Why is it that you have become so strongly attached to me?” She changed color, and fixed a wild, startled look on the young man’s face, “Tt is well to have somet muttered. ‘* Ask me no more, netic influences always at work, where there are human hearts; and of some of these you, as yet, know nothing.” She turned slowly and left the pavilion as she spoke, and after a few moments Raymond fol lowed her out. H's face wore a dark, gloomy expression as he disappeared in the thick shrub- bery with which this portion of the grounds was lanted. 4 The sober hues of twilight were darkening the landscape when at last Lawyer Grab, the | solicitor for whom Mr. Challoner had sent ar- rived at Dingle Dell. The messenger had not found him in; and now he had hurried over, the moment he found himself at liberty, to learn what his client wanted. Mr. Challoner stated his wishes in a few terse words, ‘‘T want a new will drawn up, and the old one destroved.” “You dof? said the lawyer. “ What's the reason of this?’ 1 ‘“‘My grandchildren have shamefully deceived and betrayed me. It is my intention to punish them. I shall leave my money to found a chari- table institution.” - ? Mr. Grab stared at him uneasily. “That would be unjust,” said he. do nothing of the sort.” “Who is to hinder me?” “Of course you can do as you please with our own. But my advice is that you think tevico—haif a dozen times, if necessary—before taking such a step.” ““ What business is it of yours?” ing to love,” she ere are mag- * You will ——— “None, to be sure. But I don’t wish to see you drawn into a measure, in the heat of pas- sion, that you are likely to regret.” The old man frown ** Will you draw up the will—or must I send for another solicitor?’ he asked, with dogged sullenness. “Of course I must do your bidding, whatever that may be.” “Then enough has been said.” “But it is too late to do anything to-night. In the morning I will come to you, at any hour - ou may name, with the proper papers.” mn Yory well. Let us say ten olclock.” And with this understanding the lawyer took his departure, It happened that Aunt Jerry was superintend- ing some work in the kitchen that evening, and sat up tilla later hour than usual. The clock struck eleven as she stood before the glass in her own room, deftly tying a starched and frilled cap under her chin, ‘La, bless me! I had no idea it was so late,” ejaculated the spinster, whirling round so quick- ly that she knocked the candle off the table, and was left in total darkness. As her toilet for the night was nearly com- pleted, Aunt Jerry decided not to relight the candle; but she stepped to the window and drew back the curtains to let in the light of the moon, which was sailing through a cloudless A moving figure on the lawn instantly at- tracted her attention, and as she p her face inst the glass and peered out eagerly, a second figure emerged from the shadow of the house, and joined the first. - Fag ye It’s Dolores and that rascal, Vincent Erle!” ejaculated Aunt Jerry, recog- nizing the two figures at a glance, for tho the moon was not much its ey quarter, it already afforded considerable light, “‘ Audacious! I never did hear of anything so impudent! How dare they begin their billin and cooing over again, after -what ieanegiredl this morning?” Aunt Jerry clung to the window-sill and stared after the young couple until a bend in the path concealed them from view. She was choking with rage, but in the present instance no temptation to ex them to Mr. Challoner assailed her mind. She had had quite enough of that sort of thing the night before, ; “Let them go,” she muttered. ‘If Dolores told the truth they are husband and wife, andit is too late to interfere. They want to talk over this new crotchet of Mr. Challoner’s, I reckon. Anyhow, I’m not going to ruin any more petti- coats chasing after the teful idiots. It’sa marvel that ’m not sicka with rheumatism, after getting the drenching I did last night.” The curtain slipped from Aunt Jerry’s bonny fingers, and she went mbling to bed, where she found transient forgetfulness of all her troubles in sleep. Some time afterward—how long a time she could not tell—she was suddenly awakened bya hoarse, shrill sounding from the room im- mediately underneath—that usually occupied by Mr. Challoner himself. Trembling with horror, Aunt Jerry started upin bed. Again the shriek came pealing up the stairway; this time it sounded more pro- longed, and she distingished a word that sent every drop of blood backward to her heart. “ Mur—der!” i ory Carey muffled noise as if a fierce and eadly struggle was going on. Aunt Jerry sprung out of bed, sweating with terror. She was not a brave woman, but she quite lost sight of self in the intense excitement of the moment, Hurriedly throwing on a loose wrapper, she opened the door an se oe outside. As she did so, some one brushed past her on the land- ing with a faint, moaning sigh. It was a wo- man’s figure—whose she could notdistinguish in the gloom. Hastening down-stairs, she found that the light which was usually kept burning near . Challoner’s door, had been put out, and that the door was widely ajar. She entered. The blinds were up, and one of the windows stood open, and a flood of moonlight poured in- to the room, etisy A — gasping cry sounded almost at her feet, and looking do the appalled woman saw Egbert Challoner it 9 on the floor in one of the patches of moonlight, welteri in his own blood! A daik stream that oozed from his breast was already lapping its noiseless course one the oak yg i A reaming wi orror, Aunt Jerry spru forward, knelt beside the prostrate lina
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— supported the old man’s head against her shoul- der. The Bebe of the moon fell full upon his | face. He still breathed, but the death-pang had | so contorted his livid features that they were | ghastly to look upon, “Look up! speak to me!” cried Aunt Jerry, “Tell me who has done this dreadful deed!” Asif. the departing spirit had been recalled by that wild entreaty, his glazing eyes opened wide and white for a single instant, and a name fell from his guy ine lips. ** Vincent Erle!” Then he fell back a dead weight in her arms, and ceased to breathe, CHAPTER XVII. THE DAY’S REVELATIONS, THE whole household soon came flocking to the scene of the tragedy, for such among them as had not heard the first appalling cries were awakened by the piercing screams that broke from Aunt Jerry’s lips when she realized the terrible fact that she was actually supporting a dead man in her arms. Gently placing the gray head on the floor, she walked up and down the room, still shrieking rs top of her voice, and wringing her ““Oh—oh—oh! Thisis too dreadful! I would have died willingly if that could have saved hiro. But his murderer shall be punished! I can do that much—I can avenge him!” There was something strangely grotesque and horrible in the woman’s appearance as she the floor and gave utterance to these rav- ings. Her face was deadly pale, and there was an insane glitter in her eyes. Her nightcap, which she bad forgotten to remove, bad fallen half off her head, and a few locks of scanty gray hair, escaping from under it, fell in strag- ling masses over the faded yellow wrapper she drawn on. Aunt Jerry had had her romantic dreams and had cherished them _ as fondly as a gir of sixteen. She had made an ideal hero out of the stern, self-willed old man, investing him with graces and merits he had ncver possessed, It seemed to change her whole nature to see him lying there, weltering in his own blood, struck down by the hand of an assassin. Her features took on a hard, fierce, vindictive expression quite new to them, and when some of th» weep- ing servants drew near, and would have borne ee body to the bed, she waved them fiercely “Do not touch him,” she said, in a raised voice. ‘Let some’one go for the coroner. There is' work to be done, for the murderer shall be ape to justice.” She bent down and laid her bony hand on the dead man’s forehead. She was shivering, but no tears came to relieve the burning of her eyes. ** Poor Egbert! Poor, martyred hero!” she muttered. ‘I loved you better than you knew. Now I will prove it by avenging your dreadful death.” . Dolores Gloyne was one of the last persons to make her appearance, but at this moment she came gliding into the room. A wail of anguish broke from her lips as she bent over the dead body of her grandfather. “Ob, Aunt Jerry,” sho moaned, ‘‘can noth- ing be done?” ‘Ay, justice!” answered the woman, in a strange, hollow voice, Dolores drew back with adreadful sickness at her heart. She was frightened atthe wild glare of reproach and horror with which Aunt Jerry regarded her. ‘Why do you look at me so strangely?” she said. ‘Have you discovered any clew to the murderer?” ‘ “ Yes.” “ ‘Oh, my God! Who was it?” The a ge of death overspread the we man’s id face. Bending down pisccere! she whiapered a few busky words in the girl’ ear. ‘Vincent Erle is the guilty man.” The eyesof Dolores dilated with despair and ‘ 3 horror. Gasping once or twice, as if her breath were gone, she threw up her hands, and with an odd sound, half-sob, half-scream, fell senseless to the floor. - No gleam of pity crossed Aunt Jerry’s stern A ae “Take her away,” she said, witha sweep ot her hand toward the unconscious girl. ‘“* And see that she is not permitted to come ees ts, greatl dering at the sin e@ servan atly wondering at the - lar scene, rained Stpis young mistress between > WIFE OR them, and she was conveyed to her own apart ment. The coroner arrived shortly after daybreak, and with him came several men from the vil- lage who had been hastily gathered up to act as jurymen. The body was examined—the premises care- fully inspected. Appearances indicated that Mr; Challoner was in bed, and probably sleep- ing when the attack had been made. There were two or three ugly gasbes in his side, and his hands were cut, The probable theory was that the first blow, being awkwardly dealt, had only awakened him, and that he had instantly sprung out of bed and grappled with the mur- erer. The worst wound, that which proved fatal, had been received in the left breast, and the knife with which it was made was found lying on the grass, just outside the open window. The knife appeared to be a new one, and bore no marks ty which it could be traced to its owner. Twelve o’clock had struck before the coroner succeeded in amassing sufficient evidence to be- gin the examination of witnesses, The first person called was the village surgeon. This was a.mere matter of form, as he could only testify to what was palpable enough already—namely, that the deceased had met with his death from the wound in question. The servant who had last seen his master alive, was theu called, He testified to having been dismissed by his master at half-past nine, Mr. Challoner was then ready for bed—he inva- riably retired early. The windows—of which there were two, both opening to the ground— were closed; but the servant could not say whe- ther they were fastened or not. “Call Miss Gloyne,” said the coroner, when the servant had been given permission to retire. Dolores entered, leaning upon the arm of Lawrence Grab, who had been one of the very first persons summoned. The beautiful girl was palo as death, and trembled with terror, as sho sat down in the chair indicated by the coroner. ‘« Please state to the j what you know of this shocking crime,” said that gentleman, look- ing at her rather sternly. ‘I know nophing, said Dolores, trembling more than ever, and dropping her eyes. ‘“‘Did you hear no uproar in the night?” “T was awakened by the screams of Aunt Jerry Martin; I heard nothing else.” ‘ ‘“‘ Did you arise immediately?” “No. I felt dazed and frightened at first, for I had been sleeping very soundly. Butwhen the screams continued, I sprung up and dressed myself. ‘Did you learn what had happened before coming down-stairs?” “T did, One of the maids stopped me on the landing, and told me that my grandfather had been. murdered,” Dolores answered, breaking into a passion of tears and sobs. She was given time to recover herself, and then the coroner resumed: ‘‘ You say you weresleeping soundly, Is there any particular reason why you were buried in so deep a slumber?” ‘‘T-—T—had been up very late,” answered Do- lores, in a hesitating way. ‘* What kept you up?” She did not answer, buta burning blush swept up to the roots of her hair, and receding, left her paler than before. ‘Ts it not.a fact,” said the coroner, sternly, ‘‘that you had an appointment to meet a cer- tain young gentleman in the grounds, last even- ing, and were with him there until a very late our?’ : The head of Dolores drooped lower and lower. She seemed overwhelmed with shame and con- fusion, ‘‘ Yes,” she answered. “ And was not that gentleman Mr. Vincent Erle?” She shuddered, but made no reply. “ Answer my question if you please, wit- ness,” “Yes,” she said, in a low, trembling voice, “it was Mr. Erle.’ “IT thought so. Now you may stand aside for | the present. Let the boy, Muggins, be called.” uggins was a lad of twelve or fourteen, who was kept to run errands, and do any odd jobs about the place that might fall in his Way, He had a precociously old, and a precociously wise ss ag not altogether pleasant to see In one of his * Muegins? said the coroner, “‘ you may fell the jury whether Miss Gloyne did or did not send you on an errand yesterday.” “She did,” said the bey, grinning from ear to WIDOW ? ear. ‘*Sent me to the ‘Crown and_ Thistle’ with a letter. Gave mea dollar for taking it, and promising to hold my to Ny ‘To whom did you deliver the letter?’ “To Mr. Erle, He was stopping there— tying low to keep out of master’s way, I reckon. he letter was for him.” “For Mr. Erle, you mean?” **T do, sir.” Nothing further was wanted of Muggins, and the coroner requested that Madam Zoe, the housekeeper, might be summoned. ““Can’t be did, sir,” said Muggins, speaking up from the corner to which he had retired, near the door. ‘‘Sheisn’t here.” ‘* Not here?” was the amazed reply. ‘‘ What do you mean?” ) ‘She's vanished, sir—evaporated, Nobody has the least idea what has become of her.” An inquiry into the matter elicited the fact that Madam Zoe had not been seen by any member of the household since the previous eve- ning. She had suddenly and mysteriously dis- sppeeted in the nighttime, taking none of her belongings, and leaving no clew by which her flight could be traced, he coroner seemed puzzled by this singular event. After whispering for some moments with the jury, however, he asked that Lawyer Grab be called to the stand. The solicitor simply testified to having been summoned, by the deceased, the afternoon of the preceding day, for the purpose of drawing up a new will; and that the business, use of the lateness of the hour, had been finally deferred until ten o’clock of the present day. “Ts the old will still in existence?” inquired the coroner. “Tt is,” was the answer. ‘I have it in my possession,” “ What is its purport?” “After some trifling legacies are paid, the bulk of the deceased’s large fortune is to be di- vided equally between his grandchildren, Ray- mond Challoner and Dolores Gloyne.” “Do you know if the deceased had made up his mind to leave his property differently?” He had,” replied the solicitor, speaking with extreme reluctance. “It was his intention to disinherit both Raymond and Dolores.” ‘* What reason did he assign for so radical a change in his se?” He declared young people, and averse to the idea of allowing them to profit by his death.” A murmur ran the rounds of the jury. A motive for the crime had been disclosed by Lawyer Grab’s testimony. Knowing nothing of the truth—except such facts as had alread come out at the inquest—they looked at nef other and whispered that Raymond and Dolores were the persons most interested in the old man’s death: But which—if either—of the young peo- ple was guilty? The coroner, who was better posted, shook his head at them gravely, and said in a low, impressive voice: Miss Gloyne may take the stand again,” CHAPTER XVIIL THE RESULT OF THE INQUEST. TREMBLING with apprehension, Dolores a, seated herself in the vacated chair at the right of the coroner. Ever since reviving from the swoon into which she had been thrown agar Jerry’s fierce denunciation of her lover, she had been on the rack of suspense. Was there any foundation for the woman’s fearful accusation —and would it be repeated here, in the presence of the coroner and jury? Would the admissions she her-elf might be compelled to make be used as evidence against him? - No wonder her heart beat heavy and thick with fear as she once more took the stand. Her peace of mind, happiness and good name depended upon the turn the examination should now take, The coroner’s first words were not of a reas- suring nature. Looking at her with steady scrutiny, he said: ‘“ Miss Gloyne, I believe Yb have already ac- knowledged that you hel Mr, Vincent Erle in these grounds, last night. At what hour did you meet him?’ “Tt was eleven o’clock, sir,” Dolores answer- ed, in an unsteady voice, without raising her eyes from the floor. “ When did you separate?” “Shortly before midnight,” ie Are twelve, and not later?” “Tam. 1 heard the clock strike soon after returning to my chamber.” declared bimself disappointed in the . an interview with . you sure, witness, that it was before © So < x id f le PG LAL LOT OM PR IRS a | ap eer
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WIFE OR WIDOW? 47 ««Where did Mr: Erle go when he left you?” *T think he left the grounds.” “Have you any means of knowing whether he actually did goaway or not?’ a“ No, sir »” The coroner made a note ina little book he had held in his hand throughout the inquest, and ‘then said briskly: “ Witness, you may state to the jury, if you please, when you lastsaw Mr. Erle previous to the “kenr to which attention has just been called. Dolores started, clasped her hands convul- sively, but she made no reply. ‘Witness, we are waiting,” said the coroner. “T saw him the night before last,” Dolores an- swered, in a scarcely audible voice. “Did you meet him in the grounds on that occasion, also?” **Tt was a secret meeting, of course?” The heart-sick girl oobi only bow her head. “Your grandfather was hostile to the young ee question, and had forbidden you to see m ** Yes, sir.” ‘* A rumor has reached my ears that you were secretly married to this Mr. Erle, some months ago. it correct?” Again the girl’s head drooped in acknowledg- ment. “When did the marriage take place?” “The twenty-fifth of last December.” ‘“You may state to the jury whether news of this marriage ever reached the ears of the de- cease ‘* Yes,” said Dolores, speaking quite huskily, *“‘T confessed it to him myself.” y. “ When?’ “During an interview I held with him yester- day morning.” ** Ah! said the coroner, making another note in his book. ‘‘ And was it not in consequence of that confession that the deceased decided to al, your name from his will?” ‘““Tt may have been,” Dolores replied, grow- ing paler and more terrified as the examination progressed “And did you not immediately write a note and send it by the boy Muggins, to Mr. Erle, at the ‘Crown and Thistle,’ telling him what had transpired, and appointing the meeting that took place last night; and was not all this done that you might discuss with the young man the unexpected emergency that had arisen?’ The coroner had drawn considerably on his imagination in putting this leading question, but the look of terror that came on the hapless rl’s face, and the shrinking shiver that ran all through her frame, evinced the shrewdness of the guess he had made. _ He would have con- tinued the inquier, but Dolores suddenly fell back in a hbalt-fuinting condition, and he was compelled to forbear. All this while Aunt Jerry had been sitting in the darkest corner of the room, quietly biding her time. When at length her name was called she came forward with a quick, firm step. The few eventful hours of that morning seemed to have aged her as many years. “Your name is Jerry Martin, I believe?” said the coroner, when she had been sworn, ‘“‘ Not Jerry, your honor, but Jerusha, Some- times I am called Jerry, for short.” ‘Yes, yes, I understand all that. How old are you, madam?” “How old?’ echoed Aunt Jerry, changing her hard, dry tone for a hysterical one. “I don’t see that the question of my age concerns any- body but myself.” “But the question is often asked in cases like this, and it is one you are bound to an- swer.” “ But I say I won’t!” cried Aunt Jerry, very p> hey ney it will be our dut nd 1 say you must, or it w our duty to commit aly ~~ She gare a gasp of dismay. She hed buta vague idea what the word ‘‘commit” could mean in the sense in which the coroner used it; but of course it was something dreadful. “Must I wosty Soi) all those jurymen how old “Oh, dear! I never dreamed of Well tla dins ne thi .” such a thing. * How much Pp yf’ aid the coroner, trying to repress a smile. ‘“Itis necessary to be explicit ips (heme matters,” nd Aunt Jer.‘y hung her head, and replied that she might be nearer forty, aiter all. “ Put it down fifty, and have done with it,” spoke up one of the jury. ? “Fitty!” shrieked the scandalized woman, turning upon him, indignantly... ‘“‘Oh, you brute! I’m not a day over forty-five, and you know it.” . When Aunt Jerry had grown calmer the real business proceeded. She was asked by the jury to state what she knew of the murder, and pro- ceeded to give her evidence as follows: “Sally and I had the preserves to do over yesterday, and the work kept us up so late that it was nigh outo eleven before the last jar was put away, and I went up-stairs to bed, I had only a candle with me, and somehow that got overturned and went out. I was nearly un- dressed at the time, so, instead of lighting an- other, I just drew up the blind to let in the light of the moon,” Yes, ba Go on, witness. When you drew up the shade, what did you see in the garden below?” ‘‘T saw Dolores descend the terrace in the di- rection of the shrubbery, where a man met her.” “Did Pane recognize that_man?” *T did. It was Vincent Erle.” Aunt Jerry then proceeded to state that she had gone directly to bed, and had slept until she was awakened na scream and the cry of mur- der coming from Mr. Challoner’s bedroom. Hur- rying down-stairs, she had discovered the de- ceased lying on the floor, gasping his last. “Did you speak to hint? asked the coroner. ‘Yes, L entreated him to tell me who had done the dreadful deed.” ‘* And did he reply?” ‘‘He did,” Aunt Jerry answered, amid the dead silence of the court. ‘© Who did he say had murdered him?” Vincent Erle.” ‘ A piercing shriek was heard as that name fell in fierce, vindictive accents from the woman’s Ss. vawyet Grab saw that Dolores was wavering in her chair, and sprung forward just in time to support her. For a second time that day the hapless girl had fainted. bere was no further evidence to be taken. Tho fact that a woman's figure had brushed past Aunt Jerry on the landing, came out, incident- ally, but no great importance was attached to this circumstance, Every female in the house denied having been in the corridor at that par- ticular hour, and the hasty conclusion was drawn that Aunt Jerry must have seen Madam Zoe, who was even then on her way from the house, and who, up to the present hour, had so mysteriously absented herself. The coroner charged the jury, and after a very brief deliberation a verdict was brought in to the effect that the deceased, Egbert Chal- loner, had met with death at the hands of Vin- cent Erle, the reputed husband of his grand- daughter, Dolores Gloyne, ; Of course measures were at once taken to se- cure the arrest of Vincent. Inquiries being made at the “Crown and Thistle,” it was dis- covered that the young man had settled his bill and called for his horse, about ten o’clock of the previous evening, since which time nothing whatever had been known of his movements, Glenoaks seemed the next place at which he was most likely to be found, and officers, armed ead the proper warrant, were immediately sent ither, ba in the day messengers bad been dispatch- ed to New York, where Raymond Challoner was supposed to be, No one save Egbert Challoner himself and Madam Zoe had known of the young man’s secret visit to Dingle Dell, and now that death had closed the lips of the one, and the other had secreted herself so ag that even the sharp-witted officers of the law could find noclew to her hiding-place, the fact of that visit, and the circumstances con- reais therewith, were not at all likely to come to light. Sowever, being the nearest male relative, and one of the heirs-at-law, of course Raymond’s resence at the house of death and crime was both necessary aad desirable. And so, in gloom and horror, closed the first episode of domestic life at Dingle Dell. CHAPTER XIX. BACK TO GLENOAKS. Axsovt fivé o’clock of the morning that suc- ceeded that dark night of crime and horror, old Phillis, one of the house-servants at Glenoaks, wasin the act of raking out the kitchen fire, when there came a low but imperative knocking at the door. “ Bress me! Who ean be a-comin’ at dis time ob de morning?” ejaculated the old woman, ‘| and pines away. hab to answer for it if dey kills her atween ’em, starting up so quickly that she overturned her | basket of kindlings, and also a kettle.of clear water standing beside it. ‘‘It ain’t decent, not to say Christianlike, to be poundin’ at folks’s on Ay airly. ‘Deed it ain’t!” ti and undid the fastenings. The instant her gaze fell on the figure standing outside, however. she drew back with a muttered exclamation of surprise, “Good Lor’! Am it you, Massa Wincent? It wouldn’t hab startled me more had I seen a real live ghost! So it wouldn’t.” Vincent Erle—for it was he—stumbled her, and sunk down on a chair, pale, breathless, exhausted. “Bring me a glass of wine, Phillis,” said he. “Tm tired out. Couldn’t have done another mile to save me.” The old woman hurried to the sideboard in the dining-room, and brought out a decanter and a lass. She felt a little startled. This was the first time Vincent had made his ap ance ab Glenoaks since the interrupted wedding—more than a month before. Making use of one pre- text and another, he had prolonged his stay in New York until the present time. ‘““What’s de matter, Massa Wincent?” said Phillis, looking at him earnestly as she drew upa round stand and placed the wine on it. ‘’Pears like dis am a queer time o’ day for you to bea-. comin’ home.’ “So itis. But don’t bother me, Phillis, that’s a good soul. I’m too weary even to talk. I have been in the saddle most of the time since midnight. ** Good Lor’! how you came all de way from New York on horseback?” “Certainly not. I left New York Monday morning, and—and have been visiting some friends in the country,” the young man answer- ed, looking restless and uneasy. ‘‘ But we will talk about that some other time. Is my room Teady for me?” . **Tt’s allus ready, Massa Wincent, "Pears y hab no occasion to be axin’ dat ar’. Don look to it myself?” “Then I will go.n necessary to disturb any one else.” He arose, and was moying with a heavy step. toward an inner door when he paused to ask: ‘Phillis, is my sister well? how is Colo- nel Falkner convalescing?”’ The woman gave an Sxprosive grunt. ‘De kurnel am as gi Wincent. His wounds hab healed u ene and no mistake. As for poor Miss Ethelin don’t know what to make ob de chile. Nobody does, for dat matter. Poor lamb!” Vincent looked round quickly. ** You don’t mean to say that my sister is ill?” “Tl tell you my ’pinion, since you’ve axed for it, Massa Wincent,” said Phillis, drawin nearer, and sinking her voice toa whisper. “ s’pects de chile’s heart jess broke—dat’s all. She’s nebber been de same since dat weddin’- night. She jess aot her room, and mopes, Tells you what, somebody ll and dat’s ’cisely what dey’s doin’!” ‘Whom do you mean by ‘ they!” “Furst and foremost, I mean Massa Ray- mond Challoner,” answered the servaut, in an indignant tone, lease Miss Ethelind from her promise to him, nohow; and anybody, wid any wit at all, | can see dat de r chile would rather be in her | grave, than gib herself to him.” | Vincent bit his lip. He had always looked riage; but he did not choose to express h in the servant’s hearing, + “Who else, Phillis?” “Why, den dere’s missis, Don’t see what hab come ober dat woman. ‘Pears like she can’t bear to hab Miss Ethelind come nigh her, any more. She’s rale unkind, and dat ain’t m niissis’s nat’ral state—’deed it ain’t. I don’. know what to make ob sich goings on.” Vincent himself looked troubled and ed. He felt that the servant, in ber wo y sym- pathy for Ethelind, must have exaggerated the case. But even this conviction left room for un- pleasant conjecture. ‘‘Den dere’s de kurnel—I mean, Massa Falk- ner,” added Phillis, again dropping her voice. | ‘‘He hardly ebber speaks a kind word to de chile, though he knows as well as I do dat she’s breakin’ her heart for him, and a-pinin’ to a shadder— | “Hush!” sternly interrupted Vincent. “It does not become you to speak of these things, bling, Phillis stepped to the door” You don’t mean to tell meas- ou tI at once, It is not. as new ag’in, Massa “De young debble won’t re- | with secret disfavor on the contemplated mar-. imself.
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28: —_— all to myself,” muttered the woman. However, the rebuke had the effect of silenc- ing her, save that she still shook her head and grumbled to herself as she proceeded to arrange | and light the fire. Vincent passed through the hall, and was wearily climbing the stairs, when his quick ear caught the rustle of a woman’s dress, and he be- came aware that some one was moving, with a slow and measured tread, and down one of the corridors branching off from the main land- in Feeling a sudden intuition as to whose that glid figure must be, he stole after it, and near the large oriel window at the extreme end of the Pc oregy shot confronted by his sister. He w k astonished, four weeks had wrought such a chan face wore a ha » nervous expression, her lips had lost their exquisite tinting, her smooth cheeks their round rfection. She seemed to have aged years in the month’s brief space. She wore a neatly-fitting black silk, with a lace collar and s. A cluster of droopin and faded flowers was in her hair; and Vincen instantly surmised, as he looked at her, that she had not been in bed at all that night. **Oh, Ethelind!” he exclaimed, half involun- oe r sister!” She lean er head on her brother’s shoul- der, and burst into a passionate fit of weeping. “*Vincent—you here! You don’t know how you surprised and startled me. But I am glad you came—so glad!” A little shiver ran over her, but she one to him with hysterical violence; and after a little, raised her head, softly kissing his cheek. ‘You are fearfully altered,” he said, when she had grown a little calmer. ‘‘ Why is it? Do you dread that marriage so very much? Never fear, darling. It shall never come off, never. I, your brother, tell you so, If Ray- mond persists in claiming you, I'll call him out! Pd do anything to save you.” ‘Dear, good Vincent! I know you would.” ‘*Cheer up, darling,” he whispered. ‘‘ It will all come right some time. If Raymond comes again, I will see him myself. Youshall not be phe into your grave by that man’s persecu- ons. She tried to smile, and then suddenly sbut her eyes and shuddered. “T wish I was dead, and out of my misery,” she cried, in the fierce, sullen accents of despair, “Hush, dear. You mustn't give way,” he said, still trying to comfort her. ‘Iam going to help you; and I want you to help me in re- turn—that is what brought me home again.” ‘‘ To—help—you?” she slowly echoed. “Yes. Don’t look so startled. I’ve been hid- ing a secret from you, all these months, and now it has involved me in a world of trouble But I trust you to help me out of it.” “Ts it money that you want?” face flushed crimson. Ethelind’s willing hand had hel him out of more than one mor- tifying predicament, and she was ready to ex tend it agai “T wish you had it all—every dollar,” she burst out. “It has never done meany good, and never will. Oh, why was not the var left to you in the first place? I’m sure it righ fully belonged to you—men have so much great- er need of riches.” ) “Yes,” he said, in a low voice, “I do need money, but that is not all. I want your advice on) Br mpeshy. rae ones Yam goes i © gave a low gasp of disma stared at hi if incredulously, " “ arried ” “Hush. Not so loud! I was married last i I should have told you all this long ago, only it did not seem right to involve you in every act of folly I might commit.” She divined the truth at once. “ How strange it seems. But of course it is my dear friend Dolores—” ‘Yes, it is Dolores I have married. And now old Mr. Challoner has discovered our se- cret, and is ve angry. He will probably turm my poor bride from his door. Something must be done, Ethelind. We will talk it all over, by and by, when we are both calmer. He en tirely upon you. I know you will not fail me God bless you darling!” Strangely agitated, he kissed her severa/ times, very tenderly for him, and turning abruptly, at length, left her and proceeded té his own room, where he threw himself wearily on the bed. During the entire day be emerged for only a few moments, and then only because of the ne eessity of paying his duty to Mrs. Falkne: r an ' sent-minded, and t in'her appearance. Her | it WIFE OR WIDOW? “Good Lor’! Td bu’st if Thad to keep dem | the colonel, Each interview was of the brief: : He felt too moody and miserable to pro tract them. Ethelind he did not see again day. Soins ade spell seemed to have settled upon the household. Even the few moments he spent with Mrs. Falkner and his guardian were enough to cause Vincent to fee] its influence, Colonel Falkner ee thoughtful and ab e proud old lady looked.as if bowed down with shame and secret trouble. All the old good-humor and cheerful hospitali- that had rendered the family circle such a charming one were gone—he knew not why or wherefore. ‘‘ There is nothing but trouble in the world,” thought the young man; “ trouble and hearts ache. I wish, sometimes, that [ was done with The following morning he went down to breakfast at the usual hour. But nobody else appeared, and after waiting a long time, he was compelled to ke of the meal alone. Just as he had finished, the woman, Phils, looked in. **Dar’s a man at the door, Marsa Wincert- * two ob dem, for dat matter,” she said. ‘‘ And dey is axin’ for you.” ‘For me?” echoed Vincent, rising hastily, * What can they want?” “* Dey didn’t say, marsa, only it’s suffin’ wery particular.” Vincent burried out, and was confronted ia the hall by two strangers in the garb of police men. They sensed up quickly the instant be appeared, and drop a detaining hand upon either arm; and one of them said: ’ ‘Mr, Vincent Erle, you are my prisoner!” CHAPTER XX, ARRESTED. Vincent stared in blank amazement at thy man who had spoken. ‘“ What did you say?’ he stammered, not tak- ing in the full meaning of the words, or at least ee not to have done so. “ Your pris- on er ‘Yes, sir. ‘You need not look so incredulous, my ther jail-bird; here is the warrant for your arr Vincent made an effort to look at the paper the officer held before his eyes; but it was of no use. The words seemed to blur and run to- gether. “Upon what charge am I arrested?” he in- quired, trying to calm herself, “That of murder.” “ Murder!” gasped Vincent. “Why, man, you are ¢ x The officer looked at his fellow with a detest- able wink. ' ‘Come, come! That won't do,” he said, im- peseany “Of course you would fei igno rance, ey always do—don’t they, Bill?” *¢ Allus, sir,” answered the policeman. “It is some absurd e, 1 do assure you. Why, J do not even know who has been mur- e It was perfectly true that no rumor of the dreadful crime had, as yet, penetrated to Glen- oaks, though'nearly thirty-six hours had elapsed since its commission. e distance between the two places, some twenty miles, and the se- god piustion of each, sufficiently accounts or this fac . The officer, however, chose to look incredu- ous. “ If you would read the warrant, sir, it would save us a deal of trouble. It says, in so many words, that you are charged with having assas- sinated Egbert Challoner, of Dingle Dell, near Grafton.’ Vincent gasped for breath, and turned a hor- vor-stricken countenance upon the two men, “Good God!” he gasped, with blanched lips. ‘“‘ Egbert Challoner dead?}—murdered? It seems incredible.” ; ‘* Tt is only too true, sir, as you are likely to find out to your cost,’ ‘Oh, just Heaven! You do not mean to tell rao that it is of his murder that I am accused?” “Yes, And you must come along with us to tnswer for the crime. Up to this moment, old Phillis had stood near the dining-room door, her ebony face y with wrror, her eyes almost starting from their sock- ets; but when the officers made a movement to take their prisoner away, she uttered a shrill, rolonged shriek that might almost have waken- 4d the dead in thar om. ‘You ole debbles!” she screamed, confront- Ing the men. “You mean, mis’rable trash. to comethere and bodder decent folks like Marsa Wincent. You are nuffin’ but murderers your- selves. Off wid you! Cl’ar out.” Vincent tried to pacify her, but it was of no use. Her screams, cries, and indignant ejacu- lations soon brought the whole household to the spot, Ethelind among the rest. “Oh, Vincent, what is it?” the startled _girl exclaimed, coming quickly forward. ‘‘ What do these men want?” He looked frightened and bewildered. “Tt isnothing, Ethelind—a ridiculous mistake —-that’s all. Go back to your room. Colonel Falkner,” he added, turning to that gentleman, who had just entered, ‘“‘ pray lead my sister away. But Ethelind refused to go. “T know thatsomething dreadful has happen- ed,” she panted, with ashy lips. “Oh, tell me the worst at once!” He turned aside his face and ed; and groan it was Phillis who blurted out the fearful truth between broken ejaculations of anger and mis- or yethelind was quite calm. She turned fright- fully pale, and a smothered sob broke from her lips. That was all. ‘Must you go with these men, Vincent?” she ee a low, shivering voice. “ es,” “Is there no way of ararmee it? Will they not take bail for your security ‘*My poor sister, this is one of the cases in which money is of no avail. And if it were, these officers are not the persons to whom ap- plication should be made,” Ethelind sat down on a chair, as if she felt sick and faint. But her voice was r than before when the turned to Phillis, and said for my bonnet and shawl.” Colonel Falkner heard the words, and came quickly to her side, an expression of disappro- val on his pale face. : a poor child, what would you do?” he “T am going with my brother.” ‘No, you must not. I cannot t you to take “ nie You on md Agere no good. He w suppose. en before a magistrate, and an examination held. It is not befitting that you should witness such a scene. Ethelind coldly averted her face. » ‘*My presence will give him courage,” she a“ hy e will know that he is not utterly for- sake n. “Mad girl!” ejaculated Mrs. Falkner, looking at her in pity, half in anger. “Do not seek to dissuade me,” came the pas- sionate appeal. ‘I cannot forsake my brother in the hour of his greatest need, You have no right to:ask it.” ‘Let her go,” said Mrs. Falkner, speaking in an undertone to her son. “Why should we seek to detain her? Are we not hopelessly dis graced already?’ Gathering up her breakfast shawl of black lace, the proud old lady moved down the hall, with a haughty step, and disappeared. ‘“‘ Perhaps it is natural that you should wish to pac gm say your brother, Ethelind,” said Colo- nel Falkner, looking pained and troubled. “ But have you fully considered the ordeal through which you must pass?” “Fearful as it py ne it is nothing in com- is m with what Vincent himself must suf- A sigh broke from his li as he looked into her convulsed and — , ‘““May Heaven support and strengthen you, poor child. I shall not make your trouble any greater by useless tion.” In a few minutes they were ready to set out. A close carriage stood before the door, and Ethelind was kindly permitted to occupy the back seat with her brother. The loud wails to which Phillis gave way were the last sounds that reached her ears as the carriage rolled down the drive. It was mid-afternoon when they reached Grafton. Vincent was taken directly to the | prison, and locked into one of the cells, for safe- eeping. The examination would not be held until the next morning, the warden told him but he was to be trea as if fully committed y: About half an hour later, Vincent was sittin on the side of the cot with Ethelind’s han clasped in his, recounting, in a low voice, the aged of his rash marriage, when a key turned in the lock, and a lady, closely vailed, was usher- ed into the cell. | eset <,
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Feit 3 **Dolores!” he cried, recognizing her at a glance. The hapless young wife tottered forward, and sunk sobbing into his arms. ‘*Oh, Vincent!” she panted. ‘‘It seems too a that we should meet again here—like is!” ‘*God bless —Iam conten “Forsaken you! Oh, my poor love, I have been praying for you every moment since I knew that those men had gone to you. She put her arm round his neck, and laid her cheek close to his; but she looked as if her heart were well-nigh broken. Vincent held her fast for a moment. “‘ How good, how generous of you to come to me 80 soop |” he said in a broken voice. “I did not lose a moment after I had reason to “ig <-s you were here,” ry wer me this, Dolores,” he said, drawing quickly away, and looking at her with a keen, searching gaze. ‘Before another word | s between us, tell me if you believe me of the crime of which I am accused.” ‘Guilty !” she shivered. ‘ No, no, no! Never for one moment have I doubted you.” “The circumstances are against me.” : “‘No matter. I would stake my very life mn your innocence. You murder my ee, helpless grandfather? You could never have done it.” “No,” he said, in a raised voice, as he strained her to his heart. ‘‘I have been wild, thought- less, and a little reckless sometimes. But, God be thanked, my hands were never yet stained with crime!” Even Ethelind was impressed by his earnest- Ress. If there had been a lurking doubt in her mind it was now dismissed forever; and she mingled her tears with those of the sorely-tried husband and wife. When Dolores rose to depart, Bthelind accom- panied her, and they spent that first bitter night of Vincent 8 imprisonment together. The examination began about nine o'clock, the next morning, and lasted until noon. Ethelind was surprised, when she entered the justice- room, in company with her brother and Dolo- res, to see Colonel Falkner sitting near the bench, \ He had scarcely left the house since his convalescence, and she had not supposed him capable of undertaking such a journey. The girl fel ber heart beat furiously as she met his . A look singularly blended of pain and rapture flitted over her pallid face, ‘It was very kind of you to come, Colonel Falkner,” she said in a low voice, bending to- bt cone! “I could not bear to think that you were here alone, Ethelind,” he answered. . ‘* Alone?” she echoed. ‘‘I have my brother and Dolores.” “True. But they cannot give you the watch- ful care you need in the present condition of ur health.” “You would make me out a greater invalid than I really am,” she said, proudly; neverthe- less her heart thrilled at the thought that it was solicitude for her welfare that had caused him to undertake the journey, “I know you are incapable of taking proper eare of yourself,” he answered, gravely. A bitier retort was on her lips, but the pro- ings were opened, at this moment, and she suppressed it. . © evidence given at the examination was merely a repetition of that which came out at the inquest, and need not be dwelt upon again. No new facts of any consequence had come to light. Aunt Jerry was still the most damaging witness against the prisoner; and there was an awful look of horror, hatred and repulsion in the woman’s eyes as she sat glaring at him from the witness-box. Nothing bad been heard of Madam Zoe, and her mysterious disappearance remained as great a marvel as ever. ut those were not wanting who shrewdly conjectured that the strange wo- 7 aman She be found, might ‘“‘a tale un- 0. Quite a commotion occurred near the close of the proceedings. It was occasioned by the sud- den apeen alee of Raymond Challoner, pale and travel-stained, at the door of the justice-room. Even the magistrate himself unbent from bis dignity and signed for the young man tv ap- proach tbe bench, ‘Have you just arrived, Mr. Challoner?” he ou! You have not forsaken me “Yes,” Raymond answered, with a low bow. “] was absent, in Washington, on a little mat. WIFE OR WIDOW? 19 ter of business, when the messenger sent to New York reached my ocannet Of course he tele- raphed to me immediately; and I set out, post- to return.” : ae paurats shook eg with him as a mark of respect and athy. “ This is a sad affair, Mr. Challoner.” “Very. I can scarcely believe in its reality.” “Have you any testimony to offer the court?” **None whatever,” the young man answered with a look of surprise. ‘‘ Indeed, I have heard very little about the case, as yet, save the one shocking fact that my poor grandfather has been murdered.” Some one arose, at this juncture, and offered Raymond his seat. The young man took it in silence, but he did not once turn his eyes in tho direction of the prisoner. Ethelind had turned deadly lover entered, and she cowe chair with a shiver of repulsion. “Take care,” whispered Colonel Falkner, for his quick eye detected her agitaticn at once, “It is very wrong for you to betray your re- pugnance to that man so openly.” “I hate—and fear him. I cannot help it,” she answered back, half fiercely. At this moment the magistrate arose, and, amid the breathless silence of the court, formal- ly committed Vincent Erle to take his trial for the willful murder of Egbert Challoner. The officers were directed to remove the prisoner immediately, and the unfortunate young man was conveyed back to his cell. That same afternoon both Colonel Falkner and Ethelind returned to Glenoaks, though in separate conveyances, The latter had an ob- ject in venta” by away so rapidly; she knew that she must meet Raymond, and meet him as a friend, if she remained longer, and that was a greater ordeal than she cared, in her present mood, to encounter. e when her down in her CHAPTER XXII. INVESTIGATIONS, Poor Dotores passed an anxious and sleepless oe after the committal of her husband for lal, About nine o’clock the next morning, having dressed herself in a suit of plain black, and put on her bonnet and shaw], she was about to leave the house when Aunt Jerry stalked out of the nega room, and planted herself directly in ® way. “Where are you going?” she demanded, in a curt tone. “ To visit my husband,” Aunt Jerry drew herself up with an angry snort. Socks’ “It is my duty to go,” said Dolores, gent! but firmly. “ Please A OF aside.” ary “Duty!” shrieked Aunt Jerry. ‘It is your duty to yield obedience to those who are older and wiser than yourself. Go back to your room, miss.” “T’ cannot. My husband expects me; I must | go to him.” ‘I forbid you to go.” ; ‘But you have no authority to control my | actions. I owe submission to none save my God and dear husband.” Aunt J rig 4 trembled with passion. “ Girl, is our deliberate purpo: def, me?” she raved. bs pubes ain J peep | have no wish to do that,” said Dolores, | still speaking in a calm and gentle voice, though ; there was a flash of fire in ber brilliant dark But you should not usurp authority | eyes. that does not rightfully belong to you. If you do, : have no resource but to rebel. ere was a silence, Suddenly Aunt Je caught hold of the girl’s ee dl ew own wie cold as ice—and saying “Come with me,” ina dry, hard voice, drew her forward into the drawing-room. All that was mortal of Egbert Challoner lay there waiting for the last sad rites, which were to be performed at a later hour of that some day. The burial had been postponed as leng as possible that Raymond Bet be present and superintend arrangements Aunt Jerry drew the shrinking girl close up to the coffin, which stood in the middle of the darkened room. ‘Look there!” she said, in a raised voice, un- covering the face of the dead. “Look at your poor, murdered grandfather, and then go to the wretch who assassinated him if you have the heart to do it!” Dolores burst into tears. “Don’t, Aunt Jerry. You shock and distress me. My burden is heavier than I can well bear, already.” Struggling clear of those relentless hands, Dolores hurried back to the hall, and sinking on a chair, gave way to a perfect storm of sor- ro w. “You do feel ashamed of yourself—that is evident,” said Aunt Jerry, grimly, for she had followed the girl out, **No, it isn’t that. Buta treuble like this is 60 horrible. Sometimes Ialmost give way. But "incent is innocent of poor grandpapa’s death! id I not believe this from the depths of my soul { should shrink from him in as great horror as you do.” “Poor fool! Did not the murdered man’s ne Ta words fix the crime upon that vil- “It was a mistake—a dreadful mistake,” shivered poor Dolores. ‘‘ There was no light the room, and grandpapa must have taken some one else for Vincent. : ** Poor, deluded fool!” “T would stake my life on his innocence, and have told him so.” ‘* You intend to cling to him in spite of every- thin i ib “ 0. “ Mad girl! It is a wonder that your murder | ed relative does not rise out of his coffiin to re- proach you.” Dolores resolutely wiped fate tears. Appearances are very much against my husband,” she said, very low. “ But that is no reason why I should condemn him. Some day, this mystery will be cleared up, and I shall try to be patient until that time comes.” And before Aunt Jerry could raise another ob- tion, Dolores had quietly stepped past, and eft the house. : Like all gentle, loving women, she listened not to the voice of reason, but to that of her heart. In spite of the damning evidence against him, it was yor im ble for her to be- lieve Vincent guilty of the heinous crime laid to charge. She found him pacing the floor of his cell, pale but calm. He had already had an inter- view with Mr. Nolan, the attorney who had been secured to defend him, and the man had just gone away with the frank admission that the case promised to be the most difficult one hehad ever handled. At the sight of his wife, however, the prison- er attempted to banish every appearance of concern from his manner and countenance; and * embracing her, said cheerfully: ‘You come into my cell like a sunbeam, Do- lores, only you are much more welcome.” “T have rought you a little package,” said Dolores, speaking in a hurried tone, to hide her agitation. ‘Here it is,” and taking a roll of bank-notes from her pocket she spread them on the little table underneath the window. ‘Why, where did you get so much money?” Vincent asked, in a tone of surprise. ‘It was intrusted to me by your sister Ethe- lind before she went away, yesterday afternoon, She said this would secure a great many com- forts that you = otherwise be compelled to do without. And she wished me to urge upon you the necessity of employing the very best counsel in the State for your defense.” Her purse is at your command. “‘ Heaven bless her!” cried the poor prisoner. in a tone of deep emotion. “I know she would do anything in the world to help me.” Then, forcing a smile, he added: “I feel very rich, darling, See, I can dupli- cate the sum you have brought, note by note.” So indeed he could. For, producing a second roll very similar in appearance to the first, he placed a note of like denomination upon each of those Dolores had laid down. Looking into her wondering eyes, he said: PE a eof tage Rs pe gift. He pushed e mone my hand when he came to sa prado’ f f d “Tam very glad.” Before she could add another word, the cell- door was opened, and the warden ushered ina small, quiet-looking man who proved to be none other than our old friend, Detective Ferret. When the warden had withdrawn. and Vin- :
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cent turned to placed herself beside him and said, eagerly: ‘*T intended this as a surprise, my love. I q ' gent for Mr. Ferret, and have secu his ser- vices that the mysterious crime for which you suffer wm 4 be thoroughly investigated.” “Thank you, Dolores. It was, perhaps, the wisest thing you could have done.” Mr. Ferret quietly helped himself to a chair. ““ What defense did you offer at the examina- a tion, Mr. Erle?” he said, fixing his light gray | eyes upon the young man’s face. ** None, except to le in the plea of ‘not Ity,’ and assure the magistrate and jury t I had left Mr. Challoner’s grounds imme- diately after parting with Dolores, and had set out for Glenoaks without a moment’s delay.” ‘*What proof did you offer to substantiate -your statement?” ‘“« Alas, I had none save my simple word.” : The detective appeared to ruminate for some ‘ time. At length he said: i “You may tell everything you can remember that has any bearing upon the events of that fatal night.” ; Vincent and Dolores, together, were enabled ‘to. give Mr. Ferret a very clear idea of the events that had already come to light. The two points in which he manifested particular tf interest, however, were those of Madam Zoe’s ‘mysterious disappearance, and the fact that * Aunt Jerry had encountered a woman in the -corridor when she was hurrying down-stairs after having been aroused. by the cries of the mourdered man. } ‘‘ Where do the friends of this Madam Zoe re- side?’ he inquired. **T do not know,” Dolores answered; “‘ but it is my belief that she resided in the South before -coming to Dingle Dell.” ‘Who recommended her to M:., Challoner?” < “She brought no testimonials, I have heard j Aunt Jerry say. In the first place, she was oR taken on trial; but her duties were performed ¢ in a manner so satisfactory that she was perma- ae 3 engaged. ‘‘ Did she never a)lude to her former life?” ‘“Never, Indeed she seemed averse to speak- P ing of it even to answer such questions as might, from time to time, be asked.” ra ‘Of course she received letters occasionally 5 from her friends!” ig ‘No, sir. None ever came for her.” ‘That is strange,” said the detective, in a umusing tone. “It is believed by some,” said Dolores, look- ing up quickly, ‘“‘that Madam Zoe could give 4s important oe iy ne hoe this case, and has with- a -drawn herself for that very reason.” ‘‘Humph!” muttered Mr. Ferret, shaking his Fe When he left the prison, however, he went be, directly to the railway station, and inquired = for the night-agent. The man could throw no is light upon the mystery, however. He had been are ‘-at his post the night in question, but was cer- tain that no lady had purchased a ticket of ntleman had done so. e next station?’ Mr, Fer- him, though several “ How far is it to ret inquired. ‘* Four miles,” Be ** Above or below!” ‘ ‘* Below.” ‘ Mr, Ferret hurried to the nearest livery- stable, and hired a boy to drive him down. ‘= Having reached his destination, and found the '.. -station-agent, his first question was this: a. ‘Do all the night-trains stop here?” ‘Yes, sir,” was the ready answer. takes in wood and water at this p’int.” ( ‘‘ How many night-trains are there?” a ‘Four, all told, sir—that is, | mean two each ** They ., way,” nae the station-agent, a big, rough- oO looking fellow who seemed to be something of a gossip. ‘They pass each other here.” As At what hours?” “Ten in the evening and four in the morn- ‘ station, I suppose? ‘* Wall, not so very meus sir,” said the man, scratching his head. ‘ Sich as do, come, for the most , from the village one mile below, a down in the holler. Some days there are half ,.,. a dozen; and very often, at night, there’s no- body ou tell me if there was anybody to aog.” 3 A great many people take tickets from this ? “Can ‘take the four o’clock train, Tuesday morning?” ‘Tuesday? Let me see!’ That was the morn- = after poor old Mr. Challoner was murder- ed ? “ Yes, I believe so.” ie ,. “Why, bless you, sir, there were two, that Morning, and cur’us customers they were, too, greet the detectivé, Dolores WIFE OR WIDOW? Never 0 they could help it.” , Men?” | No, sir, aman and awoman. The man was all muffled up about his face. He rushed up aa as the train was ready to start, threw down is money and asked in a squeaky voice fora ticket to B——. I gave him one, and he climbed onto the rear car jest as the train was moving ‘‘ Did the woman go by the same train?” | WNo, sir. She went in the opposite direction; | and I should have told you about her afore, for | she was the first to leave. She came in allalone, | about three, and inquired abont the trains. She sat a few moments, and then went out; and of course I stepped to the door and looked after her. She was walking up and down the rail- road track, sir, as if she was on a wager.” ‘Did you see her face?” asked Mr. Ferret, eagerly. *I did not, She was dressed in black, and had her vail down, I don’t think she was a young woman, sir; but she was straight as a saplin’ for all that. She purchased no ticket, but I saw her get aboard the down-train. There was somethin’ cur’us about that woman, The detective was of the same opinion; but he merely said: ‘‘Have you any grounds for thinking that the man and woman were acquaintances?” ‘‘Not tho slightest, sir; and what’s more, I don’t think so. The down-train leaves some three or four minutes before the other; and so far as I know the woman came and was gone before the man got here at all.” Mr. Ferret said nothing more, but be mental- ly decided that the whole circumstance was @ very singular one ' CHAPTER XXII. COLONEL FALKNER’S PERPLEXITY, THE night was hot and still. Scarce a breath of air ruffled the foliage of the dark old trees that drooped lovingly over the Bray walls of Glenoaks. The atmosphere seemed heavy and orpreanys: ntil a late hour Colonel Philip Falkner sat in the small room on the ground floor that had been fitted up for a b geokoes study, poring over legal documents and reports of famous trials. He hoped to gather from these papers some hint that might useful to Vincent; for though there were doubts in his own mind of the young man’s innocence, he did not wish to see him suf- fer the full penalty of the law. Rising languidly at length, as if wearied out with his long sitting, Colonel Falkner proceeded | tothe open window, and after standing there a | moment Hopped out, The crimson curtains fell together behind him, and the lamp that still | burned within was the only indication that the room had been inhabited at all that evening. Gray, leaden clouds covered the whole heav- ens like a pall. Even the night-birds were still; and the heavy, oppressive scent of flowers filled the air almost to faintness, Plunging at once into the shrubbery, Colonel Falkner walked thoughtfully on in the direction of the sea. He had not proceeded far, however, when he saw some dark object flit swiftly from one group of evergreens to another, and pause | there as to rest. or reconnoiter, though in all | its movements there was an evident desire to | shun observation. |. “Jt is Ethelind,” he thought. “ Rash girl! | She should not be wandering abroad at this hour | of the night.” Sheltering himself behind a convenient trellis, he waited for the dark figure to come nearer. Several minutes elapsed before it moved at all, and then, as if in a sudden accession of courage, it started up and glided swiftly past within = ie or four yards of Colonel Falkner’s hiding- place. To his intense surprise, the figure did not prove to be Ethelind’s after all, but that of a strange lady dressed in black, whose head and face were closely muffled in a thick vail. She glided on rapidly in the direction of the house; and Colonel Falkner, startled, Ct lexed and curious, immediately turned and followed her, taking care to. keep in the shadow and s0 far behind as not to attract her attention. The mysterious lady made her way directly toward the window of the study, where the light still burned brightly behind the closely- drawn curtains. Pausing right before it, she stood for some time motionless, her head bowed as if either listening or praying. Colonel Falkner stole a few steps nearer, feel- = SSS eee ned their heads to speak to a body, if | ing more bewildered than ever. Suddenlv the woman flung up her hands wildly, and a’sub- dued wail broke from her lips. **Ob, Philip, pity me! My heart is breaking!” Something in that low, thrilling voice caused Colonel Falkner to start as though he had re- ceived an electric shock. It sounded familiar and she had spoken his name! What did it mean? Did she know under whose window she 7 and was she there simply because it was is? His heart beat a little faster, but he sprung forward, and caught the woman by the arm. ‘‘ Who are you?” he sternly demanded. There was no answer save a low, frightened moan, and she seemed to shrink away from him as if in deadly terror. ‘What are you doing here? Speak!” In another instant he would have torn away the muffling vail, but the woman eluded the movement, and wrenching ber arm from his grasp, darted swiftly past, and fled, witha shrill cry, into the darkest and densest of the shrub- bery. Colonel Falkner followed, but he could not overtake her. The black dress she wore blend- ed naturally with the shadows that everywhere — the grounds, and at the distance of a ew rods she was completely lost to observa- tion. Ho desisted at last in sheer despair, and at the samo instant a bitter, mocking laugh sounded beside him. ‘*-You do well to give up the pursuit, Colonel Falkner. That woman is fleeter of foot than yourself—you cannot overtake her!” It was Ethelind’s voice, and looking round in astonishment, he saw the girl standing just be- yond him, her white, wasted features di distinguishable in the uncertain light, ‘* Etheljnd!” “'Yos, it is I! You need not look so shocked.” ‘** It is enough to shock me to find Sf roaming about at midnight. Are you mad She passed both hands quickly over her fore- ead. ‘*Mad? Yes, I have been delirious these many weeks,” ‘* Poor ehild,” he said, ina tone of infinite pity. “*¥ believe you.” ‘ Then my vageries should no longer astonish you. ‘‘They pain me, Ethelind, deeply pain and grieve me. But you must not remain here. — my arm, and I will lead you back to the ouse. She obeyed, submissively as a little child, and not another word was spoken until he had drawn her through the open window, and they stood within the little study, when the lamplight fell on her pallid face and burning eyes. Ne $ — tell me why you were in the grounds?” e said. ‘*T could not sleep, and felt too nervous to re- main in-doors,” she answered, without lookin at him. ‘* Was it a greater crime for me to seok the fresh air than for you?” “At least it is scarcely decorous for a ree lady to be wandering about at mid- night. ‘T regret having offended against your no- tions of propriety,” said Ethelind; but her toae was proud and cold, Colonel Falkner remained silent for a moment, his gray a bent fixedly upon the girl’s face, Suddenly he heaved asigh, and said in a changed yoice: “You saw, too, that strange woman I was pursuing?” ““ I di ” Who is she?” ‘Do you not know?” Ethelind asked, quickly ’ meeting his gaze now for the first time. “‘T have not the slightest suspicion.” ‘Then I can give you the necessary informa- tion. [t was Mrs. Faunce,” He leaned toward her with a half suppressed ery of amazement ‘What! the new tenant of Lorn?” ‘The very same.” ‘‘ Indeed! 1 wonder that I did not think of her. “Yes, you must be right. I have been told that Mrs, Faunce always goes abroad Fo ae up very much like the woman in ques- on, He spoke in a slow, dreamy tone, like one whose thoughts were busy. “Ethelind, do you know why Mrs. Faunce came here?” he asked, rhs tf after a pause. “Tam not her confidante, answer. “Tt seems ve : she had not spoken. out. ‘ *T cannot make was the haughty singular,” he went o it a he pipes OE ES = oreo - 4
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WIFE OR WIDOW ? a1 Mrs. Faunce! The name is not a familiar one. And yet—” Ethelind waited to hear no more, Her first impulse had been to tell him of that first visit Mrs. Faunce had paid to his chamber while he lay ijl of the wound he had received. But she would not yield to it. Shrinking away from him, she glided, without another word, from the room “If Mrs. Faunce loves him, and wishes to keep that love a secret, I have no right to be- tray her,” she thought. Colonel Falkner passed a sleepless night, He tried in vain to banish from his thoughts that mysterious figure, and the wailing cry he had overheard. ‘Oh, Philip, pity me! My heart is breaking.” But they hapietax him like a spell. Strange, vague suspicions ran through his mind. Sad, sweet dreams were recalled, and half-for- gotten memories. He shivered ever and anon with the creeping feeling that denizens of the other world were around him. The next morning, urged by an impulse over which he had no control, he ordered the car- riage out, and drove over to Lorn. The faith- old woman-servant, Joan Withers, answered his ring. She gave a perceptible start when she saw who was standing at the door. ‘What do} you want?” she demanded, in her st and most repellent tone. “‘T have called to see your mistress—” “Mrs. Faunce does not receive visitors,” Joan interrupted, making a movement to close the “One moment, if you please. I am a neigh- bor, and if you tell her I am here, she will cer- tainly grant me an interview.” OM orders are positive to admit no one,” * bate particular reasons for wishing to see Mrs, Faunce,” said Colonel Falkner, in an eager, half. imploring voice. Jcan drew resolutely back. “it makes no difference, I cannot let you ‘*You can, at least, take my card to your mistress and leave her to decide for herself whe- wan am #4 Pe adinitied or not.” wo of no avail. Please go away.” She shut the door in his face as sbaeriokei aad Colonel Falkner, disappointed and angry, had To Fesort but to climb to his carriage and re- me. The next day he went in: and the day after, but with no different result, He was turning away from the door on the occasion of his et visit, when he encountered the house- maid, Phoebe Jelly. She silently beckoned him to follow her a few steps down the walk, out of mab from the house. ’ ‘ Ty ara ou seem very anxious to see m sir,” said the girl, abruptly. ° am. “* Perhaps ou are her lover, sir?” The col i felt his face sah Sree seemed to be enlisted in his cause. sure of an Sater anced hastil: said in a whisper: y all around, and then “Mrs. Faunce is very eccentric, sir. But whatever secrets she keeps, from us servants, I am sure she should have none froma gentleman like Shp I think I can help you, sir, “Tf you can, you will earn m undying grati- tude,” said Colonel Falkner, ipping a k- note into the girl’s hand. Phoebe glanced at it, and her face brightened ren Ss gd its ae nk you, sir. You are very generous. But I would have done just as much for you without being paid for it.” Do you see that old summer-house at the end of the walk we are +“ Yes.” “Mrs. Faunce will be there this evening, half an hour before sunset. It is one of her oddities, ‘You will find her alone. She’s taken a fancy to ke, i and goes there regularly every Asi And nodding her head intelli turned and ran up the path. L he could not take his cue from a hint so palpable, the girl thought, he was not the ard mentally set him down to gid ne mat ntly, Phoebe CHAPTER XXTIl. THE MYSTERY OF MRS. FAUNCE. THE rose and gold of sunset were in the sky, and its reflected glory in the water, when Colo- nel Falkner crossed a strip of shingly beach and turned into a shady green lane where the length- ae shadows were already taking on the faint purplish tinge of coming twilight. Now and then, as he hurried along, he caught stray glimpses of the gray walls of Lorn between the trees, and his heart beat a little quicker as he thought of the strange errand that was bring- ing him once more into the hallowed seclusion of its grounds. | Shrewd, cultured man of the world though he was, Colonel Falkner felt himself drawn on- ward we a magnetism he was powerless to re- sist. e mysterious lady of Lorn had awak- ened an interest in his mind that could not be easily forgotten. Since the night when he had found her crouching before his study-window in that attitude of utter self-abasement, she had been continually in his thoughts. ‘“Who is she? he said to bimself, in eager, passionate accents. “ Why has she come among us enveloped in such an atmosphere of mystery? I must know the truth—this pase mse and per- plexity are becoming unendurable. Oh, why is it that she so powerfully recalls the image of another—one lost to me forever—one I loved not wisely but too well?” : 4 Wiping the cold damps of perspiration off his forehead, he climbed the stile in which the lene terminated, and rapidly approached the old summer-house to which Phoebe Jelly had direct- him. The low murmur of a woman’s voice fell upon his ears as he drew near. “ She is there,” he thought, and, hurrying on breathlessly, paused in the low, arched, vine-hung entrance. Mrs. Faunce sat in the far corner of the sum- mer-house. The black, muffling vail was drawn tightly over her face, as usual, but she had thrown aside the cloak in which she so often ap- peared abroad, and the faultless Lee Foley of a figure that seemed the personification of grace and beauty were revealed. Colonel Fa/kner could not tell whether she had been prayinz aloud, or soliloquizing: for her voice died away in a low, gasping sound the instant she caught a glimpse of his figure, and, rising to her feet, she cowering there, her = 4 attitude abject and expressive of ter- ror. * te me for intruding upon your se- clusion, Mrs. Faunce,” he began, and voice shook with an emotion he could not successful ly control. ‘Your refusal to welcome me te your drawing-room drove me to this expedi- ent. A low, frightened cry was her only answer, “It was natural that I should persist in my efforts until I gained the opportunity of seeing you,” he added, advancing a step or two nearer. She waved him back with a sweep of her arm that had something tragic in its fierceness. “What do you want?” she demanded, in a hoarse, husky voice, evidently controlling her- self with an effort. _ “Tcame here hoping, at last, to be received as your friend.” “My friend!” she repeated, with a are of scorn. ‘Good God! I have no friends. You enly mock me by making such a profes sion. Her voice thrilled his very soul. Its sad, haunting sweetness rung in his ears like a strain of half-forgotten music, ‘Mrs, Faunce, I wish to be your friend, if you will let me.” “Tt cannot be.” “Why not?” “IT gave up earthly friendships long ago.” He involuntarily stretched out both his hands “Don’t a’ that,” be cried. “As long as one remains in t human help and human fellowship.” ‘Tn the case of others that may be true; not in mine.” Her head sunk on her breast and she leaned against the wooden framework for support. Colonel Falkner felt the blood curdling in his heart as he looked at her. “Who and what are you?” he said, abruptly. There was no answer. “Speak! You might as well, for I feel as- sured that you are hiding your real identity be- hind a name that is not your own.” **Then my desire to remain unknown ought | to be respected.” “Let me see your face, and I will go away content.” is world there is always need of | No, no,” she said, hastily. “I cannot. You know not what you ask.” He drew nearer, his dry lips working. ‘*This mystery must be solved,” he exclaim. ed. “ It is too distressing for endurance, You are no aot to me—I feel, I know it. When and where did our acquaintance begin? Why is it that your very presence throws me into a fit of nervous agitation over which 1 have little control#. Why does the sound of your voice cause my pulses to bound ‘so violently? Wh aml drawn hither, almost against my will? What, in short, is the secret of the strange mag- netism you seem to exert upon me?” **Ts this true?” she cried, in a breathless whis- per. ‘Do youreally feel drawn toward me so powerfully as you ae ae “Yes. Why is it? Iam sure you can explain the mystery if you will.” She seemed to hesitate, and a strange trémor shook her from head to foot, “Do I remind you of any one?” she asked, at we her voice sounding curiously hollow. es. “Of whom?” “It is too dreadful,” he said, shuddering in histurn. ‘‘The grave seems to have given up its dead. I saw the coffin-lid fastened above the remains of her you so strangely recall.” Mrs. Faunce pub up both hands quickly to her shrouded face, held them there a moment, and then suffered them to fall listlessly at her side. ‘*T am here under a false name and in a false character,” she said. ‘I do not deny it. But do not seek to learn more of me to-day. Mv se- cret, whatever it is, must be preserved a little longer. ** But you will tell me all in your own time?” ma big thn ou have my promise. Oh, if I dared, how gladly would I reveal everything before we part!” Something in her smothered, agitated voice, and the wild way in which she sn. a and wrung her hands, caused Colonel ‘Falkner to draw nearer, and ask, almost in a whisper: ‘Whom do you fear?” Yourself’ He started back with a er i cry. ** You fear me? Oh, Mrs. Faunce, is fear the only sentiment I have succeeded in awakening in your bosom? Why do you fear me?” Ask meno more. In age fe name, let me y, an go,” she said, imploring] made her way ckly toward the door. % “One word, Mrs. Faunce,” He put his hand out to her, but she shrunk trembling away from him, and was one before he could say anything more. He followed her = of the ere ee but her arments were already pearing round Ny bend ia the path. . “Good God! What is the meaning of this mystery? Why am I so wrought upon?” cried the eal pes man, sinking down upon a wood- en ch, while the grayness of death over spread his face. A moment later the soft rustle of a woman's dress struck upon his ears. He tried to rally a — ape Rg ° that owe Maco over m, bu ea dreamy and confused, and a blur had come before tie vee: ‘* Oh, Colonel Falkner! What is the matter? Are you seriously ill?” It was Ethelind’s voice, full of anx: and grief. She laid her cold hand on his, but he pushed it off with a shiver of repulsion. sy thought it was Mrs, Faunce—that she had returned,” he muttered, The girl started and d for breath, as if some one had struck her a deadly blow. But she said no word in of ‘*T cannot understand wh he should have | followed me here,” Colonel Falkner exclaimed, iu an angry voice, ‘Surely you bave not de- ‘rended to the mean part of playing the spy upon my movements?” “These grounds are as free to me as to your- self—or should be,” she answered, her pallid features seeming to harden into stone. “Tell me why you came. I will know.” “ Be assured that you had nothing to do with bringing me here.” ' ‘Then you did not follow me?” She lifted her head haughtily. **-You are at liberty to cherish your own con- vintions. The more degrading they are to me ths more tenaciously you will cling to them, of course.” She was fone prea, away when her lance once more fell upon his face. Its chast~ ess cal a sudden revulsion in her fee}i _ sprung to his side, exclaiming in an agitated one: ; 1 ans it Spee semi pny fram ened he sg a tt saanaene aaa Ae Oe Le ene eee oo 2, ee) U az _" en *) eee a 2 RR NE . tie he F “ - Se” ee gen iy forte $ ak Pe Te al ys it ae a ~ a .* “Obs get 7 , ~ be Ws A. ou s 4 A i, at ; Yaa he : ue bMS hex’ a a F dae al ms ay re > . “ts pitas § j . e+, a é aah a ee . 7 a od en - 7 me wre =" a 4 oe “ 5 fi N . re , ot See - a , = 1 SAW Be. ee * “ ‘ee a. | Pe ee ites ra oe es oe 7 “4 adh a . : y Steal i ale =
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eR Staple Foy SRC Uy SPT mY = had De tame. -* 22 Pet E EEE SORE . + 5 . NS WIFE OR WIDOW ? ee rte SO Fe es Tr Rs ee ke EN AE = = ey r= **-You are ill! You look like death! Oh, sir, what can I do for you?” ** Nothing,” he answered, in a softened tone, ‘*Tt is merely a sudden faintness that will soon be gone, Sit down and watch with me until I am better.” She seated herself, submissively as a child, on the bench beside him. It would have been diffi- cult to tell which face was the whitest at that wioment, “You are aware, of course, that I have just held an interview with Mrs. Faunce?’ Colonel Falkner said, after a long silence, “That lady has awakened a deep and roman- tic interest in my breast.” thelind looked round at him, wondering why Pie ae ee hor dinguset” she ‘Have you pene er i asked, in a low voice, “Not fully.” I And yetshe must be very well known to ou. we Trae. When I try to look backward into the past, however, and fix upon her identity, “ny, brain becomes confused in a moment,”. ‘ That is strange.” He shivered, and hid his face in his hands. “Mrs. Faunce loves you,” Ethelind added, in a strangely hollow voice. ‘“‘ Sometimes I am tem) to believe it was the passion you have and that alone, that brought her to Jorn.” No reply. A sickening fear ran through the girl’s heart, a ad ee emg sudden weneneens 3 : possible that you are learning ove bar in return—that you have suffered your af- fixctions to pak preening spon a Awe so en- Bn cor ™m and suspicion?’ - Rows scarcely rots at the sentiments of my i eart. wn, * Tell me the truth.” * I certainly feel drawn toward her as toward ao other human being. But the secret of this magnetism is as deeply hidden from me as from yourself; and of its possible results I dare not a. Ethelind turned away, hiding her face, Some blows are too deep for moan or tear. She felt like one who has received the sentence of doom. Though all her own mad, idolatrous _ lpve had failed to awaken a responsive echo in his breast, this unknown woman had appeared on the scéme, and in an hour, as it were, drawn him into her toils! It seemed too bitter. After a long silence, she tottered to her feet. “You are better now,” she said, in a strange, husky voice. ‘I want to go away from here.” “We will go together—we will return home,” he arswered, rising also, and his tone sounded as s0ostrained as her own. The sun had been a long time down, and night’s shadows were brooding over sea and shore, when at length they wearily climbed the steps leading up to Colonel Falkner’s door, _. Falkner met them in the hall. She looked anxious and troubled. “How late you are!” she exclaimed. ‘I would have sent for you, only I did not know in what direction you had gone. Mr, Challoner is here,” Even as she spoke, the drawing-room door pony and Raymond mpl) . He was Palcal Uatoeele pithiak Goat onive vinchned uneral garments, perhaps, gave - some face a ghastly expression quite unusual there. low to Colenel Falkner, the young min held out both hands to Ethelind. She did not take them; but, shrinking away from him witha glance of fear and horror, glided swiftly down the hall, CHAPTER XXIV, RAYMOND’S REVELATION. “T wIsH to speak with you alone, if you are at leisure,” Raymond said, the lines siene his mouth hardening a little, as he turned once pm to Colonel Falkner, after Ethelind had 5 Cortainiy, Step this way, if you please.” Conducting his guest to his own private study, where they would be safe from intrusion, Colo- nel Falkner placed a chair for him, and threw himself ce § low couch near the name Wha: our pleasure with . Chal- loner?” he sai pod og a A slight flush kindled in the young man’s “T think you can readily divine the sub: upon which “f wish to Coneult with sg «¢T am not sure that I do.” “Tt is about m ulsively answe ious delays. young lover.’ “The circumstances are peculiar—” “Of course you refer Ethelind’s failin health,” came the r interruption. “ But _ could take her away | ceremony was rformed. With an entire change of scene, I am sure she would quickly ? ti is strange that you should wish to marry so soon after your grandfather’s dreadful death.” Raymond gave a sort of gasp, as if he were choking. But he soon recovered himself. ‘The arrangements were made prior to that fatal event,” he said, in alow tone, ‘‘ My poor grandfather would not have wished us to delay on account of it.” Colonel Falkner shook his head. “Tt would certainly show a lack of respect for his memory.” “*T do not think so.” ‘** You have Ethelind’s position to consider as well as yourown. Her —- brother is in pris- on, remember, awaiting trial for the murder of your aged relative.” Raymond looked uneasy, “In the opinion of most persons, this fact would be a sufficient reason why the marriage should be broken off altogether.” ‘*But not in mine,” was the vehement answer. “ Ethelind has nothing to do with the question of her brother’s guilt or innocence. I love her too well to give her up.” “Of course you must be guided by your own convictions of what is best,” said Colonel Falk- ner, stiffly. ‘‘ For my part, I would like to see the engagement annulled.” A sneer curled the young man’s lip. ‘“‘T can readily believe it,” he retorted. “ My suspicions were awakened some time since, You would be glad, no doubt, to keep your beautiful ward for yourself.” Colonel Falkner’s face flushed, but it was with pain rather than with anger, “Hush,” he said, sternly. ‘‘Inever gave you any occasion for making such a remark.” ‘You cannot be wholly indifferent to Ethe lind’s loveliness and her devotion ta yourself. That would be unnatural.” ‘*T tell you truly that if Ethelind were the only woman on the face of the earth, I should still feel as little inclination as I now do, to ap- propriate her to myself. Let that assurence ce, The subject is a painful one to me; and must never again be broached between us.’ His deep, steady tone carried conviction to Raymond’s mind, All the jealous fears be had been cherishing were dispelled in an instant. ‘Forgive me,” he said, earnestly, ‘‘I know I can place gun confidence in your word. Now if you wi a word in my favor, the next time you see Ethelind, I shall have nothing to desire.” There was a listener to this conversation, of whose Posimis neither speaker dreamed— Ethelind herself. When she fled down the hall, to avoid Raymond, she had dropped, pale and faint, into a chair occupying a little niche just beyond the study door. he two gentlemen, as they passed in, had closed the door, but ne- glected to latch it. Every word reached her **T am tired of these vexa- ears distinctly. At first she was really too sick and giddy to stir. Hearing ber own name mentioned at length, she sat up, her heart beating as if it would suffocate her. Not until the interview seemed to be nearing its conclusion, did she find strength to rise and grope her way up-stairs to her own room, Oh, the long my of that night! Ethelind never once clo her eyes. She felt like one bereft of every hope. Did Colonel Falkner care so little for her as his words implied? Ah! she he aii the dregs of the humiliating cup at last Of course morning found her without strength or courage sufficient to emerge from her retire- ment. ond waited about until nearly noon, watching for her; and then, feeling the need of exercise, left the house for a walk. ost unwittingly his footsteps were turned rm. in the direction of The mystery which | the old house harbored was one he longed to un: ravel. He could not readily forget the cireum: stances attending the only visit he had ever paid to the place, and its eccentric mistress had awakened more than an o: interest in his mind. ‘*Ethelind chooses to remain invisible, and I might as well solace myself with a visit to Mrs, Faunce,” he muttered. ‘‘ But for the startling marriage,” Raymond im- | They are very trying to an ardent om here, as soon as the | events that have recently occurred, I should have made it my object, ere this, to learn some- thing more of that strange woman.” Pheebe Jelly answe his ring. Doffing his hat, he asked in his most insinuating tones for Won out her,” said Phosbe, grim! ou can’t see her, 08) ° ‘But Iam her friend.” ™ J **Can’t help that, sir. ready. Go away.” Raymond stared at the girl, wondering if she was in her proper senses, : “What do you mean by saying that Mrs. Faunce has a lover?” he exclaimed. ** Just what the words imply, sir,” Phoebe an- swered, pipe “* And he’s a deal handsomer than you; and I hope he’ll win her from the error of her M6 fe: poor dear lady. ThetT do,” “Who is this lover to whom you refer?” **T won’t tell you.” Raymond bit his lip. “Why, then, did you speak of him at all, if you are unwilling to tell me all about him?” ples sow Wai ou hag pp hae for warn- g you ime, instead of looking so about it. I didn’t want an broken henite on my lady’s account. Now that’s all you'll get from me. Be off with you, about your busi- ness, Phcebe slammed the door in his face, and he had no resource but toturn away. Aftera mo- ment’s thinking, he walked deliberately round the bouse toward the windows of the room he entered on a former occasion, They were com, and the curtains tightly drawn. Nota sign of life was any where visible. ‘yymond turned reluctantly to leave the ounds. Looking back as he moved slowly own the path, he caughta momentary glim of a black muffled figure standing at one of the upper windows like the shadow of an impend- ing doom, Shuddering, he scarcely knew why, he accelerated his pace, and not until house and figure were both shut from his view by the intervening trees did he draw a free breath again. SWhen the lamps were lighted in the evening, Raymond repaired to the AG Weegee an sat there alone. For hours he had n brood- ing over a new plan of procedure in his wooing, and now he resolved to put it into execution. The day had passed, and Ethelind had avoided him as she always did. His patience was ex- bausted. Rising at length, and opening the door, he a to one of the housemaids: ‘*Go to Miss Erle’s room,” he said, “and tell her that I solicit the honor of an interview. I have a revelation to make—one that she ought to hear.” . He stood pale and trembling in the center of the apartment, awaiting the result of his mes- sage. After a few moments the door softlyun- closed and_Ethelind entered—he had scarcely expected she would come—and crossed the floor. An involuntary cry broke from his lips. She looked wretched and forlorn—fully ten ie older than when he had seen her, for one rief moment, the night before, “ ‘Ob, Ethelind, I am sorry to see you looking 80 i She came close up to him. “You sent for me,” she said, in a cold, calm voice, ‘ What do you want?” He took her hand, and would have conducted her to a seat, but she repulsed him. “Do not touch me, you have any thing te say, let me hear it at once.” *T want you toename our haba es ie 1 “Ts that why you sent for me?” she asked, her fine up curling. “That is one of my reasons,” She shuddered and looked away. After a moment’s silence, Raymond compelled her to meet his gaze again. | “The message I sent you had its meaning,” he added, ina whisper. ‘I said Ihad a revela- | tion to make, and it is true. When you have heard it, I think you will feel less reluctant to give yourself to me.” Her eyes fell—a faint color kindled in her cheeks, ‘* Well?” she said. Do you know what has estran Colonel Falkner and his mother? Do you know why they have shunned your presence these past few heb and treated you so coldly?” ’ She’s got a lover al- o not,’ ** Shall I tell you?” She could only bow her head. The ness of their vior had long been csobieet of troubled conjecture. Did Raymond indeed Possess a key to the er: ‘ epg it is best that you should know the truth,” said Raymond, at length, in a rough and
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ee Oe WIFE OR WIDOW ? 23 altered voice. ‘* Both Mrs. Falkner and your guardian believe it was you who made that murderous assault upon the life of the latter!” Ethelind’s es slowly dilated, and she looked at him in half-scared amazement. Not at once could her mind drink in the full horror of the revelation. ** What do you say?” she enunciated, slowly. **J—I—do not think I quite catch your mean- ing.” And she passed both hands quickly over her forehead, He repeated the cruel words. ‘‘ Let me tell you the whole truth, Ethelind,” he added. ‘They think it was my life you sought, not Colonel Falkner’s, We coe changed rooms that fatal night, you remember. You could not have been aware of the change at the time. In a mo- ment of insanity, it is thought, you sought to free yourself m my ms by a fearful crime,” Ethelind stood like a marble e, “IT do not share Colonel Falkner’s suspicion,” Saymond went on, ‘‘ You are incapable of such an act of madness, and I could take you to my heart just as readily as though the breath of suspicion had never sullied you. She seemed to rouse at length from the spell that was onher. ‘‘Oh, my God! my God!” she pps > sharply. “ is the bitterest blow ° poarcely knowing what she did, she rushed down the hall to the door of the study. Colonel Falkner sat there, at his desk, writing. She tottered forward, threw herself at his feet, and broke out into a frenzy of the wildest ra “Speak to me,” she cried at length, when she wn calmer—though it was the calmness rdespair. ‘* Tell me you never believed me ty of that dark night’s work! How zould you? It would be wicked. Oh, you ne- ver, never for one moment, believed me capable of such a heinous crime! y don’t you tell me so?” In spite of her incoherency Colonel Falkner gathered the meaning of her wild words at Once, With a look of compassion on his face, he tried to raise her. “Hush,” he said, soothingly. ‘Pray calm yourself.’ You could not have been in your Pi th that dreadful night, Let us try to Do you believe me guilty?” she asked, the told perspiration starting on her forehead, He shuddered, and looked we & That gesture was enough. Ethelind started to her feet, with a bitter cry, and went back to the drawing-room where she had left Raymond Challoner, He was there still walking up and down the floor, She staggered up to him, and held out her hand, ““Tt is all over,” she said, huskily, ‘I am of u ready for an, . There is my hand, if you still wish to anything so tainted ~ ae pengny it, ran covered it with kisses. arling! do you really gi me atlas a “ y y give yourself to ‘T wan away from here, I must ort shall die. Whatever ia done, must be dae “So much the better,” he said, voice. ‘* This is Tuesday. We a bee d Thursday evening, if you wish.” “IT want to go away,” she faint] $ and the words Socated } e the Snell of hope CHAPTER XXV. THE SECOND BRIDAL EVE. THe two intervening days passed quickly. Ethelind moved about pale and passive a's saint awaiting martyrdom. She seemed utter- ly indifferent to her fate. F The wedding was to be strictly private, No invitations to friends or relatives were extended —all would have seemed out of place un- der the circumstances. Not even Dolores had been summoned. ? The poor bride’s face was whiter than her dress when at length Phillis knocked at her door to say that all was ready. The tender-hearted iA corm burst out crying the instant she looked er. ‘Oh, my p’or chile!” she sobbed. “It’s jess like a-buryin’ you! I know your heart ain’t in Gecieae ete’ bes arnt, See > . Bress it be es rd, t too late servant, and er stood *“T ho ou will pe happy, my dear,” she said, premix a cold kiss on the bride's forehead. ‘* My prayers will follow you on your journey. When you return we shall be better friends, I am sure, than we have been of late.” Mrs. Falkner had never spoken so kindly since that fatal night. Ethelind’s lip quivered. with emotion. “Try to think of me as kindly as you can; that is all I ask,” she whispered, in response. A few eg Das We ae a flood of ht, at the upper end o C2) wing-room, net the solemn words of the marriage-service were ringingin her ears. She h them as one hears a faint, far-off roar—v. ly. They carried no meaning to her stunned mind. She knew not what responses she made, or whether, indeed, she made any. Raymond’s kiss roused her from this enna “God bless ou,” he wh as his lips touched hers. ‘ You are now all my own—my wife. She was seized with a fit of shivering. Ts it all over?” she said, in a faint voice. “CanI go back tomy room? I—I—am not well.” Her face was ashy pale, and he saw her for breath. Calling hastily to Mrs. Falkner, Raymond placed his bride in the charge of that (This scone has been too much for Ethelind,” he said. ‘ Will you be enough to take her up-stairs? She ought to lie down. ** Poor child!” There was real compassion in Mrs, Falkner’s tones, as she passed her arm round Ethelind’s trembling figure. She could afford to pity the le bride who was going from her in such un- appiness. Vrelding to the moment’s impulse, Ethelind turned, at the door, to look back. She knew that Colonel Falkner had been in the room, a wit- ness to the ceremony, but not once had she trust- ed herself to glance in hisdirection. She had not spoken to him since that bitter scene in the study. Now her eyes glued themselves to his face, Oh, the long agony of that gaze! It seemed as if her heart would break, and instinctively she d her hand over it. The anguish that illed her soul could not have been deeper if she was taking leave of his dead body. as he not dead to her? : r ‘‘ Take me away,” she said, faintly gasping. ‘**T can bear no more.” With some show of kindness, Mrs, Falkner got the poor girl up-stairs to her own chamber and removed her vail, gloves, and the bridal finery that only made her pale cheeks look so much the more ghastly in contrast. Then she persuaded her to lie down on the bed and brought @ composing draught. “The train which you are to take is due at twelve-thirty,” she said, ‘* You.will have jp good hours in which to recuperate. Try to eep. Two hours!” Ethelind neponted, raising her a a “* Can I have t all to myself, Mrs. ner?” ‘* Certainly—unless you prefer that I should sit with you.” * No, no. I wish to be alone—all alone!” Mrs. Falkner looked uneasy. The sight of that pinched, blue, miserable face awakened a remorseful pity in her breast. Now that it was too late, she regretted not having interposed to prevent the marriage. She might, at least, have done that. aa Very Well,” she said, trying to calm herself. ‘N y shall disturb you until the carriage | RS hidhape you to the train,” ou.” Mrs. Falkner was movin reluctantly toward | the door when Ethelind spoke to her again. One word, dear madam,” she said, firmly. though her yee lips trembled. “I know of | what you and—and—my guardian suspect me. pars ae ie ty. cay not go away with- ou oO i ; ; Oh, Bthelin Pi my innocence, * We will not talk about it now,” tu head away impatiently. “I am oben boat fn it would be of no use, perhaps, for I know that circumstantial evidence isstrong ge me. Please go away.” @ appeal was not one to be disregard Mrs. Falkner left the room, though with a heat tating step. She would ha, been glad of a more thorough | understanding. Had she really been laboring under a delusion all these wretched weeks? Ah. | if so, how fearfully her vile suspicions had wronged the innocent! She could not bear to think of it. Ethelind had net been left alone above ten clas t minutes when she suddenly rose from thé couch, a changed being. Her heavy eyes lighted up and burned with a fierce brightness above the pallid cheeks. Her bosom rose and fell with the violence of newly-awakened emotions. She be- came strong, resolute, determined all at once. It was the thought of her future life—a future spent with Raymond Challoner—that had roused her so suddenly. A great horror came over her—she felt that she could not meet the ordeal. The thought of flight came to her like an inspiration. It was the only way of saving herself from a living death. Always rash, willful and impetuous, she re- solved to put the plan of in that had oc- curred to her illy-regulated mind into immediate execution. She did not pause to consider the practicabil- ity of flight. There was no time for that. She felt that she must get away somewhere, or- die, and that was enough. Quickly arraying herself in a dark traveling- dress, she packed a few articles of clothing and her jewelry in a hand-bag, and tied a thick vail over her bonnet. Thus equipped, she stepped to the door, and stood there a moment to see if anybedy was moving in the corridor, and as all was still, glided swiftly toward aback stair- way which she descended, letting herself «ut at @ side door. Here she paused lon enough to glance ner- vously all “ae eee nding herself still un- detected, flitted like a shadow down the nearest path. It had been arran that the bridal couple should proceed directly to New York, and from thence continue their journey to Saratoga, Ni- Falls, and other places of resort. The carriage, which was tofconvey them te the village station, was at the door, and Mrs, Falkner had gone up-stairs to-help Ethelind put on her wraps, before the flight of the bride was discovered. Even then, finding no one in the room, Mrs. Falkner merely came to the conclusion that Ethelind had stepped into one of the adjoining chambers to gather up some of her possessions. There was no time to lose, however, so she rung the bell and dispatched the housemaid, who an- swered the summons, to look for her young lady. ‘*Tell her to make haste,” said Mrs. Falkner, nervously. ‘It is very late; she will hardly catch the train in any event.” The maid hurried from room to room, return- ing after the lapse of ten or fifteen minutes, to re that Ethelind was not in the house. y this time Mrs. Falkner had become thor- oughly alarmed. Hurrying down to the draw- ing-room where Colonel er and Raymond stood conversing in subdued tones, she broke in upon them abruptly. “That mad girl has run away, I do believe!” she exclaimed. ‘She cannot be found!” There was a pause of consternation; then Raymond stepped up to her and said, just audi- bly: f You cannot mean Ethelind?’ ‘* Who else should I mean?” She ——, * Yes, o hours ago I left ber lying on her bed, and now sbe is missing.” Raymond turned v pa's; but he wheeled round and went out without replying. Calling to one of the maids, he went over the whole house himself, and afterward caused the garden to be searched. But all in vain. The carri still waited at the door. Look- ing fierce and sullen, Raymond went out to it, at length, and drove to the village statio.. There was no longer any doubt in his mind but that his bride of an hour had fled. “She may have taken the very train in which we were to have gone ther,” he muttered, doggedly. “If so, I shall telegraph for. her to be detained at one of the way-stations.” No clew could be discovered, how er, by which to trace Ethelind’s flight. The cwelve- thirty train had been gone some minutes when he’ reached the station, but the night-agent as- sured him that no lady unattended had taken tickets that evening. e lady erage ei were but three in number, in fact, and the agent knew all of them personally or by sight, and Miss Erle was certainly not of the number, he said, or he would have noticed her. And so Raymond re-en the carriage again, and returned to Glenoaks in a frame of mind that can more readily be imagined than ae
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CHAPTER XXVI. THE AGONY OF SUSPENSE. PAPE E, though the days were slippbe | and Mr. Ferret was ushe by with d ul rapidity, they brought no fresh hopes of deliverance to the poor prisoner, Vincent Erle. Detective Ferret had done what he could. | The case seemed a icularly difficult one, however, and he made little progress. But his own belief in the young man’s innocence ee, me? from day to day, and that was something, for it inspired him with courage for renewed effort. The anxiety and suspense of this trying time told most severely on the unfortunate young wife, Dolores. Her health and spirits visibly de- clined. Morning after morning, as she wended her way to the prison, her step became more languid, her cheek thinner and paler. She aera crushed by the load of sorrow she had to bear. Even Aunt Jerry remarked the change, and her heart melted with pity and tenderness, “Poor soul! poor motherless girl!” was her muttered comment. ‘She is passing through deep waters. For her sake, I wish 1 had held my peace, leaving vengeance with God. How she must love that young reprobuts to cling to him so na sn A e The spinster’s heart gave a leap, while sigh after sigh hewved her bosom. The remembrance of her own dead love was omgeare working a revit | influence upon her nature. It was making her more considerate for the woes of others. One morning when Dolores was leaving the house on her y visit to the prison, Aunt Jer- ry intercepted her at the door and drew her into one of the small anterooms. “TI don’t like to see you looking so broken- hearted, child,” shesaid. ‘‘ It makes me feel re- morseful, as though | were, somehow, the cause of your misery.” “You must not look at it in that light,” Do- lores answered, with a Fe sob, “How can { oy 2K incent Erle might have gone scot-free not I denounced him,” “Never mind, You did what you believed to be your duty.” Aunt Jerry looked earnestly into the girl’s agitated face, ** Do you cherish no resentment, child?’ “None. Why should I?” ** Oh, dear! oh, dear! I wish my tongue had been apa out by the roots before it uttered a single word against your husband! I do, in- Dolores gave a sort of gasp, and fell to crying piercaly. sure, quite sure, that my poor — er ke ae dreadful words you ve attributed to him?” she said in a whisper. “Oh, Lord! I wish I wasn’t.” “Is i¢ not ble that you, in your excite- ment, mistook some other name for his?” Aunt Jerry sullenly shook her head. “*T heard it too ctly; and my ears never play tricks with me.” ‘*T do not understand it,” said Dolores, break- ing into a subdued wail. ‘‘Grandpapa must have been deceived, then, must he not? I will believe any thing but that Vincent is guilty.” “Dear bil Dll swear to a Boy and tell judge and jury that the r murdered man didn’t say what he did, if you'll only smile again!” cried Aunt Jerry, utterly overcome, ‘*No, no,” said Dolores, gently. ‘It is over and done with, You could not have helped tak- at oe" course you did.” n reaching the prison, that day, Dolores found her husband sitting, pale and languid, on the side of the cot. For her sake he had borne his hard lot uncomplainingly up to this moment. Even now his haggard face lighted up with a smile at her coming, but the anxious wife could not be deceived. “Vincent, dear,” she said, ‘‘you have been y borrowing trouble.” . “‘P'lldosonomore. I will look on the bright side to the latest moment.” “Ig thero a bright side?” peratenst, in the | o me it seems thrilling accents of despair. all black and terrible. ; The poor fellow drew a deep breath, as if struggling with some strong emotion. . ‘For shame, Dolores,” he said, with a pitiful attempt at playfulness, ‘To whom can I look for encouragement, if you turn croaker?” ‘* Forgive me.” f “Tve had a fit of despondency this morning— I don’t deny it,” he added, taking her two hands and bis her toward him. “ But now that you are with me again, I shall banish it. We will be brave, my darling.” | WIDOW? WIFE OR "Yes, very brave,” she answered, steadily; but the dew was in her eyes. Just at this moment a key grated in the lock, ; into thecell, The detective seemed disconcerted at finding Dolores there, but he bowed to her profoundly before ing to greet the prisoner. The expression of the man’s face on entering had not been lost on Dolores. After an awk- ward pause she said, in the lowest audible tone: “TI think you have some business with my husband, sir. Do not let my presence be a re- straint upon you.” ** My business can wait, madam.” “Tt is not necessary that it should,” she an- swered, quickly. Then she lifted a beseeching glance to Vincent’s face, and added: ‘Tell him to speak freely, my love, that you have no secrets from your wife. If he brings good news, I shall be rejoiced to hear it. If it is bad, I wish to help you bear it.” Vincent turned a shade paler, “My wife has a right to know the worst,” he said, addressing the detective, ‘‘Keep nothing back.” “Very well,” said Mr, Ferret, bowing. “ Af- ter all there is little or nothing to communicate. I came merely to ask for my dismissal from your employ. ‘*On what ground?” “IT can do nothing. The case is beyond my scope. You but waste money by retaining me and it is but just to tell you so.” A shudder passed through the prisoner, but he said, quietly: “You have done what you could te clear up the iat that surrounds my case?” es. *« What is your opinion of my chances?” “Shall I tell you?” said the detective, and he looked askance and troubled at Dolores. eh pope he will.” ‘Well, it is a n case. Just look at the leading facts for amoment. The deceased was your avowed enemy; he violently opposed ong paying your addresses to his granddaughte: en came the secret marriage; old Mr. Chal- loner discovered it, was very angry, and threat- ened to cut off his grandchild with a shilling; the lawyer was summoned, everything made ready for a new will to be drawn up. It is known that you were at Dingle Dell the night of the murder, and that Mr: Challoner’s sudden determination to disinherit your wife was made known to you. Last of all comes Mrs. Jerry Martin’s ing evidence—the last words of the dying man. But I need not dwell upon all this tt is too painful.” There was silence. Dolores had seated herself and turned away her face. Now she looked up quickly, choking back the sob that had risen in her throat. “ You have forgotten the strange woman Aunt Jerry met on the landing,” she said, in a faint voice, : “No, I have not forgotten her. If that wo- man was Madam Zoe, as I strongly suspect, her testimony might be of the firstimportance, But she cannot be found.” 2 ‘‘Let the search be thorough,” said Dolores, clasping her hands, ‘Oh, leave no stone un- turned.” “‘T have done what I could. The whole coun- try round has been scoured, and descriptions of adam Zoe’s person sent to New York, Phila- delphia and timore. But it is of no use. ed a clew to her hiding-place can be discov- ered, Vincent looked uneasy. : ‘Unless the woman can be found, mine isa | lost cause—is that what you mean?” he said, ‘It is, And I fear that she has left the coun- try.” Palbres laid her hand timidly on his arm. “Don’t give up the search,” she said, implor- ingly. ‘Don’t permit ty ine to discourage ou. Think, think, what there is at stake—an immortal life! What do we care for the ex- pense incurred? Let us go out from here beg- | , if need be. Oh, promise me, do promise, that you will work to the last!” c The detective drew hastily away, brushing his hand over his eyes. ‘‘There, there,” he uttered. other word, madam. I will work; iri may come of it yet. Iwas a fool to think o giving up the search because of a few discour- agements. Henceforth it shall be prosecuted with new vigor.” ‘God bless you.” Misfortunes never come singly. It was this same day, while the cloud of despondency was still upon them, that Vincent and Dolores re- cei their first’ intimation of the marriage “Don’t say an- | ries in the Jand shan’t drag you into * See and the subsequent flight of tie ride. ‘*Poor Ethelind,” said Vincent, Dolores burst into tears, “She never loved Raymond—why was she driven at last into a ma she abhorred?” “It does seem very singular that she should have wedded him and then fled from him as soon as the ceremony was performed.” ‘*Poor wayward child. J am sosorry forher. Raymond was never worthy of her. I hope—I do hope—that he will never find her.” “Dolores!” uttered Vincent, sSpeoyitig . ‘‘T do,” she repeated, still sobbing. “He is cold, cruel, selfish. I can feel no love or respect for him though he is my cousin, . He will crush her heart just to show his power over her.” She was silent a moment or two, and then drew closer to her husband’s side. _“*Raymond has never once been to see you since trouble began—had you thought of that?’ she whispered. “ He believes me guilty, no doubt; and in that case of course he would not come.” “* But he does not even come to Dingle Dell!’ ‘*T am surprised to hear that.” “ He has not passed a mil a there since per. grandpapa was buried, I believe he has. ken a sudden antipathy to the place.” “How strange!” exclaimed Vincent, in a musing tone. And then the conversation was: caneped, After that the days seemed to glide by more rapidly than ever, for each one was bringing nearer the time appointed for the trial. Dolores tried to be brave, but her soul sickened with de- spair, for no new evidence came to light as time wore on. Detective Ferret, though indefatiga- ble in his efforts, could accomplish little, coping single-handed as he was with the startling array of facts he had to confront. The prisoner himself did not even attempt to shut his eyes to the hopelessness, of his cause. But trouble had strengthened and disciplined his nature; instead of murmuring, he endea- vored to put self and selfish interests out of his thoughts altogether, and set himself to the task of cheering and price ee poor Dolores, The day previous to that appointed for the trial the wretched wife remained later than usual in her husband’s cell. She had been ver) calm throughout the Jong interview, but it was the calmness of despair. When she arose to go, Vincent took her into his arms to say gene Me “ Ask God to sustain you, darling,” whis- pered. ‘‘ He is your on ‘*T will,” she answered. ¢ “To-morrow will be a dreadful day ..++ us. both. I think you realize this?” wis oti “Yes,” she said, faintly ing. | toh | ‘Try to prepare yourse: t for the wl'mak- is impossible to tell beforehand ho “" it is al- ii’ this sort will terminate. You will.” aavel: her } She did not reply, but fixing on ...0 a look as if her heart were broken, hurried from the cell, An hour later she stumbled up the steps at Dingle Dell asif stricken with sudden blindness. Aunt Jerry was on the watch and let her in. The instant the door opened, «lores fell for- ward senseless into the _ ‘woman’s arms. CHAPTER XXVIL THE VERDICT, Aut that night Dolores lay on the couch in her chamber, still and silent as if life itself had qe out with the last faint ebbing of hope. unt Jerry hovered round the bed, grim, anx- ious andimiserable, but the suffering girl had not resolutions enough to send her away; so they shared the vigil together—one that neither would soon forget, When morning dawned, Dolores roused her- self from the state of petrifaction in which she had remained so many hours. In spite of the woman’s remonstrances, she dressed herself carefully in an entire suit of black, and sat down to wait for the carriage that was to convey her to the court-room, “You are not fit to stir from the house,” said Aunt Jerry, emphatically, “and you musin’t think of going to the trial.” “My testimony may be wanted,” said the r soul. , “I don’t careifitis, All the judges and ju- © witness- box when you are too ill to stand!” “ But I wish to go—I must!” j “Now don’t be a fool. The court-room is no place foralady. Take my advice and remain at home,” ! “My husband will be there. It may strength- en him to know that I am near,” said Dolores, oe he te fae OC eee io i ee ~ — Ss 7 ~
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-~ wera tn ct ra > Ce > See Fewer oe we eee mee o Log ' Aa Te” Bod te ia . ) At He a, Ay ee : —_— ae nr A about to faint again. |. “There, there,” she said hastily, with a sudden | touch of tenderness. ‘‘ Poor child, Loppose you no 4 “ner. “= _ compel / Money as she had in t - guards and ha ~ eourt?” _ _ “Then use compulsion. ’ longer. Go,if you must. I might do the same thing, _ Were I circumstanced as you are.”’ _ She regretted the decision of Dolores, however, for well she knew what a fiery ordeal awaited her. The ‘Pity she felt for the poor girl was even greater than _ her desire to be avenged on Egbert Challoner’s mur- derer. A thought had been ‘buzzing about in her brain all through the night,and now it recurred again. “My testimony is the most damaging of any that will be offered against Vincent Erle this day,” she Said to herself, striding up and down the rooin very Tauch as a man would have done. “If I help to hang him there will be two deaths for which to an- _ swer, for Dolores would not long survive him. He ~ deserves to swing as high as Haman; but then how - ¢an I entail such suffering on that innocent child? T’'m tempted to take myself off and stop in hiding - until the trial is over.” She wheeled round and glanced at the clock on the _chimney-piece. it was half-past eight, and at nine _ &n express train — through the village. She could reach it by being expeditious, “T'll do it!” she cried aloud, with sudden energy. It’s nobody’s business but my own. When the - State attorney calls my name to-day, nobody will be there to answer to it.”’ ¥ Teagning eritaly at the mental picture her words -@alled up, Aunt Jerry hurried to her own room, and in five minutes’ time had put on her cloak and bon- et, made up a small bundle which was easily stow- ed away in the ample pocket of her skirt, taken such c e house, and had stolen forth ‘With a soft, cat-like tread. “What will they say when they find m: missing, 46 2 as well as Madam Zoe?’ she chuckled, taking the shortest route to the station and hurrying on breath- lessly. “‘There will be some staring, and more ‘Swearing, when the fact comes out.” She had turned the last corner and was within twenty yards of the station when a policeman she , Bnew y sight crossed the street, and rapidly drew near. _ *Good-morning, Miss Martin,” said the man, thrusting out his big, red hand. ‘ Fine morning for the trial” “The morning is well enough,” snapped Aunt Jerry, angry at being stopped, and that he sbould have presumed to address her in this familiar man- “Stand out of my way, fellow.” «You seem to be in a hurry, Miss Martin.” “* Well, if Iam, that’s my business and not yours.” _ “Of course,’’ said the policeman, with a depreca- smile, ‘I do not wish to be impertinent. “But you are,” retorted Aunt Jerry. “Exeuse me. I would be glad to ask a few ques- tions relating to the trial if you do not mind.” “Tf do mind, very much,” cried Aunt Jerry, who at this instant heard the shriek of the in-coming train. 4 Stane side; I can’t stay to be bothered with your Impex nryce.” will walk on together.” ant your company.” -d, for 1 want yours.” fi? stared at the man in blank astonish- You" ca eet re . turning so very pale that Aunt Jerry feared she was / | | swear a fellow-creature’s life away! WIFE OR WIDOW? A short struggle ensued, and Aunt Jerry, purple wit rage and excitement, was dragged to the stand. But she refused to be sworn until the threats of the judge brought her to reason. Afterward she gave 1er evidence cheerfully enough until the events of that fatal night were touched upon, and then she became obstinately silent. * You must answer such questio~s as the counsel address to you,”’ said thejjudge, sternly. **The hard-hearted brute!” cried the excited woman, fairly yicting with passion. ‘“ They ought to be ashamed of themselves, making me That’s queer sort of justice, itseems to me. Your laws are a humbug, and I despise them!” _ She was told that her injudicious course only in- jured the prisoner’s cause, and after a deal of trouble such evidence as she had to give was coaxed and wheedled out of her. The counsel for the defense made an able and in- enious neo the judge summed up, and about ve o'clock the jury retired. They were absent a very short time. The judge arose, amidst the dead silence of the court, and put the usual question. “How say you, gentlemen of the jury? Is Vin- cent Erle guilty of the crime laid to his charge, or not guilty %”’ The answer came in clear, distinct tones that caused more than one heart to throb with violence: “ Guilty!" A long, wailing cry rung through the room, and Dolores fell forward on the breast of her doomed husband. rE CHAPTER XXVIII. THE MIDNIGHT SUMMONS. Late one night a little more than a week subse- quent to Ethelind’s flight, Colonel Philip Falkner was sitting alone in his study, not reading and not reflecting, but in a dreamy blending of the two, when there came a sharp peal at the door-bell. John, the only servant up at that late hour, answered the summons. After a brief interval he entered the study, and bowing respectfully, said: ‘If you please, sir, there’s a woman at the door.” ‘*A woman?” echoed Colonel Falkner, in a tone of surorise. ‘For whom did she ask?” “For you, sir. I think it’s one of the servants from Lorn.” He rose quickly at the mention of that magic name, and descending the hall, approached the large entrance-door. Joan Withers stood there, clinging to the railing, her yellow, unprepossessing face con- vulsed with some deep emotion. ‘*Come,” she said, tottering forward a few steps and dropping her hand on Colonel Falkner's arm. ** She has sent fur you!” “Do you mean your mistress?” **Yes. She wishes to see you immediately. will be enough, she said, to tell you that.” Colonel Falkner felt his heart throb with bewilder- ing joy and excitement. The supreme moment had come! She had sent for him, according to her promise. In his delight he failed to remark Joan's repressed excitement; or to give a second thought to the fact that the summons had come at so un- seemly an hour, ‘Come in,” be said, “and my servant shall bring out the carriage at once.” *T cannot wait—we are losing precious time,” said Joan, huskily. ‘* We must walk.” She turned to go, as she spoke, and Colonel Falkner caught up his hat, with a chill foreboding of evil, and hurried after ber down the steps. “Tell me what has happened,” he sa.d, a little sternly. ‘Is Mrs. Faunce ill?” “She would not have sent for you otherwise. But I cannot talk. My heart is too full. Come, let us make haste quickly.” ' A low moan broke from her lips, and turning into one of the nearest paths, she walked on with an accelerated step. Colonel Falkner followed her in silence, that sick sensation of dread becoming more intensely vivid every moment. The night was hot and still. No silvery moon was treading its lightsome way through the sky, but the heavens were thickly gemmed with stars that bathed the landscape in a subdued, hol light. Faint flashes of lightning played about the horizon, ever and anon, and the sea broke with a dirge-like music on the gloomy shore. Not a word was uttered until that night-walk ended, and they were climbing the steps at Lorn. Then Joan’s compressed lips parted, a few muttered It | words falling from them. ‘* Here we are at last, thank God!" Lights were flashing here and there in the house, but instead of ringing for admittance, Joan pro- duced a key from some capacious pocket, and in another moment they were eda a large, dim- ly lighted hall from which branche several nar- rower passages. Turning into one of these latter, Joan paused before a door that stood slightly ajar. ‘Remain here a few moments,” she said, briefly, and pausing opened the door, and entered by herself the room beyond. : Colonel Falkner’s sense of hearing seemed to be preternaturally acute, or else the profound stillness of midnight it was that brought out the slightest sound. At any rate his quick ear caught a rustling movement, a suppressed cry, and then a low voice said eagerly: “Oh, Joan. tell * Yes, my lady. ae God! thank God! Where did you leave m ?"’ “Hush!” came the warning whisper. a brief silence, and then the woman, who seemed to possess considerable influence with her mistress, said in a tone of vehement remonstrance: me quickly, did he come?” There was a EEE 295 “Surely, madam, you will permit me to prepare Colonel Falkner for what he is to see before admit- ting him to your presence?” ** Prepare him?” ‘“Yes. It will be a greatshock, a terrible surprise. You know what I mean. For his sake. as well as your own, I ask your permission to offer a brief ex- planation before you meet face to face.” ‘**It cannot be. You are a meddlesome idiot, Joan. Go, this instant, and admit him.” Joan breathed a heavy sigh, but with a slow, lag- ging step she returned to the passage where Colonel Falkner waited, pale and trembling. ‘““You can enter,” she said. ‘‘ But be careful how you agitate my mistress, It is very hazardous for her to see you atallin her present condi ion; but she would not be dissuaded from her purpose,” She stood aside, and beckoned for him to go in. Strange indeed were the conflicting emotions with which he crossed the threshold, The tones of that yoice relieved of all attempt at disguise, as he: in expostulation with Joan, had half-revealed the truth to him—a truth so strange, startling and horri- ble that his shocked mind refused to grasp it. The spacious room was lighted with wax candles placed in silver sconces on marble stands and on elaborately-carved brackets that adorned the walls. If it had seemed chaste and elegant in the garish light of day, this pearly, subdued brilliancy made it infinitely more so. On a silken divan near the open window, reclined the mistress cf all this splendor. She wore a flow- ing white wrapper that contrasted strongly with the funereal garments in which she usually arrayed herself. The muffling black vail was gone, but as Colonel Falkner stole forward she uttered a stranze sound, half-sob, half-scream, and covered her face with her hands, ‘** At last! at last!” she cried. He stood beside her a moment without speaking, but he saw that she trembled like one under the spell of some deadly fear. “You sent for me, Mrs. Faunce,” he said at length, controlling himself with an effort, ‘and I am here.” “Oh, God, be merciful to me a sinner!” The words scemed to break from her lips in- voluntarily. Were they a plaint to Heaycn, or meant to win human compassion as well as divine mercy. A Siedied. sickening suspicion caused Colonel Falkner’s brain to whirl as he Lent ovr hcr and said, in the suppressed accents of deep emotion: “‘Look up! Tell me, Mrs. Faunce, what can I do to help you?” “TY dare not! I dare not!” she shivered, still keep- ing her face hidden in her hands. **Do you mean that you are afraid to meet my gaze?’ * Yes, yes.” “I thought the time had come when you felt it your pleasure to trust me fully.” *T had so resolved. Oh, wiih what depth cf long- ing have 1 lookee forward to this hour! And now that it is come my courage fails me. I can only tremble! Ican only fear! I can only hide uy face in shame! Ob, merciful God, why have you for- saken me?” She groaned, and her whole figure seemed ‘to weithe with agony. While Colonel Falkner still stood looking down at her, with strange intentness, Le saw blcod spurt suddenly from between her half- closed fingers. She turned her face to the wall. “Call Joan,\she said in a faint voice, before ho had recovered sufficiently to speak at all ‘My servant will know what to do for me.” It was unnecessary. Joan stood at that moment at his elbow, her yellow face gnastly wiih fright. “You've killed her!—l knew you would!” she fiercely exclaimed, pushing him away from the couch, and Lending apprehensively above her mis- tress. There wasa silence. While it lasted Joon seemed to be engaged in wiping away the flow of Llood; but she st with her back to Colon! Falkner, between him and the couch. At lengthshe looked round and said, briefly: ‘Send the physician here—he is waiting in the room just across the passage. Go,and do not re- turn again.” : : She spoke ina tone of authority to which he yield- ed instinctive obedience. Hurrying to the apart- ment in question, he found a man past the middle age—not Dr. Lance, but a stranger—sitting there, reading a newspaper and at the same time sipping a cup of fragrant Mocha, while a tray of refreshments stood on a small table at his elbow. Half a dozen words sufficed to acquaint this man (he was evidently a physician who had been hastily summoned from the city) with the emergency. He rose at once and age to the apartment where Mrs. Faunce was lying. Left alone. Colonel Falkner paced the floor in an anguish of mind that cannot be described. He felt that at last he had a clew to the mystery th: t had so perplexed bimself and baffled the curiosity of others. But now that he guessed somewlat of the truth, he shrunk with a sick feeling of borror from learning more: and yet, strange contradiction, all the riches of Goleonda would not have tempted him to forego the cpportunity of knowing ell. niil he did. rest and peace must remain strangers to his tortured soul. A long, endless hour wore on, and at length Joan looked in at the door. The expression: f deadly fear was gone from her countenance, but it had left a cloud behind it, and her brows were sternly con- tracted. 5 : ‘How is your patient?” Colonel Falkner asked stepping forward.
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26 “ Better,” was the brief reply. **Can I see her?” “Not to-night. She lacks strength to sustain an interview. She desired me to invite you to come again at twelve, to-morrow morning.” ; Does the physician consider her situation criti- cal?” “There is no immediate danger. She has had hemorrhage of the lungs. But I will show you out, if Nop aa sir.” e followed her reluctantly, and as the old wo- man locked the house door behind him, she mut- tered, audibly: “Would that I might never be asked to open to you again!”’ 5 CHAPTER XXIX. ‘* RESURGAM,”” PunctvaL to the moment Colonel Falkner stood on the steps at Lorn, the next morning, just as some distant clock was chiming the hour of twelve. Phoebe Jelly admitted him. The girl stood hold- ing the door half-open a moment and looked in- tently into his face. “I'm glad you've come, sir,” she whispered. “How is your mistress?” “She seems easier this morning.”*? There was a moment’s silence, and then, bending nearer, she laid her hand on his shoulder. “I’ve seen her face,” she breathed, sinking her voice still lower, and glancing furtively all round. “Such a countenance! It might belong to an angel. Oh, you don’t know how surprised and re- lieved I was!" “Surprised? Relieved?’ he echoed, not in the least Shy shinee ee the drift of her remarks. “That I was, sir. I may as well be frank with you. I had my doubts of Mrs, Faunce’s motive iu alwaye wearing that horrid black vail. There’s no harm. I am sure, in telling this now.” Colone) Falkner made an impatient gesture, but her gossiping tongue was not to be ilenced so easily. “T's natural, sir, that a pretty woman should wish to reveal her beauty for all the world to ad- mire. Mrs. Faunce is the first exception to the rule T ever knew. Such a lovely, lovely face! or blemish to mar its perfection! The sight of it fairly took my breath*away. I am more puzzled thanever. Why she should wish to screen it behind so much ugly gauze quite passes my comprehen- sion,” Colonel Falkner’s brows contracted slightly. Did he, or did he not, possess a clew to the mystery ?”” “T felt confident that my lady’s face must be | hideous with pock-marks, or scars, or malforma- tions of some sort,” Phoebe wentcn. ‘It gave me quite a start when Isaw how pure and sweet and perfect it was, like the dimpled flesh of a lovely child.” “When did you see it for the first time?’’ Colonel Falkner could not resist the impulse to ask. * This morning, sir. Since my lady’s illness, they have been less cautious than usual. I have been waiting ever since 1 came here for an pe Re to gratify my curiosity. An hour ago I followed Joan softly to the door. It was not closed perfectly, and I peeped through the crack. There sat Mrs. Faunce, looking so strangely like a saint just de- scended from heaven that I almost screamed with delight." “Phe only saintliness of her nature lies in her ex- pression, I fear,”’ muttered the colonel. Phoebe failed to catch the softly-muttered words. “*] suspect that you know no more than I of Mrs. Faunce’s real appearance,” she said, holding open the door for him to pass through. ‘* But you can go on without a misgiving. Any queen in Christendom would barter her crown for such a face.” Colonel Falkner stepped into the hall, and was crossing it, when he turned back again, as if struck by a sudden thought. “Is it true,” he said, “that Mrs. Faunce has screened her features from the scrutiny of her own household as carefully and successfully as from the outside world?” “ld Joan is the only one of our number who ever saw her unvailed before to-day. When she fell sick she sent to New York for a physician instead of employing one nearer home—one who might have goesine? of her abroad. ©h, sir, whatever the na- re of her secret, she has guarded it well.” “And yu must guard it just.as carefully,” said Colonel Falkner, in a low, stern voice. ‘The ca- prices of your mistress are not to be talked about even among your fellow-servants. I hope you un- derstand this. It would be the hight of ingratitude to betray her.” Pheebe seemed considerably impressed by his earnestness. ‘Oh, sir,” she said, shivering a little, ‘I should never dream of making trouble for her.” “Then take care that you. do not canvas her af- fairs with another as freely as you have done with me. Leaving Phoebe this caution to ponder by herself, he passed on quickly to the door of the apartment in which he had found the mistress of Lorn the night before,and knocked lightly. It was opened by Joan, who signed grimly for him to enter, and then slipped t, and disappeared. Colonel Falkner advanced with a wildly-throbbing heart. He caught a glimpse of a woman's figure that was errat 3 in a capacious invalid chair, and knew it was she he had come to meet. But some seconds elapsed before he could bring hiniself to look her fully in the face. She broke the oppressive silence herself, Stretch- ing out her trembling hand, she breathed his name ‘in a husky whisper. * Philip!” Not a spot | ee WIFE OR WIDOW? He made no answer in words, but a shudder shook his frame. * Philip,” she repeated, in accents of leading pathos, “do you not see that I am restored to you? , - My God” he groaned. ‘ What can restore the ead?’ “Look at me! I am a living, breathing reality like yourself.” “T do not wish to believe it.” “Touch my hand, It will cling to yours with a very earthly Ror tal e groaned and covered his face. “They told me you were dead, Olympia. ts last resting-place.”’ “So you believed them. Everybody was deceived save a few faithful friends whom I was compelled to trust with my secret.” He sunk down on achair, and compelled himself to look at her. But the cold dew btoke over bis marble forehead as he did so. had he been so moved, so agitated. She was attired in the simple white cambric wrap- | per she had worn on the occasion of his former visit. The simplicity of her dress seemed to add to her marvelous loveliness, however, rather than de- tract from it. The pale, clear, oval face, the deep, lustrous black eyes, the mobile mouth, the heavy | | bands of purplish hair, smooth and glossy as satin, drawn back from the broad, low_brow, were features | é : é | an old, worn, tired feeling that was singularly de- — too deeply engraved on Colonel Falkner’s heart ever to be forgotten. She had rallied from the prostration of the night before with the wonderful recuperative power often manifested by persons suffering from lung trouble. She was still weak and pale, and unable to leave her chair unassisted, but every look and movement betrayed a latent nervous strength that couid not be easily overcome. ‘Philip, why don’t you speak to me?” she cried, with low-toned eagerness, once more stretching out | | her hands to him. “Speak. Limplore you!” He only stared at her in that cold bewildered way, like a frozen man. She groaned out—her hands fell in her lap again. “T see how it is,’ she murmured. “This meeting has been a greater shock ‘than you could bear. 4) should have seen that you you were prepared for it. Joan was wiser than I when she warned me.” “You are mistaken,’ he said, in hollow accents, “ Pofore entering this room I guessed who it was I had come to meet. It seemed impossible—and yet something in my soul told me it was even you.” “ And tois is the manner in which you meet me? Ob, Philip!” “What would you?’ he demanded, fiercely. “1 believed you would at least have loving words and tender looks for me.” * Impossible!” She eaned toward him, the breath running icily cold over her lips. “Has all the love you.once professed died out of your heart?” she asked. ‘Yes, Only ashes are left.”’ ‘Oh, my God!" she wailed. ‘It would have been better if { had died when you believed I did!” “Yes,” he said, grimly. ‘Yor, in spite of the bit- ter past, your memory was still dear to me. I thought of youin the grave far more tenderly and compassionately than I can think of you living.” ‘Ig this true, Philip? And I—oh, Heaven pity me —am perishing for your love!” She covered her face and gave way to a burst of dry sobs that shook her from head to foot. “Be calm, Olympia. It is dangerous to agitate yourself like this.” “Tno longer desire to live. Why should I, since you have turned against me?” she cried, passionate- y. ‘* Why did you ever come here?” “That is an idle question. But since you seen fit to ask, I will answer it. I came because I wished to be near you.” He made an impatient gesture. “Tt was madness—folly. But since you must | come, why did you hide yourself under a false name and in a masquerading costume?” “That Ny is worse than the other,” she said bitterly. ‘‘ You know as well as I do what would have been the result had I presented myself boldly in the face of the world.” He shuddered and was silent. “My eyes have been on you when you knew it not, Philip. I wished to study your mood before declaring myself even to you. How coutd I tell whether your love had survived the awful test to which it was put?” She raised her beseeching eyes as if trying to read his very soul.. The face upon which she gazed was cold aud marble white. ‘Oh, my love! my love!” she cried, clinching her hands in anguish. ‘“* You have no pity, no compas- sion. You suffer the pasc to rise up before us like a | wall. You seem to think of me only as a guilty woman.” “Could T. in the nature of things, think of you otherwise?’ ‘* At least you might be more forgiving. I could overlook any sin, any crime you might have com- mitted. and cling to you in spite of it.” “T tried to forget your guilt when I believed that | the grave covered it. But now it rises up as Gorgon- headed as ever.” He moved slowly toward the door when he had spoken, as if anxious to end the interview. “You are not going, Philip? You will not leave me thus?” “J must. This scene is inexpressibly painful to us both. It is better, for your own sake, to end it quickly.” : Never in all his life | have | Se a “You will not betray me?’’ she panted. A cold smile of disdain curled 2 “The question was unnecessary. thought you | knew me better. You have nothing to fear from | me.” | She rose asif to follow him, then fell back again, half-fainting. ‘Are you implacable?” she cried. ‘* Will nothing | move you—not even the sight of my suffering?” | T cannot forget,’ he answered, but there was a | lurking tenderness in his tone. | “This must not be a final parting. I will not — I saw | ou lying in your coffin, and that coffin consigned to | | of bitterness to us both. And there are many things ~ have it so. 1 have more to say to you—lI have told you nothing, as yet, of the past that is such a fount | that ought to be explained. Come again to-morrow — hy | at this hour, Promise me that you will, You must— } you shall!” | ‘Very well,” he said, after a brief silence. ‘ Since so earnestly request it, I will come. But do not ope to change my fixed determination,” | »And without a word of farewell he left the room. ) CHAPTER XXX. ‘* HELP THOU MY UNBELIEF.”’ | Tar afternoon was fast waning when Colonel Falkner reached Glenoaks on his return. He climb- | ed the ngs with a weary, listless air, for the scenes’ in which he had been an actor had left him with | pressing. when a gentleman suddenly came out of the draw- | ing-room and advanced to meet him. It was Ray- mond Challoner. He started slightly when he re- ecognized his guest, for Raymond had been absent | ever since Ethelind’s flight, hunting for his runaway bride, and he was not expecting him, “Fave you found her?’ he asked, with abrupt eagerness, as they shook hands. Raymond’s brow clouded over. “No,” he answered, half sullenly. clew has been discovered.” “ What have you done?” “You might rather ask what I have left undone,” said Raymond, in a bilter tone, ‘‘ The whole country round has been scoured. That mad girl has been cunning as the devil in her flight.” Colonel Falkner shuddered at the vehemence with which these words were uttered, It betrayed a | depth of repressed passion absolutely appalling. | *]T have been to New York and Philadelphia, and — | set the police at work in both cities,” the young | map added. ‘But they have accomplished noth- ing.”’ ‘T hope you cautioned them to press their inquiries | as secretly as possible.” | “Why should I?’ “Ethelind’s nature is a sensitive one. She would been the object of such surveillance.” A derisive laugh broke from Raymon" lips. “TI do not feel bound to consider her feelings ir that respect. Has she not overwhelmedais all with a shameful notoriety by her own mad act?” | “True—true!’’ “T shall not be deterred by the necessit ing her folly more generally known 4h ready, from using every exertion tis | place of refuge—be assured of that.” 9" | “When you have found her—what then?” Colone! | Falkner inquired, a little coldly. “She is welcome to elude me a second time—if she a xe ) He showéd his dazzlingly white teeth fora moment; then turned quickly away as if not trusting himself to say more. ‘ | Colonel Falkner believed he would go away again the next morning; but Raymond seemed to have no such intention. He sat in the study with his host through all the earlier hours of the day, sayin, little; but ever and anon Colonel Falkner woudl meet those brilliant black eyes fixed upon himself in a strange, intense scrutiny. What did it mean? The colonel grew uneasy, he scarcely knew why. Rising abruptly, when the hour came for him to | set out for Lorn to keep his appointment witb Mrs. Faunce, Colonel Falkner excused himself with a few changes in his toilet, left the house. Great was his surprise, then, as he was crossing @ bit of open lawn in front of Lorn, to see Raymond suddenly emerge from the shrubbery less than half a noon rods distant and come forward bowing and smiling. \ ‘Why did you follow me?” he demanded, the inquiry being half involuntary. “Follow you?’ Raymond echoed, in accents of well-feigned amazement. ‘I did not follow you. We happen both to be of the same mind about visiting | Mrs. Faunce.” | “You must have guessed my intention.” | “No, I did not,” was the answer, but it failed to carry conviction to the mind of the listener. ‘*Some one of the servants must have told Ray- mond of my visits here,” he thought. Aloud he said in a rather haughty tone: “1 did not know that you were a friend of Mrs. Faunce’s.”” lessness. “I have been here before. And now, if respects to the fair mistress of Lorn.” Springing Mabry up with his own hand. So any notice was taken of the summons | Falkner, clinging to the railing with a cold, uneasy sensation at his heart, had almost cused es turn He had searcely crossed the threshold of the house — never recover from the shame of feeling that she had the steps, he rung the bell ‘ me minutes elapsed before — Colonel ae ee “Not even & he 4 ; oe ie cold words, and after having made some slight — “Oh, yes,” Raymond replied, with affected care- — you please. we will enter together and pay our a away and wait until he should be free to come again —
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~~, 2 ” Aine * ne en “7 ‘ Yo ing on in his mind. by himself when the door unclosed a few inches and Joan’s ugly yellow face was thrust out. *You can come in, Colonel Falkner,” * My mistress expects you.” Raymond would have followed him into the house, had not the old woman planted herself right in the doorway : ; “Not you,’ she said, sharply, waving him back. “You are not wanted here.” “This is very discourteous,” said the young man. “Why am I turned away when Golonel Falkner is admitted?’ “JT do but obey my lady’s orders,” “Let me stand in the hall while you speak to Mrs. Faunce,’’ urged Raymond. “I am certain she would grant me an interview.” _ She is too ill to be seen by any save her most in- timate friends,” Joan shut the door in his face, and bolted it. When she turned to lead the way down the hall Col- onel Falkner saw that she was trembling with ex- citement. He found Mrs, Faunce crouching in her invalid- chair. As he approached, she put out her hands and clung to him in a sort of terror. “Never, never bring that dreadful man here again,’’ she panted. “IT did not bring him, Olympia.” “Why, then, did he come?” “ He said he was your friend.” “My friend?” Her voice was husky, and she looked up at him with an awful dread in her wide- open eyes, “‘Godin Heaven! What fateful revela- tion have you made to him?” “None,”’ Colonel Falkner answered, wondering greatly at her agitation and terror. “If I felt any temptation to reveal your cherished secret—and I do not—Raymond Challoner is the last man I should choose for my confidant.” ‘**He knows me only as Mrs, Faunce?” “Such is my belief. It was idle curiosity no doubt, that brought him here to-day.” She drew a deep breath—evidently of relief. she said, “Keep him away, Philip—keep him away, if you | ever loved me. 1 cannot, will not, gee him.” “But why should poor Raymond’ inspire you with such dread?” “Tam afraid of everybody.’ she answered, still trembling. “It is but natural, after all I have suf- fered. The mere sight of a strange face is enough to throw me into convulsions.” r ‘Along silence followed, and gradually she grew more calm ‘**T feel that your heart must have softened toward me, or you would not have come again so soon,” she said, at length, her voice trembling nervously. ‘‘ Ob, Philip, nothing should have had power to divide you and me.” * Not even sin?” he said, huskily. “Do not bring up the past again, J implore you. It is too dreadful. I meant to have told you all at this interview, but my heart sickens at the ordeal. I have not the strength for such a disclosure. Spare me,” ** Yes, I will spare us both a pain that would be of no avail.” She suddenly stretched forth both her hands and clasped his tightly. * Have you lost al/ faith in me, Philip? Do you believe Iam the guilty creature my foes would make me out?” **] do not wish to believe it.” * Oh thank you, thank you.” ‘*For atime I would pot cherish the shadow of a doubt. No eager worshiper ever desired to believe in his God more earnestly than I desired to believe in you. Ob, it was a bitter moment when conviction pierced my soul.” * Appearances were against me—I own that. It is no wonder, perhaps, that your faith went down, crushed under the overwhelming mass of evidence with which you were confronted. And I, alas, could not come to you and dispel the doubts that aid me sucb bitter wrong.” There was a subdued wail in her voice that affect- ed him far more de*ply than the uttered words, The old speli with which this woman had once in- fatuated him grew strong again, in spite of reason and suspicion. : ! She seemed to divine the terrible struggle go- Leaning toward him she said, in aneager whisper: _ i “Only trust me, Philip. 1 will never deceive you / Icould not, Trust me.” J He raised her hands to his lips, then let them fall again, nevertheless., Cold beads of perspiration stood on his forehead. : “My physician says that I must die, dear love. But x 1 not. e have known very little happi- ness, youand I. God will not take me away until we have tast«d the heavenly bliss that even this life can give.” Her head fell against his shoulder. alluring eyes looked into his. There could be no doubt a that she loved bim with an intensity of assion such as only erratic natures like hers can eel. Singu‘arly enough, the pale pure face of Ethelind Erle rose, at this moment, before his mental vision. She, too, had loved him, but with that tender, true, abiding love in which one finds calm content and peace. How different the one sentiment was from the other—as different as voleanic fires from the cheery glow one kindles on the hearth-stone. Sighing deeply, he put the thought of, Ethelind away. She was Raymond's wife—he had no right to claim her even in bis secret musings. Besides, had he not scorned her love when the opportunity to foster it had been his? “Philip, pity me!” ease ’ Her brilliant, | Said. in the shrill accents of despair. The sound of that voice roused him. Clasping his arms round her, he cried: ‘I have suffered too deeply to struggle now. I will believe that all the world is false, and you alone are true. Oh, help thou my unbelief!” CHAPTER XXXI. THE APPEAL, Tne beams of the descending sun, struggling through the iron bars of the prison window, shone yellow and calm into the cell where Vincent Erle and his wife were sitting. The face of the prisoner looked haggard and worn. Several days had elapsed since the trial, and — sentence of death had been passed upon im. The fearful doom staring the poor fellow in the face had — him of courage and manhood. | Instead of cheering Dolores, as he had done at first, WIFE OR WIDOW? | handsome face that please it was she who sought to comfort and sustain him. | The men and women had changed places for the | time. “To die a shameful death on the scaffold—it is too dreadful!” Vincent groaned, shivering with misery. **T cannot think of such a fate and be calm.” Dolores tried to say something. But words of en- couragement in a case like this forced to the lips. She could only clasp his hand and cover it with her tears. ‘‘T am not a coward,” he went on, in a low, hoarse voice. “It is not death itself that I fear. But to be hung—to be ushered suddenly into the other world —to be made a spectacle fora gaping crowd—oh, how can 1 meet such a fate with fortitude?” Dolores tried to calm herself, and said: “If you perish on the scaffold it will be as a martyr—not as a culprit. Let that thought give you courage.” “Oh, dear!” groaned the unhappy man. “I feel myself most unjustly dealt with.’ are not easily | The full passion of his despair broke forth again. | When the terrible storm had spent itself, he turned once more to his wife, and gazed into her eyes with sorrowful earnestness. * Do not let them hang me, darling,” he whisper- ed. ‘Circumstances compel me to test your love as I never tested it yet. Oh, be true to me now, Dolores. When the end draws nigh, and we see there is no longer any hope of deliverance, bring me the means of escaping that public, disgraceful death I dread, and even in my grave I will bless you. The heartbroken wife could not mistake his mean ing. She leaned her head on his bosom with a groan | that came from the lowest depths of her soul. “If it comes to that we will die together,” she L ; “It is very wicked to think of such a thing, but perhaps God will forgive us. At least ! hope He will—” ; She was interrupted by.the sudden grating of a key in the lock, and the opening of the door, An instant later the warden ushered in Aunt Jerry. The woman’s face was deadly pale as she ad- vanced, and in one hand she clutched a roll of paper. She looked like a person who had nerved herself to make a sacrifice that was costing her dear. “ How good of you to come!” said Dolores, spring- ing to her feet, and trembling with surprise and pleasure. Vincent put forth his hand in greeting. Aunt Jerry did not take it, but on her face came an odd look. a blending of pity and abhorrence. “Do not approach me,’ she said, waving him back, and retreating herself toward the door. “I nerved myself to come here because Dolores’s bur- den of grief ties heavily on my own heart. For her sake I am willing to forgive offenses that, in them- selves, are unpardonable.” “IT know what you mean.”’ cried Vincent, in deep | agitation, ‘Oh, what shall I say or do to convince you of my innocence?” ‘“* Nothing.”’ Her voice was cold and hard, and she made an impatient gesture, as if forbidding him to pursue | the topic. “During the days that have elapsed since your trial, I have been working for you, though you knew | it not,’’ she went on, abruptly. ‘ Here is the result of my labors. Remember, however, that I have done all this for the sake of Dolores—not from any love for you.” She held out, at arm’s length, the roll of paper she carried, and when Vincent had taken and open- ed it he discovered, to his amazement, that it was a Sipe for pardon, signed by many friends, Aunt erry ’s own name leading all the rest. “ May Heaven bless and reward you, Aunt Jerry!” said Dolores, her eyes filling with tears as she glanced over her husband’s shoulder and learned the object of the paper. ‘1 had not thought of a petition, But itis the best step we can take.” ‘“Tt will fail,” said Vincent, gloomily. “No; I will myself bear it to the Governor. tears and prayers will certainly move him.” “T shall go with you,” said Aunt Jerry. ** Our trust is in God,” Vincent said nothing, but his heart was full. Early the next morning, Dolores and Aunt Jerry set out on their journey. The capital was only forty miles distant, and as it was situated on the same railroad line, at eleven o'clock they were standing on the steps of the Governor's handsome mansion. Tha heart of Dolores almost failed her now that the or- dea] was so near. “Oh, Aunt Jerry!" she gasped. “ what if we should fail? [ would rather die than be the one to take the My | dreadful truth back to Vincent.” ‘‘Our failure will not make your husband’s con- dition ad worse than it is now. Think of that, child, and be calm.” | Itis not in your nature. av They were ushered into a spacious parlor, and after a brief delay the Governor made his appear- ance. He was a tall, acine hwo yman, with a kind, an at once. “What is your ingly when he had shaken hands with them both, and seated himself at a little distance. Dolores could not speak. She tottered forward, laid the petition before him, and silently indicated that he was to read it. An expression of pity for-her evident agitation crossed that genial face, but he immediately com- menced the perusal of the document. She saw him start suddenly, and bite his lips, when he first com- prehended its purport, but he read on to the end without a comment. “My servant did not announce your names,” he said at length, laying down the petition. and once more confronting his guests. ‘*T am the wife of the prisoner,’’ said Dolores, a trembling in her sweet voice. “Ah! You have my heartfelt sympathy, madam." “and I,” said Aunt Jerry, speaking clearly and distinctly, ‘“am the woman who loved the murdered man better than any one else.”’ The Governor looked curiously into that homely a rugged face. He seemed touched in an unusual degree. “And yet you have come Here to plead for the as- sassin’s life,’ he uttered. ‘Yes, [have forgiven him. Do thou likewise.” A heavy sigh broke from his lips.” **] wish I could. I have carefully read and sifted the newspaper reports relating to this trial. It is an unusually aggravated case. There is not even the excuse of sudden passion; the deed appears to have been the cool, deliberate act of an assassin." Dolores felt the blood slowly congeal round her heart. She threw herself at his feet, clasping and wringing her pale little hands. ‘* Be merciful—be compassionate!’ she whispered, hoarsely. ‘Oh, think of the day when you yourself’ will be erying out for pardon! A precious hnman life can be blotted out of existence at your nod, Oh, spare my husband as you hope to be spared your- self! He is innocent.” ‘Ah, if I only believed that, it would be easy in- deed to pardon him!” “Tl, his wife, tell you he is innocent. believe me!”’ The Governor turned away his face, which was twitching convulsively. : “ Poor child !—poor, deluded child!” he murmured. “You will hear me?’ Dolores cried wildly. ‘* You cannot suffer this appea] to be made in vain? Re- member, it is a wife pleading for the life of her hus- band. You cannot send me away broken-hearted. You do pity me—you will relent—you will pardon Vincent—you will restore happiness and peace to our sorrowing lives—you will give us years of contentment in which to repay one great act of leniency—oh, say that you will do all this, and—”’ Her voice died away in a ery of bitter anguish. The Governor seemed well-nigh overcome, but he resolutely put forth his hand to lift her up. ‘* Rise”? he said, half-sternly. “If I could help you, you would not need to put in such a passionote plea. But I must not transcend the privileges of my office. no matter how deeply my sympathies as a man may be enlisted. Vincent Erle bas forfeited his life to the laws of his country. It is not for me to step between him and the rightful retribution he has brought upon his own head.” There was that in bis tone which told Dolores how useless it would be to prolong the interview. ‘The room reeled around her as she rose, tottered a few steps toward Aunt Jerry, and fell forward half- fainting in the arms of the woman, down whose cheeks unwonted tears were falling like rain. The prison was closed for the night when they re- turned from their unsuccessful mission: but the next morning Dolores, with languid. lingering steps, made her way to the cell of her husband. He was not alone. Two or three men were in the dreary place, and in one of them she re- —— the sheriff. He held an open paper in his: hand. Vineent sent one swift, startled glance into the face of his wife, and though he read his doom there, not a single grcan burst from his lips. Coming for- ward, he said hastily: “Pray retire for a few moments, my dear love. These gentlemen have business matters to transact with me, You can come in again when they are gone.” But a terrible conviction as to the nature of that ‘“‘ business ” had already struck home to Dolores’s heart, She sunk+.own, pale and faint, on the near- est chair. ‘Let me remain,” she whispered, taking her hus- band’s hand and clinging to it convulsively. ‘* know what is coming. If you can bear the ordeal, I shall not shrink from it.” yi He could not say another word. While the hus- band and wife sat with their arms locked round each other and looking into each other's eyes for comfort and encouragement, the sheriff proceeded, in clear, distinct tones, to read the warrant for Vin- cent’s execution. CHAPTER XXXII. IN TH# BACK STREET. Ir was past ten o’clock one dark, stormy night,. and Matthew Puffy and bis daughter Emily, super- numeraries in one of the New York theaters, were returning home, and had nearly reached the dilapi- dated tenement-house in which their wretched sti- pend of a few shillings per mght insured to them You must attracted Dolores. leasure?”’ he said. smiling invit- .
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ah 28 two cramped, stuffy back rooms as the best substi- tute for a home within their means, when they stumbled and almost fell across some object lying directly in the way. ‘Good Lord! Em’ly, it’s a woman!" cried Mat- thew, as he bent down to learn the nature of the ob- struction. * Oh, no, father.”’ ** Yes, itis, child. Drunk, I reckon. Poor critter! I see lets of sich cases. They takes to drink nat’ral like, when they once get into trouble, It’s their only solace.” ** What shall we do with her, father?” said Emily, compassionately clasping one of the cold little hands in both her own, “We can’t leave her here. She might be trampled to death afore morning, Il) jest take her inside our own door, and go for a policeman,”’ It was an easy matter for big, burly Matthew Puffy to lift that slight figure in his brawny arms and bear it to the dingy, smoke-begrimed hall, a few yards further on, that gave ingress to his own humble quarters, Emily followed, tears of pity in her modest blue eyes, and when her father had deposited his burden on one of the dilapidated steps that led to the upper stories, it was she who bent over her with a womanly longing to be of service tu the poor night wanderer. “* Why, father. this is a fainting-fit,’’ she suddenly exclaimed, ‘The poor soul must have fallen down from exhaustion. Do look at her! a sweet face; itis like an angel’s.”’ Matthew himself was quite amazed now that he had a better view of the person he had succored. The street-lamp nearest his door was out, and when he lifted the woman up he did not know whether she was young or old, handsome or u sly. But now that the flickering light from an old lantern that hung aloft fell upon her face, he was as greatly startled at its beauty as Emily seemed to be. age me, Em’ly, I do believe she’s a lady,’’ he said. “Of course she is, father. Look at her dress, It’s plain and neat, but I never owned one half so fine. And there are real gold rings on her fingers.” ** She’s certainly a lady or—" Emily’s bas little hand suddenly stopped his mouth, and she frowned—very severely for her. ‘Hush, father, You shall not say it. That face as good and pure, and I am going to do for the pocr lady what I should wish her to do for me in a simi- lar trouble. Please, father, help me take her up- stairs to my own little room. She shall not lodge in the station-house to-night, whatever betide.”’ Matthew’s heart was as soft as his daughter's; and five minutes later the stranger was lying on a poor but clean bed, in a seven-by-nine room, and Emily was employing all the simple remedies at her com- mand to recall the wandering spirit. At length the woman slowly unclosed her eyes, and an expression of agony crossed her waxen face. “Save me!”’ she cried, wildly. ‘1 can’t go back. I would rather die.” * We are your friends. There's nothing to be afraid of here,” said Emily, trying to soothe her. “ Thank God!” There was a moment’s silence. Then the woman began to move and moan as if in pain; and after a little. to babble to herself, * Poor thing,” said Emily, stepping into the next room, where her father sat. ‘ She’s delirious with fever. You'll have to fetch a doctor.” Matthew rose, without a word, and went out. “Though poor as the proverbial church mouse him self, he did not for one moment dream of sending _ the strange woman toa hospital, or thrusting her into the street. A long acquaintance with priva- tion had left his heart tender and pitiful for all who suffered. For several days the beautiful stranger remained wholly unconscious of the kind and friendly faces that hovered above hercouch. But at last there came a morning when she awoke from a refreshing sleep and looked at the patient Emily with a gleam of intelligence in her eyes. “ Have | been ill?’ she asked. “Yes,” said Emily, trembling with delight that her proleqgee was at last. rational. ‘‘ But you are bet- ‘ter, thank God.” “Where am I?” * With friends. dear lady. Never mind now, father and I will take care of you.” The large, luminous eyes filled with tears. *“You are very good,"’ she said, in alow voice. * Heaven will repay you for your kindness to me.” The next morning she was able to converse more freely, When Emily appeared at her bedside, she looked up with a , Sweet smile and said: “1 must be a great burden to you, dear friend.” “No, not a burden,” said Emily, earnestly. “I never had asister. I’m glad to have-you here.” ** You seem to be very poor.” ‘Father and I never go hungry. And we are able ‘to pay the rent for the two rooms we live in. Don’t be afraid, dear lady.” ‘You will find a small package in the dress I had on when you found me, ring it to me, please.” Emily did as she was ‘requested, and the woman slowly unrolled several new bank-notes and thrust them into the girl's hand. ** I’m not quite penniless,”’ she said. with a pathetic smile. ‘Take the money and use it freely.’ *Have you no friends for whom you wish us to send?” asked Emily, laying the notes down on the window-ledge as if she did not like to touch or even jiook at them, . ** None,” was the mournful answer, “What is your name?” ** | will tell you because you are so good and kind Ij{mever saw such My tome. Bnt you must never repeat it—1 wish to re-. ERS ES EE 1 ee a —— i ee ED WIFE OR WIDOW? main unknown. I have runaway from my friends and home. My name is Ethelind Erle.” “It is a pretty name.” “Did you ever hear it before?” asked Ethelind, anxiously ** Never,”’ ‘Tam glad of that. is too good to betray me. know.” As Ethelind’s health and strength returned, she gradually confided to Emily fragments of her his- tory until the whole mournful story bad been told. he night of her flight from Glenoaks, Ethelind had gone directly to the pomage of a fisherman on the beach—a poor man she had once befriended. Exacting from him a solemn promise never to be- tray her, she had persuaded him to take her several miles down the bay, in his sail-boat, and put her on board a small trading-vessel bound for New York. Afterward, she had wandered aimlessly up and down the streets, ill, friendless, and despairing, un- til she had fallen down in a deadly swoon where Matthew and Emily found her. The building in which father and daughter found a home was arambling old tenement-house that had onee been a tavern, Now, fully a score of families, besides some single lodgers, found a shelter beneath its roof. The poor, having little liberty of choice in their surroundings, are often compelled to huddle together—God help them!—where crime and pov- erty, guilt and innocence, jostle each other rudely, One day when Ethelind was so far recovered as to be able to sit up and move around again, she was alone in the poor little sitting-room—which was also Matthew's bedchamber, where he slept on a rude sottle before the fire—when a cautious step descend- ing the attic stairs, suddenly aroused her. Emily and her father had gone out to the morning rehearsal of the new extravaganza, The room-door stood sligtly ajar, and impelled sf an impulse she could not control, Ethelind hurried to it and looked out, A woman’s figure was creeping stealthily along the landing. Hearing Ethelind’s light step, she paused, flung her shaw! quickly over her head, and retreated, uttering a long, suppressed cry that was almost a shriek. Ethelind sat down, pale and trembling. A strange, sudden suspicion made her brain whirl and her heart bound. Bie felt a premonition that she had not seen the last of the strange woman; so she drew her chair close to the door, and sat there watching and waiting. Sure enough, an hour later she heerd the same stealthy step descending from the attic. This time the woman was closely vailed. Ethelind waited un- til she was nearly opposite the door, then, darting out, caught hold of her dress, “Madam Zoe, what are you doing here?’ she sternly demanded. The woman attempted to beat off her clinging hands; but failing in this, she leaned helplessly see the wall, a biter groan breaking from her ips. “Oh, God! something told me I should be found out at last!’ * You are Madam Zoe?” As there was no reply vouchsafed to the question, Ethelind gently put back the woman’s vail. The face upon wich she gazed seemed like a marble face, but it was impossible to mistake those hand- som: features. She had visited Dingle Dell more than once, and knew Madam Zoe perfectly well. “Tell me what this means,” she said, in a stern tone. ‘“‘What induced you to leave Dingle Dell secretly, che night of the murder, and conceal your- self here?” A blaze of passion kindled in the woman’s eyes. “Tl tell you nothing,” she said, fiercely. “You mus‘,"’ said Ethelind, trembling with excite- ment. She knew, through the medium of the daily pavers, that Vincent had been tried for Egbert Chal- oner’s murder, and convicted. Now, a sudden ho os to life in her bosom that the woman could throw some light on this terrible affair that would mitigate his sentence, and perchance open the prison doors to him. * You sholl speak!” she passionately exclaimed. ‘*My brother's life hangs in the balance, and Iam fully persuaded that you concealed yourself here to avoid giving evidence that you wished, for some reason to suppress.” Madam Zoe wrung her hands convulsively, her face, if possible, turning paler than before. “Let me alone,” she said. “I have done you no harm. Let me go away in peace.” ** Not until you have cleared my brother!" “Fool!” hissed Madam Zoe between her teeth. “You know not what you ask!” “I do know—an innocent man’s life. If you let him die you are a murderess.”’ The words, though spoken almost at random, pro- duced a strange impression on the woman. She dropped her head upon her breast, heavily groaning. ““My God!" she said. “my God! .1 wish I had died that fatal night! Existence has been a burden to me ever since. If God is merciful, why don't he strike me dead and ts me out of my misery?” * Confess the truth!” “T won't! I never will! force it from my lips.” “My brother? Is he not innocent? Tell me that!” said Ethelind, in the wild accents of agonized entreaty. “Yes, he is innocent,” said the woman. with a sudden touch of tenderness, as she loolced into that working face. ‘1 know he is innocent.” “Thank God!" Ethelind tried to say more, but only gasped hoarsely while a dimness came before her eyes. You may tell roar father—he But nobody else is to Even the rack could not Retreating to the little sitting-room she sunk down ona chair; and when she came to hersclf again, Madam Zoe was gone. That night, after Emily returned from the theater and they were alone together, Ethelind said to her: “Do you know that singular-looking woman who occupies one of the attic-rooms?” “Il have met her once or twice on the stairs,” Emily replied. ‘ But I never learned her name—"’ ‘* How long has she been here?”’ “Several weeks.” ‘* Has she any friends in the house?” “Not one’ said Emily. ‘She shuns all society, remaining secluded in her own room. Do you know,’’ she added in a whisper, *‘that I cannot re- sist the conviction that she is hiding away from something or somebody?” Ethelind did not reply to the question; but after a short silence, she said: ‘*Will you go with me, in the morning, to see the woman of whom we have been speaking?” _ “Oh, dear! Are you really serious?” cried Emily, in accents of surprise. “Yes; Ihave reasons that I will disclose at some future time for preferring the request.” Py don't like the woman. But I will go if you wish.” The next morning early the two young girls picked their way up the steep staircase leading to the attic. Emily knew which room was Madam Zoe’s, and knocked at the door. There was no answer. She knocked again. Still no response. Finally she opened the door and entered. The room was empty, and a few trifling articles lying about, as if left in a hurried flight, told their own story. Madam Zoe had disappeared in the night. CHAPTER XXXIII. MRS. FAUNCE. For a season that ween erratic woman, the mistress of Lorn, tasted o hap iness in feverish draughts that were like nectar to her palate at_one moment and bitter as gall the next. Colonel Falk- ner was at her feet again, the blind, infatuated lover. He had ‘once more fallen completely under the spell of her grace and beauty. The sinful and miserable past, which had been so darkly hinted at in the first interviews they held together, was never referred to now. He preferred to believe blindly and implicitly in her truth, perhaps; for he made no effort to sweep aside the curtain that hid so much that was dark and mysterious. Rut Mrs. Faunce could not forget. The sword of Damocles hung suspended above her head, and whether she waked or slept, whether she rejoiced or sorrowed, she never for one moment lost sight of the fact that it was there, as real as reality, though she saw it not. And the consciousness murdered her peace, imbittered her happiest muments, as was most natural. under the circumstances. One day. when she sat musing in her own room, her graceful hands lying in her lap, her eyes bent upon the carpet, she was suddenly roused from her everie by the loud ringing of the docr-bell. “Tt is he—it is Philip,’ she murmured, a soft rose- flush stealing into her cheeks. A few minutes later the room door opened and Joan Withers entered—alone. Mrs. Faunce could not repress a cry of disappointment. “Where is he, Joan? Did he only send a message? Give it to me instantly.” The old woman looked white and scared. ‘Hush, my lady.” she said, in a muffled voice, “Tt was not Colonel alkner, but—the other one!” ** What other?’ “Raymond Challoner.” An exclamation of anger and terror broke from the lips of Mrs. Faunce, and she started impulsively to her full hight, and stood there with both hands firmly clinched. i “My God!” she gasped, her tone just audible. * Am I never to know rest or peace?”’ *““Of course I refused to admit him,’’ said Joan. “But he bade me say to you that even a dozen re- buffs would not discourage him—that he should come again." “Do you think he suspects?—or is it mere idle curiosity that brings him here?” . “The latter, | fully believe,” Joan answered, pity- ing her mistress’s evident terror so much that she half-unconsciously belied her real convictions. “J wish I knew—I wish I knew,” moaned Mrs, Faunce, falling back into her chair again, with a dreadful shiver, The next day, at about the same hour, the bell again sent its imperative summons echoing through the house. But a longer interval elapsed before Joan appeared at the door of the apartment in which Mrs. Faunce sat, pallid with suspense and fear. “It was be—Mr. Challoner! I know, I feel it!” ex- claimed the wretched woman, without waiting for her servant to speak, “Yes, my agg OM “He intends driving me to madness and despera- tion But I will never see him—never!”’ Joan hastily advanced. “He scribbled a few lines on his card, madam. and told me to deliver it immediately. Of course I could not refuse to take it.”’ The messige was written in pencil, and ran thus: “T have been dismissed from your door for the last time. When I come again to-morrow at this hour, you must admit me. / know you ! lam nota man to be trifled with.” An hour later, when Colonel Falkner himself made his appearance at Lorn, he found Mrs, Faunce nervous and hysterical, She screamed at sight of him, and throwing herself helpless on his breast, clung to him in what seemed an agony of terror, {
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= ignoring the words with which he had concluded, tial AR si bar R29 —— ““ What has happened?” he asked, in alarm, ‘“ Are you ill?” : : “Take me away,’ she shivered. ‘‘ You have said that you love me. Prove it by helping me to fly from this hated spot.” | , ’ ‘Be patient, Olympia,”’ he said, trying to soothe her. ‘One of these days, as soon as everything is arranged, we will go.”’ “it must be now or—never | “{t would necessitate a great pecuniary sacrifice were we to leave at once.” ** What do I care for that?” she broke out, fiercely, with her hands clinched. ‘‘ You shall not forsake me. And it would be wicked and sinful for you to weigh dollars and cents in the balance with my peace of mind.” He looked down at her with a strange glance in which there seemed to be a blending of love and shrinking distrust. “It is not the loss in money matters that troubles me, and I might as well confess the truth,” he said, alittle coldly. ‘You know that my ward Ethelind is missing. I cannot bear togo away until I have heard some tidings of her.” Mrs. Faunce slipped quickly out of his arms and sat down, Her hands were now helplessly relaxed and trembled in ber lap. “You love that girl,” she said, in a deep, shaken voice. ‘She has usurped my place in your heart. I have feared it sometimes—I know it now.” ‘*Hush! you are talking wildly,’ he said, but his eyes fell beneath the searching gaze she sent quiver- ing into them, ‘If y uu do not love her, why are you so ready to sacrifice my happiness the moment she comes be- tween us?” ‘** You misunderstand nie, Olympia,” ‘Nay, | fear that I understand you only too well!” “Ethelind was intrusted to my care by her dying father. She has cane away friendless and alone: She may be penniless for aught I know—she cer- tainly is suffering. Is it not natural that I should wish to be assured of her well-being before leaving this part of the country?” His tone was still cold and reproachful. Mrs, Faunce felt her powerlessness to hold out against him. She suddenly leaned her head against his shoulder and burst into a wild storm of sobs. “Forgive me, Philip. I did not wish to betray anything akin to er, But I am miserable— too wretched to live. I feel myself sinking into a horrible abyss where I shall be beyond the reach of hope or mercy or pardon; and nobody, not even you is willing to stretch forth a saving hand,” * What do you mean, Olympia?” he said, bending toward her with a touch of returning tenderness. wr d do you talk so strangely? Are you threat- ened y any new or immediate danger?” She dared not tell him. “No one here has penetrated your secret,” he went on, in his ignorance, ‘ You might remain at Lorn half a lifetime and not a whisper arise to betray the story of the past. Remember how seclu- ded is this place—how few in all the country have ever heard of you.” “The danger may be more imminent than you are aware,”’ she shivered. ‘It is impossible to tell. And the world would not judge me with your leniency. It has no faith in me. It would sooner adjudge me guilty than innocent.” No one would dare breathe a word against you in my presence,” ol OE a Promise me that you will 9 never fo “ I do promise—but it is unnecessary. Our lives , = losely woven together ever to be divided She was silent a moment or two, as if strugelin with the emotions that had so near] overcome her At length, she said, in a thrilling whisper: I am like one beset. nameless horror is hovering over me. 1 feel as if evil spirits had hold of my png and were trying to wrench it from my body. Philip, unless you save me I am lost—lost to all ene Oh, be merciful! Let us fly this very *So soon?” he said, startled by her wildness and vehemence. ‘Impossible. Try to be calm Olym- pie. There is nothing to fear,” > But she went on urging more vehemently than ever that such a course was her only salvation They would seek some far-off sunny clime, she said, some lovely, romantic isle in a southern sea, where they could live ani die together remote from men and the irksome trammels of a false civiliza- ion. Colonel Falkner listened in a vague wonder to her beseeching words. But instead of drawing his heart closer to her they seemed to widen the dis- tance between them. The glowing pictures she painted possessed little charm for him in the mood that had suddenly come over him. He experienced a sickening sensation of misery and disappointment as if all the brightest hopes-of his life had crumbled to ashes in his grasp, like Dead Sea fruit. Were the caine es eked eyes? Or was this reaction e », 4 =} oy wel to teassert ttonit? ect of his better nature trying is. Kaunce, with a woman’s subtle intuitions divined at once the change in his mood. She be- came silent all at once, a hares of agony went over her face, and she sunk back in her chair trembling and pallid, as if she had resigned herself to a fate she bh tebeningee: to tt res ou are not yourself to-day,” said © - ner, looking at her curiously’ * Sche ben happened | to distress you, and you are keeping it from me. “No, lam not myself,” she said, wearily, utter! “*T believe I realize how a poor, doomed prisoner must feel the hour before the executioner comes.” She smiled very faintly, adding, before he could recover himself to reply: “Perhaps we had better say adieu for the present. You can come again to-morrow—if you wish.” ‘*T shall come yery early, then; as early as you will admit me!’’ he exclaimed, struck by the misery expressed in every tone of her sobbing voice. “No,” she said, firmly, *‘your visit to-morrow must be paid at a later hour than ever before. Do eet come until the sun isdown. I shall be busy until then.”’ She offered no further explanation of the request, but rose quickly and held out her hand. Colonel Falkner took it, held it rather longer than usual, and as if yielding to an irresistible impulse, bent conn suddenly and touched his lips to the soft, cool palm. “IT hope to find you more cheerful when I come \again,*’ he said. She bowed her head passively, making no other reply. But when he had gone out and shut the door, she sunk down on her knees, clasped both hands over her eyes, and burst out in subdued but hysterical crying. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE DECREE OF FATE, Tue next day, at the hour he had himself ap- inted, Raymond Challoner slowly approached orn, threading one of those grass-grown paths that led, with many a detour, through the neglected grounds, ; He was very pale, but his face wore a grim, rego- lute expression, and it was with a firm step the he ascended the terrace and made his way to the gloomy, forbidding-looking portal. He looked like a man with a fixed, inflexible purpose in his mind. His foot had scarcely touched the topmost step when the door opened, noiselessly, and Joan appear- ed, her usually imperturbable face strangely agi- tated. She spoke no word of greeting, but in utter silence beckoned him to enter, ‘““And so I’m to be given the open sesame to this enchanted palace at last?” he said, with a mock- ing curl of the lip, as he crossed the threshold. “It is well.” ‘You would never enter with my consent,” said Joan, fiercely. ‘ But of course my mistress acts her own pleasure. I am powerless to keep you out.” Again Raymond smiled derisively. ‘Ove would imagine you had played the part of ogre quite long enough, Beauty and the Beast and Una and the Lion are worn-out tales. They grow tiresome in process of time. No matter—I have gained my point. Pray conduct me at once to the presence of Mrs. Fvunce.” : The sneering emphasis with which he spoke that name sent a shudder through the woman’s frame. She suddenly grasped his arm. pla “T can see that you are in no conciliatory mood,” she said, dropping her voice to a whisper. ‘Be warned in time. My mistress is desperate already —do not drive her tomadness. I make this plea for your sake as well as hers.” ** Against what do you warn me?” “ Alas, I know not!" replied Joan, in deep agi tion, dropping her hand and shrinking from him. “My heart misgives me—that’s all. The shameful past has been rising before my mind with strange vividness all the morning.” He made an impatient gesture... “ How 1s your mistress?” he asked, after a short pause, “Calm—unnaturally calm. I would rather see,her in any other mood. Oh, it was not well to admit vou to this interview. I begged and pleaded with her, but she would not listen. No goud will come of it—no good!” A low moan broke from her lips, but she seemed to recover herself after a moment, and pointing out to him a door lower down the passage, turned abruptly away, leaving him to go on by himself. Raymond found Mrs. Faunce seated near an open window, in a partially darkened room. She was dressed in black—some soft, filmy goods that empha- sized the livid pallor of her face. There were bluish shadows round her mouth, and a purple line under her eyes that spoke of past conflict and suffering. She sat with her cheek resting on her hand, but at the sound of the unclosing door she raised her head with a proud air that had something of defi- ance in it. 5 “You have come.” she said, in a low monotonous voice. “I knew I could not evade you forever.” Raymond wondered at her calmness, She sat there like a marble woman, her glorious dark eyes meeting bis unflinchingly One fair, rounded arm was now thrown carelessly across a small table at her elbow, on which stood a silver salver and a slender Venetian glass filled with some dark-red liquid. She looked every inch a queen—a fallen con perhaps—but wearing all her honors regally to the last. “ Olympia,” he gasped, ‘is 1t really you, ora de- lusion of my own excited brain?” “You knew, before coming here, whom you were to meet, Why, then, do you question me?” she said, wearily. ; “Tt Seems so strange, so impossible. I can almost believe that necromancy has heen at work. I doubt my own convictions, {almost doubt the evidence of my senses.”’ Mrs. Faunce waved him to a seat. “The long concealment and mystery are all over,”’ she said. ‘It is too late even to speak of them. In one word, now that you have found me out, what do you intend to do?” “My duty.’’ =e Ais Attyd4, ai “Duty! That word does not sound very gracious, falling from your lips.” ‘Perhaps not; but I repeat it, all the same.” Her eyes fell, and for the first time she betrayed that, in spite of her forced composure, she was in- wardly quivering with suspense and dread. “What do you consider your duty ?—if I may be so impertinent as to inquire.” ‘First of all, to inform Colonel Falkner as to the true character of the siren to whose alluring wiles he has fallen the latest victim.” “It is unnecessary. Already Colonel Falkner has been made acquainted with the story of my past life.” “With your version of it, perbaps,’’ came the sneering rejoinder. “It now remains for him to hear mine.” Mrs. Faunce looked as if she were shivering; the muscles about her mouth twitched convulsively. *“Once you pretended to love me,” she said, in a muffled voice; ‘*‘and now you are laying your plans to ruin me.” **My love was as short-lived as your own,”’ Ray- mond answered, ‘‘It died in the birth-pangs of a great horror. A still fiercer passion seems to have sprung up, Phoenix-like, from the ashes of yours. e can neither of us approach the other.” : Her ae head drooped a litcle, and she said abruptly “How long is it since you guessed my secret?" “Strange suspicions have been working in my mind for some time. But the false name you bear, the fate I believed to have overtaken you, your sin- gular whim of muffling your face, all helped to keep me in doubt.” ‘*Yes—yes.”’ “Two days ago I found a volume of ems on Colonel Falikner’s desk. Your name, ‘Olympia.’ was written on the fly-leaf. The volume was one I gave nt long ago. 1 knew Colonel Falkner had brought it from here. Of course conviction struck home to my mind ina moment. I knew for a cer- tainty that there had been some trick about your reported death and burial.” irs. Faunce rose to her feet with a spasmodic ef- fort, and moved several times He and down the length of the room, At length she paused before him, with her head cast down, as the guilty stand betore their accusers. *I do not deny your power and my helplessness,” she said, “for you can, with a word, deprive me of the love of the only manI care to keep faithful to me. But Ido ask youto spare me. It will cost you nothing to let me go my way in peace. My broken life is beautified with buds of promise that must soon burst into full flower unless crushed by your ruthless hand. Which will you choose to play—the part of my redeemer or that of my destroyer?” Words and tone thrilled him strangely, but he said, with stern emphasis: “You have an odd way of putting things, Olym- pia. I pity you from the depths of my soul. But of course, I cannot see a gentleman of Colonel Falk- ner’s birth and position sacrifice himself to an ad- venturess without try ng to turn him from his folly.” The biting accent in which he spoke told the wo- man that, little as he valued her love at the present time, he could not forgive her for having transferred it so readily to another. An unconfessed desire for revenge, quite as much as a sense of duty, was guid- ing him to the decision he had made. ‘“*Can I say nothing to influence you differently?’ “ Nothing.” ‘Ts there not a single thought of mercy blended with the feeling of pity you profess to feel for me?” “You must demand that at the hands of the man you love,” said Raymond, slightly frowning. “I can but proclaim the truth.” “True. Forgive my persistency.” The ghost of asmile flickered over her bloodless lips; whether called there by the absurdity of the hope that he might be induced to spare, or other thought, it is impossible to say. ‘*T understand my fate, and accept it,” she add- ed, presently, in a changed voice. “Vet us say no more. Stay! before we ay you shall pledge me in a glass of wine. I poured it expressly for this oeca- sion. Will you?” There was an insane glitter in her eyes that fright- enedhim. Half involuntarily, he stretched out his band and lifted one of the glasses from the salver. She grasped the other, raised it to her lips, and drank off its contents, With his eyes fixed steadily on her face, he followed her example, draining to its dregs the ruby liquid. “tis the decree of fate,” said the strange woman, in a hollow voice, as if speaking to herself. ‘ Why should I repine or struggle?" He saw her face turn deadly pale. Suddenly the frail glass slipped through her fingers and shivered in fragments at her feet. “It is like my life,” she muttered, looking down. * Broken—shattered—destroyed!”’ Raymond replaced his own glass on the salver. and, moved by a compassionate impulse, advanced to lead her to a seat. Waving him away with a shiver of disgust, she fell back suddenly, uttering a low cry, and put her handkerchief to her mouth. In. an instant it was covered with blood, and the slug- gish crimson was dripping on her black dress. “Good God!’ he exclaimed. ‘Your lungs are bleeding.”’ She shrunk from his proffered assistance even in this hour of extremity. “Go,” she hoarsely whispered. nothing. Leave the house!’ He dared not excite her further by remaining. Hurrying into the hall, where Joan still waited, he sent the faithful servant to the assistance of her mistress, and departed. ’ “You can do y some. « q 4 }
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30 ~_— CHAPTER XXXYV. ACCOUNTS RENDERED. An hour or two subsequent to that momentous in- terview between Raymond and Mrs. Faunce, Colonel Falkner was pacing the yellow sands of the shore about midway between Glenoaks and Lorn, when suddenly be heard his name screamed in shrill dis- cordant accents from one of the hights above, A thin, angular-looking woman, whom he recog- nized as Mrs. Bloom, the wife of one of the day- laborers employed on the estate, stood on the brow of the cliff, violently gesticulating, and muttering in- coherent words. A thrill of dread surprise ran through him, for there was something very unusual in the action and he hastily climbed the steep as- cent. “What is the matter, my good woman?” he in- quired, as he drew near, “‘Lord bless you, sir!” she gasped, dropping her hand on his arm in great excitement, “it’s a mercy you were led to walk this way. Come right along, sir! He is there, lying on my own bed, racked with pain, and screaming at the top of his voice for you to come.”’ So saying, she drew him forward with irresistible force, toward a small cottage that stood in a thicket a few rods further on. As they approached the door, the groans and cries of one in mortal anguish were borne distinctly to their ears. **My good man has gone for Dr. Lance,” whis- pered the woman, ‘*'and he will soon be here. I left my sister to watch with the poor fellow, and was on the way to Glenoaks when I saw you walking on the beach.” ** Who is ill?” * “That fine gentleman guest of yours.” “You don’t mean Mr. Challoner?’’ cried Colonel Falkner, in a startled voice. ‘Yes, sir, that’s the man! Tilda and I were sit- ting at our sewing, a wee bit ago, while my good man smoked his pipe in the corner, when the poor fellow stumbled in at the door, white as any sheet, and bent nearly double with pain. Oh, he did groan and take on awful, just at first! It took us all three to get him to the bed.”’ Waiting to hear no more, Colonel Falkner hurried into the cottage. Sure enough, there lay Raymond Challoner on a bed in one corner of the room, evi- dently very ill. “*My poor friend, what could have occasioned this sudden attack?’ he said, bending over him. Ray- mond lay with his eyes half-shut, and his hands clutched convulsively at the bed-clothes. But, at the sound of that familiar voice, he looked up with a gasp of relief and pleasure. **You are in time,” he said. ‘‘ Thaak God,” “ What can I do for you?” **Nothing,”’ replied the sick man, with a groan of despair, “I am past all help—I feel that I shall die. ah I have something to say to you before it is too He turned away his face, and two cr three large tears rolled down his cheeks, “Tell me how your illness came on, and I may be able to think of something to relieve you.”’ “No, lam doomed,” said Raymond, in a sad whis- er. ‘*The death-pang has been rending my soul or some minutes. I have been poisoned.” **Poisoned!’’ echoed Colonel Falkner, in sharp, shrill accents, startled out of all self-control. “Yes. That woman did it—that fiend in human shape. God raised herup to be my Nemesis, per- haps; if so she has fully accomplished her dreadful mission. I die, and she has been instrumental in causing my death.” , “To whom do you refer?” “Ts it possible that you have not divined the truth? She is known here as Mrs. Faunce. When I first met her she bore the name of Olympia Verne. She may have owned half a dozen other aliases—”’ A ery of bitter anguish arrested all further words. Colonel Falkner fell back suddenly in the chair Mrs. Bloom had placed for him, a cold dew breaking over his forehead and gemming his livid face. . * Let me go on briefly, for my time is short," re- sumed the dying man, after a pause. ‘ Mrs. Faunce dreaded the effect of certain revelations 1 might make to you, and so determined to put me out of the way. Alas, alas! why did I venture into her presence again? I, who knew her so well of old, was a blind fool not to distrust every look, word and act of that infamous woman.” “You knew her—you knew Mrs. Faunce long yal said Colonel Falkner, in the lowest audible ne. “Yes. I met her abroad—in Baden-Baden. She was a married woman then, Her husband, Captain Verne he called himself, was a professional gambler —Olympia hated him. Perhaps that is the one rea- son why she turned to me so readily. I won her con- fidence and then her love. She was forever be- moaning her hapless fate. Perhaps I am not alto- gether blameless for what’ happened afterward. Her husband was the only barrier between us, and —he died suddenly, under very suspicious circum- stances.” Raymond was silent a moment or two, as if even the memory of that dreadful time overe me him. Thé pangs of eyatcal suffering had also to be wres- tled against. When he spoke again his voice had al- ready lost in strength. **] knew more than the rest of the world of the circumstances attending Captain Verne’s death. They were such as not to leave a doubt in my mind of Olympia’s guilt. My infatuation was changed suddenly into horror and loathing. Wesaid fare- well forever, and I never saw her again until after she came to Lorn. Until recently I fully believed that she had died, about a year later, in Southern W France, just in time to save herself from arrest and conviction; for Verne’s friends had tardily bestirred themselves, and a rigid investigation was in pro- gress. By what fraud that daring woman deluded even the authorities into the belief. that she had died, Iam unable to say.” Then aes he went on to relate the circum- stances that had led him to suspect Mrs, Faunce of being his lost love, Olymphia Verne; and described et had taken place at their last fatal meet- ng. “The wine she gave me to drink was poisoned,” | he said. ‘‘ But I took it without a suspicion of the eet purpose at that very moment working in her neart.”* Colonel Falkner made no reply, but his face was as cold and white as that of the dying man. “It is easy to understand why Olympia has kept herself so secluded and gone about in such a guise as to win for herself the sobriquet of the ‘vailed lady of Lorn.’ She wished to be near you without at the same time revealing herself to me.” Raymond ceased speaking, his head fell back, and for a time he stared straight forward into vacancy, But his hands were clinched. ““T want to say one word concerning Ethelind,” he abruptly resumed, ‘Poor girl! The love I felt for her was the only pure thing in my life. I must tell you what induced her to give herself to me at last. I knew you suspected her of that mysterious attempt upon your own life—unjustly, I am sure— and told her that you did. In her horror and despair she was willing to consent to anything.” Another pause of labored breathing. The dying man was failing fast. “T feel myself growing weaker every moment. I have kept the bardest confession to the last. Turn away your head or I shall not have the courage to make it. It was | who murdered my grandfather, Egbert Challoner! I was mad, desperate. The Jews were after me—they had oceans of my paper. If he had made a will disinheriting me, nothing could have saved ine from exposure and ruin. With the cunning of a devil I dressed myself as much like Vincent Erle as possible, and when my poor grana- father woke up and saw me bending over him, he thought it was Dolores’s husband. Madam Zoe alone divined the real truth. Ghe looked in at the door just as the struggle ended and saw me, That is why she fled and hid herself, I suppose—because she would not betray me.” He paused from exhaustion. And at this moment the man Bloom arrived with Dr. Lance. The latter stepped quickly to the bedside, but he shook his head the instant heglanced into the sick man’s face, The signet of death was already there. “T can do nothing,” he said, in a low voice, ‘God has taken the case into His own hands.” Colonel Falkner roused himself at these words. With his own hand he drew up a statement of the circumstances attending the murder of Egbert Challoner, and Raymond was enabled to sign it before he breathed his last. The names of Dr. Lance, and Bloom and his wife, were appended as witnesses. : When all was over he wrote a brief note to Mrs, Faunce, It ran thus: “ Another victim has fallen through your instru- mentality, but he lived long enough to expose you. Farewell forever. I shall never again allow myself to become the dupe of one so utterly devoid of the divine attributes of justice and mercy.” The man Bloom took this note to Lorn; but re- turned without an answer. None was expected, or would have been received. Several hours later, in the dull gray of twilight, Colonel Falkner was slowly pacing up and down the narrow strip of lawn before the cottage door, when a dark figure emerged from the shrubbery and Joan Withers stood before him. **My mistress has sent for you,” she said,in a husky voice. ‘‘ You must come at once.” ‘*Never!” he exclaimed. ‘It is better that I should not see her face again.” She broke out crying hysterically. “Tt is too late to cherish resentment now. My poor lady is dying.” “Dying! Is this true?” * Yes," she replied, ‘itis true. A second hemor- rhage has come on, and she is bleeding inteynally and is sinking fast. You must hasten if you would see her alive, Do come, sir.” Colonel Falkner followed her without another word. Mrs. Faunce looked up; faintly smiled, and held out her trembling hand when Joan ushered him into the chamber where she Jay. “Thank you for coming,’ she whispered. ‘ Now I can die in peace.” Colonel Falkner’s stern face relaxed. Deeply as this woman had sinned, he could not forget that she had once been the central object of all his brightest dreams. “This is very sudden,” he said, a melancholy quiver in his voice. “ The exciting scenes of to-day hastened the end. Though I would never acknowledge it, even to my- self, my doom was sealed months ago. The seeds of consumption have long been germinating in my veins. Their work was sure but secret, and now the end comes unexpectedly. Alas for our beautiful dreams of a happy life together! They could never, never have been realized!” A sob rose with the last words, and for some moments she kept her face hidden in her hands, “T have no time for confessions,” she said at length, in a voice that was scarcely audible from intense dy ee emotion, ‘* Let me say what I wish to say in ’ med chose for himself. my settled purpose to drain the poisoned draught myself. It seemed necessary that one of us should die, and I left the choice to chance. Fate decreed that Raymond should be the victim.” “God forgive youl!” gasped Colonel Falkner, wipe the cold beads of perspiration off his fore- nead. “Ah, you do not know howT have dreaded and disliked that man! But for him I might have ven- tured to come to you openly, months ago, instead of burrowing here for pes and disa f prea ayy to eat my heart out. But I knew he would declare himself my enemy the moment he surmised the truth, Once before 1 tried to rid myself of him, but the result of that attempt was so awful that I scarcely dared re- peat it.” Once before?” “Yes, It was some weeks ago—do you not remember the occasion? It was you who received the wound intended for his cowardly heart! Oh, heaven be praised that it did not prove a fatalone!” Colonel Falkner drew back, staring at her aghast with horror and repulsion. Some seconds elapsed before he could recover himself sufficiently to speak. Mow blind I have been,” he thought. “‘ And, oa how bitterly my suspicions wronged poor Ethe- ind!’ Aloud he said, after a still longer pause: **Do you mean to tell me that it was you who stole into my chamber on that fatal night?” “Tdo. I knew it was the room in which Raymond usually slept. I did not dream that you had ex- changed rooms with him, But—I—I cannot speak of it. It nearly drove me mad when I knew I had injured you,” y “You wore a white crape shawl?” ‘said Colonel Falkner, in a deep, shaken voice. vant change went over her face; she began to trem- e. “Yes, Let me tell. you all about it. Before en- tering your chamber that night I crept through the open window into a small ante-room to reconnoiter. Lying on the floor in the corridor I found a white crape shawl, dripping with rain. I knew it belonged to Ethelind Erle—I had seen her wear it on several occasions. I felt not a little jealous of the girl's in- fluence upon yourself, and all at once the thought came to me that the tide of suspicion might be turned against her by making use of her shawl; for everybody knew how desirous she was of breaking the galling chains that bound her to Raymond. I acted upon the impulse of the mcment, it was my shawl that was found with a fragment of the clot h torn away. They were precisely alike, and I be- lieved that one could not te distinguished from the other. I brought Ethelind’s away when I returned. But for the care you took to shield her, she must have been irreparably disgraced. You perceive that I know all about it.” Another painful silence ensued. Colonél Falkner could not wholly conceal the feeling of loathing this confession inspired. He abruptly changed the sub- ject. “One thing you have never explained fully, Olym- ia, and I have shrunk from broaching the subject efore. How did yousucceed in deluding the world —myself along with the rest—into the conviction of your sudden death?” ‘““That was not difficult,” she answered, ‘For- tune seemed to favor me.. I had a twin-sister, Eliza, who came to my lodgings to die at the very time when exposure and disgrace were most immi- nent. She arrived in the night-time, and only two trusty servants knew of her being in the house. We were marvelously alike. You conjecture the rest. Eliza died, and was buried under my name, while I secretly fled the country and found a tem- porary refuge in a secluded village in England.” In a voice that now trembled with weakness she went on to speak of the deep, heart-sick longing that had finally tempted her to cross the seas and be near him, where she could occasionally hear the sound of his voice, though herself unseen and unsus- ected. “T felt that I could venture to reveal myself at last,” she said, “ when time had wrought its soften- ing influences on your heart. If your love was like mine, it could forgive much and stillendure, Isent for Joan Withers, a faithful servant, who had nursed me when a child, and we came here together. Of course it was necessary to take another name than my own, and I chose that of Faunce. It was my mother’s maiden name.” Little more was said. She seemed to be growing weaker every moment. A strange, icy coldness gradually crept over that lovely face, and the flut- tering pulse grew perceptibly fainter. At last she raised her eyes to his anc said, faintly gasping : ‘Let me die on your bosom, Philip. It will be easier to go with your arms foided round me,” He raised ‘her up. and pillowed her head on his breast. Just when the final moment came he never knew. She lay with her head os et averted, motionless as a child who slumbers peacefully, The moments wore on and he dared not stir for fear of disturbing her. At length Joan came softly into the room. She stole quickly to the side of her mistress, and touched one of her listless hands. The wild wail of sorrow that broke from the woman’s lips was the first inti- mation Colonel Falkner had that what he clasped he fewest words possible. I did poison | to his bosom was but senseless clay. heart
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: CHAPTER XXXVI. FROM NIGHT TO LIGHT. . Tue day subsequent to that on which the events of sie interest we have just related gag coe Vin- nt and Dolores were sitting dejected in the prison l when the door was abruptly opened, and a vailed z re, dressed in deep black, was ushered in. A passionate exclamation burst from Vincent's lips, and he pened his arms. + 4 Ethelind, dear sis"er, is it you?” She sprung into his embrace, leaned her head on his shoulder, and sobbed aloud. In a moment : olores ‘was beside them, the arms of the three in- ea tertwined, and their tears flowed together. To each heart that reunion brought a singular blending of pain and pleasure. | “ Pe here ‘said Ethelind. ‘It has looked as if [had deserted you. ButI have been praying for you. Never, never doubt that, dear Vincent,” “Why did you go away?” A ht shudder passed though her as she answered: “YT would rather not talk of that. It does not matter now why I went. It more deeply concerns ‘ you to know what induced me to return.’ Vincent started and gathered up his breath, for her s were full of meaning. ““Y60 have news for me!” he exclaimed, ‘ “Yes, I bave seen Madam Zoe. She knows all ; about the murder, 1 feel assured. If wecan find her Bis again, her testimony will be sufficient to clear you.” The young man was silent; but a sob broke from the lips of Dolores. ‘ “Thank the Lord!” she ejaculated. ‘‘He has heard my prayers at last. I knew He would never - beso unjust as to make you suffer for the crime of another.” In the midst of the agitation and excitement that revaued, the key ouce again turned in the lock, and _ this time it was alone! Falkner who advanced with _ aslow step into the cell, He looked jaded and worn, and his clothing was spattered with mud, as if he had ridden-fast and far. ; _ “8thelind! you here!” were the first words he ut- | tered, as his startled gaze rested on the figure of the young girl. _~ She shrunk against the wall, pale as death, and trembling with excitement. But he followed her, clasped her reluctant hand, and said, in accents of great tenderness: ; “Poor child! It seemei like a mistaken step for you to leave us. At first I felt like blaming you se- ¥erely. But that is all over. Now I thank God, from the depths of my heart, that you did go,” “J shall never return to Glenoaks,” she said, in a faint voice. “ You must not ask or expect it. [ came here to do my brother a service; when it is _ accomplished you must suffer me to go my way in peace. ee Fear nothing, child. He whom you dread to , eet will never trouble you again. Raymond is 7 dead!” , B Be “Dead!” gasped Ethelind, looking at him with di- ae lated eyes. — : “Yes Sit down and try tobe calm. It is a long _ ‘story I have to tell There is much in it that is bot startling and surprising. It is well that you are here -| and can learn its details at the same time with your brother.” ; Vincent and Dolores seated themselves on the side ‘of the cot, leaving the two rude ebairs with which - # the cell was furnished for Ethelind and Colonel Falk- =) ner. When all were seated. the latter went on, in a | low, feeling voice, to relate all that had occurred, 4 _ sparing neither himself nor others in the simple but truthful recital. Long before his story ended, Dolores had fallen on the neck of her husband, and with tears anc sobs was thanking God for the deliverance He had wrough:. Vincent could go out into tne world epgein, without even the stigma of guilt clinging to e. ae When at last Colonel Falkner ventured to look at Ethelind, she sat’ leaning slightly forward, her love- ace hidden in her hands, Drawing his chair close to hers he said, in a whisper: . £3 ‘God has been at work for us, dear Ethelind. The wicked are confounded in their evil ways. It is al- _ Ways safe to leave results with him.” _ A low murmur fell from her lips, and he knew that was ‘praying. After a long silence she raised her and spoke: ‘You must have loved that woman idolatrously, onel Falkner,” A shadow passed over his face. } . “She infatuated me—my senses were caught by de her marvelous beauty. I feel like one waking out of _ dream that might have ended in death. I trémble, oan soul is sick. But I am no longer under the at ank God. Even ff Olympia had lived, she th mat have remained strangers to the end of ‘ ak Ween ae let hers be a forbidden name be- er a brief silence he added: pes! . i Aid a 7 — fe Set down on my knees and eS ew n y secret thoughts, Gietnristantial evidence was . oak bgp a I might never have been so deceived. B I allude to that dreadful night when the Peres rae poate won my te.” ‘ *, e 4 1 she ; * . Bs “But the past is over Py oie with cot ok hints : Tecalled. It is enough that you now exon rath ine? “a ay erate me. Her working features betrayed such signs of hental suffering that he hastened to change the e and thin you are, Ethelind, Have you * she answered. “But I found faithful fi } i ’ i = fay OO OO ¥ " "it ok és WIFE OR WIDOW? friends who never forsook me in my time of trouble. To them I owe more than I can ever repay.” She briefly related what had befallen her since the night of her flight from Glenoaks. fy and his daughter Emily she spoke in terms of grateful praise. “They are worthy people, and I feel like doing something to help them,” she said. ‘I have de- cided to ed eg a neat little cottage in the suburbs of New York, and give it to Em'ly—that is, if you, my guardian do not object to such a use being made of my money.” * Do as you think best, Ethelind.” Colonel Falkner was greatly surprised to learn that Madam Zoe had found temporary shelter under the same roof to which Providence seemed to have directed Ethelind’s own steps. “There is more in that woman's history than has ever been revealed to us,” he said, thoughtfully. *““We have not seen the last of her.” The result proved that he had reasoned well. Late that day the body of Raymond Challoner was brought to Dingle Dell that it might be buried from the home of his ancestors; and the next mornin Aunt Jerry came to Colonel Falkner, as he pac slowly up and down one of the garden paths, looking startled and frightened. ( “Do come in—quick!" she gasped. “‘ Madam Zoe is in the library with the—the—body. And she does take on dreadfully |” He hurried back to the house. The violence of Madam Zoe's grief seemed to have spent itself be- fore he entered, for she stood behind the coffin very ale and still save the nervous tremors that shook er from head to foot. Going up to her he laid his band firmly on her shoulder. ‘““ Why are you here?’ he said, ina stern though not unkind tone. ‘* What relation did you bear to the dead?” She looked at him sullenly, but made no answer. You had better tell me. It is of no use trying to keep your secret longer.” Leas his mother.” 3, His mother!” ‘ Yes. You needn’t look at me so—I’m telling you the truth. Ah, how I loved him!” She turned away for a moment, a subdued wail breaking from her lips. His father was quite fond of me at one time,” she went on, rapidly, ina sobbing voice. “ But the blood of a subject race is in my veins, and he re- fused to make me his wife. I ama quadroon.” 5 te Mewar pei on’t need your pity. or it to help me.” y pity. It is too late for it Why did you go away?” *, Lwon't tell you.” No matter. “Iam able to conjecture the truth. You witnessed the murder, and fled to be spared the horror of witnessing against your own son—God hel » you!”’ She dropped her head with a bitter moan, but the expression of her face told him that he had read her motives aright. CHAPTER XXXVII. L’ENVOT. Tue story is told, and the time has come for us to art from these friends who, for. a brief period, Fat gi ae Y wae Bg re as dear as those of wn household. We leave them with regret but thank God, with the conviction that permanent peace has come to brood over their tried and troubled lives: ‘ We see Vincent and Dolores comfortably settled at Dingle Dell, happy in each other, and their lives better, nobler and brighter, no doubt, for the ter- rible cloud that once overshadowed them. Aunt Jerry Martin remains with them, and the lonely old woman’s heart has already found solace in the bright-eyed baby-boy, the perfect image of his mother, whom he alternately scolds and pets. Madam Zoe has taken up her old round of duties. But she has grown old and feeble beyond her years, and will never again be the same cheerful woman she was before the occurrences of that fatal night. One beautiful June day, when the storms and sun- shine of nearly a twelvemonth had alternately beaten upon or brightened the graves of the de- parted, Colonel Falkner stole into the parlor at Glenoaks, where Ethelind was sitting before the open piano, listlessly trifling with the keys. He was unexpected, He had been away for many weeks, on some mission to the West, aud no mes- sage had been sent in advance to herald his coming, But Ethelind’s thoughts were all of him, and the dreary look of pain and longing in her beautiful eyes were enough to touch any heart to pity. At the sound of his step she started and turned round quickly. She could not speak, but hot blushes suffused her face, and she stood up trembling. “T have come back, Ethelind,” he said, ina low, tender voice, extending both his hands. ‘* Where are your words of welcome?” A smothered sob broke from her lips, but she still stood mute and motionless. “This absence has revealed to me my own heart,” he went on. “I know now in precisely what esti- mation I hold you. Oh. darling, your face has been before me constantly, whether I waked or dreamed, the day-star of my existence. I can never leave you again. Speak to me, love; tell me there is no need.” Lower and lower drooped her head until that flushed, beautiful face was hidden on his bosom, For once silence was far more eloquent than speech. “This later love is the only pure, honest love. of my life,’ Colonel Falkner murmured, in the deep Of Matthew Puf- | tones that always thrilled her heart. “‘ Ah, you lit- tle know how tenderly I shall cherish you!” Two hours later he led her into the adjoining room, where Mrs. Falkner sat alone im the gathering twilight. ** Mother, I crave a warmer greeting than usual,” he said, ‘for Lhave brought not only myself but a daughter, who claims her own share of your affec- tions.’ . Not another word of explanation was needed. Mrs. Falkner stretched forth her hands and said, with tears of happiness trembling in her eyes: **God bless you, my children.” THE END. Baa aN The Best Weekly of Popular, Entertain- ing and Useful Literature Pub- lished in America! 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the more cou- In THE WAVERLEY LIBRARY will hereafter be published A Young Ladies’ First Class Library of Society and Love Romance. SSO: RAG le ey gr Be em SS ast x NS. > x —= see tees LI Y) j 4 ¢ — ry . C: pyrighted, 1884, by Beapie axp ApaMs. Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. ¥., as Second Class Mai Matter. | May 27, 1884, V I $2.50 PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, _ Price, No 4 OL. 1. a Year, No. 98 William Street, New York. Five Cents. « Ae commencing a New Series. No. 1, Ready May 27th. © Fy al Ke Gc “YOUR HUSBAND 1S DEAD, AND THIS SACHEL CONTAINS ALL HIS EFFECTS. AY A BRIDE OF A DAY: with ber gay burden of buman freight, for the re ; August day had been cool, cloudy, aud delight- ss] ful even in New York city. 3 Or, The Mystery of Winifred Leigh. raphe the exparecmse was a party ay cane ee! P girls comprising half of the force of satesia ies a A ROOK . IRI DATARS employed in the great fancy goods house of = BY MRS. MARY REED CROWELL. Vellingham Brothers, Broadway, on the annual CHAPTER I. A FATEFUL MEETING. Tu Columbia on her evening trip cityward from Coney Island was not so crowded as usual trip to the sea-shore given them by their em- ployers. They were for the most pert, gay, happy young people to whom the charming excite- ment of the trip was as rare as enjoyable— ee ta a er a AE Pe wu, Ae SS = . PODS OS Serre POCKET EDITION. Waverley Library. THIRTY-TWO OCTAVO PAGES. e — — A Bride of a Day; or, The Mystery of Winifred Leigh. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell Whe Girl Wife; or, The True and the False. By Bartley T. Campbelt. Ready June 3d Was Et Love? or, Collegians and Sweethearts. By Wm. Mason Turner, M. D. Ready June 10th. Married in Haste; or, A Young Girl’s Temptation. By Rett Winwood. Ready June 17th. Will She Marry Him? or, The Masked Bride. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. Ready June 24th. His Lawtul Wife; or, Myra, the Child of Adoption. By Mrs. Ann 8. Stephens. Ready.July ist. A Fair Face; or, Out inthe World. By Bartley T. Campbell. Ready July 8th. A Mad Marriage; or, The Iron Will. By Mary A. Denison. or, Blinded by By Mrs. Ready July 15th. A Daughter of Eve; Love. Mary Reed Crowell. Ready July 22d. The Broken Betrothal; or, Love versus Hate. Ready July 29th. By Mary Grace Halpine. The Waverley Library, is for sale by all newsdealers, five cents per copy, Or sent by mail on receipt of six cents each. Beadle and Adams, Publishers, No. $8 William street, New York. PP PL PP DDL LD LL LDL ILD LD DD Lt PLA LLP LLL PPL LLLP "