Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 26) (1880 05 11)
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SUAO TE SES \ 5 z "3 ° Vf 5 A Gio B TUK \ Ase ms et NN ; SUM ens ee Pail Ode f $2.5U a year. No: 26... VObo I. ‘\ A PUBLISHED- WEEKLY BY BEADLE AN cents each, May 11, 1880. PRICE, 5 CENTS. CLAUDE CLINTON AND THE OBJECT OF THETR CONVERSATION APPROACHED, AND THE LATTER WAS PRESENTED AS EVERARD AINSLIE, Without & Heart; or, Walking on the Brink. BY COLONEL PRENTISS INGRAHAM. CHAPTER I. 2OD’S REBUKE. OVER hilland valley, over mountain and river. a shadow was creeping —but not the shadow of night, for the day was not far spent, and the sun had yet a long course to run ere its setting. But the skies were overcast with flying clonds, the forerunners of the storm sweeping up from the east, and shielding the earth from sunlight, while the deep rumble of muffled thunder was borne ominously along on the wind, and echoed, like the roll of a hundred guns, among the moun- tain glens. Surveying the scene of beauty, with the rushing river, reflecting back the storm-clouds, at her feet, and mountains rising far heavenward upon the other bank, stood a young girl, gracefully reclining against a huge moss-grown rock, to which was tied a small, rudely made skiff. The maiden seemed lost in deep reverie, while ber eyes were turned earnestly upon a massive stone structure, a mile up the river, and shel- tered by the overhanging hill upon the other bank. The face of the maiden, though bronzed by exposure, was strange! beautiful, while in the large, dark-blue eyes dwelt a weird look that w:, most fascinating. The head was carried with a haughty pose, and every feature was pr fect and stamped with conscious power, even though but seventeen ye:.; had touched with sunlight her golden hair. Though clad in a coarse frock of home-spun, the form of the maid | displayed its perfect symmetry, and her every motion was one of yielu- ing grace. From the rock, against which the young girl leant, a path wound bac’ through a picturesque glen, nestled in which, as if hiding from the di of the outside world, was a pretty cottage—the home of joy and co: tentmenp, it would seem, for that care and sorrow should ever cross tl threshold of that lovely, but humble home, one could not believe. Adown the pathway came a woman with quick and nervous step, a wiry form, cha the sharp, disagreeable face of a scold, while her small, | suspicious eyes snapped with anger. Unobserved by the creamer, she drew near the rock, and then hei shrill tones cut the crisp air, causing the young girl tostart, and her face to flush with anger. “This is the way you do as I tell you, miss? looking after you. ‘An hour ago I told you to bring me some fish from the river, and you have not moved, and it is time for you to drive the cow home.” Well, my life is a misery
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2 WITHOUT A HEART. “T will go after the cow now, auntie,” mildly re- | the roar of its approach sounded louder and louder, plied the girl. ‘*Of course you will, and then youshall go out and fish upon the river, and—”’ “A storm is coming up, and—” ‘““T have eyes, girl: but you are terribly afraid of a ducking—the storm won’t hurt your clothes.” “No, but I might be drowned.” “ And good for you if you was, for, except to stand here looking over at the University, you are good for nothing. “* Just let me catch any of those students sneak- ing round my home, and I guess they'll find it hot for them.” “Tam certain they would—your "presence would add heat to the devil’s dominions,” retorted the girl, stingingly, as her anger arose, and then, with a ligh ag, she bounded away through the woods in search of the cow, which it was her duty to look af- ter, Still scolding, the woman retraced her way to- ward the cottage, while the girl hurried along the river-bank for a short distance, until she suddenly came upon an open space, bordered upon one side by a broad highway traversing the country. As she was about to cross the rae for the t of a bell told her that the object of her search was far distant, she started back and crouched down in the thicket, for, not fifty paces from her, she beheld a strange scene for that lonely spot, miles from village or town. In the opening in the woods stood half a dozen —— upon the face of each rested a gloomy —not reflected thereon by the gathering storm-clouds, but the shadow of approaching evil. It was a mysterious group, a scene, and one which the eye of no woman should ever rest upon, and which, to her d day, ever haunted her og yy for the deed of that morning was one not to be banished from her thoughts. Two of those six men were crouched upon the ground before open cases filled with glittering in- struments, while two more conversed earnestly to- gether and in low tones, as though they feared the wings might bear their words away, to carry sorrow and m into some far-away home. The two principal figures in the six were, one pac- ing quickly to and fro, the other standing pe ht, his arms crossed upon his broad breast, eyes cast down. Both were persons who would attract attention in any assemb! , and yet very unlike each other, for one was a blonde, with the bluest eyes and the goldenest hair, and long, drooping mustache; the other the darkest brunette, with and beard and eyes as black as jet. The face of the former was one that any woman or child would gaze into and trust; the face of the latter neither man, woman or child could read—it was hard, stern, and strikingly handsome. Unnoticed herself, the young girl crouched down in the thicket, afraid to retreat, afraid to move, and with straining eyes gazed upon the scene, following each movement of each individual in the group. That the shadow of death rested on them she imew, and her heart almost ceased beating when the two men who had been conteesiy together ap- proached the two who were standing apart, and placed in their hands two long, glittering weapons of deadly look. ’ A few moments more, and the six men stood erect, the two who had most attracted the attention of the young girl face to face, and about fifteen paces apart—the others upon one side. Then a silence fell upon all, and even the birds in the woods ceased their song, and only the angry roar of the distant tempest broke upon the ear, and all nature seemed hushed with dread. An instant only, but an age of agony to all who were there, passed away, and then in metallic tones, like the voice of a destroying angel, cut forth the words: ** Gentlemen! are you ready ?” Each man, who stood there upon the brink of the grave, looking calmly into eternity, merely bowed essent, and again the crisv tones of the second cut the air with startling distinctness: But the flash of the pistols was unnoticed in the blinding ee. of lightning that swept the scene— the crack of the weapons unheard in the terrific crash of heaven's artillery, while from its towering ey fede rootlets a massive tree standing not far off was shivered , Bag stroke buried upon it from the siorm-clouds above. With a ery of terror the maiden sunk forward the green sward, but ere her eyes closed in unconsciousness she beheld the dark-visaged man lying full Jength upon the stained with e’s crimson tide—his foe standing erect, his face covered by his hands, while his com- panions were crouching down as though in very fear at God’s awful presence upon the lonely scene they } had sought for a meeting across an open grave. CHAPTER IT, PECKING AT THE BARS, Wren the maiden returned to consciousness, for the had swooned away at the, to her, awful scene, she found herself alone, for no longer was the open space occupied by those who had been there; their cruel work was done and they had gone, With an effort of control the young girl regained her composure, though her face still wore a white, seared look, and she glanced staringly toward the spot where had lain the form of the man who had fallen before the aim of his foe. How long she had been unconscious she knew not; but it could not have been many minutes, for the storza had not vet Lroken upon the earth. though #3, is und, his forehead ‘ and the lightning flashed wildly around her, causing her to shrink with very dread, The rapid tinkle of the bell showed that the cow was hurrying homeward to escape the tempest, and the girl was about to follow her example, when a white piece of paper attracted her attention It lay near where the dead man had fallen, and she walked timidiy toward the spot and picked up the object that had caught her eye. It was a letter in an open envelope, and infolded therein was a photograph of a beautiful woman, young, yet sad-looking. The envelope was addressed to: “Colonel Roslyn Roselle.” Nothing else was written thereon, and then the girl, with a curiosity that might be excused under the circumstances, read the few lines that were written upon the scented, tinted paper. hey were as follows: “My own Rostyn: “Av Home. “T ama prisoner in my own home, for my brother returned to-day, and from some source was heard the story of our love. “By a faithful servant I send you this note, in- closing my photograph, and beg you to at once leave the, coun for Clarence has sworn totake your life, and well I know that he will keep his word. “Go, Koslyn, for — and when you are safe from harm, then I come and seek you, and to- gether we will go through life. “Now I cannot say more. Wear my likeness next your heart, and it will, I pray God, protect you. “When you have gone elsewhere, write to our old address, and I will come to you. “ Ever loving you, I bid you a hopeful farewell. “ FLUORICE.”’ “She is a beautiful woman, but her image did not protect him she loved; yes, I see all now—she is strangely like the one who fired the death-shot; the brother ad the lover |” Thus mused the maiden, as she returned the paetoeran® and letter to the envelope, and securely d them in her bosom, while her flushed and eyes sparkled as she continued musing half aloud. “Oh, that I could be once more in the beautiful world [ knew as a child, but from which, for four years, I have been banished. *1 am beautiful, I know, and beauty is power. for I have this day seen one man die at the han of another, and a woman lured him on to his ruin. “Girl that Iam, I feel that I could win hearts— ay, make men my very slaves; but my power must not be felt, for I am imprisoned here, and all I have in the world to care for me isa woman I hate, even though kindred blood flows in.our veins. to the beautiful world and beautiful women can? So saying the maiden cast another shuddering gape upon the red stain which the earth was slow- y drinking up, and with a light step bounded away toward the river bank. Arriving there she found the waters growing darker and darker under the gloom of the heavens, and beheld that the storm was gathering its skurry- ing legions of storm-clouds together for the fray, which she knew would burst with fury soon. Yet, though she dreaded the shock of the tempest, and trembled at the thought of facing the danger on the treacherous waters, she feared the shrill voice and rude hand of her. hated aunt still more, and springing into her rude boat, she seized the oars and sped off over the waters—determined to face that which few men dare face. As she pulled out upon the waters, lying in wait as it were, to ingulf the daring girl who thus defied their power when lashed to fury by the angry winds the shrill voice of her aunt was again heard, an the next moment she appeared upon the scene. One glance out over the river, and she beheld the light skiff bounding away, and loudly she cried for her to come back. But, unheeding, the maiden sped swiftly on, and a troubled look came upon the woman’s face, while she cried anxiously, ‘‘} y God! she will surely drown—curse her recklessness—no, no, no, she must not drown, for though I hate her, yet she must not die, or my life-long plot will fail, and I will lose all, riches, revenge and all. “Come back, at fool that you are, do you not see your danger? Come back, come back!” In vain the ery; the maiden still kept on until she reached mid-river, and there, throwing out her an- chor, she calmly sat down to kidnap from the dark waters the evening meal for herself and scolding aunt, while she really enjoyed the fright of the wo- man whom she spied upon the shore, and whose voice she plainly heard, though heeded not. As the lightning flashed more brightly, and the storm waxed more viciously, and the thunder rolled with deeper and more threatening sound, the face of the woman grew paler, and louder and louder she shrieked to the thoughtless girl. Louder and louder rung out her cries, until the long-coming storm at length was upon the waiting scene with a burst of fury, and before the scattering winds the waters were lashed into madness, a dark- ness like unto night fell upon the earth, and with terror at the violence of the tempest, the woman | shrunk back under the shelter of the huge rock, ery- ing out, ‘She is lost, she is lost! have washed over her,. more.” Then, with a des Yes, the waves id I shall never see her ry. as though the hopes a of a lifetime were shattered at one fell blow, she sunk down and buried her face in her bony hands. CHAPTER III. THE YOUNG MASTER OF THE YACHT. WITHIN the massive walls of the University, upon vhich the eyes of the maiden had been turned from »osition near the rock, sat a poung man, indo- iG@? gazing from the window of his comfortably furhished room, and apparently in deep and melan- choly thought In his hand he held an open letter, and it was what he had therein read that clouded his brow and set him to musing. Apparently twenty-five years of age, he was yet several years younger, for his life of wild dissipation had added maturity and hard lines to his face which otherwise would have been unmarred. Still it was a handsome face, dark, fascinating, in spite of its expression, and in the eyes dwelt a look hard to fathom. He was attired in the hight of fashion, and his chamber was furnished almost luxuriantly. Around the walls hung sketches and paintings from bis own pencil and brush, while a guitar upon the floor, and a =e upon the table, proved that he was a lover of music. Other articles of | exrceemny a pair of foils, a shot- gun, and a brace of pistols, hung upon the wall, and a decanter of brandy and glasses were upon a side- But, unmindful of the interior comforts of his temporary home, all of which portrayed the student of wealth, refinement and unlimited indulgence, the young lord of this luxuriant chamber wistfully gazed without, yet seemingly unconscious of the ng gee ing storm, looming grandly up from behind the hills upon the river’s other shore. ntly he raised the open letter in his hand, and read, written in a delicate, feminine hand: “Oh, Claude, if you would but relinquish your wild life, then I would love you so dearly; but as it is now, this must be the last letter I must ever write to you. “Blame not, Claude, my brother Mark, for he cer- tainly should advise me of your wild course at col- lege, and being constantly near you has every op- portunity to know you as you are. “Tf it were not for your fast life Mark would a ly see me one day become your wife; but, as it :" he forbids me to write to you again, and, though hate sadly to give you up, I must do so--at least, until you prove yourself worthy of my love; then ail will be well again, Claude, and I need not reproach you more. “ Remember, Claude, when you have proven your- self the true man I long to see you, come to me, and I will prove how dearly I love you.” The student paused, raised his eyes again to the scenery without, and said: “Poor, darling Louise; you are worth the sacrifice, and I will pos myself worthy of your love— Ha! yonder is that fair maid again at the rock—I would give a cool hundred to speak to her—and@ J will.” ‘ As if instantly forgetting his new resolve, and ther“ maiden who had temporarily won him away from his evil life, Claude Clinton, the handsome, eating, wild and reckless heir of a largefortune, arose quick- ly, and, shoving the letter into his pocket, seized his cap and rapidly descended from rooms to the campus. i Down the gravel walk to the river walked the handsome student, until he halted upon a pier, against which were moored several small sail- boats, or yachts, belonging to the students and the college. Into one of the largest and handsomest of these Claude Clinton sprung and instantly raised the sail and cast off. A light breeze was blowing, and the little = flided away, and yet, though the student ew that the i ig storm must soon break upon him, he showed no fear, but boldly began to tack across the river. After twenty minutes’ sailing, Claude Clinton beheld a light skiff shoot out from the other shore and row directly for the middle of the river. ‘By Heaven! she is a brave girl to coolly throw out her line in the face of the tempest. Ha! there comes a warning: I must luff up and reef.” So saying the student brought his little craft u into the wind, lowered his sail and soon had a snugly reefed down. As he again sprung to his tiller, the storm was ag him, and at once he knew his danger and felt also, that if he could not aid the young girl in her frail skiff she would be lost. On sped his yacht, held firmly on her course, but running lee under, pressed over by the mac winds, while the waters were lashed into a foamin;; eon and around him all was almost as dark a: night. e had already coursed the position of the skiff, ere the storm struck it, and directly toward the spot he held his way, his eyes narrowly searching the waters. A moment more and a white object caught his eye —tt was the up.urned skiff ! Searchingly he scanned the mad waters, but no- where visible was the form for which he looked, and in a tone of real anguish, he cried: “My God! she is lost! Poor, poor girl.” CHAPTER IV. A GIRL’S RESOLVE TO CONQUER. Wuaewn Claude Clinton felt certain that the maiden was lost, he put his little craft about, for it was buffeted hard by the cruel waves, and was endeav- oring fo reach the University pier, when, suddenly. he deseried a human form in the waters.
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One glance, and he recognized the maiden, an pe ey swimmer, struggling hard for life and nearly exhausted, yet still struggling. He recognized her by the long golden braids of hair floating behind her, and instantly cried out in ringing tones: “Keep where you are, miss, and I will run to wind- ward of you.” Up _to that moment the maiden had believed herself lost, yet, since her frail skiff had capsized, she had determined to struggle for life. Glancing behind her at the call, for she had not be- fore seen the yacht, she instantly felt revived with hope, waved her hand in reply, and the next mo- ment was drawn on beard the little craft. Claude Clinton had often before seen the maiden upon the river, and time and again had endeavored to approach her, but always she had eluded him, while she had as often admired the handsome young student, and shunned him through dread of her aunt’s displeasure, though she loved to meet him. Now the two were face to face, and to the student the maiden owed the preservation of her life. “Shall I take you to your home, miss?” asked Claude Clinton, paring with rapture into the beauti- ful face before him. “Tf you please. The wind comes from the other shore, and we can run in under the shelter of the land,” replied the maiden, in the sweetest voice the student had ever heard. Instantly he put the craft away on its course for the other shore, and afew minutes after the sharp w the rock, crouching — which was the old scold, cursing, praying bewailing in the same breath. The arrival of the boat startled her, and seeing the maiden safe she at — a tirade of abuse against her, which Claude Clinton, and further astonished was he when the old virago gave him a sample of her temper. Too thorou the Once having seen the maiden, and looked down in- to her passion-stirring eyes, Claude Clinton was de- termined to in meet her, even if he had to face old Madam y, as aunt was called, and come under a ——_ fire from her sharp tongue. But a week ela ere he could accomp his object, and then he had to run his ~— boldly u to her little boat as she was fishing in the river, an in full view of the University and the cottage in the len. ~ From that day Claude Clinton and Eve Ainslie met constautly, and the image of poor Louise was taken from out the student’s heart, and the beautiful face of the cottage maiden enshrined there, for the young man seemed to love her with his whole heart. As for Eve Ainslie, though a mere child in years, _ she was a woman in form and mind, and her am- _, bitious nature caused her to determine to make __ ©laude Clinton her slave from the first. - Though thankful to him in her inmost heart for having saved her life, and admiring him exceedingly, he was yet not the man to win her whole love, to stir the deep >r feelings of her nature. Still he was a stepping-stone to other triumphs, and she would place her tiny foot upon his neck and thereby lift herself from obscurity to a position in the world, Finding that he could not make a toy of the maid- en, country girl though she was, and fascinated by her, Claude Clinton came boldly out and asked her to become his wife. “You have told me that your father wishes you to remain at college the balance of the term?” quietly said Eve. “ True; but I have thought of a plan which, if you will to, will cause all to come right in the énd. Listen and I will tell you,’’ and Claude Clinton made known to Eve Ainslie a plan he had formed, which, for reckless daring, has found few students in a University’s walls bold enough to risk the chances of its success, CHAPTER V. THE SECRET DISCOVERED. “Wet, Leslie, what do you think of the new stu- dent—Clinton’s chum?” “T think if he wore petticoats I would fall desper- ately in love with him, for his face is as beautiful t as any woman's I ever beheid.”’ “ Indeed it is, and his form as griceful, while he at once went tothe head of all his classes. He’l strip the university of it’s prizes, I fear. Yonder he comes now, and he seems to be Claude Clinton's very shadow.” The speakers were two students, standing on the campus. One was Mark Leslie, the brother of Louise, who had written so kindly to Claude Clinton, urging him to reform his evil habits. AS Mark's companion spole, Claude Clinton and the object of their conversation approached, and the latter was presented as Hverard Atnslie, Mark Leslie greeted him warmly, and gazed earn- estly into his wondrously handsome face, and upon his slight, graceful form, and from that moment, in his mind, aseed of suspicion was sown that was des- forth bitter fruit for him to pluck. The more Mark Leslie saw of Everard Ainslie, the more his suspicions were confirmed, until he was thoroughly convinced that he was right in his sup- position. } Knowing Claude Clinton well, he also liked him well, (hough he knew him to be rav and reckless and ‘WITHOUT A HEART. leading a life which no young girl could safely jus: tify or overlook. Yor this reason he had urged upon his sister Louise to banish Claude Clinton from her heart, for, living as they did in the same neighborhood, they had been friends from earliest childhood. Knowing that Louise was believed engaged to Claude Clinton, by many of his fellow-students, and convinced that he was playing some deep game, and dragging down to ruin some innocent girl, Mark Leslie one day sought an interview with his fellow- student in his own rooms. What passed in that interview none ever knew, but angry words were heard, followed by a pistol- shot, a cry, a heavy fall, and Claude Clinton fled from the college, a hunted man, haunted with the thought that he had taken the life of Mark Leslie who, up to a short while before, had been his most intimate friend. As the students and professors rushed into the chambers, they beheld a scene that filled them with horror, for Mark Leslie lay prone “pes the floor, er from a wound in his side. Su aid was instantly summoned, and the wounded student received every attention. His companions gathered outside the door and convers- ed in suppressed whispers, while others started in hot of the murderer, for none believed that Mark Leslie could live, mores | the group outside the door, and d and silent, stood the new scholar, Everard , un- mindful of any of the questions addressed to him. At length he entered the room, for, being the chum of Claude Clinton, he was admitted, and walking to the ao whereon lay the wounded man, he aid, nervously: “Why did Claude Clinton do this deed?” Mark Leslie turned his splendid eyes upon the student, and said, faintly: “Come closer to me.’ Everard Ainslie placed his delicate ear near to the lips of the sufferer, who said, in a w ; “IT know you as you are, Others will soon know, so leave the enn 4 at once.” Ys From my heart I thank you. You are a noble “This m=st not be allowed,” broke in the surgeon, angrily, and stooping, Everard Ainslie pressed a kiss upon the forehead of Mark Leslie, and turned away quickly, while all present glanced at him, in sur- rise, at his sudden and strange mark of affection or his fellow student. pact Walking to an escritoire in the next room, Everard Ainslie took therefrom a large roll of bank-bills, a bundle of papers or letters, and a silver-mounted pistol and foveiea dirk. These he quickly secreted about his person, and pent ee his cloak across his arm, he took up his hat and walked rapidly from the room, after one earnest, searching glance around him. Ten minutes after, he had gone forth into the night alone, without one word of farewell to fellow student or ae ean and forever turned his back upon the university where he had passed months of, appar- ently, contented student life. CHAPTER VI. THE HIGHWAY TO RUIN. Wuen Claude Clinton fled from the room, after the death-blow aimed at the heart of Mark Leslie, he dashed at once to the stables of the institution, and in five minutes after was flying along the mountain highway mounted upon his own steed, for a horse was another luxury the young millionuire indulged in as a means of education. For several hours he Fn ene his steed hard, his mind in a chaos of troubled thought, his brow knit- ted and teeth firmly set, while, ever and anon, he would glance nervously behind him, either in fear of pursuit, or from a fear that he would behold in chase the phantom of poor Mark Leslie. ““My God! thus rushes my life into a new wicked- ness, and I tread the threshold of manhood as a murderer,” he hissed forth between his teeth. Then, alter awhile he continued: “But he was too bitter toward me—he brought it upon himself. Poor, poor Mark, you have fallen by my hand, and over me rushes the remembrance of our happy boyhood—the ee A joyous hours we have passed together—and uise, yes, Louise! what will she think of me now? ‘Curse me bitterly as her brother’s murderer! Come, you brute; you but creep along,” and the sharp spurs sunk deep into the flanks of ‘the tired animal, while, in disjointed sentences, the unhappy man still continued to muse aloud. * And all for her /” he cried, bitterly—“ for a wo- man yet a girl, and who I verily believe hates me, “Curses rest on her, and upon me for being a fool to marry her! Oh! that I were free from her—that | could fly from her memory and from the stain on my conscience, “No, it will not wash out—blood-stains are indelible —ha! now that I am forced to fly like a hunted hound, she will seek my home, make. known the damnable secret that she is my wife, and revel in | my wealth—for her silvery tongue, her beautiful eyes will touch the heart of even my stern father— curse her, oh, curse her— Ha!" Claude Clinton suddenly drew rein, for before him loomed up an ivy-grewn church, surrounded by the ; | glittering monuments of the dead, tined to germinate rapidly and in the end bring | The moon had riseu and shed down upon the lone- ly and sacred spot a flood of silvery light, and the scene was most impressive; all was silence and de- sertion; for, excepting a glimmering light from the window of the distant parsorage, it seemed as if | ory the dead were near, ‘By Heaven! how taken this rord/ Yer, that I should have same old church, dQ i with its dead sentinels around it, for, surely, the dead guard it from intrusion. Py the Heaven abcve me 1 wil! doit.” The last part of the sentence was almost shrieked, and instantly springing from his horse, Claude Cli-- ton hitched him to the fence, and walked with d-- termined step toward the lonely church. To his surprise, he found the door partly open, and murmured. “They fear no intrusion here.’ Entering, he soon found himself within the sacred edifice, and the moonlight streaming through the windows enabled him to see his way. It was a sacred spot, a lonely place for a man fly- ing from: justice, after aiming a death-blow at his truest friend, and Claude Clinton was fully im- pressed with the scene and walked with hesitating step up the broad aisle. In front of the chancel he paused, and glanced nervously around him, while he murmured elovd, “ Here we knelt and were made man and wife, cud here I curse her now!” A moment he stood as if overwhelmed by the rush of bitter thoughts upon him, and then ‘he sprun lightly over the low rail and crossed the chance toward the vestry-room door. The knob turned to his touch, and he entered the room to start back with a half cry of fright, for, = the table before the long window, sat a human orm, A closer glance reassured him; he saw that the man was asleep, for his head was bowed forward upon his desk—his hand, still holding a pen, rested upon his unfinished sermon, and regular breathing came from the ministerial lungs. ht upon the sleeper fell the Jf of moonlight, and displaying also a candlestick with empty socket, for the candle had buraed out some time ‘*A dry sermon indeed, to drive its com fore. poser to sleep,” t. “+, ned Claude Clinton, with cruel wit, and } then, not to be turned aside from the purpose he hed in view, he cautiously crossed the igen toward a bookcase, one door of which was open. Noiselessly he searched for a moment, and then drew from a shelf a large and time-worn book—the records of the church. With the moonlight streaming down upon the open pase, he soon found that for which he was in search, and stealthily tore the leaf from the volume which held records of the marriages and deaths of the parish for half a century. The tearing sound awoke the sleeper; the minister arene to his feet, and beholding a stranger before him, as he believed robbing the church of its silver communion service, which was also kept in the bookcase, he rushed upon him and held with firm grasp ere Claude Clinton could fly. Hastily shoving the stolen record into his bosom, the young student cried, sternly: “ Gnhand me, old man?” “Never! you vile creature, who would rob the sanctuary of your God, I will hold you and deliver you to justice,’’ cried the thoroughly aroused, in- dignant, and fearless old minister. ‘Unhand me, I say,” almost shrieked Claude Clin- ton, and though a powerful man, he in vain endeay- ored to shake off the firm clutch that held him. “Never!” still replied the man of God, and with a bitter oath, Claude Clinton, drew from his pocket a keen knife; the blade flashed in the moonlight, and with a crunching sound sunk deep into the bosom of the py rg of God's sanctuary. **Oh! God, have mercy and forgive him this deed !’’ cried the old man, staggering back, while the blood from bis wound spurted over his murderer. Wildly the long arms were thrown about, then the hands clasped, asif in prayer, a deep groan came from the pallid lips, and the wounded man fell dead across the table, whereon, a short time before, he bad been writing his Sabbath sermon. With a cry of horror at his deadly act, Claude Olin- ton rushed from the sacred edifice he had desecrated, and bounding into his saddle, darted away at the (- most speed of his horse. In his terror and haste to fly from the scene of death, he was unmindful that the record he had taken life to get possession of f¢ Il from his bosom, and fluttered down the road before the balmy breeze of the autumn night. CHAPTER VIL. THE STAINED RECORD. EverarD AInstie left the university vended his way rapidly down the moo leading to the village, a mile distant. Arriving there he sought out a livery-stable ar? hired a man to drive him to the city, thirty miles dis- lant. What thoughts parsed through the mind of Ever- crd Ainslie, as he drove swiftly along the country road, it were hard to tell; but certainit was that the criver found him a most taciturn companicn for a ruidnight Crive, for seldom did he speak, except to urge on the willing borses. 3y a strange fatality Everard Ainslie had taken the Fame road over which Claude Clinton had passed but three hours ahead cf him, and as a turn in the hig h- way brought him in full view of the cld ivy-grown church, be started, flushed, and paled vividly, al- though he little knew what a ghastly object lay within its dark portals, ‘Yes, “tis the very same. wandered forth in life. Where shall 1 end?” half aloud said the young student, and then he cried: ‘Hold on, driver!” As the vehicle drew up Everard Ainslie sprung to the ground, and stood for a moment gazing upon the quaint old church, a feeling ci ewe creezing over him, as he glanced nervously upcn the mcnu- ments of the dead. Suddenly to his very feet finttercd a cheet afiehit> | paper. hlawn alone hs + unde, ard ghted roau, From yonder church I
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4. Stooping he took it up, and seeing writing thercon, glanced closely upon it. Instantly a cry escaped from his lips, and pressing his left hand to his breast, he staggered back, his face a mirror of conflicting emotions. It was a large sheet of paper, fully twenty inches inlength and eight in breatlth—torn from a large book; it was the same sheet, Sampled an | spotted with blood, which Claude Clinton had unknowingly dropped as he mounted his horse to fly from the scene of his cruel deed. That stained record told the story—it told that upon a certain spring day, some four months before, Chauile Clinton and Eve Ainslie had been bound in the holy bonds of wedlock, before the chancel of that dead-encircled church, by one who now lay stark and stiff in the sanctuary of his heavenly Mas- ter. For a moment Everard Ainslie seemed like one dazed by his discovery, and then he muttered in a husky voice: ‘Tn God’s name! how can this have come here— na it is stained with blood—ha! Claude Clinton came his wry. “Yes, it was his act, to tear this from the book of records; yet, why this stain? **] fear, yet I know. not what I fear, but thank God I hold this in my hands, for were he to possess it, I would be disowned and dishonored. ‘ “Ha, ha, ha, Claude Clinton, I hold the winning hand! **You have tired of me, and would cast me off, Though flying for ead life you came here to destroy this record; but I have it, and the stain upon it may one day bring you to the gallows. “Well, [ must on, and ma jm him, and—i/—I—do? But Tl no to myself. d “Ha! I'll find out the secret of this red stain. Driver, await _me here.” ] So saying, Everard Ainslie walked with determined step toward the ivy-green structure, placed his hand, firmly upon the latch, but hesitated, shuddering as though a mortal fear was upon him. Regaining his Set contra, he entered the sacred edifice, and glanced timidly around the gloomy, I may yet meet whisper that even spot. With faltering step he walked along the aisle until he stood within the chancel. Not a sound broke the solemn silence, and it seemed like sacrilege to there intrude. He had nerved himself, however, to the task, and was determined to proceed if the very specters of the dead arose before him. Crossing the chancel he entered the vestry-room, and with a ery of horror started back. There in the moonlight, his yee face upturned, his eyes open and staring a glassy stare, lay the poor rector. Bounding forward, Everard Ainslie gave one look into the-marble-like face, placed his hand upon the silent heart, and then, with a cry of mingled joy, sorrow, fright and despair, clutched at his head as if in frenzy, and rushed from the church. — Springing into the waiting vehicle he cried, in ringing tones: “Drive on! for the love of God, drive on!” Startled by the wild manner of the youth, the driver plied his whip and they seemed to fairly fly over the moonlit road, and when the gray dawn of day broke in the east, the lonely church and. its terrible secret were miles away—then, and then y, when the rosy tint of morn fell upon his face, Everard Ainslie drive from him the horror that grasped at his heart, Arriving in the city, Everard sought an obscure hotel, dismissed his driver, and the college student bsp launched upon Destiny’s highway, to tread the thorn lyr of life without one protecting hand ed forth to guide from evil. CHAPTER VIII. BROTHER AND SISTER. “Dean! dead! and by the hand of my own yrother. “Oh, God! is there aught in this worid for me now to live for?” The speaker was a woman of rare loveliness in face and form, although her features were stamp- ed with an almost despairing sorrow. She was attired ina loose morning-wrapper, that was most becoming to her, and was pacing to. and fro, with a nervous tread, from one room into the other, for the door between the two was open. The rooms were large, elegantly furnished, and most comfortable—the one a parlor, the other a bedchamber, A piano and a guitar, proved that the occupants were possessed of a musical taste, while numerous books scattered hera and there showed literary musements for idle hours, In her hands, as she paced to and fro, the young girl, for she seemed scarcely more than eighteen, 1eld a leathern wallet containing papers and bank- notes. “This was taken from him after he fell, and brought to me—but what care I for these papers? They do not bring me back my poor slain Roslyn. “ Dead! can I realize that he is dead? that I shall never again touch his lips, his hand—that an open ve lies between us—a grave of my own brother's digging? ‘Oh! Clarence! Clarence! you deemed you were avenging your sister’s honor—but you were crushing her to the earth in despair. . “Now the secret must be known—yes, I can tell it now, for he is dead; yes, I can make Clarence Erskine, brother though he is of mine, shrink with . horror to know that he has killed, not my destroyer, but my hush nd! strete WITHOUT A HEART. BY, Clarence Erskine, you have slain one who | was innocent, and— Yes, they say he faced death boldly; for why should he fear to die when his heart was uosullied? **Ha! who can that be?” and the woman started, as a tap came upon the door. A second time it was repeated; but she seemed to have lost all power of speech to bid the one without to enter; but stood staring at the closed portal, as though she expected to see some/dread specter enter the room. Then the docr slowly opened, and with a ery of horror the woman recognized the man who entered. It was the same tall, graceful form, the same earnest blue eyes that had faced Colonel Roslyn Roselle and sent him to his death, It. was Clarence Erskine, the brother of Florice— the avenger of a sister’s honor. Strangely alike were the two; but in the eyes of the sister there sparkled a fire almost kindled of hatred; in the eyes of the brother there was a look of intense sadness, ** Ha, h of the pul less, you have dared vollute this t ! **Do you not fear that an srsnuing “adie yore e I ‘*‘ Away! away! How dare you contaminate this room with your presence?’’ and Florice. pointed to- ward the door with a manner most threatening, a fape manent with the wildest passions, . *Florice, hear me—”’ began the brother, but the woman broke'in with: ** What!.do you dare to palliate the wrong you have done me?” T dare tell you, Florice, that your name was ban- ipa abant, torn with dishonor, and that I sought an explanation from you, and you gave me none. | went to Colonel He, and his answer was that he had no explanation to make. * Believing you yet innocent of wrong, and fore to. check you ere you were drawn over the brink o crime, I challenged Roslyn. Roselle, for he would make me no promise never to see you again, knowing his past life as I did, and remembering that a mystery hung about him which none could fathom, I was determined to end the unfortunate relations oe To send, to t f i “To thisie rotect:my sister from a design- villain, as Tbelke and m eved him to be, I was willing to s ow, when and I have the curse u . brother raised his hands to his face and. shuddered as bitter memory swept over him like a tidal wave of sorrow, ney oe 9 life. But, Florice s like a statue, and no word es- caping her lips, after a while Clarence Erskine con- tinued: ** You sorrow for a husband, slain by a brother's hand, Florice; your. heart will ache, but time will heal the wound, while I, my sister, will, as each year rolls by, but suffer more, for blood-stains wash not out; they stain the hand, the heart, the brain—hold! listen to me while I tell you that to-day I leave my father’s house. “T have ample means, ay, a generous income, and I will live apart from you—to-day our paths in life y my presence I will not continually bring up before you a phantom of your buried love and I care not to sit constantly between you and the im specter of death. ** But, Florice, 1 am still your brother, and our fa- ther is ‘journeying toward the grave, and he is all you have to love you; yet, when he is gone, when youare left alone inthe world, and you need a friend, a brother's love, come to me as in the olden time when you were my little sister, ‘Cheer up, now, Florice; the grave has divided all who loved each other in the past—the grave will divide all who love each other in the future, Florice.”’ ’ A moment more and he was gone; yet still Florice stood staring at the door, a grim smile upon her lips, a. look of sorrow swelling up into her beautiful eyes. divide, for CHAPTER IX. JUST IN TIME. Atona a lonely country road, traversing the moun- tain district of New York State, rolled a traveling qurrene. drawn by a pair of fine black horses, and riven by a colored coachman. In the vehicle were two persons, an elderly gentle- man, of perhaps fifty-five, with the bearing of a sol- dier, and a face full of nobleness and generosity, while his snow-white hair and mustache gave him an expression of almost womanly sweetness. —__ he person by his side was Florice Erskine; as beautiful as when the reader last beheld her, and ee look of settled sadness upon her face which ad not rested there four months before. Clad in the deepest OUTER, it was yet most be- coming to her; but the sunshine of life was gone, and the horizon of her future was shadowed by clouds which were not tinged with a silver lining. “Father, how long will it take us to reach our new home?” suddenly asked Florice, with a partly wearied look upon her lovely face. “ Perhaps two weeks, daughter, for you know we will not Jeave our carriage until, we reach Virginia; " > Ay he, — Henry can come on alone, while we dash on by rail.” | “And you thinkI shall like Wildidle, as you call the estate, father?’’ _ “Yes, Florice; it is one of the grandest old homes in the South, and as you know, belonged to an old army comrade of mine; but he ran through with his | fortune after the death of his wife; the place was | advertised for sale, and, remembering what it was, ) when I visited him twelve years ago, I purchased it, thinking it would be a delightful retreat for you, and | ha hy could also forget the turmoil of the busy world. ‘Therefore I had it + pee in thorough repair, re- furnished and improved, and I know that we will both love Wildidle.”’ | ys oe Clarence? he will remain in the city, I sup- pose 7% It was the first time that Clarence Erskine had ever heard the name of her brother upon his dangh- ter’s lips since the fatal duel in which Clarence had slain Roslyn Roselle, and the father looked quickly at her, and then said, after a moment’s hesita- on: “Yes, Clarence will remain in the city, and _prac- tice his ee gee in which he is certainly making a name—though why he should worry himself with the troubles of other people I know not, as his for- tune, independent of what he has from me, is most generous. ‘His conscience needs quieting—he must work, or —co mad,” almost savagely said Florice; but, ere her father could reply, the vehicle came to a sudden halt; the horses swayed violently to one side; the erack of a yistol followed, and then came a half- shriek of pain, a heavy fall, and two heavily-bearded faces peered into the carriage windows. The sudden halt, the shot, the cry, together with the dark faces that bent upon her, caused Florice to faint away, just as her father leaned forward to draw his pistol from one of the carriage pockets, where he kept it in traveling. But, the muzzle of a revolver was in his face, and a stern voice cried: ‘Hold, old gentleman, for you have too man around you to play that game. Give us your gold, not lead, and be quick about it too, for weare no? men to brook delay,” said the man at the other window. ; Feeling that the odds were against him, Colonel Erskine determined to yield, and said quietly: *T have but little gold with me, but that I shail surrender at your demand.” “About how much, boss?’’ impudently asked the first speaker. ‘Perhaps several hundred dollars—”’ “It won't do—come, boys, we'll take the girl, and when he wants to give a few thousand for her re- ore. he can get her—” “ Hold! you would not take my daughter?” cried the fond father, horrified at the very thought. “That's just what we would do,if she was your wife. We need money, boss.” As if to carry out threat the er Jaid his hand heavily upon the unconscious Florice, when, sucdenly, there came a cry of alarm from a third who was holding the horses. Instantly both men at the carriage windows star- ted back the one to fall to the ground insensible from a blow upon the head from a heavy cane, the other to dart into the forest, Fron p followed by his conueesees who stood at the head of the horses. Released of their restraint, the animals would have dashed away, and Colonel Erskine and his daughter might have n dragged to a horrible death; but a lithe form sprung to their bits and checked them while the colonel sprung from the carriage to the ai of him who had proved himself the preserver of him- self and Florice, and boldly came their rescue at the risk of his own life. CHAPTER X. NO LONGER A WAIF. Wuen Colonel Erskine beheld the one who had so daringly aided him, he was struck with surprise, for, instead of some bold farmer, as he yb Pom him to te, he saw a youth of apparently eighteen, with a slender, graceful form, and a face of almost feminine beauty, though upon it rested a look of determina- tion and daring hardly reconcilable with the features of a girl. : * Besides a suit of dark cloth, with loose pants, and a blouse coat, he wore a pair of top boots and a slouch hat that shaded his face, and half hid the clustering, short curls around his neck. At his feet lay a small bundle, and in his hand be carried a short cane, the same with which he had felled the highwayman to the ground. “Your coachman is not dead, as I believed, sir,” said the youth, pleasantly, as he pointed to the ne- gro driver, who was seated on the other side of the vehicle, lugubriously rubbing his head, upon which was a slight flesh-wound, cut by the et of the robbers, and as they believed killin him. Fortunately it had only stunned him. “Thank God! Toby, you are all right,’ said his master, going and aiding the negro to arise. *T ain’t so sure o’ dat, massa; I dun got a hole in my head, and de bullet rattle about in dar like a pea in a gourd.” ‘Nonsense, Toby; it only cut the skin; look after the horses while I see to poor Florice,”’ and Colonel Erskine returned to the carriage, while Toby re- Ms fad “Young m am Ia dead nigger, or am I not, dat’s de question?” ay “You are all right, Toby; that wornd will be all right in a few days, thanks to the thickness of your skull. Here, take hold of the horses while I see , which was the hardest, my stick or yonder fellow’s * anal
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a eee ed head,” and the youth pointed to the ‘highwayman, who lay still where he had fallen. When Colonel Erskine reached the carriage he found Florice recovered from her swoon, and quietly glancing out of the open door. “Thank God, Florice, we have passed through a terrible ordeal almost unscathed, for poor Toby is more frightened than hurt; and all thanks are due to yonder gallant youth,” “What an almost beautiful face he has,” and Florice gazed intently upon the youth, as he ap- proached and bent over the highwayman. Pressing his hand upon the heart of the man, the young man started back with a half cry of terror, while his face blanched white. “ He ts dead, sir,” he said, slowly, and with a strange earnestness of manner, turni ing to Colonel rskine. “Yes, he is dead; but his death saved my daugh- ter from a terrible fate, I fear, for1 was powerless to aid her, and to you we owe all,” and Colonel Erskine held forth his hand to the young man, who grasped it warmly, while he replied: “Death is terrible in any form, sir, and especially so when caused by one’s own hand; but if I have served you and your daughter I shall not bemoan my act,” and he seemed as if choking back deep feeling that swelled up into his throat. “Well, we must continue on our be and you, sir, must accept a seat in our carriage th us.” “ What will you do with this body?” and the youth pointed, with a shudder, to the dead man. “T will let Toby place it on the rack, and deliver it np to the authorities of the next village we enter. 0 our way, do rp not?” “T was wending my way to the city, sir.” Colonel Erskine glanced earnestly at the humble attire, and then into the frank, fine face, and said: “You have friends there. Tsuppose, and are going there to seek work?” “T have no friends in the world, sir; but I am go- ing to seek work.”” Tnex ressibly sad was the tone in which the reply was given, and it touched the hearts of the kind colonel and his daughter, the latter instantly re- marking: “ Then come with us, and we will be your friends, and my father will give you employment.” ““Assuredly; come with us, for I owe you a debt of gratitude I can never repay. You have no ties to bind you elsewhere, by your own admission, so come Some, sir, you . and live with us.” Two bright tears glistened in the handsome eyes, and his nether lip trembled, as though his heart was brimful of joy and thankfulness, and then he said, quietly: “T speak the truth when I tell you I have no friends. “Tam a mere waif, and tiring of my home left it Had my parents lived—had to seek employment. n a happy one, never would I have that home left it as I did. ‘With too little money to ride, I was going on foot to New York to see what the future in store for me, ; “Thank God, my many long miles of weary travel have resulted in doing a favor, 4 service.” t The frank manner of the youth, and his honest fae carried conviction that he spoke the truth, and Colonel ices eg his hand upon his shoulder, and said, earnestly: “You shall not want for friends in the future, my boy, for I am rich and most willing to aid you. What is your sy Bay tell me.” ‘Everard Ainslie, sir.” “ A good name. ‘Now come; let us be off.” Afew moments more and the body of the high- Wayman was placed securely upon thé rack with the ,» and, mounting his box, Toby drove on, Everard Ainslie oceupying a seat within’ the vehicle, and subdued and thoughtful with the sudden change in his fortunes, for, unused to the ways of the town, he had been fleeced out of nearly all his money u his journey, and, anxious to reach New York, had aah forward on foot, for there was the Mecca of G) “ s—there he believed lay the corner-stone of a ant future, whatever that future might be. CHAPTER XI. DOWN BREAKS! Upon account of the shock to Florice of the high- wayman's attack upon them, Colonel Erskine de- termined to give } 4 _ ae 2 a on. by carnage and go by nstead, es ally as the had already been detained for two days ina iniserét ble country inn by the stupidity of a resident justice, what believed it his duty to hold the whole party for murder. Bidding Toby to drive on by long stages, Colonel Erskine, Florice and Everard Ainslie took the train ata country depot, and were soon ensconced in a comfortable car, whirling away at the rate of thirty miles an hour. More and more impressed in favor of the hand- some youth, Coionel Erskine and -Florice were glad of their meeting with him, and as he possessed a food education and wrote a small but beautiful and, he was tendered the position of private secretary to his benéfactor, whose extensive busi- ness, in looking after his estates, would certainly ire an aid. : tiring in manner, ag and most attentive to every want of Floriee, Everari Ainslie soon wowher heart, and seemed by his pleasant conver- | sation, to gradually draw her away from her sad | memories, Along flew the train, winding like a huge serpent, through lovely valleys and around the base of lofty | hills, until at last the licht of day faded away, and night cast its sable mantle over all. th A Yet still on rushed the thundering train, the ee an HEART. the brave engineer on the watch to protect the hundreds of lives intrusted to his care. Suddenly around the dark base of a hill sped the train. ‘ Unsuspecting of danger were all when the quick eye of the engineer discovered, not a hundred yards ahead, a misplaced rail. Loudly shrieked the whistle to ‘‘down breaks,” and creaking, rattling, clanging, the attentive breaksmen wound them up to their furthest link, for still went forth the ery of warning. Instantly there was a wild excitement among the assengers; a few cries of terror at the sudden jerking of the cars, and then the whistle ceased, a oud roar of steam burst forth; a jar, a terrific shock, a crashing of timbers, a grating of iron, shrieks of despair, groans of agony, and all was a chaos of destruction. All those who could do so, arose to their feet, and struggled from the ruin and death around them, and once free themselves they turned with dread to those who had been less fortunate, ? To add to the horror, there arose shrieks of: pain from children, groans of agony wrung from strong men, and low moans of angaidhe from patient, suffer- ing. women," rom the wreck of the car in which were Colonel Erskine, Florice and Everard Ainslie, one form struggled up, and stood an instant gazing around him, as if dazed or stunned by the shock. It was Everard Ainslie. “Thank God! Iam unhurt; but my poor friends, what of them?’ he murmured, glancing around, vs as if fearing to discover a sight he dare not ace, ‘“*Bverard, here we are.” It was the voice of Colonel Erskine, and his tone was as if it came through shut teeth to keep back a groan of pain. At once the youth sprung forwaed, and, by the light of a lantern, taken from the hands of the dead conductor, he beheld a sight that turned his very heart cold. There lay Colonel Erskine, bis right leg pinned beneath a cushioned seat, his left arm lying broken and helpless by his side. : His right arm encircled the waist of poor Florice, whose pale, upturned face looked like death. “* She has swooned, I hope—she is dead,I fear,” said the poor father, in a whisper. Two men were standing near, seemingly bereft of all presence of mind, as is with many on occasions where nerve is needed. To these Everard called, and, as if awakening to a sense of their duty, they sprung to his aid, and in a few moments the slender, graceful form of Florice was removed from the wreck, and laid upon a mossy bank near by. Then Colonel Erskine was relieved from his painful ition, and laid beside his daugh- ter, while Everard bounded away to seek aid. But he had not far to go, ere he met a host of willing hands and kind hea coming from the village on the hill, for it was early in the night, and many had watched the fiery serpent Bsa along the valley, until they beheld it sudde aoa itself to pieces against the rocky base of the hill. y his exertions in behalf of his friends, Hverard soon had them placed in a carriage, and removed to comfortable quarters in the town, a mile distant, where a kind physician at once attended to them. “ Attend to her first—see, is she dead?’ said Colo- = Erskine, as the man of medicine approached r, Turning to where Florice lay, and silent, the physician laid his hand over the heart, and started. it had ceased to beat. Florice, the beautifu ea for she was nothing more, was dead—hurled from life into eter- nity, in an instant of time. : CHAPTER Xi. THE HOUNDS ON THE QUARRY, Tue day after the fatal accident, Everard Ainslie sat ina room of the hotel by the bedside of ‘Colonel Erskine, who lay unconscious from. delirium) and n. The blow of Florice’s death had hit him hard, or his love for his daughter verged upon idolatry. In an adjoining room, the door open betw the beautiful form of Florice, cold in death, and from his seat by the bedside of the sufferer, young Ains- lie ever and anon glanced timidly upon the face of the dead, Suddenly the door softly opened, and a tall form white, scared face. stood upon the threshold, wi Tt was Clarence Erskine! One glance into that face, and Everard Ainslie blanched, and his form trembled violently. . Once before he had seen that face and form, and under circumstances which he could never forget. : Walking lightly across the room, Clarence Erskine came to the bedside, and with a glance only at Everard, said softly, as he laid his hand wpon his father’s head: ** How is he hurt?” “ His arm is broken in two places, and it is feared he is injured internally; but he seems better now.” “ And Florice, my sister—she is—’ “Dead! she lies yonder. She was crushed to death between the seats.” The strong man covered his face with ‘his hands, and shuddered violently. Then he said, quietly: “T thank you—you are Everard Ainslie, of whom my father wrote. I have much to thank you for.” Without another word, Clarence Erskine walked into the adjoining room, closing the door behind im, Thus two hours passed away, and then he return- ed, his face white, cold and stern. ‘ As he re-entered the room Colonel Erskine opened his eyes, a gleam of reason shining in them. Beholding his son he held forth his hand, and a groan of agony came from his inmost heart. ‘* Father, poor Florice is dead; but I yet have you. Are you sufferiug much?” ; “ Here is my suffering, Clarence—here; otherwise I feel better,’ and the brave man placed his hand upon his heart, from whence had been cruelly dragged by death his dearest idol. Seating himself by the bed, Clarence told his father that he had come as soon as he had received Everard’s dispatch, and that while he conveyed poor Florice to her grave, in the family burying-ground, he did not fear to leave him for a few days in the hands of his faithful nurse. With almost despair clutching at his heart, Colo- nel Erskine saw his son depart, bearing with him the body of poor Florice: but in Everard Ainslie he had one who was as devoted to him as a daughter could be, and his sufferings were soothed, his sor- rows sympathized with, with the soft touch and kindness of heart of a woman. At length, after several weeks of suffering, Colo- nel Erskine was sufficiently recovered to admit of his being removed to his old home in the city where he had always lived. Since the bitter parting between his son and daughter the father had devoted himself almost wholly to Florice, leaving Clarence alone in their city mansion to keep bachelor’s hall. : Worried by the thought that he had slain a man whose attentions, after all, were not dishonorable toward his sister, and imbittered because Florice, whom he loved with all a brother's love, had come to hate and abhor him, Clarence devoted himself to the practice of his profession, in which he was rapidly rising to distinction, for he was possessed of a splendid mind, was a fine orator, and a deep student, As Florice no longer lived, Colonel Erskine was anxious to return home as soon as possible. He felt deeply for his son, whose quarrel with Colonel Roselle he had certainly upheld, for, like Clarence, he believed the designs of the inan to be evil. Accompanied by Everard Ainslie, Colonel Erskine arrived at his city house one } leasant moruing. He was met by Clarence, who, after affectionately vreeting his father, welcomed the youth most warm- y, for there was something in the strangely-fas prekin face of the young secretary that drew him irresistibly toward him. As for Everard, he seemed to rather shun Clarence, and was wont to gaze upon him with a strange, absent look, as if to recall something from the long- buried past. Thus a few weeks more passed away, and Colonel Erskine was thoroughly restored to bodily health, though he yet grieved deeply for poor Florice. Each day had Everard made himself more useful, to both father and son, until they began to look upon him as a necessity in the household; and, determined to yet go to his new home in the South, Wildidle, Colonel Erskine intended taking the youth with him At length the day for departure rolled round, and was a scene of bustle in the mansion, when suddenly two men ascended the broad stone steps, and, ap- proaching Ever: one of them said, quietly: “Your name is Everard Ainslie, I believe?” “That is my name, sir,” said the youth, ee | slightly pale, “ Then I arrest you, in the name of the law, Ever- ard Ainslie, upon the charge of murder,” and in an instant the well-molded wrists of the surprised and frightened youth were encircled by iron handcuffs. CHAPTER XIII. THE FELON’S CELL, ** Hop, sir! there is some mistake, and what mean you by this insolence?’’ cried Colonel Erskine, step- angrily forward in front of the two officers of the law, while Clarence advanced, and said: “] hope you understand your duty, and are not ONS NCES it. “er. Prin, you know me, sir, and know] am not a man to act foolishly, . b gentleman with me is a detective, and has been on the track of the youngster here for two “months, and at length we have run him to his Jair,” and the man spoke as though thoroughly convinced id the c e you make against him is that of Y ammegen ‘Yes, sir; he committed a murder two months ago, that would be worthy of the most hardened © i a | a be can prove himself innocent, sir, not only for his. own sake, but for yours, for you seem to have taken a great interest in him, but my duty is plain—he must go with me to jail.” *““Good God! Everard, speak! what have you to say for yourself? cried Colonel Erskine, earn ; of the youth, who, pallid as death, trembling v Jently, and with downcast eyes, stood in silence, and seeming despair. As if about to speak his answer to Colonel Erskine, his lips moved; but Clarence cried, quickly: * Hold, Everard! do.not open your lips, and to those who address you make no reply, else you com- mit yourself. “Go with these men you must; but be brave, be strong, and all will come right in the end, for lam convinced that there is some terrible mistake here— that you are innocent as am I, of this charge against you.” “TI thank murmured r, from my heart, I thank you,” , and turning to the cfficer iD ltl a te et ees — ten } b
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sc charge, he said, firmly, while he looked him full in the face: ‘Tam ready to accompany you to prison, sir."’ The shrinking, trembling manner had gone, and like a fearless man he faced his accusers. ‘*T will accompany you, Everard, and see that you are allowed every comfort I can procure for you. Father, will you also go?” “Yes, my son; it will show that the poor boy is not friendless, and, mind you, officers, you'll rue this arrest if you cannot prove your bold assertion of his being guilty of murder.” At once giving up all idea of his proposed trip South, Colonel Erskine ordered his baggage return- ed to his room, and a few moments after the party entered the carriage in waiting, and were driven to the city prison, where Everard Ainslie was immedi- ately placed in as comfortable quarters as his two true friends could procure for him. Once securely in his cell, the youth turned to the detective who had tracked him, as he said, to his doom, and quietly asked: “Who is it that Iam accused of murdering?” “A nice es po for you to ask, my pretty fel- low,” roughly returned the man, ‘‘A most natural question, I think, as I am the one most interested. Tell me, who was it I mur- dered?’ ‘““A poor old inoffensive preacher; a man who never harmed any one in the world; a man whose gray hairs should have protected him, even if the sanctuary of God did not, for you killed him in his own church,” Everard Ainslie turned even more pallid, stagger- ed back against the cold, white-washed wall of his cell, and covering his face with his hands, shook like an popes leaf, while deep sobs burst through his shut teeth. In dismay, in fear, both Colonel Erskine and Clar- ence gazed upon him, and in their gaze was a look of deepest compassion. The detective, the officer who had arrested him, and the jailer smiled grimly. They believed that the emotion of the youth was a confession, almost, of his guilt. At length Everard Ainslie recovered himself, choked back the sobs, and with a cold, stern face, asked: ‘*Who makes this charge against me?”’ ti The one who drove you on your deadly er- rand—” ‘Ibis false, and did I so desire, I can so prove it, even now. Colonel, and you, Mr. Erskine, do not lose your trust in me. When my trial comes, I will prove myself innocent.” ‘IL believe you my son,” kindly said Colonel Ers- kine, while Clarence returned: “*Tiverard, cheer up, and I will yet bring you out of this prison with flying colors, for, though certain circumstantial evidence may be strong against you, { feel sure that you areinnocent of this charge.’ Ten minutes more and Everard Ainslie was alone in a felon’s cell. CHAPTER XIV. THE COURT ORDEAL. ‘Yar day of the trial came at last, and the interest created in the murder of the old minister, and the youth and striking appearance of the sup raurderer, was intense, and crowded the court-house witha large number of persons desirous of behold- ine the prisoner, and hearing the testimony for and against. At length Everard Ainslie was brought into the court-room, pale, calm, and apparently unmoved by the erg terrible charge against him. As he felt the eyes of hundreds turned upon him, his face flushed crimson for a moment, and then back rer rushed the blood, leaving him as pallid as the dead. Taking the seat qaenes to him, he turned his eyes upon the judge, as if endeavoring to discover if any show of mercy rested there. Then, as each juryman was accepted, and took his seat in the box, Everard glanced wistfully into his face, as if studying his character, : Like a hawk, Clarence Erskine sat watching the proceedings of the court, challenging here and there a juryman, and with his cold, biting sarcasm caus- ing the opposing counsel to wince at each parting of his stern lips. Near the prisoner was Colonel Erskine, an anxious, sorrowful expression on his fine face, and yet an ap) ce of having full confidence in two —the innocence of the prisoner, and the power of Clarence to wholly prove it. ; At length the jury-box was full, and the trial be- gan. The first witness called was Anthony White. A smile crossed the lips of Eve Ainslie as the man, who had driven from the college to the town, took the witness stand. “Mr, White, you have made the charge of murder against this prisoner: will you tell the court why you did so?’ said the lawyer for the prosecutio who glanced over to a part of the room where “ ladies in deep mourning and a youth by their e. “I drove the young gentleman, some three months ago, from the college where he was a student, to the city, some thirty miles distant.’ “He hired you for that purpose?” ge Yes, sir; he gave me twenty dollars for the trip—’ . ON ever mind what he gave you. It was at night, was it not?” wild Yes, sir; but the moon -a-shining as bright as day.” *% Py anging over him if found guilty of the. WITHOUT A HEART. | ride. “ Well, sir, the young gentleman seemed to be very cross about something, for when I went to talk to him—you see I am sociable like in my habits—he sna me up short. * Well, at length we came to the Silver Creek stop. (FT drew up the horses, and he sprung out, and whether he had dropped something or not, I do not know; but he stooped and picked up a white paper, one end of which had a dark stain upon it. ** After a few moments of hesitation, at one time attempting to get into the vehicle, he approached the gate, entered, and soon after I saw him go into the church.” ** How long was he in church, witness?’’ asked the lawyer. “IT do not know for certain, sir. The horses was pretty restless, and he might have been twenty min- utes or half an hour. “When he came out he was running, and his hands was up to his head. * Jum ing into the buggy, he told me to ‘ Drive on, for God's sake!’ and I was scared at his manner, and drove on pretty rapid, and until we reached town he never ke to me.’ “You drove him to a hotel in the city, did you not?” ‘* Yes, sir; I put my horses up for a feed and rest, and started back early in the forenoon. “When I reached the church, there was a crowd of country people there, and I was told the rector had been killed the night before. “As I drove on home, it came over me how strange the young fellow had acted, and when I got back I spoke of it to my boss, and he sent for hi lawyer, and that is the way it all came out.” “You are certain, then, Mr. White, that the pris- oner was the murderer of the Rev. Felix Hargrove, the rector of Silver Creek church?’’ asked the law- er. “Yes, sir, it appears soto me. If he didn't do it, who did?” “You are not on the stand, Mr. White, to ask co- nundrums,”’ said the deep, cutting voice of Clarence Erskine; and then, as the witness was turned over to his tender mercies, the young lawyer continued: “ You are, I believe, Mr. White, noted as a kind of circulating news-monger, in the quiet village that is honored as the place of your nativity?” Mr. White was silent, for he felt that he was a vil- lage gossip, and Clarence continued: “Anxious to visit the birthplace of Anthony White, I ran up to your quiet little village in the mountains, and I there learned that if any one but dropped a seed of suspicion in your neighborhood, ou tended it carefully until you made it burst forth nto the accusations of the bitterest kind. ‘** Now, I ask you, in the presence of this court, why you have frequently told it in the public inns, that the prisoner’s hands were covered with blood and that be continually muttered, before he reached the church, ——_ like, ‘T'll do it! Pll do it! ¥” “IT don’t know what it was he said,’’ doggedly re- plied the witness. ““And why did you say that, after leaving the church, he muttered, ‘ I've done it! I've done it!’?”’ ‘He did say something like that.” * And yet you told a dozen men, whom I have here to confront you, that those were his very words.” Under the biting sarcasm of Clarence Erskine, Anthony White left the witness stand, no longer puffed up with the idea of his tness, and as wit- ness after witness fell into the merciless clutches of the brilliant young advocate, their testimony was proven of little value against Everard Ainslie, At length the time came for Clarence Erskine to make his great s) h, in pleading for the innocen of his client, and the court-house was crowded al- most to suffocation by a dense throng of the best people of the city. , amid a breathless silence, Clarence Er- skine went on to relate how through the kindness of a wealthy fellow-student, the prisoner had been taken asa mere waif, and placed at college. How he had behaved himself there without re- roach, and never been absent from the erence of @ university from his arrival until he | At 1 @ quarrel with a fellow-student caused tin 4 ‘actor to fly from the college, for in r he had struck at the life of a comrade, who, after weeks of pagers suffering, had recovered from the wound " Left alone by the flight of his friend, Everard Ainslie had at once departed from the university, determined to seek a li for himself. He admits his moody the night of his drive with Mr. Anthony White, and his stopping front of the church; nay, more—that he p all e ce, a in the road, which, by some s' interested him—why, plots prisoner to make own. Also he admitted ente the seem, Sates by a motive known only to himself, and vering ere the dead body of the aged r. Then it was that he fled from the sacred edifice in ha pa in tas ar aplaahiaee ae on for God's e. Arriving in the city, he sought to. find his fellow- student, and for several days tracked him from lace to place, and when his ebbi funds warned ; away to seek work, he started for New York on ‘oot. While en route to the metropolis he did a noble pos ty risk of his own life; and Clarence went on to how Everard Ainslie had nobly served his fa- ther and sister. in up ‘te Go on to relate the incidents of that midnight | church, and the prisoner stared at it, as though he | was frightened, and suddenly called out to me to | Then followed an account of the accident, in which or Florice lost her life, and then how devotedly he youth had watched over his wounded benefactor. “Now, gentlemen of the jury,”’ continued Clar- ence, “ft admit that a dar <, damnable mystery bangs over the murder of poor Rey. Felix Hargrove; I admit that a paper found by the roadside nearly interested my client, and that he entered the church; but you have to know whether he entered that sacred tabernacle of God for the purpose of deliberately breaking one of His commandments. “Look! he isa mere youth; his hands are as deli- cate as a woman's, and yet they would say that his hand held a knife, which his arm drove through the bone, muscle and flesh, for the blade of the assassin passed entirely through the body of the murdered man. “Bring proof that yonder boy had cause to slay the unfortunate minister, that he had plotted to meet him in his lonely vestry-room, and then you ean hold Everard Ainslie for murder. ‘“ Yonder sit the wife, the daughter and the son of Rev. Felix Hargrove, and upon their faces rests no feeling toward this prisoner, for they feel that he is guiltless of the crime charged at his door, “Circumstances unexpected to him, the mysteri- ous papers he found, may have made him acquaint- ed with the truth who did the deed; but, as to his being the guilty one, out upon the thought.” For three hours did Clarence Erskine's voice rin through the crowded court, and when he at le sat down it was evident that he had made a deep im- pression upon all. But the murderer was not found, if Everard Ainslie did not commit the deed, and there seemed a strong desire among many to hang somebody for the crime. CHAPTER XV. A SECRET NO LONGER. Wuen Clarence Erskine ceased speaking, there was a momentary sensation in court, and the sym- 7 was with the prisoner; but when the counsel or the prosecution had stated fully his side of the question, and propounded time and again the unan- swerable conundrum of: “If the prisoner is not the base assassin, who then is?” there seemed to be an even balance as to his guilt or innocence. At length the charge of the judge was given, Coen and impartially, and the jury, who held in their hands the life or death of the prisoner, arose slowly from their seats to retire. Passing out of the room, through the narrow aisle, each juryman was compelled to hesitate an instant directly in front of the prisoner. Searchingly, wistfully, eigen of the lustrous, fascinating a of Everard Ainsli one of those juryman met that gaze they seemed to feel its mag- netism—they seemed to read there innocence of the crime charged against him, and to a man the halted, hesitated, turned and went back to their seats, to the surprise and amazement of every one in that crowded room. Then the foreman, when called upon for an ex- planation, arose, glanced down the line of jurymen, and answered: “* Not guilty |” Like a statue sat Everard Ainslie, deaf to the wild applause that burst forth from the crowded court, and unmindful of the looks bent upon him. Silently he received his dismi from the hands of the law; totteringly he arose to receive the con- gratulations of Colonel Erskine and Clarence, and with a cry, asif from a broken heart, fell forward into the arms of his brilliant advocate in an almost deadly swoon. Tenderly raising the lithe, graceful form in his powerful arms, Clarence Erskine bore him from the court-room to his carriage in waiting, and pocening to his family physician, who was present, Colone See etags air the dain, Co Springing the carriage after the r, 0- nel ine said quickly: “ Home!” Away dashed the cai over we pire? streets, and yet, as block after block was behind, Eve- rard Ainslie still lay in unconsciousness, At length the elegant mansion was reached, and up the broad nce bore the slender form, and deposited it upon a lounge in the lib . and stepped aside for the physician to approach. ‘ pees pis ey pov min on the ~ g of med- e ckly for restoratives, an re open the loose coat and vest. —_ Then in surprise he bounded to his feet, crying aloud: “ My God! itis a woman!” The surprise of Colonel Erskine and Clarence cannot be depicted, and in utter amazement they spoke not a word, but blankly stared, while the Pp ysician applied restoratives and chafed the small ands of the supposed youth. At length the beaut eyes partly opened, the lips quivered, a sigh was heard, and consciousness had returned. “Ah! Iam no longer. in that horrible court—yes Iam free—oh! sir, what do I not owe to you?” ‘an rising quickly, the one who had so long been believed a youth, threw herself upon her knees before Clar- “Teen al realizing h iti d feeling en, as er position, an that her secret was known, her face flushed scarlet, and the beautiful eyes drooped and sought the floor, while the pleader’s form trembled violently, After a moment she said: “Ere you condemn me, my noble friends, hear pia, S08, to you, I have a long and full confession to mm e. “Thave deceived you, true; but I will tell you all, and throw myself upon your mercy, and then, if you e fell uponeach . welve faces, and as the eyes of each '
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Oe = : —— a SS — bid me go, I will never again darken your doorway with my presence.” “My child, my poor little waif, arise, and do not feel that either Clarence or myself will set you adrift again in the world. ‘* When you are willing to tell us all, we will hear you; now you need rest, and we will leave you,” and Colonel Erskine extended his hand and raised the maiden to her feet, and, followed by his son and the physician, left the room, after adding that the secret of her sex should remain inviolate, until she chose to make it known. CHAPTER XVL SANS CCEUR. Wuen the colonel and Clarence left the room, followed a moment after by the doctor, the maiden seemed an invalid, recovering from a long siege of sickness, for her face had been blanched snow-white during her imprisonment, and a certain haggard look hung round the eyes, while her mouth seemed strangely stern for one so young in life’s trials. But when left alone the maiden sprung to her feet, and her face became flushed with excitement, as she nervously paced the room. As the minutes passed away she grew more calm, and the hard, haggard look pas: from her face, while there settled thereon an expression of daring determination, and her hands closed tight together, as though she had made up her mind to her future course. sted uaa to and fro for a moment, she said, aloud: “Well, I must make a bold stand now, or all is lost—all my bright hopes for power over men will be dashed to the ground. “T know that I am beautiful in face and faultless in form, aud I feel that Ican coin a sweet revenge against mankind, for has not one man whom I Le a cast a shadow over the very threshold of my ife? “Did he not swear to me that I should be ac- knowledged his wife before the world, and live with him in his grand city home? but, how did he keep that promise? Why he tired of me, just as I have read in novels that other men tired of as fair women | Yes, he would have cast me off, for he was | as I, posing so to do when the crash came sooner than e had anticipated. ** No, I did not love him; he could not stir the in- most recesses of my heart—heart, did I say? ““Why, I have no such function—I am without heart—vow ; yet there was atime when my best love would have gone forth to one man, and did he but nurture it as it deserved it would have been all that he could have wished. “Tt is said, and with truth— ““*Woman’s love, like the ivy, Will too often cling, Around a base and worthless thing.’ “‘ And thus it was with my love. He was unworthy of it, and cast off the tendrils of my affection. “Well, the die is cast now, and I am launched up- on the tempestuous sea of life; but is it my fault that [am what I am, an unrecognized wife? “No; Fate led me astray, and Fate was cruel, for it cast my life in unpleasant places; it made my. home a very hell; my days and nights a very night- mare of dread; but I cannot believe that I was des- tined to ever pass my days in that spot, which it = desecration upon the name of home to call it such, “‘ Now, without heart I must ever be, for for what must I care now? Am I not a cast off wife? Is not my husband a fugitive, with the brand of murder pee his soul? Is not my own hand, delicate and pely though it be, stained with blood? True, it was in defense of those who have certainly ven my friends; yet the specter of the dead m arise before me, for I, a woman, a mere girl, sent him to his eg “And was I not tried for murder? Have not my days and nights, for weeks , been in a felon’s cell? Am I not a waif, an outcast? “Oh, God! how the damnable questions surge up to be answered against my soul! “ But I have stepped off the brink now, and I must Ca gob a I must not draw back now, for I have of the fatal chalice held to my lips, and its poison is like molten lead through my veins. “True, I might tell them the whole truth, and they would not cast me off; but, dare I run the risk? Might not the trail of Ais crime be followed and his life end upon the gallows? He must not die thus, for I must meet him yet; I have a wrong to avenge. I hold against him that which will make his very craven soul c with . “No, I must not hesitate now; I must have no heart, no conscience, but, with a mask of falsehood upon my face, go defiantly through life. “ Yes, I will brave it out.” So saying,the maiden,by an exertion of her wonder- ful self-control, drove from her face every shadow of evil, every hard look, and with a smile upon her full lips, a glance of affection in her beautiful eyes, left the room to seek Colonel Erskine and Clarence, for she PasPhocae making to them a confession—a tissue of \ CHAPTER XVII. THE CONFESSION. In the luxuriously furnished rooms of Colonel Erskine sat that gentleman and his son Clarence, conve: in earnest tones upon the remarkable pecans, hey had made in to their protege, who had so unexpectedly turned out to be a woman. Suddenly the door opened, and the object of their conversation entered. Advancing quickly, with ner- vous tread and downcast eyes, while her face was WITHOUT A HEART. 7 | flushed as though with natural bloom, the maiden said, quietly: “Have | intruded, my friends, for such you have proven yourselves to be?’’ | ‘*Byno means, Eve—Ev—what must I call you now?” ‘*Eve, sir. My name is Eve Ainslie. | part of my Christian name was added.”’ | “And aptly done! Be seated, Eve, for we were | just speaking of you, and of how cleverly you had | deceived every one who knew you. Be seated Pleans, and tellus how you feel now,” and Colonel rskine drew the maiden gently toward hi “T am better, thank you, sir; in fact I am quite recovered, and have come to make to you and your son a confession which I owe you—” “Wait a while, Eve, for your nerves are yet un- strung from the long and cruel strain upon them. You need rest and quiet,’’ said Clarence, kindly. “No, let me tell you all now, and then I will feel more like rest, and I desire earnestly to confess to you, and prove that, though I deceived you as re- gards myself, I certainly had no desire to do so otherwise,” and Eve Ainslie spoke most earnestly, while both Colonel Erskine and Clarence awaited silent expectation the confession she had to make. “From first to last I must tell you all,’’ began the maiden, seating herself in an easy-chair, and in such a way that the shadows from the window curtain fell upon her face. “Yes,”’ she continued, “it is not my intention to deceive any longer, especially you my true friends, whom I have learned to love so dearly. “‘T was born upon the Hudson river, and my father was a gentleman and a man of wealth—my mother | was a poor farmer’s daughter, **Disinherited by his parents for marrying one be- neath him, my father took to the sea for a support, a upon the sea he lost his life when I was a wee thing. ~ tly mother soon after went to her said dying of a broken heart, and as / bright child, my father’s rich and proud relatives adopted me, and for years I lived with them in- | dulged in every luxury, and educated daily in all that it was proper for me to know. “Though a mere girl I was a proficient musician, possessed a good voice, and was a fair artist; but when in my tifteenth year there came a crash; my | grandfather lost his wealth in speculation, shot him- self through the heart in despair, and his family | were left penniless, Even my own rich wardrobe and jewels went for food, and I was consigned to the care of a harsh, cruel woman, living on the river in a small house of her own. ““The woman had once been the afiance of my fa- ther; then she was beautiful and well off; but, when my father married another,she became tired of a gay life, ag up the world, and settled herself down to a lonely life of bitter regret. “T at first believed that she took me with her from kindness of heart—a lingering love for my fa- ther’s memory; now I know that she did so for re- venge. “From the day I entered her home I became her | Slave. Every duty was thrown upon me. I even | caught the fish for dinner, attended to the garden, milked the cow, and did all the work about the place that a man should have done. “ But, what else could I do? Iwas in her power and without a friend in the world to aid me. “From my hard duties I soon got to wearing clothes fitted to my work, and some old clothing was made into suits for me, until I was wont to dress wholly in man’s attire. ““And well was it for me that I was so dressed, for often I was upset on the river, and had I worn ve! oe my sex demanded I should have been own ve—it was was a “One day, when out fishing, a squall came up and upset a small sail-boat lying not far from me, its ony “deg yo Piven yy boat, and in th “Was awa, m ca e middle of the river, the drowned, had I not gone to into my skiff. rson would have been rescue, and drawn him ‘He proved to be a student of a college a few miles distant, and was so thankful for his life that he offered me a large sum of money me to be, in my rough clo , and with my cut short, some Asher ire “‘At first Iwas almost tempted to take eed ry and with it to fly from my. cruel bo ; but thought afterward that I could not be happ it I ac- chagrin. money, and so I refused, greatly to his in, ry r that we met several —— oS believing me still a boy he me to enter the college asa student, telling me t he was rich and would de- fray all my expenses. * After a long deliberation I aceopeed his offer, for T was anxious ain as an education as possi- ble; but he promised that he would keep a strict ac- count of all he a for me, and one day allow me to refund it to “With this understanding, he ordered a small room, ining his o re for me, and one ed over after mae a cual of cloth- for me, ms) Leaving my house by stealth, I entered the walls of the university, and became a student there, none 8 my sex, meee noble baechndite at length was drawn into a querel, as before I told you, with a fellow student, and fied from the college, and then I felt that I must leave also. “ My Aight from the university on that fatal night; my arrival in the city, and start, on foot, to New York, you know, so I will say no more.” ‘““And no more need be said, my child,” said the retty, | z; | and rolling lawns of velvet grass, with the constantly The latter | | h dso: D egan' charms. trable mask. ed her, been sincere the wif that kind old colonel, as Eve Ainslie concluded her confes- sion, and let her head fall upon her hand, Then, while his voice trembled with emotion, he continued: ; “You have been like ason to me, child, and now you must take a warmer place in my heart; you must fill the vacuum left by the death of my peor Florice; yes, you shall be as my own daughter, and from this hour cast off the disguise you have so long worn. ‘*Come, Eve, you are my daughter now, and Clar- ence will be your brother.” nee A glad light shot through the eyes of Eve Ainslie, and springing forward she hid her face upon the broad breast of Colonel Erskine, her heart wildly throbbing with joy at her ——— triumph, the fu- ture looming up grandly before her ambitious eyes. CHAPTER XVIIL WILDIDLE. Upon the sea-washed shore of a southern State was Wildidle, the new home of Colonel Erskine, A more beautiful home heart could not d for the villa was a handsome, commodious stru 2, with deep bay- windows and broad piazzas, and from its front and east wing a broad view of the ocean could be obtained, with jutting points and wooded isles up and down the coast, Around the mansion, to the south and west, were a lovely lawn and povergeeten, while to the north- ward ra 1 an extensive park of lo trees, through which bounded a number of deer, led by a fleet-footed monarch of the forest, with large spreading antlers and nimble feet. Back of the mansion, at some distance, were the stable and out-houses, built upon a similar plan to the house, and a quarter of a mile away, forming a crescent around the white beach of a small bay, were ascore of neat-looking cottages, the “ quarters ’ of the servants of Wildidle. A fountain here and there, a piece of marble statuary, white shell walks, flower- led beds, changing ocean scenery, rendered the surroundings of Wildidle beautiful indeed, while Gothic and rustic summer-houses invited loungers into their cool and quiet retreats, Running out into the water, some fifty feet, was a neat pier, with a email arbor upon the end, and here there were arranged comfortable seats, for those who cared to watch the restless waters coming in from the sea beyond. ° Around the pier, gently rising and falling upon the waters, were a small pleasure-yacht and several gayly painted row-boats, with velvet cushions and striped awnings, which rendered them most com- fortable. Entering the grand and massive looking mansion on every side was luxury, and everywhere an air of comfort prevailed, from the broad hallway to ihe spacious parlors, inviting library, and cool and ex- tensive diaing-room. Up-stairs were the sleeping chambers, large, eon- venient, luxuriously turuished, and sufficient in pum- ber to accommodate a score of guests, for the former master of Wildidle was a genial and hospitable host —far too much so for his own . In the library, lolling back in his easy-chair, and gazing mea and yet admiringly, out over the quiet waters 0: the little bay, and out upon the rest- less waves of the sea beyond, was the new lord and master of Wildidle, Colonel] Erskine. In the large bow-window, an open book upon her lap. sat a maiden, 30 completely metamorphosed was Everard Ains- ~ lie, from a handsome, graceful youth of twenty, ap- parently, into a lovely, brilliant maiden of aghter, that none would have recognized her. ressed in a morning-robe of white lawn, that fit- ted her el t form to perfection, and with her massive braids of hair fastened with a silver cor in one coil at the back of her ity head, E Ainslie was indeed a wondrously lovely woman—oi that few men could gaze upon unmoved by he, Upon her quiet features there was no ruffle of dis- content—no footprints of an imbittered life—no sign that her life was a lie—her face was an impene- She had cast the die—she had made a false con- But would she not have gained all these in her confession—had whole truth and n had sho she told thu ble son, that their kin she for she was playing for a higher game far won—a eg to gain which, she would have to break the laws o: and man; but, what cared a woman without heart for these? of f ered songsters, gliding over the rip waters, and ——e in toners and musical aed in the lib- So po Tonga did the days glid , 80 sO e days @ away in this Eden-like home; 50 loving, so ind, was Eve. ‘ that Colonel Erskine almost ceased to mourn for poor Florice, for his newly-adopted daughter proved.
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8 pS ES Se aber 2 enkte Se to him all that he could wish, and he thanked God for the day when she crossed his path, for to her he owed it- that his days, gliding toward the grave, were net passed in gloom and despair. CHAPTER XIX. LA BELLE BITE, As the days glided by at Wildidle the maering families called upon the new-comers, and Colone jirskine and Eve soon found themselves courted as general favorites. This was just what Eve most desired, for she was anxious to prove still further the power she felt that she over men; but, with Colonel Erskine it was different, for he had been happy in the ¢«*-amy life he had led for a few weeks after his ar- vval at Wildidle. Still he was a most hospitable host, and was fond f company, and therefore greeted all visitors in his «enial, kindly manner. the beaux of the surrounding country began to ces around her, Eve Ainslie launched forth upon _be fathomless sea of coquetry, and day after day \vimew her chains of love's bondage around some vew admirer, holding him as she had held all others, ber slave. With her triumph her joy and her ambition arose ~joy that she could lay her hand upon the mane of “uy one of society’s lions and cause him to kneel at her feet, and ambition to still further reascend the grade of victory, that when Clarence Erskine came to Wildidle, upon his promised visit, he would find ' her a queen over all, and one who held full sway over men and women alike. Quickly through the land flew the news of her beauty, her wit, her scathing sarcasm, and every- where were her splendid horsemanship, her superb voice, her skill as a musician, and other accomplish- ments discussed, while the name of La Belle Coquette was bestowed upon her by a gay bachelor planter, who had never been dazzled by the beauties of FEnrope, but had come bome to be flirted with by an American girl, But one of Eve’s strong points in coquetry was never tomake an enemy of a discarded lover, for, did she refuse his love, she made him feel that she really needed his friendship, and in this way she held her power over them still, and kept them fluttering around the flame of her beauty and wit like poor Cadlle-fties anxious, seemingly, to receive injury from so brilliant a destroyer. The young bachelor, above referred to, lived alone “Sona superb estate, left him by his parents’ death, ere he was of age. Passing a number of years in Europe, Paul Launce- lot had at last returned home, at the age of thirty, to rest after his wanderings, and a few months after his arrival Eve Ainslie had risen above the horizon of his life, and drawn him at once to her side though many a fair maiden of the neighborhood had ‘given up all idea of ever nt his obdurate heart, ‘tor he eseaped all love-traps set for him. When at last his heart was smitten, Paul Launce- Tot went by the board, for he became Eve Ainslie’s very shadow. At h the telling of the same old story came, and the helor planter was—refused. Yet so kindly, so affectionately, almost, did Eve refuse the proffer of the three treasures devoutl sought after by many of her sex—his heart, his hand and his fortune—that she attached him to her as her dest friend, so she told him he should be, and with that honor Paul Launcelot was compelled to be content, and almost seemed so, while, in a quiet way, he enjoyed seeing other men singe their an k wounded and mournful. One ht mo , when the inmates of Wildidle arose, they saw a trim-looking vessel-of-war an- chored out in the little bay, it having sought gl there during the darkness of the pre ng a) 1 that vessel Eve Ainslie soon found two more admirers—the one Captain Burt Lambert, a dash- ing, handsome young sailor of twenty-six, and the comroander of the rakish-looking revenue cutter Koglct the other Howard Moulton, first lieutenant of Eaglet, and a step-brother of his captain, for the widower father of Howard had married the “widowed mother of Burt, when the latter was a mere boy of six, and the former ten years his senior. ‘As soon as breakfast was over, the morning after the arrival of the Eaglet in the bay, Colonel Erskine had simmoned his six negro oarsmen, and gone on board the cutter, where he was warmly welcomed LPN oe A ogy ‘Lambert, who informed him that he : 4 ordered to that part of the coast, to wet for certain illegal traffickers upon those ay , 7 ' From that day both Burt Lambert and Howard ‘Wloulton became constant visitors at Wildidle, and ‘before one week passed the brothers were desper- in love with Eve Ainslie, who almost seemed ‘momentarily dazzled by the splendid appearance and glittering uniform of the handsome young sea- ¢aptain, for her kindness toward him made many a brave heart ache. CHAPTER XX. FACE T0 FACE. ONE J jseneg afternoon, some weeks after the ar- rival of the Eaglet in the little bay’ Captain Burt Lambert was rowed to the _ at Wildidle, and land- ing, sent his card in to Miss Erskine, for, at the urgent desire of her adopted father, Eve had drop- pea ber own name of Ainslie. A Soon the maiden appeared, looking queenly beau- tiful in her dark-blue riding-habit and hat and plume, for she had made an engagement with the young eontein for a gallop over the country. | Soon the horses were brought round, two of the finest in the Wildidle stables, and mae pee away | dashed the handsome couple, anxiously eyed from the library window by Colonel Erskine, for, though | he admired the young commander exceedingly, he dreaded lest Eve should learn to love him, a result he prayed against most sincerely, for he had hoped that rence would love the maiden when he saw her metamorphosed from the youth whose life he had so ably defended from the merciless clutches of the offended law. Down a lovely road, heavily wooded upon one side by the dense forest, and containing a view of the bay and ocean upon the other, rode the officer and his fair companion, his face slightly clouded, her face bright, tinged with the excitement of her ride, and as serenely beautiful as though no storm-clouds of sorrow and trouble had swept over it. Out upon the bosom of the bay, her delicate spars and rigging traced against the blue sky beyond, lay the Eaglet at anchor, fully a league away. Pointing toward his beautiful vessel, Captain Lam- bert said, with some enthusiasm: “ Miss ferskine, for years past I have known but one Jady-love—my vessel. . “When a mere boy, a midshipman on a vessel-of- war cruising in foreign seas, I never felt homesick, for I looked zpon my ship as my home; and when I at length rose in rank, and was detached from the navy and ordered to the command of a revenue cutter, may little Eaglet became my home and my love—my heart's dearest idol.” “It is strange that yourself and brother should both be on the same vessel,’’ said Eve, quietly, as if desiring to draw the captain away from a tender subject. ‘Yes; but I am glad it is so, for I love Howard — “You know that we are step-brothers, and that he is ten years my senior?” i ego and I like Lieutenant Moulton exceed- ingly.” *T am glad to hear you say so, Miss Erskine, for poor Howard has had a rather unhappy life.” ‘Indeed! will you tell it me?” “There is little to tell, excepting that he entered the navy at an early age, and was rising rapidly in his profession, when a quarrel with his superior officer ended in a duel, in which he fell by Howard’s hands, “There were palliating circumstances in the case in Howard's behalf; but he was dismissed the service; and, I am sorry to say, became reckless and dissipated, and in a few years ran through his fortune, and was almost penniless in the world. * At length, through the influence of our family, he was appointed to the command of the Eaglet, in the revenue service, for he had reformed com- pletely when he had no more means at his disposal. “Unfortunately I was ordered to the Eaglet short- ly after, and ranking Howard, of course took com- mand—he showing no ill-feeling toward me what- ever, and to-day we are the best of friends, as well as brothers, and no better officer than Howard Moulton treads a ship's deck.” “Your loves and hatreds are doubtless ver strong, Captain Lambert—at ieast such is my esti- mate of you,” said Eve, and as though a match had been unwittingly thrown into powder Burt Lambert burst forth: “Ay, my loves and hates are strong, and with my whole soul, my whole being, I .love you, Eve— hold! hear me through, and then let me know my ate. ‘‘Awhile since I told you that, in the past, my ship had been my home, my lady-love. “Now [ tell you that T would ‘see my loved vessel and all it contains wrecked upon yonder jagged and wild reef rather than lose your love, ay, even your friendship—”’ “Tt is getting late; suppose we return, captain?” and Eve brought her spirited horse to the ia i hg about, her companion following her example, while a shadow of disa pointment swept over his face. As they turned, a horseman suddenly confronted them, having been riding but a short distance be- hind, and unseen by both Burt and Eve. One glance into that dark, strangely handsome face, and upon that nt part orm, and Eve's face turned deadly pale, while she reeled, as though about to fall from her saddle. The horseman’s face also cha it might, for Eve Ainslie and Claude Clinton had euetts te oe = re Peeters ly tg so strangely met, so strangely parted; husband an wife had again come face to face!" ? CHAPTER XXI. CLINTON, CLARENDON. Wirn a tremendous effort of te Ne oh Eve re- gained her composure, and gave Clau inton a cool stare, as though she had never before met him, while upon his pa he seemed as tho’ about to speak; but, guided by her manner, touched his hat politely, and passed by, on one side. + So taken up with his own feelings, and recognizing in Claude Clinton one whom he had met before, Cap- tain Lambert did not observe the pallor that swept over the faces of the man and the woman, nor did he notice the swaying motion of Eve, as though she were about to fall from her saddlé. Ina moment Claude Clinton had continued on, while Eve sid, quietly: “Are you acquainted with the gentleman to whom you ae bowed, Captain Lambert?” “Incidentally only,’’ almost i hag returned the soung officer, who felt that his ¢efe-a-tete with Eve had been interrupted at a most inopportune mo- ; ment for his love-making. color. and well Eve was about to inquire still further into the ac quaintance, when Captain Lambert continued, for he felt that he had spoken abruptly, perhaps: ‘“ A few days since Mr. Clarendon, for such is the name of the gentleman, was passing by the anchor- age of the Eaglet, in a small yacht,and a squall coming up he split his mainsail, and I hailed him to come aboard and repair the damages. “He accepted the invitation, and while my sail- maker mended the rent, I invited the gentleman into the cabin, and over a glass of wine found him a most agreeable companion,” “Is he a resident of this neighborhood?” “Yes; or that is, he told me he lived on a planta- tion several leagues down the coast—one he had lately purchased, I judged from his conversation; but you seem singularly interested in a stramger,’ and a pang of jealousy flashed into the keart of the young officer. “He reminds me of one I have known well in the past. You say his name is Clarendon?” “Yes, Clinton Clarendon—such was the name on the card he gave me—ha! here he comes back, and at a gallop.’ As Capra Lambert spoke there was heard the sound of quickly clattering hoofs, and a moment aan up dashed the same horseman they had just met, Drawing rein, and politely raising his hat, he said, addressing Captain Lambert: “Pardon me, sir; but a small row-boat with the name Hve painted on its stern, drifted ashore upon my beach last night; can I ask if it is not the prop- erty of the lady with you?” “Allow me, Miss Erskine, to present Mr. Claren- don, and then you can answer for yourself,’ said Captain Lambert. he man bent low in his saddle with uncovered head at the introduction; the woman bowed, and smiled her sweetest smile, while she answered in her softest tones: ‘** Tt is my little boat, sir; it broke loose the other night while to astern of the yacht, and as the wind was fresh, and the night dark, we failed to observe its loss until our arrival home, for my father and myself had been dining on board the pont It was kind of you, sir, to take the trouble Oo ‘*Not at all, Miss Erskine; to-morrow I will send you the waif—” * Will you not let it bring you to Wildidle? My father, Colonel Erskine, will be glad to meet you, Mr. Clarendon,” The man looked searchingly into the fair face, and a doubt of identity swept across his mind, for it was as serene and pleasant as though no unpleasant re- membrances were summoned up from the buried past at the sight of his face. ‘Thank you, Miss Erskine; I will bring back Eve to the Eden from whence it strayed. ‘Captain Lambert, I will be ga to entertain you, sir, any time you feel pleased to visit Cliffside. Good-evening.”’ Raising his hat, and again casting a searchin glance into the face of Eve, Claude turned his steed os and rode away, while the others also con- tinued their ride toward Wildidle—Burt Lambert anathematizing in his heart the incident that had so a nat, roken into his avowal of love. en Clinton Clarendon, as he evidently now called himself, rode away, he kept on at a rapid pace until a bend of the road him from view, then he drew rein and rode meditatively along, his thoughts a chaos of conticing emotions. “No, I thought I could not be mistaken in that face,” he mused. ” No, it is Eye, my wife; it was a lucky thought of mine—the boat; it convinced me in my Zusnioton. Pshaw! did not her emotion at t of me show that she was the Eve I had known before? ‘But, why is she here? and how is it I hear her addressing Colonel Erskine as her father? Me says he is worth millions—that he has an only daughter and an only son—and my Eve is that daughter. “TI must solve this mystery—I will solve it, for she — tell ct np Rial bp pon pes ask ye to cally “ Strange she should, in one glance ain her influence over me, for I believe I would be her slave, did she so bid me. “And, by Heaven! how beautiful she has grown! She isa perfect queen and I do not wonder now that the men of the neighborhood have gone mad with love for Eve Erskine. “And she knew me, and—still loves me; but, she pa I i tell h i st - * Yes tn ust tell her a long story of how Mark Leslie dogged me day and night, inti driven to des- poration, struck him down, and that act caused me ag the gallows. “Oh, God! how the memory of that fatal night rushes over me; but I must smother remorse, for I pare not the cowardly heart to let despair crush me own, “Yes, I will tell Eve, in part, the truth—how I be- came a wanderer in Western lands, and saving the life of a wealthy miner, was made his heir when he a few weeks after “'Po hide myself from all who knew me, and still fearing detection for that fatal deed in God's sanc- tuary, I will tell her that I took the name of my be- nefactor, and my father having disinherited me, I sought this land, because I heard that she was here, and longed to be near her. “Yes, Ican make up a good story, in which there isa grain of truth, and then set to work to win Eve back to me, for I must not lose her. No, no, no, she is mine now, but before the world I must make her- Mrs. Clinton Clarendon. If she refuse, then I must. use my power and /orce her to my wish, for Eve Er- ae
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es skine is too valuable a prize to let slip through my ers,’’ rging his horse forward, as though having fully made up his mind to his course, Clinton Clarendon, as I must now call him, dashed on at a rapid pace, and in an hour’s time drew rein in front of a small, but handsome, plantation home, situated upon the coer and with a rolling lawn sloping down to the Reamer ing, his bridle-rein to a negro servant, the sup) achelor owner of Cliffside entered his cosey mansion, and sat down to the inviting supper that awaited his coming. _ But the food was untasted, and the master seemed ill at ease, for the home he had purchased, where he could hide ritlng Brnee* those who had known him be- fore seemed to have betrayed a skeleton in its closet. CHAPTER Xx. AT HOME. THe day coloring tbe horseback ride, a sail-boat ut into the Wildidle pier, having in tow the little oat Eve. To the surprise, and I may say disappointment of Eve, Clinton Clarendon was not the occupant of the little craft, but, instead, a negro —— ashore and fig! the mansion, bearing in his hand a note. few moments more and Eve held the missive in her hands. It simply read: “Mr. Clarendon’s compliments to Miss Erskine, and begs to return to her the little water waif. “At another time Mr. Clarendon hopes to have the pleasure of accepting Miss Erskine’s kind invita- tion to call.” “ ~~ to | hey master, please, that whenever le to ay im we will be glad to welcome him at ildidle, and thank him, for me, for returning my boat. Now goto the kitchen and get your dinner before you return,’ and while the negro turned away, boring politely. Eve again took up the note. “Yes, it is writing. Howl would like to ques- tion this man regarding him; but I dare not. “Ha! I will invite him to the mask-ball, next week, and then, from his own lips, I will learn all.” Crossing the room to a small writing-desk, Eve sat down and wrote, on delicately tinted paper: “Colonel Erskine and his daughter will be pleased to have Mr. Clarendon’s a next Taoursday evening to attend a mask ball, given in honor of Miss Erskine’s birthday anniversary. “Will Mr. Clarendon, under eat 3 circum- stances, pardon the late hour at which the invita- tion is given, and accept: Miss Erskine’s warmest thanks for the return of her lost boat?” Calling aservant she told him to give the note to the one who had brought the ve, and putting on her new hat, she went forth to join Colonel Erskine, who was fishing off the end of the pier. ““Well, Eve, you have come down to kee man company?” said the colonel, pleasantly, “Yes, sir, Lhave come to enjoy a while in your leasant pompeny. You see that Mr. Clarendon as returned the ve ?” “Yes, it was kind of him; but Iam sorry he did not come himself, as you expected he would.” “He wrote that he hoped soon to visit Wildidle, and I returned by the bearer of the note an invita- tion to the ball.” “Right, my daughter; and he must come prepared to spend the night with us, for he lives some twenty miles away. I will tell his man to express my wishes to him in that particular.” Ere more was said the servant approached, and Colonel Erskine gave him a message for his master, but learned that it was the intention of Mr. Clarendon to sail down to the city next week, and Eve felt that her meeting with the man she so desired to see must an old yet be postponed. As the n sailed away, heading down the coast, and happy in a liberal fee bestowed upon him by the generous owner of Wildidle, Erskine turned to Eve, and said, slyly: 4 thos amen will be another string to your Ww e.”” = Perhaps so, sir; he is certainly a very handsome man,” ‘** And so is Captain Lambert.” “True, sir, and he is also a very good man, and I like him pang ems promptly answered Eve. “I do not doubt it; rumor says that you love him. ‘Indeed, father! why I did not know that I was oe kind to Captain Lambert than to a half-dozen others.” ‘Still, a dozen persons, ladies and gen en, have ed me if you were not engaged a Pye “Why, father!” “True, Eve, and it is the general belief in the neighborbood—” , “There is not a word of truth in it, sir; I certainly should not havé a secret from you. “TJ like Captain Lambert and a number of others, but I love none of them,” and Eve aunike earnestly. “T am glad to hear it, Eve, forI do not wish you taken from me—at least yet awhile,” “ There is no fear of that, my dearestfather. The man I — to marry is certainly not here. ‘‘ Now let me ask you how you like my masquerade costume?” ceedingly—the dress of a Persian girl will be most becoming to you. “Under the sad circumstances of the year past, I - would rather not have had Wildidlea scene of daneing and merriment yet awhile; but then, the many kin nesses shown us by our neighbors, made me feel that we must give an entertainment in return.” “Tt was for my sake you did it, sir, and deeply do 9 I feel your kindness to me; but come, the waters are meno as glass so let us have a row in my little ‘* We might as well, for a poor fish has been hang- ing to my hook for ten minutes, and I in blissful ignorance of the favor done me.”’ So saying, Colonel Erskine and Eve entered the row-boat, and seizing the oars, the maiden sent the little shell flying over the quiet waters. CHAPTER XXIil. THE MASQUERADE. BriGHTLY poured the moonlight down upon the hope old mansion at Wildidle, and from every win- ow and door came a stream of g ht, to rival the silvery radiance of the “‘ queen of night,” Rapidly there rolled up to the door carriage after carriage, bearing loads of ladies and gentlemen from the neighborhood for miles around, and all dressed in some fantastic costume, and wearing upon their faces impenetrable masks. In the spacious hallways, the commodious par- lors, and the grand old were congregated the masqueraders, who soon, to the strains of sweet music, were tripping “the light fantastic,’’ or other- wise none fs. themselves, A few elderly gentlemen and their wives were all that had come unmasked, and at the doorway stood Colonel Erskine, his handsome, genial face unhid- den beneath silken folds, for he was to receive his guests. At length the last couvinge rolled up and ee its human freight before the marble portal, the last horseman had arrived, and Colonel Erskine turned away to join a whist pow in one of the smaller sit- ting-rooms, leaving the masqueraders to their own enjoyment resently a dark form ascended the broad steps, cloaked and masked; but from whence he had come none of the loungers around the doors and windows knew, for he had not been noticed until his foot was upon the step. leeting him at the doorway, the servant in charge ushered him into the gentlemen’s dining-room, and afew moments after he appeared in the rooms be- low—a tall, elegant form, clad in the uniform of an officer in the United States army. None sppeeres to know him, and quietly he stalked about the rooms, attracting general at- tention and admiration, but totally disguised be- neath his black silk mask, which fitted his face closely. At length he seemed to attach himself to a maiden in a Persian costume—the handsomest dress and form inthe room; but, unable to solve the mystery of who he was, the fair’Persian soon left his arm for a waltz with Captain Lambert, for though he wore amask, all present told the officer that his uniform and form betrayed him. Hardly had the waltz ended when the strange ema stepped up to the naval officer and said: “‘There is an arbor in the orange grove to the right of the mansion—will you meet me there in half an hour? It is most important.” ° Though seemingly surprised at the request, the sailor replied: **T will be there.”’ As if satisfied, the army officer went leisurely to the dressing-room, and resu his cloak and hat, left the mansion and wended way through the labyrinth of flower-bordered walks, until he came to a small orange grove, in the center of which was a rustic arbor. : Ente the summer-house, he threw himself meee a seat, an peers 8 waited for the person who hai PSE. hie terme paebed d the Ow. e momen away, an n, quick] Speroeaning, he pen the naval officer, the moonlight glistening on the lace and buttons of his uniform. A moment more and he also entered the arbor, saying; somewhat haughtily: ‘You desired me to meet Pin here, sir.”’ * Yes—the settlement of erences between gen- pg had better be done in a quiet way, you now.” “I confess I do not understand you, sir; your voice I fail to recall as before having heard, and I know of no difference between avy man in this be: and myself—at least, any of a serious na- ure ” “Mine with you, then, is of a deadly nature—Z seek your life!” CHAPTER XXIV. Sr hadk quickly at the words of. strange EPPING quickly at the words of the man before him, the sailor laid his hand upon the hilt of his sword, while he replied, calmly: ‘Ts this a part of the Wlididle masquerade—or do you really mean what you say?” “No dying man was ever more in earnest; J seek your life,” replied the other, sternly. “ And why, Hey im *“ You love Eve kine, and rumor says that you intend to marry her.”’ ; “Indeed! Rumor is most kind; but, what if it were true?” ‘ 7 ‘*Then I forbid it, and if you are not acoward you will draw your sword and cross mine in defense of your honor and your love.” As the stranger spoke he drew his sword and stepped out into the broad moonlight, whence he was quickly followed by his foe, also with drawn weapon, ‘T allow no man to call me a coward, sir, and hence I am willing to gratify your whim. Defend yourself !”’ As the sailor spoke he sprung forward, and the two weapons catne together with a ringing clang. Instantly the combat became fierce and deadly, for both men seemed masters in the art of fence; but the stranger seemed the more powerful of the two, and handled his sword with comp earnest- ness, until at length he struck up the blade of his foeman and drove his own gleaming weapon through and through the body of his adversary, who, clasp- ing his hands to his head, tottered forward, and fell to the ground. ‘ Thoroughly ening his sword, by wiping it upon the clothing of his fallen foe the stranger wheeled and walked away, disappearing in the shadow of the park, just as a party of masqueraders came leisurely along, strolling toward the arbor. A few moments more the two persons in front, a lady ina Persian costume, and agentleman dressed as a Mexican lancero, started back in alarm, for at their feet lay the form of the dying man, “Good God! he is dying—see, he is fearfull wounded,” and the Mexican masquerader knelt beside the wounded man, just as the rest of the party, half a dozen in number, crowded up in alarm. “Captain Lambert slain?’ said the lady in the Persian dress, her tone one of horror. “Tt is not Captain Lambert—but Paul Launcelot; see! We exchanged costumes,” and springing to his feet the speaker tore aside his mask, and the face of Burt Lambert was revealed. Instantly all was excitement; and, tearing her mask from her face, the Persian maiden revealed the beautiful features of Eve Erskine, while she cried, earnestly : “Quick! gentlemen, for God’s sake! See if his life cannot yet be saved. ‘Bring him into the mansion, while I hasten to tell my father and Doctor Mayhew, who are playing whist together.” While Eve bounded away, followed by the other ladies, who composed the party, the several gentle- men, directed by Captain Lambert, tenderly raised the form of poor Paul Launcelot, and bore it toward the mansion. Into a quiet chamber the wounded man was borne and Dr. Mayhew at once examined his wound, an with a foreboding look turned away. “Doctor, am I dying?”’ All started, for they had believed Paul Launcelot unconscious. : * “You are badly wounded, Paul—”’ ‘Do not evade me, doctor; am I not dying?”’ ““Yes—I dread to say that it is so,’’ sorrowfully sponded the kind-hearted man of medicine, Seeing that his patient was He aed sinking, Doc- tor Mayhew turned to Colonel kine, who stood near, and said: “He has but a short time to live; would it not be well to at once learn from him who it was that gave him his death-blow ?”’ “You are right, doctor, for there seems a deep mystery over this sad affair that should be at once cleared up,’ and then approaching the bed, Colonel Erskine coutinued: “My young friend, we all feel deeply for you, I assure you, aad the one who has thus cut off your life, in the midst of joy, shall suffer the full penalty of his crime; tell us then why it is we find you thus wounded ?”’ “T can tell nothing; we met fairly in the duello, and I fell,’ with great effort replied Paul Launce- lot. “But who was your enemy’—who struck you down?” ‘ That—I—can—never—tell, I— Oh, God!” They were the last words that Paul Launeelot ever spoke, for the blood burst in a torrent from his mouth, and with a groan he fell back, a dead man, CHAPTER XXV, THE MYSTERY DEEPENS, In dismay and sorrow the m 2 ended, on that lovely moonlit night, for in the dark- ness of death one of the gayest of the gay had Pene forth to traverse the dark valley, slain by the hand of a deadly enemy. ; With white, scared faces, the fair maidens sought their carriages, escorted by men scarcely less pale and agitated—the scene one long to be reme by those who witnessed it, for their gorgeous cos- tumes were in strange contrast to their hushed man- ner and bloodless features, so lately wreathed witb smiles, and ringing with joyous repartee and laugh: te r. At last all but a few gentlemen, whom Colonel Er. vkine had invited to remain and endeavor to solve tLe mystery of Paul Launcelot’s death, had gone, anc the grand old mansion seemed as quietas the tomo. ’ Inone of the w chambers lay the dead planter, awaiting the val of his faithful family servants, who had been sent for, and nervously pacing the room, still robed in her gorgeous costume, was Eve Erskine, while Captain Lambert stood af an open window, his eves alternately wand from the cold form to the maiden, and then upon the moonlit Miss Erskine, do you know I believe, as a mys- tery hangs over the death of Mr. Launcelot, that 7 was the intended victim?” *“ You! Captain Lambert? What reason have you to so ?” asked Eve, in rise. i “You remember that [ c costumes with Launcelot, and as we are the same in form, none resent doubted but that the gentleman in my uni- fomm was myself, and d of the one the early part evening he told me, with a light laugh, if I hada — uerade at Wildidle _ PRES
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% ¢ lady-love he was assured he could impose himself upon her for me. “T saw him with but one —_ officer in the uniform of the army, and that man no one has since seen, and as the duel was fought with swords, it must have been that he was the one who killed poor Launcelot,”’ ‘* But what cause could he have had?” “Of that Iam ignorant; but I feel that Launcelot was mistaken for me—and, strange as it may seem, I have always had a presentiment that I would die in some sucb mysterious manner as has our poor friend.” Ere Eve could re ly. the servants of the dead planter arrived, and their wailings for their poor young master touched every heart with most poign- ant sorrow. From the mansion of Wildidle, poor Paul Launce- lot was conveyed to his own elegant bachelor home, from whence, after two days, he was taken to his ve, beside the tomb he had erected above his early loved parents. A vast concourse of people followed the body to the grave, for not only was Paul Launcelot loved b all who knew him, but the mysterious cause of his déath awakened an universal sympathy for his un- timely fate, and a savage vindictiveness toward the man who had taken his life. As to who had been the author of this cruel deed none could imagine, and all efforts to find out had proved unavailing. At length, as none knew who had been the officer in an army uniform, suspicion settled upon him, and then around flew various rumors regarding the mysterious man. me asserted that he had driven to Wildidle in an unknown carriage that had awaited him in the park. Others said that a saddle-horse had been seen hitched in the forest near by, and more yet stated that a large sail-boat had put in to the pier, remained a short while, and then departed. At length all the neighborhood seemed of one mind—the man in the army uniform was the slayer of Paul Launcelot. Then came under discussion the motive for the meeting, and here a was compelled to halt, until at length an old story was trumped up, -about the fast life Paul had led while abroad, and it was remembered that he had once had an amour with a lady, whose husband becoming jealous, had -called him to answer for a crime of which the young planter had always declared his innocence. Still he was compelled to meet the enraged hus- band, and, after sparing his life once, had, at a second meeting, run him through the sword arm. Thus rumor went on to connect that duel, of years before, with the one the night of the Wildidle mas- uerade, and with no other solution of the affair, t a were compelled to accept that theory, at least until letters arrived from France to prove an alibi for the gentleman charged with the deed, for the at- torney in charge of Paul Launcelot’s estates had at once written out all concerning the Count de Vaile, the name of the jealous husband whom the young planter had once wounded in a daello. CHAPTER XXVI. FACE TO FACE, A monta rolled by after the night of the masque- rade, and still the sad affair was a topic of general conversation, excepting at Wildidle, for Eve had seemed to feel so deeply the death of Paul Launce- lot, that her friends seldom mentioned his name in her presence. One evening, as she was seated alone in the arbor on the pier, reading and thinking alternately, = saw a large sail-boat rapidly approaching the ore. It contained two persons—one pacing the deck, the other seated at the helm. The boat was jib and main-sail-rigged, and with all sail set was coming mons at a lively and in watching its progress Eve forgot her ik. It could not be Captain Lambert, for of late he had been re ——S constantly after meas, and had only sailed the day before in a t, in chase of a suspicious that oe the offing and then, as if discovering the cutter, had — seaward. ** Besides,’’ she murmured, “that is not his boat; it is too large and— Ha! itishe! At last he has come | Another closer glance upon the approaching boat and Eve Erskine saw that she was right—a n sat at the helm—Clinton Clarendon was pacing the deck, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes cast down, as though in deep meditation. A few moments more and the sable helmsman skillfully rounded to and brought his boat alongside the pier, upon whicb Clinton Clarendon ly sprung, while he called out: “Stand off and on, Buck, until I hail you.” ‘* Yis, massa, I’ll be on hand,’’ replied the helms- as his boat glided by without checking its progress, while he at the same time doffed his tar- a to Eve, for he had not forgotten the liberal ee she had bestowed upon him when he brought her little row-boat home. Turning to Eve, Clinton Clarendon raised his hat, and tee: “At Ihave done myself the pleasure of ac- — your kind invitation to call, Miss Erskine.” e gazed — upon him, and though bitter- ness welled up into her breast, and a cruel light came into her eyes, she felt that she had never seen a more handsome man, and one, had he been differ- ent than he was, more capable of winning a woman's love—and holding it. A moment she hesitated ere she replied, and then asked, quietly, but in a cold tone: “Why have you not been here before, Claude Clinton ?”’ _‘‘ Hold! that is a name that is not pleasant on the lips of Eve Ainslie,’’ quickly said the man, while his face became a shade paler, “The name of Eve Ainslie is also buried, as well as that of Eve Clinton—which, did I so desire, I could claim legally,” sneered the woman. **Where are your proofs that you have a right to that name?” asked Clinton Clarendon, while his face became ashen in hue, at the memories that swept over his soul. “Task for no proofs; you and I were legally bound together in the house of God, and as my husband I loved you—until you deserted me cruelly—" ‘Hold! hear me, Eve—I fled for my life, for f be- lieved that I had killed Mark Leslie; then I had no time for aught else than flight, and when at last I = for you I found you had gone, none knew whi- ner, “Failing to find you, Isought the Far West, and accident made me of service to one who, in dying, left me his fortune, on condition that I took his name. ‘*Gladly I did so, for under my own had I been hunted down, with the cry of murderer in my ears, and my father had disinherited me. “Sorrowing for you, my dearly loved wife—”’ “ Hold, sir! Breathe not that sacred name to me. ne ey as well as to others, my nameis Miss Ers- Te The man seemed more hurt than offended, and resumed, ina saddened tone: “ Sorrowing for you, a disheartened man, I came to this quiet country and purchased a small planta- tion home, and there I have lived ever since. “Imagine then my joy, my astonishment, at sud- denly finding you, Eve; but your manner, your new name, made me feel that you would remain unknown to me, and I crushed back the cry of delight that had sprung to my lips—for I felt that in your own good time you would make all known to me.” ‘And you have awaited weeks to find out,” said Eve, in a mock kindly tone, and as though touched by the earnest manner of the man before her. “Important business called me away, Eve, and I was compelled to go—otherwise I should have been here long before this; but to your party I could not come, as I did not care to meet you when surrounded by strangers.”’ ‘“*Tt would have been all the same, for either alone, or when surrounded by strangers, I will be always to you what I now am—’ ** And that is, Eve—” °* “Miss Erskine—the daughter of Colonel Erskine, of Wildidle,”’ and the woman spoke with a degree of pride and pleasure which she felt would annoy the man. Biting his ar her eae replied: “ How is it I find you Miss Erskine, Eve?’’ “You deserted me, and I had kind friends who eared for me until I found in Colonel Erskine a father.”’ . “The deuce! then it is really true? I remember you never knew who was your father. Why, Colo- nel Erskine is worth his millions, and has but one son—”’ “True, my brother Clarence; both Colonel Erskine and his son are rich, and well able to protect their daughter and sister,’’ and Eve spoke with a malicious twinkle in her beautiful eyes. “Eve, a husband has a.closer claim than either father or brother, especially where they hold their re- lationship only in name.” “T acknowledge no right for you to call yourself my husband. You deserted me, and left me to go to my ruin, did Iso desire, and I annul any bond that bound us together as man and wife.” ‘* Your doing so does not make it so, Eve; you are my wife, and as such I intend to claim you.” ‘Hold, Claude Clinton! Let us understand each other. That we are man and wife, tee ye but that it must remain a secret, I avow, for I will not have my plans for the future thwarted by you.” “As ong as you remain here, I will keep the se- cret; but if you attempt, as rumor has it, to marry Captain Lambert, I will publish you to the world as my lawfully-wedded e,” and the man spoke in deadly earnest. “Ha! ha! ha! I defy you, Claude Clinton, for, if you betray me, there shall a vengeance fall upon you of which you little dream. “Thave the power, so beware! father; walk with me to meet him, be careful, or you shall know that meet a more er pnt “pee peg ather, this is Mr. on,” and with one of her sweetest smiles, and a face upon which there was not a shadow of trouble, Eve presented her visitor to Colonel Erskine, who welcomed him most cordially to Wildidle. CHAPTER XXVIL. THE ASSASSIN. Eve Erskine sat alone in her boudoir, attired in a loose wrapper, for she had retired to her room for Here comes m and I swear I fall, you shall the night. Thos h near midnight, she was unable to sleep, for two hours before Clinton Clarendon had depart- ed, after having remained to spend the evening, at the earnest request of Colonel Erskine, who seemed to like the young man exceedingly. Between Clinton Clarendon and herself no more had passed upon the subject of their conversation upon the pier, and Eve had seen him depart pleas- antly, promising to call again upon his return from the city twenty leagues down the coast, and whither he was then bound in his little yacht. She had watched his white sail glimmering in the ? one moonlight, until skurrying storm-clouds had swept up from the eastward, and then bidding her adopted father good-night, she had retired to sleep. Too nervous to sleep, she had thrown on a loose gown, and seated herself at the window, putting out the light, and musing alone in the darkness, for ever and anon the moon was obscured by clouds, fore- telling a storm. Thus the moments swept into hours, and ay ond stole over her, until her head drooped upon her hands and she was asleep. Suddenly she started, for there broke on her ear the sound of music rising on the night air. Sa ine her thoughts from wandering in dream- land, Eve listened, and from beneath her window came the low, soft notes of a guitar, evidently touch- ed by a master hand. Then a fine tenor voice floated upon the air, and Eve caught the words: “‘T know not why I love thee, Thou dost not think of me; But still my thoughts will wander Forever k to thee. “ And though thou ne’er didst love me, Where’er my spirit wing, *T will hover ‘round thy pathway A fond, though viewless thing. “And in that better world, love, In Heaven's celestial clime, Amid seraphic millions My spirit shall seek thine.” It was a ballad that Eve had always loved, and glancing cautiously forth from the window, to catch sight of the midnight serender, Eve saw, indistinctly, a tall form gracefully leaning against the balustrade of the balcony beneath, his hands holding a guitar, his face raised in ce Then from the shadow of the shrubbery darted a cloaked fi towerd the serenader, and, as the words of the last verse were sung: ** Amid seraphic millions My spirit shall seek thine,”’ the arm of the cloaked form was raised, a gleam of syne ge glittered on something held in the clench- ed hand, and Eve gave one loud cry of alarm. But too late! The blow descended with gre force; the gleaming blade sunk deep into the bac of the singer, who fell heavily to the ground. “Good God! Quick! oh, quick! He has killed him!” cried Eve, in wild terror, and as the cloaked form turned and fled back into the shadow of the shrubbery, she fell to the floor in a swoon, almost like death, The wild ery of Eve rung loudly through the house, awaking Colonel Erskine and several servants, who rushed in alarm toward the maiden’s room. Entering it, with a dread at his heart, Colonel Erskine beheld Eve, and raising her from the floor, laid her upon the bed, while he dispatched a mes- senger for Dr. Mayhew, who resided two miles dis- tant from Wildidle. Seeing that Eve was in a deep swoon, the colonel, aided by her frightened maid, attempted to restore her to consciousness; but ere she recovered, Dr. Maree entered the room, ith his assistance the maiden slowly returned to consciousness, and glancing wildly around, cried in thrilling tones: “Did you capture the murderer?” “Poor girl! she has received a fright that has made her delirious,” said Colonel Erskine, “No, I am not delirious; Iam as sane as ever! was in my life. “Tsaw Burt Lambert struck down by an assassin beneath my window—quick! or the murderer w escape—oh! father, let him not escape.” Springing from the bed, in spite,of resistance, Eve ran to the window and glanced out. There was visible a dark form lying upon the ground beneath, Colonel Erskine, Dr. Mayhew, and the servants, all w now what had given poor Eve such a fright, and quickly descending to the door, they rushed out and raised the form from the ground. It was Captain Burt Lambert, and he was dead. CHAPTER XXVIII. ACCUSED AT 1HE GRAVE, For the second time a gloom fell upon the grand old Wildidle, and its portals were crossed by Death's ruthless steps. through the neighborhood flew the news Lambert's assassination, and many and vague were the theories of its cause. en the belief gained ground that, after all, Paul Launcelot had fallen a victim to a hatred felt for the young naval officer, and again were untiring efforts made to capture the bold assassin. Toward poor Eve every heart went forth in sym- pathy, for it was believed that she was really en- to the young sea-captain, and as he was a general favorite, many were wont to say that it would be a most appropriate alliance, for young and old, rich and poor, men and women, all loved Eve Erskine. nd At the request y 4 = ye pee were an 4 ) & ury r e family burying-groun Wildidle, and accordingly his step-brother, Howard — oD, por ballon: ed most deeply to feel e, poor fellow, seemed most deeply to fee’ sudden death of his commander, brothers and lem, and on reaching the mansion, entered the room where the body lay, and with nervous step and me- ditative mood slowly paced to and fro, only p nemeny | now and then in his quarter-deck walk, to address a response to gome one who spoke to him, ~ —=}
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—>Y > and Colonel “Lieutenant Moulton, are you aware that your brother feared that his life would end in some such sudden manner as it has?’ and Eve stood in front of the sailor, her eyes red from weeping. “Yes, Burt has often had a presentiment of the | death he has met. Miss Erskine, I would give ten years of my life to know who has done this foul crime.” “Can you remember no enemy of his past life —one who may have tracked him to his death?” “None. I know of no enemy that Burt Lambert ever had.”’ Eve asked no more, but left the room to prepare for the funeral, which was to take place that after- noon—the third day since the fatal night of the assassination. Gradually the halls and parlors of Wildidle were filled with a vast concourse of sorrowing friends, and through the mansion echoed the sound of the minis- ter’s voice, reading the service of the dead. At length the casket was closed, shutting out forever the sight of the handsome face, white and calm, and the elegant form, clad in full uniform. Then toward the distant burying-ground the column moved, the casket borne by the officers of the Eaglet, while behind followed half a hundred of seamen and marines. . The grave was reached, yawning to receive its human prey; a few words followed, a volley of musketry, and the hollow crush of the clods upon the coffin—a sound never forgotten—was heard, and Captain Burt Lambert, the gallant commander of the Eaglet. was left to his everlasting —— Then, gradually, the crowd departed, leaving Colonel Erskine, Eve, the officers and crew of the Eaglet, and a few remaining friends. At the head of the grave stood Howard Moulton, sadly gazing upon the xewly-made mound; his face pale, his lips sternly set. Then a man approached him, a stout man, with | stern, cunning face, and said: ? “Your name is Howard Moulton, is it not, sir?” “Ttis, sir; what would you have?”’ “T am very sorry, Lieutenant Moulton; but I must obey orders, sir, and I am commanded to arrest you.” “* Arrest me! and why, sir?’ and Howard Moulton stepped back, his hand upon his sword-hilt, his eyes flashing fire, while his officers and men fieeres forward, as if to resist an insult to their commander, whom they really liked exceedingly. ‘“*Tf you use force, lieutenant, I am the law is strong, sir, and you will be ly said the officer of the law. “Of what am I accused, sir?’ asked Howard Moulton, quietly. “* The murder of Captain Burt Lam—" ** Liar!"’ With that one word hissing through his shut teeth, Howard Moulton sprung upon the constable and hurled him violently to the ground. But then, as if his violent passion had spent itself, he said, quietly: ; : “T beg pardon, sir; you are doubtless but in the discharge of your duty—I surrender myself | your prisoner,’ and he calmly folded his arms upon his broad breast, while Eve stepped forward and said: “Surely, sir, there is some mistake—Lieutenant | Moulton is the brother of Captain Lambert.” “Tt looks unreasonable, miss; but circumstantial evidence is against this gentleman. If heis innocent of the charge he can soon prove it; if not, I fear it will go hard with him,” and the constable brushed the dirt from his clothes, for he had fallen upon the grave just filled up. Then -the crew of the Eaglet would have in- a but their commander waved them back, “Men, I must not resist the law. Lieutenant Harding, I leave you in command of the Eaglet, sir. Return with the men_on board, and send my bag- age to the town, for I suppose I will be putin j ere.”’ Sorrowfully the men touched their hats and walked away, while Howard Moulton, with no sign of emotion in his face, turned to Eve and said: ‘Miss Erskine, I thank you, and you, colonel, for your belief that I could do no such ¢rime as the one with which Iam charged. One day I — we will meet ; but now let me thank you for all that ou both have done for my poor dead brother; be- ve me, I shall never forget you. “ Officer, | am your prisoner and await you.” The cool manner of the man seemed to stagger even Sectee ein who said: stainly you are y, sir, you are ce a@ won- derful criminal. My bugey is at the gate, and you will have to accompany me."’ With a bow to Colonel Erskine and Eve, Howard Moulton held forth his hands, and around his wrists ere clasped the nm cuffs; while the rushed violentl into the handsome face of the pri- soner at this . Then the two walked away, Howard Moulton one glance upon the grave of Burt Lambert, ine and Eve were left to return to the mansion, grie sadly over all that had oc- curred, but y convinced that the accused was innocent, CHAPTER XXIX. AN ARRIVAL. Wuen Eve and Colonel Erskine returned from the grave, a joy suddenly welled up in their hearts a silver lining to their cloud ‘of gloom, for, seated upon the broad pace having just arrived, was none other than Clarence Erskine. | It was a joyous welcome his father and Eve gave J owerless; but en,’’ sullen- WOE EROMT, & ART. That night Clarence Erskine heard all—all that had transpired in the household of Wildidle since | bim, and they felt that they had a noble heart to | the arrival there of his father and Eve, and instant- | ly he offered to defend Howard Moulton of this charge against him, and at once dispatched a note | to the lieutenant in his lonely cell, telling him of his intention, for Clarence at once took the view of his | innocence from the standpoint held by the colonel and his adopted sister. As for Eve, she seemed thoroughly delighted at the arrival of Clarence, and made no secret of her joy, which greatly pleased the old colonel, while the Segre lawyer's sad, stern face lighted up at her indness toward him, and after she had retired, for the night, he said to his father: ““T never saw a more beautiful woman, and I be- lieve that her character is as lovely as her face.” “Indeed it is, my son; for I have watched her closely, and though she is a trifle fond of admira- tion, and perhaps alittle tinged with coquetry, she certainly is as pure as an angel.” “‘T believe you, sir; but now let us discuss fully the sad incidents that have taken place here, and in the morning we will ride over and see this poor Moulton. “What a grandly beautiful home you have here, father, and how sad that a shadow should thus be cast over its roof.”’ “Tt is too bad, Clarence, too bad; but all will yet come out well, and I have set my heart upon it, that there is one ray of sunshine that must ever remain at Wildidle, even if I have to marry her myself.” Clarence Erskine started; but he made no imme- diate reply, and shortly after bade his father good- night and retired to his room. nthe morning, after an early breakfast, thefather | and son drove to the town, where Howard Moulton was confined, and upon their arrival found that there was an ill-feeli gaining ground against the prisoner, for it was said that evidence would be forthcoming to hang him. To these rmnors Clarence paid no attention, but seeking out the most prominent lawyer in the place, associated himself with him for the trial, which would come off at an early day. Having gone over the case, as it was told, with his legal associate, the three gentlemen sought the jail, and were promptly admitted, They found Howard Moulton pacing the floor, his face pale, his eyes weary-looking, his lips sternly compressed. Seeing Colonel Erskine he welcomed him most kindly, and shook hands with Clarence and his con- | Jrere, both of whom he thanked for their kindness in undertaking his case, after which he added: “TI am but a poor seaman, gentlemen, and a lieu- tenant’s pay will go but a little way toward defray- ing your—’ “ Hold! Lieutenant Moulton! In my mind you are falsely accused, and as the friend of my father and sister I defend you. “Tam rich and need no payment, and my friend here, Mr, Willis, has done me the honor to say that his reward is in being associated with me in this case, | and, as he is also a man of wealth, he can enjoy the honor without detriment to his purse.” “Sincerely do I thank you, gentlemen, and I feel that you will have your own reward. ‘“‘ Tt is not enough that I should sorrow deeply for poor Burt, but my grief must be accursed by an ac- cusation of assassination—to think of it, that should be suspected of killing a man whom I have ever loved most dearly.” After a long conversation together the visitors de- | parted, Colonel Erskine and Clarence returning once more to Wildidle. CHAPTER XXX, CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE, Ir was a gloomy day, and yet one of intense ex- citement, in the little Southern town, when Howard oulton was brought to trial for the cruel assassina- tion of his step-brother and commanding officer. By as train of circumstances many almost convincing proofs of the prisoner’s guilt been brought up, and it was believed by every one, with a few exceptions, that he had done the deed, and that his life would end on the gallows, as he deserved. At length the court was opened, and the prisoner was brows in, calm, pale, and weary-looking. roby proceeding with lie eagle apeyend tt was tek every p z eagle eye, an was bu a few moments before he caused the opposing counsel to fear him, the judge to respect him, an those in attendance to nm anxiously for his cut- home-thrusts at witness and op nt. ut, gradually a chain of dam evidence be- gan to encircle the prisoner, for it was told how once fore he had slain superior officer in a duel, and was dismissed from the navy as a punishment; then his fast life that followed dismissal was ht up, until at length he became an officer in the revenue service, when all knew him as a moody, stern man. Then witnesses were summoned who said that they always believed Howard Moulton to be envious of his brother’s rank, for he was ten years the senior of Captain Lambert. ain, it was proven, by the will of Burt Lambert made at the time he was appointed to the comman of the Eaglet, that How Moulton was to be his oer for the young captain possessed a considerable ortune, As gold is the god of most men, and women too, this testimony caused a general murmur around the crowded court-room, boding a stronger belief in the guilt of the prisoner, and many thought that they saw the real cause of the murder, it 3 4 But others, the sentimentally inclined, discerned another cause for the fratricidal crime, when Eve * was summoned to the witness stand, and was com- elled to state whether Howard Moulton had ever een her lover. The answer came faintly, and with reluctance, that the lieutenant had asked her to be his wife. “Did eve refuse him because you were engaged to his brother?” asked the lawyer on the prosecution. “‘T declined the hand of Lieutenant Moulton; but I was never engaged to Captain Lambert,” firmly re- plied the maiden, This information caused a sensation in court, and many gossipers hung their diminished heads, for | having so reported. | —and held in his hand a | tantly state | lawyer for the prosecution, that Lieutenant Moulton After the withdrawal of Eve, an under-officer of the let was called, who testified to having heard, through the open door of the cabin, a conversation between his commander and the prisoner, in which the latter said he would give his very soul to win the love of Eve Erskine. A junior lieutenant then was placed upon the stand, who had been the officer of the deck, the night | of the murder. He stated upon oath that his commander had come from the cabin shortly after six bells—eleven o'clock itar. Then he bad called his gig alongside, entered it and sailed away shoreward. Half an hour after, the officer went on to reluc- under the close questioning of the had called away the third cutter, and, entering it, had sailed away on the same course taken by the captain. “How was Lieutenant Moulton dressed, sir?” asked the lawyer. ‘Tn his undress uniform.” “Did he wear his cap and a cloak, sir?” ““He wore a slouch hat and heavy cloak, sir.’’ Eve was then recalled to the stand, and was com- pelled to describe the assassin as he appeared to her in her glance from the window. Her description was that the man wore a slouch — hat and heavy cloak—she did not see his face. Here was certainly circunnstantial evidence — enough to cover the prisoner with guilt; but Clar- ence Erskine still looked confident, and ie agen sarcasm in cross-questioning increased, to the de- light of those of the audience who could appreciate his wit and keen hits at witness and antago R) Then another witness was called— q n- on. Eve Erskine and the colonel both started as the young lanter took the stand, for they wondered how e could in or way be connected with this most un- fortunate trial. With a calm face, pale but indifferent to the gaze turned upon him, Clinton Clarendon awaited to tell his story either for or against the prisoner. CHAPTER XXXI. CONDEMNED. Amip the breathless silence of the court-room Clin- ton Clarendon gave his testimony in a clear, earnest voice, and, with an eye that looked squarely into the face of Clarence Erskine, every time the young law- yer checked him with a question. In a voice heard at the rear of the court-room, he said: bs ines the night of the murder of Captain Lam- bert I took tea at Wildidle, with Colonel ine and his daughter. “T sailed up to Colonel Erskine’s in my little yacht, accompanied by my negro boatman, Buck. “Tt was a little after eleven o’clock when I left the pier and stood out to sea, it being my intention to take advantage of the moonlight and run down the coast to the city. ** As it was coming on to blow I luffed up to take a reef in my sail, and as Buck and myself were a small boat passed me quickly, and in itI nized Captain Lambert. : “He hailed me pleasantly, said he was going to serenade Miss Erskine, and passed on. “As I got again under way, a second and larger boat standing in the wake of the gig. ““We passed near to each other, and the le oc- cupant of the boat saluted, and I remarked t he was carrying too much canvas for the breeze blow- "Ete made no reply and, while he stood on toward the Wildidle pier, I held my course out of the bay. “When near the center of the bay a squall sud- denly swept down upon me, and in an instant my little was thrown over upon her beam-ends, and I was dashed down into the cock-pit. “When I regained my feet, I saw with horror that my negro eompanion had disap: ‘Loudly I shouted to him, but no reply coming, I set to work to drag down my sail, inthe endeavor to Cy ep boat. < very hard work, I got my boat right side up, and my sail aboard, and at once commenced to Whi I . we hn REY th increased, ~ e Iwas e storm and glancing to whad wand I saw with surprise the largest of the two boats, that had before passed me, standing back toward the Eaglet, which was anchor- ed under the shelter of the arm of the outer bay, two miles ne. Po. , “Astonished at the foolhardiness of aman who would risk himself in such a blow in so small a boat, I hailed him, determined to ask him to run down to me, and get aboard my far more seaworthy craft. “He returned no reply to my hail, but laughed out loudly and wildly, at the same time sh 5 *** My path is Tree now, now, for twice have I hi ed those from it who would thwart me in my love.”’ At once there was an intense excitement in court,
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* 12 WITHOUT A HEART. and thrice had the crowd to be called to order be- fore they obeyed. As for the prisoner, his face turned to the hue of death, and he wildly stared toward the witness who inet his gaze with an expression of sympathy in his own eyes. Then Howard Moulton gave a deep sigh, and his face sunk forward upon hi3 breast. Eve buried her beautiful face in her gloved hands, and Colonel Erskine appeared deeply moved, the defense, seemed doomed, But Clarence Erskine’s handsome, stern face never feel that the prisoner was changed color, and still there shone in his eagle eyes | the light of a triumphant confidence. Again Clinton Clarendon went on: ‘* Notwithstanding my hailing, the boat stood on, its occupant still laughing wildly.” “Was that occupant the prisoner at the bar, sir?” “Tam sorry to say that it was, sir.’’ “Go on, Mr. Clarendon.” “AS soon as m hoisted my sail and stood out of the bay—”’ “Deserting your boatman to his fate, Mr. Claren- don?” put in Clarence Erskine. “T felt that he was doomed, sir; the boom doubt- | less struck him, knocking him senseless, or he would | have replied to my calls—or swam back to the boat, for he was a splendid swimmer.” ‘*What did you see as you passed through the in- let, sir?’’ “TIT saw the cutter standing across my bow on the starboard tack, and heading directly for the Haglet, a quarter of a mile distant.” “Was the occupant of the boat still gesticulating and erying out?” ** No, sir; he was seated quietly in the stern, and I ceased to watch him more, for I stood on down the coast to the city, where I was compelled to be, the following day.” The officer who had been in charge of the deck the night of the assassination, was then recalled anc asked what time it was when Lieutenant Moulton returned on board. “T went off at eight bells—twelve o’clock—but the officer who followed my watch said that it was some blow.”’ Then was it that every proof of Howard Moulton’s taal felt to come out, and that he was a doomed time after I turned in, and that he had come aboard meet and it was a wonder how the cutter lived | felt. Vinen Clarence Erskine arose to risoner, he was listened to amid a breathless si- ence, and for four hours his ringing tones held his hearers spellbound, and his telling argument chang- ed the opinion of a few in favor of his client; but the jary was unmoved, and without leaving their box eo A returned the verdict: ‘Guilty of murder in the first degree.” lead for the boat was again in readiness, I | A shade of disappomtment swept over the face of | Clarence Erskine at this decision, and he glanced quickly toward the prisoner. He alone seemed unmoved; he had made up his mind as to his fate, and with a calm face and iron nerve received his sentence—death on the gallows, three months from that very day. CHAPTER XXXII. DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND. By his masterly effort in defense of Howard Moul- ton, although his splendid oratorical powers and inted argument had proven fruitless, Clarence irskine won for himself an enviable name. From the time of the trial Clarence formed friends by the score, and Wildidle was constantly open to @ numerous guests who flocked thither. Among those who became constant visitors at the beautiful home, was Clinton Clarendon, who seemed strangely gay, for one of his rather moody But, Dg he constantly sought a private inter- view with Eve, she as persistently avoided it, at the same time endeavoring to prove to him that she was most devoted to Clarence e Now, though Clarence and Eve were considered as | brother and sister, it was yet known that there was no kindred blood in their veins, and that the maiden was only the adopted daughter of Colonel | Erskine As for the Mises 4 lawyer. he was certainly glad that Eve was not a blood relation, for his heart had gone forth to her with all its —_ and passion, Fae he intended, could he win her love, to make her wife. With Eve, her whole thoughts, by day and by night, were of Clarence, and she felt that to gain ieee a recompense for all her sufferings in e » : Thus stood matters at Wildidle, when at length Clinten Clarendon was able to catch Eve alone in the lib , the colonel and Clarence having driven to town see Howard Moulton in his lonely cell, for they had not yet been won over to the belief that he was guilty of the crime for which he was con- demned to die upon the gallows. Having landed at the pier, Clinton Clarendon approached the house, and seeing Eve reading at the library window, cautiously entered the room, unnoticed by her. ‘* At last we meet alone again, Eve.”’ Eve started to her feet; her face flushed and then wh 1 I desired to see you alone, sir, it could have ofte Sager pnp : ““ Why this cold manner toward me, Eve?" 25 3 feel coldly toward you; you are nothing to “Tam your husband.” las al “Prove it!’’ “Shall I prove it? Shall I bring proof that you were married to me, fifteen months ago, in a little eburch on the—”’ “You can bring no such proof. I defy you to.” ‘A word from me in the ears of Clarence Erskine by soon show him that ‘all that glitters is not go 5 ” “Clarence Erskine would not believe you on oath; ) | he doubted your testimony regarding poor Moulton, The judge, the per fag bow the associate lawyer for | and—so did I.” Clinton Clarendon turned pale with rage, while he hissed forth: “Doubt all that you please, but I swear that this love affair between you and Erskine shall stop.” * And how will you stop it?” ‘Ha! your own words betray you; there is some- thing then between you?” fiercely flung out ‘the man. “There will be, for I know it is the intention of Clarence to ask me to become his wife, and—J intend to accept.” “Good God! Can you be so base, Eve Ainslie?” ‘““A most moral man art thou to upbraid me with Lo a ge Yes, I intend to marry Clarence Ers- ine.” **You seem to forget that you are already a wife,” sneered the infuriated man. “God knows I forget nothing. You claim me as your wife, and again I oe om Ng 40;°? **T will prove it. I will bring the proof of your marriage to me, by summoning the minister who—”’ “Hold! Claude Clinton; you cannot summon up the dead.” Staggering back, his hand went to his pale fore- | head, and he seemed momentarily overcome; but recovering himself quickly, while her eyes looked triumphantly upon him, he said: ‘You know then that he is dead? You doubtless saw an account of his death in the papers?” “Yes, I saw that he was cruelly murdered—” ‘“*Tt matters not, Eve, that he is dead nor how he died; the records still exist, and—”’ v Ha, ha, ha, Claude Clinton! I hold that which you would give your right hand to possess!” ‘‘ What in Heaven’s name do you mean?” “ Would youknow? I willtell you: it is the stained record of our marriage—stained with the blood of the old minister who died in trying to preserve it from | —ha—ha!” and she smiled her triumph. CHAPTER XXXII. DEFIED, In spite of his nerve the Man trembled at this bold announcement, and asked, faintly: “Where did you get it?’ ““T will tell you; and then you will see that I can marry Clarence Erskine without any interference on your part; nay, more, you shall be invited to the wedding, a far different one, by the way, from that which you and I once witnessed in the little Silver Creek church, ‘“Would you like to hear all about how the wrong- ed and deserted wife became possessed of the record you would have destroyed?” “T would.” ‘Listen, then. When you struck down Mark Leslie, and fled for your life, I went to the wounded man, and he told me that he knew my secret, and advised me to leave the University at once. ** Acting upon his advice, I took a roll of bills from your desk, and left, driving to town that night, for you may remember how brightly shone the moon. “By a strange chance I k the road you had gone on horseback—the one by the Silver Creek church—shall I go on?’* “Yes; I am listening.” “As I was passing, a fluttering piece of paper at- tracted my eye—”’ “Great God!”’ ‘* Well you may cry out, I sprung from the vehi- cle, took it up, and read thereon the record of our marriage.” The man leaned heavily against the window for support—his lips were of ashen hue, his eyes glit- tering wildly, and he trembled violently, while his voice seemed powerless to utter a sound. ‘But that is not all, sir, for I beheld a fresh stain | upon the record—a stain of blood! “Then I knew that you had gone that way; but to convince myself of the truth, I entered the sac edifice alone, and— Shall I tell you what I saw a lying where the moonlight streamed in upon m ? ’ He seemed to supplicate her to spare him, yet he spoke no word, and with a cruel smile she went on: “The driver saw me enter the church; the next day the murder was known, and I was tracked, ar- rested, and accused of being the murderer of an old man, whose only crime was in marrying me to you. Clarence Erskine saved me from the gallows, and I love bim as passionately as I hate you. “Now you can see that there is no proof of ovr marriage, and that I can become the wife of the man whom I love without you raising one finger to rs. vent. Yes, 1 can now defy you, and I do here defy you to do your worst.” Clinton Clarendon slowly turned away, and with- out a word left the mansion, A moment after Eve saw him spring into his boat and sail away homeward. oh Then she laughed a laugh that had a certain tri- umphant ring in its tone, and said, half aloud: “So far I am ahead of the hounds, He dare not hurt me, for he knows his neck is in the gallows’ noose and I hold the end of the rope. “Well, I have risked much, but it is to gain much —for I love Clarence Erskine with all my heart. No, I forget: 1 am without a heart!” So saying, she tossed her haughty head and ran Sa out to greet Colonel Erskine and his son, who just then drove up to the door, and as they looked i the beautiful, joyous face that welcomed them, they little dreamed that it was a mask that hid an abyss of sin beneath. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE GIPSY FORTUNE-TELLER. A Few few days after the bitter interview between Eve and Clinton Clarendon the former was seated in the orange-grove arbor one pleasant afternoon, en- gaged in sketching a view of the mansion, with the ver cliffs and ocean beyond. ne would have believed that the spot, where poor Paul Lambert fell, would have called up sad thoughts to Eve, and caused her to shun the arbor; but her face was as tranquil as the sea in a calm, and her smile as bright as a ray of the setting sun. Suddenly a shadow fell upon ner, and, with a cry of alarm, Eve sprung to her feet, for a strange-look- ing being stood before her. tt was @ woman, of perhaps sixty years of age with long, flowing white hair, a face as dark as an Indian, and shaded beneath a broad felt sombrero. She was dressed in a queer mixture of male and female attire, and around her neck were a number of chains, some of gold, several of silver and others of beads, while her fingers were covered with rings. In her hand she carried a long staff, painted black, red and green, and the glitter of her black eyes was certainly not reassuring to Eve’s nerves, who asked, with all the calmness she could command: “Can I do aught to serve you, that you come here?” “]T beg from neither man nor woman, girl; I am a Gipsy queen and my feet track the soil of many lands. ‘*The beauty of your home lured me, and I came hither to gaze upon it. Seeing you, 1 made bold to approach, for Lam one unto whom power is given to look into the human heart and read there the hidden ge yy of the future.” ‘he woman spoke with a manner and voice most impressive, and almost unconsciously Eve, strong as eee own magnetism, felt her influence, and re- lied: “T have heard of those who read the fortunes cf others, anda year ago I would have been glad to have had you tell mine—but now I feel that I have it in my own hands, to make or mar my future life: but stay! I would know of the past, for you certain ly can tell of what has already happened if you know that which is to come.” “JT can tell you of the past, maiden—of the mys tery that hangs over your life.” Eve shuddered, in spite of herself, and replied: “There is a mystery hanging over my past life which I could never discover. **T would know it; so tell it me if you can.” “Hold forth your harid, and let me see its lines,” almost ordered the woman. Eve did as directed, and, glancing alternately into the tiny palm and the beautiful face, the woman Le- gan in a low, monotonous voice: “You were born under a lucky star, girl, al- though your birth was an unfortunate one for your mother. : “She, poor girl, had loved a goue and dashing man, the son of a wealthy neighbor, and he had pro- fessed love for her. “ Secretly the two were married, and it remained a secret until your birth discovered it to ycur mother’s ents. “But they disbelieved the story, for the young couple had been married by an itinerant preacher— you see I read all this here—” “Go on, woman, I believe you are near the truth,” impatient) said Eve. “ Well, the certificate was lost, the preacher could not be found, and your mother was turned in dis- grace from her parents’ home. “She was, however, cared for by her husband, and you were. reared up in luxury, and given every advantage of education, until your father tired of your mother, for her charms faded rapidly, and he deserted her. ‘ ‘““With what money she could obtain from what _ had been given her by her husband in the past, your mother, I see here, went away, leaving you to the care of others. “At eneth misfortune overtook those in whose care you had been left, and again your mother claimed you—”’ “You are wrong there, woman; I went to live with a woman who claimed to be my aunt.” “Ha! ha! You so believed her; it was your mother, girl, and she had so changed that, gin that you were, you failed to recognize her. See, Tread all that I say here; here are the lines. “Hating you now, because you were so like tle man she bal once loved, and who had deserted her, she made your life a Met hell—until—” : ; : id — what?” asked Eve, as the Gipsy hesi- ated. “Yes, the lines in your hand divide here—until you fled from her home.” : “ So far, true; now tell me of my father.” “Ah! his was a life of crime, for I see it stamped here in your palm. ‘Yes, he went forth in the world as a single man, and with his powers of fascination, and his wealth, wi won hearts but to destroy them. ‘“‘At length he won the love’ of a gin, who, trusting him, consented to wife. ‘*Need I say, girl, that it was a false marria Sor your mother still lived ? * But blood came between your young girl he so cruelly deceived—for he fell by the mre young ecome 3 a4. =< + father and the Lae -
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—_—_—_— —-. —— ° — han: of one who avenged the shame thus cast upon her'® ** My fathee is dead, then?”’ ““Yes; but your mother yet lives." ‘*T care not for her,” said Eve, impatiently; “ and no’y, here is gold for you, for your story, false as it is, has certainly been entertaining. It is getting late an. you had better hasten on, for this is not a heal- tiy neighborhood for tramps.” 30 saying, and with alight laugh, Eve gathered up her drawing materials and hasrened away, leaving | the Gipsy fortune-teller gazing after her. At length a bitter smile crept over the dark face, and she murmured: s “Goon, my brave beauty; but a day of reckoning ‘ comes to all such as thou art.” 4 Without another word the woman walked rapidly away, and soon disappeared in. the dense forest's | gloom. CHAPTER XXXV. FORTUNE HER SLAVE. Uvon returning to the mansion, Eve, for a while, ) felt a little disturbed in mind, for the pretended past- ; j reading of the Gipsy queen had made an unpleasant : impression upon her. Notwithstanding her good sense and her educa- tion, a vein of superstition ran through her which caused her to put faith in what the woman had told her, especially as she could not contradict her for of her past life, or rather of her parents, she was lamentably ignorant, Therefore, even though she endeavored to make the woman believe she had spoken falsely, she gave credit to all that had been told her. \t For her mother she cared nothing; for her father }7 she had always felt a romantic affection, a longing : to know him, when old enough to apecomare the love between a parent and his daughter, and it ; grieved her to feel that she would never meet him, i that the grave hid him forever from her view; while over her swept a feeling for revenge toward the man who had placed him there—a fierce desire to end his murderous days in the despair and gloom attending 1a a known and sudden death. So far Fortune had certainly been the slave of the bold woman who lived for self alone, and admitted if to herself that she was without a heart, True, she felt most kindly toward Colonel Erskine, ; and her manner was that of a most loving daughter; ; but at heart she felt for him just as she did for the wind that drove her sail-boat over the waves, the horse that bounded beneath her weight, the flowers that perfumed the air; if necessary, she could give all up without a sigh. ’ Without heart she was, excepting in one respect— | hér wild, passionate love for Clarence Erskine. She remembered him when first she had seen him f —that afternoon in the woodland, when he stood ; face to face with the dark, stern man whom his hand had sent to the grave. i The letter she had found had told why he had ih sought the life of Colonel Roselle—because he be- » lieved him the betrayer of poor Florice, his sister. i Then Coionel Erskine had told her all the sad story, never once dreaming that Eve knew as much as did himself—nay, more, for she had seen the fatal duel and had read Florice’s letter. ' Then in her heart came pity for Clarence, for she | knew that he suffered for having taken the life of a 17 man whom he afterward found was not guilty of the ' crime of which he was accused. . Ao the devotion to her of the young lawyer, his legal stru gle in her defense, his noble nature, splendid bearing, and handsome face, added to his courtly and winning manners, and trust in her, a waif, all drew her toward him with a love that was immeasurable especially in one of her wildly pas- sionate nature and strong feelings. Though a waif, a deserted wife, a supposed youth, a suspected murderer, Fortune had proven her very slave through all, and she so intended to play her cards that it should never fail her. That she would deceive the only man she loved, “well knew: but she argued that where “ ignorance was bliss, ‘twere folly to be wise,’ and so long as Clarence believed her his wife, it was sufficient. Of Clinton Clarendon she i d, bad man, she knew; but she held the end of the rope that would strangle him out of life, and she felt that his jips were sealed as close as the tomb. Occasionally there would sweep over her a pang of remorse at the part she was playing; but she would smother the feeling, and in the excitement of her bold game to hold Fortune her slave, feel the joy that a chieftain might upon bee back his enemy and holding him constantly in hand. As beautiful as a dream of womanhood she cer- tainly was, and she was conscious of her power to make or mar a man’s happiness for life. And so thought Clarence Erskine, as he stood azing in upon her, as she sat in the music-room, dly running her hands over her harp, a present from himseif to her. { “Tive,lam glad you are here, for I have been secking you.” _ ‘‘Tam glad to know it, Clarence. Sit down beside mo and will sing you your favorite song, ‘ Wait- 9? bay | f “No, Eve, I would rather talk to you now, and “Jet those lines in ‘ Waiting "— “* Come, for my arms are empty, : Come, for the day is long, 1 And turn the darkness into glory,’ a are just what I would now ask of you, Eve, for m . as yearn to infold you to my heart; the day a Jong without you, and you alone can turn the dark- t necs of my life into glory, for around my inmost life | the only being in the world she really cared for, she | elt no fear; he was a | you have entwined yourself, as does the ivy around even a lightuing-blasted tree.” The allusion to the gloom of his life brought to Evo's mind the fatal duel; his speaking of the “ lightning-blasted tree’ recalled that deadly scene where God’s rebuke rent in twain a lofty tree, with one stroke of heaven’s forked fire. These thoughts subdued Eve, and her bosom rose and fell; a rosy | blush stole over her face, and her dreamy eyes were — to the man before her, with a look of perfect ove. Then, in a voice of wondrous sweetness, she said: “Clarence, you have made me what 1 am—and heart, body, ay, soul, I am yours.” CHAPTIR XXXVI. A FALSE MARRIAGE. A HALO of joy seemed to have at last fallen upon the hearts of the trio at Wildidle, when Clarence and Eve made known to Colonel Erskine that they were to become man and wife. “God bless you, my son, and mney. He always guard you, my daughter. ‘No joy of my life was ever greater than the present one, for I have longed for this hour to come. ‘* Now, Clarence, what do you intend to do?” “Well, father, my duties will call me back to the city in about two weeks, and Eve has consented, with your permission, to go with me as my wife. You might also accompany us, sir.”’ “No, I will remain here; and, my son, you must give up your law and come back to Vildidle, and we can be so happy here together.” “*T will think of it, sir. “Right, and decide as I wish you to; but two weeks isa very short time. Why, you will not be able to have the grand wedding I would like to give you, and a marriage in the church.” “Father, I detest all that makes a bride conspicu- ous, and I verily believe that most marriages in churches are more for show than sacredness, “Tt places the bride in a bold position, the object of a hundred curious eyes, and many, pon rene S not very kind criticisms, at atime when she should feel most retiring. No, no; I detest public mar- riages, and believe the place to get a wife is in her own home, notin a crowded church, dishonored by acurious rabble of gossipers and newsmongers.”’ “Tagree with Clarence, papa Erskine, for I wish to avoid becoming an object of curiosity.” - Me well; you can be married here quietly, and then drive to town and take the train, the same day if you wish, Eve, command me for all that you wish for your trousseau.” Thus it was decided, and so ay were the ar- rangements made for the wedding that the day rolled round without the affair becoming even geneé- rally known in the neighborhood. Only a few persons were invited, the families of the officiating Veg ey and of Dr. Mayhew, so that the other friends of Wildidle could not feel slighted at being forgotten. It was a bright and porns day, the wedding morn, and Clarence Erskine’s face had lost con- siderable of its sternness, and Eve seemed full of quiet joy, while Colonel Erskine was almost wild one moment with delight, and miserable the next with regret, at the thought that the sunshine of his home was going from him for many days. At length the young couple took their stand before the mi r, and if Eve felt the base crime she was committing, no evidence of such feeling rested upon her brilliantly-beautiful face, for, dressed in a dark- gray traveling suit, with hat and gloves to match, she looked exquisitely lovely. Then the oa i noel began, and the deep- toned voice of the clergyman, unmindful of wrong- doing, unknowing that he was performing a false marriage, Apes them man and wife. Once and once only there was a quiver of Eve's nether lip—but the emotion was instantly overcome and clearly she responded to the questions asked by the minister. Then followed kind wishes and congratulations from those dena all of whom had some costly gift for the bride, and after luncheon, in which the young couple were toasted in rare old wine, the car- riage drove round to the door, and entering it Clar- ence Erskine and Eve were driven rapidly away to town. There they took the train for New York city, where it was their intention to pass a few weeks. Thus was Eve guilty of crime in the sight of God; but, in defiance of all law, she had gained her am- bitious ends, CHAPTER XXXVI. e THE PLOTTERS. WHEN the Gipsy queen turned away from the orange-grove arbor, she walked rapidly through the forest, until she came to a carriage-drive winding back into the country. Here, Spperweuy awaiting her, was a horseman, , switching the leaves from a tree with his riding- whip. He was aman of good figure, and had a frank, manly face, the lower part of which was covered with a long, gold-brown, silken beard, which com- plete y hid his mouth. His eyes were restless, keen, and fearless, while his hair was worn long, falling upon his shoulders. Dressed in a suit of dark cloth, with his pants stuck in his boot-tops, and a slouch hat upon_his head, any one would have taken him for a wealthy wey smo ot 2 planter. [o tJ sight of the woman he said simply: ‘ e 2) | “TIT have seen her; I had a long talk with her in an | arbor near the mansion, and I pretended to read to & WITHOUT A HEART. | | | a her a leaf of her past life—telling her the whole truth, but it made no impression upon her.” “IT feared so; she is utterly bad, I have begun to believe.” “She is a woman without a heart; but I could do no more, for she left me, and I have returned to know what to do.” ““T have been thinking that she intends to marry Clarence Erskine, I feel assured, yet it will not be for some time, I hope. “This must be prevented, as you know, and in the mean time I must see Claude Clinton, alias Clinton Clarendon.” ** You do not fear recognition?” “No; none of thos’ who once knew me would re- cognize me now. You may go back to the village, for your vehicle has only gone up the road and will soon return for you. Remain there until you bear from me.” F “You had better beware of Claude Clinton. Should he recognize you your life would be the penalty,” said the woman. “No fear; I will seek bis home to-night, and as it - is miles away, I must be off. Your wagon will soon return; good-by, and may we be successful in our present work.” “+ “God nt it,’’ answered the Gipsy, as the man rode rapidly away. A moment after a wagon came up, with a driver; into this the woman sprung and drove in another direction from that taken by the nee, who kept on at a rapid pace for several miles, unt: he came to a lonely road leading into the swamp. Turning into this he pressed on, until he suddenly ew rein, for the form of a man lay by the meade side. It was a negro, worn down by sickness, and with a severe wound, not yet healed, upon his head. “Well, my man, you seem to be suffering and in distress,’’ said the horseman, core ‘““Yis, sah, I is in de greatist distress; you is a stranger in dese parts, ain't you, massa?” respo' the negro, speak ‘d with difficulty. “Yes, my man,I am a stranger here; but can I do any thing for you?” ** Massa, you seems kind to de poor old nigga, sah. and you can be ob sarvice, ‘kase I’ve got a story to tell, sah.” “You seem as though you had been treated ly, my man, and were almost starved.” x & got all I want to eat, boss, but my mind ain’t — ase I feel bad toward a gemman who do right by me.” “You have beeu severely punished by your - ter, and ran away, I su ? “Tt ar’ worse Se Sak boos much worse, sah. Be you in a hurry, sah?”’ “Iam going down to Mr. Clarendon’s plantation. Is it far from here? If not, I can pause awhile.” The negro shrunk back at the name, and cried, as if in mortal terror: “You ain’t a friend o’ his’n, is yer boss?’ Struck by the manner of the negro, the horseman replied: ‘No, I wished to see him on business only; do you know him?” “Yis, sah; he was my boss, my massa; not as I b’longed to him, sah, for you see my own good massa set me free when he die; but Massa Clarendon, he buy my old massa’s place, and I jist continue on to lib wid him, sah, for I didn’t have no home; but, ss, you has bin misdirected wrong, sah; dis ain’t de road to Cliffside.” “Indeed, I was told to turn to the right, bya gentleman, when I asked the way.” “Yis, sah; but you tuk de wrong turnin’; de right one sah, am _amile back. Massa, you don’t got no leetle drop 0’ wheesky, and chaw o ‘bacey, hab you, sah, for poor nigga, for I feel mighty bad.’ “Yes here is a flask of brandy; help yourself, and here are a few cigars which may be better than a chew of tobacco.” The negro took a long pull at the flask, and then put one of the cigars in his mouth to serve as a ‘chaw 0’ *baecy,”’ and at once invigorated thereby, he reid: , ** Massa, you is.a good man to dis poor nigga, and, sah, I would like to tell you how tt is I is hidin’ here in de swamp like a wolf, and Massa Clarendon am de cause.” Struck by the earnest manner of the negro, the horseman replied: “IT will hear all you have to say, and if you are useful to me, my man, you shall not need a friend; but may not some one pass here?” “Dey don’t many folkses cum dis way, sah, but s’pose you go wid de ole nigger to he home in de swamp?” Without a word the horseman acquiesced, and the negro led the way further and further into the dense swamp, until he came to a small hill, or mound, out of which were growing several large trees, Among these was located a small hut, made of logs and brush, and inside there was evidence of its being occupied. Dismounting and hitching his horse, the stranger entered the humble abode, and glanced curiously around him. There was a cane bed in one corner, an old mus- ket on a rack, a three-legged table, and a firepla around which were several cooking utensils, Upon the wall hung a side of bacon and two t one containing meal, the other ground coffe Av old overcoat and a blanket, the worse; were all the clothing visible. man, Massa Clarendon, am de cause why I ur; but I's got one friend who bring me ‘ions, and has tuk car’ ob me while I was hurted, for you “Dis am my home, massa, and dat deb a a
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Boe 4, see, sah, I’s been putty low down from dis blow on my head, sah.” : ‘Yes, you seem to have indeed had a hard time of it; now take another pull at my brandy flask, and tell me all you know about Mr. Clinton Clarendon, as he is called.” As an hour passed ere the horseman came out of | the hut, he doubtless found the negro’s story a most interesting one, and there was,an expression on his face that showed he had gained some important news. ese | hands with his new-found friend, and leaving him his flask, the horseman mounted and rode away, while the negro chuckled forth, with an expression of joy upon upon his emaciated face: “ts ess as how Massa Clarendon done got de debble on he track now, sure, and dis nigger ain’t be: gy Ae he hab, noways you kin fix it. Ne ssa Clarendon, dis ole nigger chile is gwine to sarcumvent you yit.” CHAPTER XXXVIII. DRAWING THE WEB t at Wildidle a 2.2 day after the false marri } hors rode up to the door of t mansion, and ha his bridle-rein to a negro in waiting. the same who had met the Lao queen in the fo: terward the negro in the swamp. Poy “ep the steps he asked to see Clarence Ers- ine. ‘* Massa Clarence am gone Norf, sah, but de colonel am in,” replied the butler. “ Ask him if I can see him, please—say Mr. Mark- rson , and ham.” The stranger was asked into the library, by the — butler, and a few moments after Colonel Ers- ne entered the room. “You would see my son, sir, I believe; pray be seated. “Yes, sir, I called upon Mr. Erskine, and regret his absence. Will he soon return?” ‘He has gone off on a bridal tour—” “Good God! Iam too late. Did Clarence Erskine Eve Ainslie?” = He did, sir; but why this startled manner, can I ask?’’ and Colonel Erskine seemed greatly surprised at the manner of the man, who turned as pale as d ; x nel Erskine, I owe to 7S a full explanation, sir, I will tell you all, and you must prepare to e most unpleasant news. ‘Believe me, I regret exceedingly that I was not here to prevent the marriage. Hold, please, and hear me; but I was called North on important busi- ness two weeks ago, and expected to have returned long ere Mr. ne was insnared into a false alli- ance.”’ ‘* What! do you dare to come here to insult me in my own home?” ‘No, sir, I have come here to tell you the truth, and let me here say, sir, that I am a detective, work- ing up one of the most remarkable cases of mis- placed confidence, fraud and crime ever known.” “Thope you speak advisedly, sir, and will at once tell me how my son and his wife are mixed up in this affair.” In a frank, earnest tone Mr. Markham began a re- cital, which, as he proceeded, blanched the face of Colonel Erskine as white as his hair, and caused him to tremble with emotion that he in vain tried to control. After a long conversation the two gentlemen arose and eter oo J to the pier went on board the little sloop-yacht lying there. The crew already been summoned by their master, three stalwart negro boatmen, and in a little while more the pretty craft was dashing swiftly through the waters. The wind was fresh, and a run of three hours brought them to the Cliffside pier, the home of Clinton Clarendon. Having seen the yacht standing in toward his pier, and recognizing it as the Wildidle yacht, Clin- ton Clarendon had gone down to meet his guests, and as they stepped ashore said, pleasantly: “Qolonel, I am glad to see you, sir; Mr. Mark- ham, I believe we met_some two weeks since, when you called to see if I would sell my dearly-loved Cliffside.” Colonel Erskine seemed so glad to see the yo planter that he extended both hands, which were a once by Clinton Clarendon. rye Mr. Markham stepped forward, and in the twinkling of an eye a pair of spring handcuffs encircled the wrists of Clinton Clarendon, ironing them securely together. As pallid as a human face can turn, surprised, en- trapped, furious, Clinton Clarendon staggered back, hissing forth: “What mean you, sir, by this outrage?’ and the manacled hands endeavored to draw a weapon from the breast-pocket. “Simply, that you are my prisoner, Clinton Qarendon, a/ias Claude Clinton, for I arrest you in the name of the law,” said Mr. Markham, calmly. ** And why, sir?’ was all the enraged man could say. For crimes too numerous to enumerate now. Hold! move one inch, and I'll cheat the gallows of your and the cold muzzle of a revolver pressed the term of the entrapped man, r L nto that yacht, sir; and, mind you, no resist- Claude © on, as he was now known to be, glanced nervously around, as if longing to call his slaves his rescue; but, fearing that it would but seal charges or proofs egainst him, he sneered gloomily, doom,and not knowing what were the | and obeyed the stern order by taking a seat upon the cushioned seat of the yacht, while his lips moved, and Colonel Erskine, scarcely less pale than the prisoner, caught the words: “She has betrayed me; I did not believe it of her.”’ Arun up the coast of several hours, and Claude Clinton found himself an inmate of the same prison in which Howard Moulton was awaiting his doom of an ignominious death. CHAPTER XXXIX. AN UNWELCOME VISITOR. In the luxuriously-furnished home, where had assed his youthful years in happiness, with his ather, mother, and Florice, sat rence Erskine and his lovely bride. Nearly a month had gone by since their marriage, and not a shadow had dimmed their joy. Suddenly there came a ring at the door-bell, and a ecard was brought in, the visitor desiring to see Mr, and Mrs. Erskine. “Mr. Markham, his card reads; I do not know him, and this stormy night I was in hope we would have no visitors; but ask him in, Jason,” said Clarence. The next moment Mr, Markham entered, and bow- ing to Clarence and his wife, said, calmly: ‘Mr. Erskine, I have called upon you, sir, upon a matter most important; is there any fear of outside interruption?” ** None, sir. Here, Jason, see that we are not dis- turbed under any circumstances. Be . Mr. Markham.”’ The man remained standing, and while his keen eyes flashed from one face to the other, he said: “Tt is a most painful duty I have to perform, sir, but I will not flinch from it, and I beg you to hear me Pome red and be brave under the blow which—” r father!’ cried Clarence, in alarm, while Eve ry, pale. “Is well, sir; I saw him a few days since at Wildi- dle. He knows of what I would make known to you, and asked me to hand you this letter. **He would have come on with me, but the shock was too great, and he returned to his home.” Clarence almost jerked the letter from the speak- er’s hand, broke the seal, and read: . “My Son: ‘*May God ee you strength to hear all that I have heard. It is true, as you will find to your cost. “Your sympathizing FATHER.” ‘* Perhaps I had better retire,” said Eve, rising. “No, you_ will remain here, madam; it is of you that I would speak,”’ sternly said Mr. Markham, and with scared face the t-acvused woman sunk back into a chair, while Clarence said sternly, through his set teeth: ‘*T am ready to hear all you would say, sir.” ‘“Mr. Erskine,’? commenced Mr. Markham, calmly, and in an exceedingly distinct voice. “two years ago I was a student at a well-known university in this State—your wife may remember me when I say that my name is—Mirkhim Leslie.” “Mark Leslie—yes, I remember,”’ slowly said Eve, and then the beauty of her face became marred bya cold, stony look; but in the same distinct voice Mark Leslie continued: “One of my fellow-students—one who had been my best friend in our boyhood—when at college be- gan to lead a wild and d airers life, and, as he was engaged to my only sister remonstrated with him, but all to no avail, for daily his heer increased, until at last I felf convinced that he had lured to ruin a young and beautiful girl. “ Gradually the whole truth dawned upon me, un- tilI was at last convinced, and then I sought out that fellow-student, Claude Clinton—” “Ha! that was the name of your friend, Eve?” said Clarence Erskine, hoarsely. It was all that she said; her lips could not articu- late more. | “T sought out Claude Clinton and made known my suspicions, and—to conceal one crime, he com- mitted another, and struck a blow at my life. “Then he fled from the college, and no one knew what had become of him. “‘T lingered for weeks between life and death, and at length arose from my bed to learn with horror that my darling sister had fled from her home and her friends, none knew whither. “T felt that I knew, and from that day I devoted myself to the one aim of my life—revenge upon Claude Clinton. “ Obtaining the authority of a United States de- tecti I started forth upon my work—to track Claudé Clinton to his death. Now I will go on to tell, Mr. Erskine, the whole story of my discoveries: will you listen to me?” ‘ w aa CHAPTER Xl. THE DETECTIVE’S STORY. STILi standing, and leaning gracefully against the mantle, his arms folded upon his breast, Mark Leslie, who had devoted his life to becoming an untiring sleuth-hound of the law, resumed his story: “To begin at the beginning, I had to trace Claude Clinton from the time of his university life, and having ample means at my command, I set parties to work on his track, until I learned that he had, five months before he struck at my life, rescued from drowning a young girl, the supposed niece of a we- man who lived a eg the opposite bank of the river from that on which the college stood. “This woman I at once sought, and, gaining her confidence, I learned that the cirl was not ber niece, but her daughter, and that hers was a story of wo- man’s love and trust, and man’s inhumanity and perfidy. “T need not tell why it was that the woman hid the secret of the girl’s birth from her, and her near kindred to herself; but she hated the maiden be- cause inher was an image of her father, the man who had so cruelly treated the mother. ““Such was the girl whose life Claude Clinton had saved, and my inquiries and search soon discovered that the maiden had secretly left her home, an un happy one I admit, with Claude Clinton, and with him had entered into one of the boldest games at deception ever practiced. ‘From her home the-thoughtless maiden went with her lover toa lonely country church on Silver Creek, and was there wedded, by the old clergy- man, to the man for whom she had given up all,” Clarence Erskine groaned aloud, and leaning for- ward buried his face in his hands, while Eve sat like a marble statue, so cold, so stony, so white she looked. But the merciless detective went on with his story, his face growing more stern as he proceeded: “From the Silver Creek church the young couple went to town, and there the maiden was metamor- poet into a fine-looking youth, for her wealth of eautiful hair was sacrificed, and she stepped into a full suit of male attire, and, with an addition to her name, entered the university as a student. * So wonderfully well conceived was the deception that neither the professors nor students suspected the fraud, en the graceful form, and small hands and feet of the handsome student were often remarked. “Watching Claude Clinton as closely as I did, on account of his connection with my sister, I soon my suspicions aroused, and on gow ripened into certainty; so I sought him and told him what I a discovered—that the youth was a maiden in Athen I did not know they were married; but I nearly lost my life by my accusation, and when I arose from my sick bed Claude Clinton and his com- age had gone—the latter at my advice I believed or, wishing to save her from shame, I told her i knew her as she was. “Tracking Claude Clinton from the start, I found that he began to leave a bloody trail behind him, for his first act was to take the life of the clergyman who had married him—determined to wipe out all proof of his marriage, for, intending to desert jis young wife, he wished no record to exist against m, “In securing the leaf from the church register, on which was recorded his marriage, I suppose the clergyman resisted, and lost his life. “T believed, until a short time ago, that Claude Clinton destroyed that record—but he had not; he ; had lost it in his flight, and the one who ee it : was his wife, following along the same road afew hours after. “That wife, still believed to be a youth, was ar- } rested for the murder of the clergyman, tried, and cleared by your able argument, Mr. Erskine—”’ ““God have mercy !"’ groaned the crushed man. Eve yet remained silent. ‘Saved from the gallows, her career you know, so I will go on to relate what followed in the mad course pursued by Claude Clinton. : ‘* As was feared, my poor sister Louise fled from her home with the man she so wildly loved, and, believing the story he told her, of his having to fly for killing a fellow-student in a duel, and little knowing that it was her own brother he had struck ' down, she went with him to the Far West, and there 4 he settled down. ; ‘ “Chance caused him to save an old miner, a man of considerable means, and a bachelor. “To his home Claude Clinton took this old man, and, with no friends or relatives in the world, the Hage made Clinton the heir to his fortune, mostly n gold, Some time after, that old man, whose name was Clarendon, was found dead in the forest, a bullet- wound in his head and his scalp gone. ' ‘He had been slain by Indians, it was said and be- is lieved—bnt the red paint and feathers of the Indian J concealed the evil face of Claude Clinton, and the bullet in Clarendon’s skull just fitted the bore of his heir’s rifle. r “Again provided with funds, Claude Clinton and — his wife—for so Louise believed herself, as a mock ceremony had been performed, I forgot to say—left _ | for San Francisco. ‘ ; There the evil man led a fast life for a while, and ‘ then tiring of poor Louise, as he had of his deserted iz wife, he fled from her, leaving her there to starve— or to seek her own living at the loss of her soul. _— “But, thank God! Louise wrote to me, and I at q once went to her, for up to that time I was at a loss to find Claude Clinton’s whereabouts. . “T took poor Louise back to her childhood’s home, and most kindly our parents received her, for they saw that she was sinking inte her grave, her heart broken by the severe blow dealt her. ‘** Anxious to dc all they could for her, and prolong her life, our parents took her to Europe; but, alas! in sunny Italy she found a grave, and O/cude Clinton was her murderer. **Once upon the trail of the man I so longed to meet, I tracked him until, by a strange chain of cir- cumstances, I learned that a person answering his description had purchased a small plantation on the : southern coast. a “Thither I went, and found not only Claude Clin- ’ a | ton, but his deserted wife, living not twenty miles of} apart, and more did. T discover--that cach had_be- y come aware of the of nous presence in the neighbor- : hood, and with an ui er disregard of honcr the wo-
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= man had detewnined to marry one who had proven her noblest benefactor. ‘ ‘ “T needed some one to aid me then in working up the case against the two, so I wrote to her mother to come on at once. a tee “‘She obeyed, and became my ally, disguising her- self as a Gipsy queen, and in other ways, finding out all the internal workings of the home where her daughter resided, loved as dearly and cared for as lavishly by her benefactors as chough she had been in reality of kindred blood. ; “The death of my father, just at the time I was drawing in my net to entrap Claude Clinton and his designing wife, called me North for a short while, and upon my return, I learned, with horror, Mr, Erskine, that Eve Ainslie had, in defiance of God oa man, wickedly become, as you believed, your wife. ‘Then I sought out your father, and to him I told all, asI have told you, and our first act together was to go to Cliffside, and put Claude Clinton in iro pa in prison. ‘phen I started North after you, andin a bundle of private papers, taken from the desk of Eve Clin- ton, I found the secret of her control over her hus- band; it was the blood-stained record.” CHAPTER XLI, AT LAST. Arrer a long pause, in which Clarence Erskine did not raise his bowed head from his hands, and Eve never changed her stony stare upon Mark Leslie, he continued: ‘That Eve Clinton left her first home because she was unhappy, I well believe; that she admired, but never lov blaude Clinton, I also believe, and had he been a different man, who would have led upward and not downward, this fearful life history, in which the heart history of a wicked man and woman is jaid bare, would not have to be told. “Taking advantage of circumstances turning up in her favor, and blindly following a lucky fortune, Eve Ainslie went on until she ed against the cule = she ever loved—you, Mr. Erskine—and wi power in her hand to prove Claude Clinton ilty of murder, she laughed at him, while she Boldly stood up before and man and entered upon a false marriage. , “Her love for you, Mr. Erskine, strong as T be- lieve it is, was no excuse for her doing you this “No, no, no,”’ groaned the unha; man. “Now let me tell you more of ete Clinton, for much to say of his evil, inhuman course. ‘“* By a strange accident, I met, on ne otf to Cliff- he identity of side, to satisfy myself ful y regarding its master, an old negro, Buck, by name, “He was wounded, suffering, and had hidden for weeks in the swamp, afraid to come out for fear of his life. “From him IT heard the startling story, of how his master, Claude Clinton, had sailed from home one mpperpoon, intending to run down the coast to the city. a4 Fin abotig had accompanied his master, and that they had put into the pier at Wildidle, where Claude Clinton had landed, meeting there Miss Eve Erskine, as she was called. “Though standing off and on in his boat, Buck said that a stormy interview seemed to be taking place between Claude Clinton and his fair com- pom which ended upon the approach of Colonel irskine. “That night his master stayed to tea at Wildidle, and sailing off late, the wind freshened and they hove to, to take a reef in the sail. “While thus e ed, a small boat passed, in which was Captain mbert, of the Eaglet, who spoke to his master. ¥ nage ind after a larger boat, following in the wake of the gig, went by, having ieee but a wry on reece but it did not stand on into the shore to- wa: Wildidle, but ran down the lee coast, as if mere- ly for pleasure. “Then his master put back again to the Wildidle pier, and landing, told him to await him there, ready to start at a moment's notice. “ Claude Clinton was gone about fifteen minutes, so the negro said, and returned hurriedly, shouting: “ * Get out of this, , quick! do you hear?’ “Buck obeyed quickly, for he knew what his mas- ter was in anger. “As , stood out of the bay, Claude Clinton came aft to where Buck sat, and the negro said, as he caught sight of his right hand, still grasping a knife, stained from hilt to point: a. am you killed anybody, 'ka’se your knife an’ han’ be all bloody?’ “* That discovery seals your doom, my man,’ cried Claude Clinton, and he made a blow at the negro’s head, which cut a terrible gash and stunned him. “When he recovered consciousness he was in the water and nearly strangled; but, being a bold swim- mer, he took his bearings, and managed to reach ow water, a miledistant. _ “From here he dragged himself to a lonely hut he knew of in the swamp, a retreat for deer-hunters, and in that place he spent weeks, for the next night he crawled to the plantation and lay in wait until he saw a fellow n , his best friend. This man supplied poor Buck with edibles, and though they plotted together they knew not how to go about having Claude Clinton arrested, and they stood in deadly fear of him.” “Thank God that Howard Moulton is acquitted of murder,” said Clarence Erskine, without raising his _ “And I thank God that another crime is fastened upon Claude Clinton,” said Eve, in a voice hoarse with feeling. , WITHOUT A HEART. “But this was not all that I learned from poor Buck. He it was who sailed his master one night to | a point of the coast near Wildidie, and awaited for him one hour, when he returned hastily and put ne home, arriving at Cliffside just before day- reak. “That nigh} Claude Clinton was dressed as an army officer ; and, hence, the man who killed Paul Launce- lot in a duel is found at list.” “Yes, at last,’ echoed Eve; but it was all that she said, and she still sat like a marble statue. Clarence Erskine still remained bowed in grief. CHAPTER XLIL. DRIFTED APART. Tae silence that followed the story of Mark Leslie was one that was oppressive to all, and each heart was sorrowing deeply; the brain of each of those three was busy. At length Eve, with a mighty effort at seif-control, arose and approached Clarence Erskine. Softly the tiny hand was placed upon the bowed head, and sweetly-toned was the voice that said: “ Clarence.”” ‘* What is it, Eve?’ answered Clarence, in a husky whisper. “Tam going away.” “Whither would you go, Eve?”’ “T know not, I care not. I only know that I am going away forever.” ‘“*Kve,”’ and the man arose to his feet, his face emg his lips trembling, ‘‘ Eve, for love of me you ave done this sin, and i forgive you. From this day our lives must drift a and yet you must not come to want—no, I will provide for you.” “Clarence Erskine, were I dying of want this mo- ment, I would not save my life at your expense. No, no, no; I have loved you with all my heart; this very moment you are the only idol of my life -- but we must drift apart, and forever.” “Tt is hard, Eve, very hard; but it must be so—” “Permit me to break in upon this sad scene, said the deep, stern voice of Mark Leslie. “Well, sir?’ simply said Clarence. ‘*The mother ot this lady had much to make her miserable, and she hated her daughter because she reminded her of her husband who had so cruel] wronged her; but now her heart is open to her chil and she will receive her — into her love—nay, she is now in this city awaiting the result of my visit in heaven! what do I hear? Was Roslyn Roselle the father of Eve?’ cried Clarence Erskine, his whole form trembling with emotion. Pt sir, he it was who deserted his wife and rel FR **Oh, God! how terrible is thy retribution! Hold, sir, and you, Eve, listen, for 7 have a story to tell. ‘Eve, between you and me there is a grave—for J killed your father! We it was who had, asI believed, destroyed poor Florice, and though he had gone bby ow with the farce of a marriage, now I know that he deceived her, and his blood weighs less heavily upon my soul, for he deserved dea hands.”’ Overcome by his emotion, Clarence Erskine again sunk back in his seat, while Eve said, in a voice a little above a whisper: ‘Clarence, I witnessed the duel between you and the man I now know to have been my father. I kept it from you, but I saw him fall; I beheld God’s rebuke upon the taking of human life, and I fainted, or was stunned by the lightning—which, I know not. ““When I recovered consciousness you had gone; but a blood-stain—my father’s blood—yet stained the eensward, and upon the — I found a letter ad- lie, and signed Flo- at my ressed to Colonel Roslyn rice. As this gentleman has my private papers, found at Wildidle, he can produce it. N all, Clarence; but, sir,’ and she turned rk Les- lie, “I cannot go to her who calls herself my mo- ther, and I will not; let her go her way, and let her revel in Colonel Roselle’s fortune, for not one cent of it will I take; it would burn my very soul, forI ab- _ my unnatural parent. No, I will go my way one.’ **Pardon me, but I must remind you that there is a charge against you which the law of the land will not overlook,’ said Mark Leslie. “And that is—”’ ‘“Bigamy !”’ Instantly a prison cell flashed before the mind of Eve, and she tottered_ back as though about to fall; but recovering herself, she said, harshly: ‘*T am your prisoner, then?” “T regret that it is so; but I do not desire to perse- cute you, and I feel that Mr. Erskine will*not prose- i will give you your freedom—upon one con- ou know cute; so dition.” ‘Name it.” “That you appear as a witness against Claude Clinton.” With a bound Eve faced Mark Leslie, her eyes blazing, her form tremoling, and her lips nervously twitching. “Gladly, oh, gladly, will I do so, for to Claude (in- ton I owe all that I am—a vile, dishonored woman, and with joy inexpressible, 1 will see him on the gal- hls Oh, yes, I'll be a witness against Claude Clin- mn, Then, with a stifled ery, divan in a deep swoon. An instant Clarence Erskine gazed upon her, and then turning to Mark Leslie, he said: “It is better so; when she recovers she will be calm, I will send her maid to her; but, sir, please be kind to her, and if you ean prevail upon her to take a support from me, please do so. Eve fell back upon a here. “ Also, neither you nor your mother need know want, for your father, Colonel Roslyn Roselle—” ‘* Now let me thank you for opening my eyes, even if I see only a grave in my heart. Clarence Erskine turned toward Eve, stepped for- ward, as though about to press his lips to hers, and then waving his hand, as though pushing off a hide- ous phantom, he left the room, and the twain bad parted forever. CHAPTER XLII SENTENCED. CraupE Ciinton paced to and fro in his lonely cell —the bright sunlight, trilling birds, the green fields, restless waters, and busy life without; darkness, chill, despair and gloom within. It was the same cell from which, a few weeks be- fore, Howard Moulton, condemned to death, from circumstantial evidence, had gone forth a free man, released by the persevering determination of Mark Leslie to track Claude Clinton to the gallows. Released with the shadow of dishonor removed from his name, to again return to his sailor life, and become the commander of the Eaglet, the inheritor_ of Burt Lambert's wealth. —.. 4 Pacing to and fro that lonely cell, Claude ©! ntor brow was as black as gloomy thoughts could m: it, his lips as stern as desperation the his eyes as wild as despair could render them—for =a af art 4 oo been bs ey “gear eae — t y a jury of his peers. e upon the ows —the same death, to save himself, he had intended for poor Howard Moulton. Gradually the damning evidence accumulated around him, until it was proven, by Eve and the stained record, that he had slain the old sears Mark Leslie that he had of Silver Creek church—b: attempted his life, and then that he had shot to death, in the disguise of an Indian, the old miner, Clarendon, whose name he took, to seek other fields, after deserting one whom he had cruelly deceived with a mock marriage. Then, as though from the very dead, from the bottom of the sea, arose Buck, the old boatman, who told his simple and truthful story, which clear- ed up the mystery of Paul Lambert's death, in the masked duel, and proved that the storm had not swept him from the boat, but that he had been struck down by his cruel master, to hide the secret of his asrassination of Captain Lambert. The evidence was too truti too damn for an avenue of escape by any technicality of the law, and Claude Clinton went to his “ype f cell, a felon, a murderer, condemned to death. Bitterly through his a brain rushed all these damning memories, and he ground his teeth to- gether, as he felt that a few more suns and his sands of life must run out in ignominy. Presently steps resounded down the corridor, and a key grated in the iron door The prisoner stopped in his walk and eyed sav- agely the opening door. “*A lady and gentleman to see Phas harshly said the jailer, who had no sympathy for the quadruply- dyed murderer, The next moment in stepped Mark Leslie and Eve. ‘““Ha! you, who have sworn my life away, now come to mock me?” he said, sneeringly. “No, Claude, I have come to say to You it was who made me a woman wi and now I am avenged. ‘* But, Claude, I was brought up in the Roman Cath- olic church, and now I turn in my despair to m religion, for within the walls of a convent I w pass the remaining days of my life—for I gladly give up the world and its sorrows. “‘And yet I would ask you to forgive me for all 1 said to bring you here—J would not have you die cursing me as your murderess,”’ ‘““Ha, ha! There is some joy left for me yet, for 1 do curse you now, and I shall curse you with my last breath. Begone, woman! Pollute not this felon’s cell with your accursed presence. Begone, I say!” and the maddened man clenched his fists most threateningly. The beautiful eyes filled with tears, the eas form shrunk away, and the iron door shut Eve for- ever from the sight of Claude Clinton. ou farewell. out a heart, CHAPTER XLIV. IN DEATH’S ECLIPSE. At last the day of execution rolled round; the town was all excitement, for common natures always love to satiate their gaze upon human misery and suffering. The gallows had been erected in an open field, out- side the corporation limits, and thither rushed the mob of that Southern town, awaiting in breathless eagerness the rising of the curtain upon the “death scene,” the lowering of it upon the jivale. Then a rumor gained ground that Claude Clinton was not to become a spectacle for the eyes of the horror-hun populace; it was said he was dead. Mark Leslie came out of his hotel pale, stern and cold, and the rumor reached his ears. Instantly he changed his intended course, and, hastened away toward the jail. Here was congregated an excited crowd of officials, and through them Mark Leslie forced his way into the gloomy corridor, for, being recognized as a Gov- ernment detective, he was permitted to pass. At last the prisoner’s cell was reached, in through the iron portal the eyes of fell upon the form of Claude C inton, upon the cot. = “He is dead, sir, and by his own jailer. “ aig “Dead! <A suicide!’ and Mark Leslie dro} lifeless hand. : ; “Yes, sir; here is a small bottle con and this note, to you, sir, I took from his hand.”
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} Mark grasped the note and read, written in lead- pencil: “Mari: Leslio, you are avenged, for you have driven me to my death. CLAUDE CLINTON.” A wild light flashed into Mark Leslie’s eyes, a flash of triumph, and then he turned and walked away, for his duty had ended; his sister Louise and Eve were avenged. Back to the hotel he wended his way, and Eve learned from his lips that Claude Clinton had died by his own hand, For awhile her head drooped in grief, and then rising she held forth her hand to Mark Leslie and said pede “Por you have done for me I thank you from my heart, “Now the end has come, and henceforth our paths in life divide, Farewell.” a CHAPTER XLV. : CONCLUSION, Years have passed away since Claude Clinton’s * des d those characters of my story are drifted far a side with his loved wife and idolized Side daughter, Florice, sleeps Colonel Erskine, whose last days of life were closed with bitter memories of the past, In shoddy magnificence, still clinging to life with tenacious grasp, is an old woman, living upon the wealth of Roslyn Roselle, who won her girlish heart to afterward deceive and desert her:—that. pitiable skeleton a womanhood is Matilda Roselle, the | mother of'the heroine of this story. Flitting hither and thither through the length and breadth of the land, ever restless, is Mark Leslie, an old bachelor, and still in the detectlve service of the United States, and in which he has won rank and distinction, for, though possessing wealth he could never be prevailed upon to settle down to the enjoy- ment of the pleasures of life. In Cliffside, once the home of Claude. Clinton, which he purchased when offered for sale, lives Captain Howard Moulton, with a.lovely wife, the cones of the lawyer who aided Clarence Erskine in his defense, and the ppinpous Major Domo of the estate, notwithstanding his gechering years, is Buck, the boatman, who believes that Fred Douglass and hi fare the greatest personagesof the African race now sheltered by the stars and stripes, A lonely wretched man, alternately roaming over the world, and then resti in his grand old home is Clarence Erskine—a m y, silent and stern man, only awai the summons that will call him be- ~ yond-the tomb. *. Oné-’more, kind reader, and my long story is finished—that one, Eve, whose strange career you . have kindly followed in imagination through the ro- » mantic ‘ities of her life. Upon the wave-washed shores of a Southern State stands a lordly building—a convent, whose sacred walls exclude the world from those who dwell there. In that holy retreat dwells the woman once called Eve Ainslie, but now known as Sister Hvangeline, the un. : With the dead past buried, the world cast behind oer, She has devoted her life to God, and those of her sisterhood who have felt the light touch of her fingers soothing the fevered brow, gazed upon her eprrituelle beauty, and know not her past life, would never dream that Sister Evangeline, the Nun, had ever been a woman withoul heart. THE END. ‘The Saturday Journal, “The Model Family Paper —AND+ Most Charming of the Weeklies.” A pure paper; good in every thing; ‘bright, brilliant and attractive. 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