Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 45) (1880 09 21)
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No. 45, VoL IL. PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND.ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST., ‘N.Y. Z ——— ee - — eel 4. \ on LI I FEE AS _ . ‘ h 47 OSNS reo . > ‘ AY \ os es é ~ . > AS a ESN : ~ e- CATED LLL KEK c eae Te ae ng ss SSSA < = eh! SY ee iy a = **s WANT TO KNOW ALI ABOUT MRS. HEATH.”? Her Hidden Foe; or, Love At All Odds, BY ARABELLA SOUTHWORTH. CHAPTER I. THE SQUIRE’S LETTER. SQuirRE RAVENHALL, throwing wide his dressing-room window, hum- ming softly, like a man at peace with himself and all the world, looked Gix8 Entered at the Post Office at New York, N..Y., at Second Class Mail Rates. ; a ee Copyrighted in 1880 by BEADLE AND ADAMS. September 21, 1880. PRICE, 5 CENTS: ———— = = ry — -_ i of Ht | iH 1 iy , “HOW VERY K IND OF YOU TO COME! forth over the sweeping lawns and woods of his own estate, and the view beyond of one of the most lovely bits of woodland scenery in all Eastshire. It was a bright May morning. <A few days? exceptional heat, for the month, had been followed, the previous evening, by a brief though vio- lent thunder-storm. The only sign, however, that now remained of the latter was a superb pie of clouds in the north-east. The sky was of a pure blue, here and there broken by a small, fleecy, drifting fragment of nebule;,.. The sun shone brilliantly, while a fresh breeze made the lake that was just visible through the trees down in the hollow ripple with rap wavelets. ; es ‘* Well,” thought the Squire, a hale, handsome-looking man] of fifty, Vong +
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Oe li mc: 2 with iron-gray hair and mustache, a fresh complexion, and clear, steady, well-open gray- eyes, ‘‘ what a lovely morning it is!” Leaning on the window-sill, and gazing down at the broad gravel terrace beneath, he whistled. Instantly two handsome Scotch hounds, fol- lowed by a Skye terrier, darted from the house, and lifting their muzzles to the Squire, barked in delighted recognition. Then the Skye, getting.on his hind legs, frantically waved his fore paws, while the hounds tore with theirs against the wall be- neath the Squire’s window. ‘Down, Bruce! down, Wallace! Follow Burnie’s example, you rogues—look, but don’t touch! Adams will be ready to kill you if you knock off the shoots of his pet creepers. There, there! I’m coming!” As the Squire disappeared, so did the dogs, and before he could well open his bedroom door, there the three were to greet him out- side. Having administered a caress to each, the master descended*to the morning room, followed by his canine body-guard, who, on his taking his seat at the breakfast-table, each adopted a position most advantageous in their opinion for the receipt of substantial proofs of their master’s affection. ~ The Squire, though not of an exceedingly merry disposition, was not given to sighing, yet he sighed now. The morning was so ge - nially bright that his breakfast were” pi more than ordinarily solitary. fter all, it would have been pleasant to hived had some one to speak to. The only other inmate of Ravenhall was Ed- ward Churchill, the Squire’s nephew, and, in the young gentleman’s belief, as also in socie- ty’s in general, his presumptive heir. He seldom put in an appearance at. the Squire’s early breakfast, save during the hunt- ing season—an absence the uncle hardly re- gretted; for, to use a common phrase, they did not hit their horses at all well together. - The Squire, having bestowed an installment of future donations upon bis canine attendants, drew the letter-bag toward him, and took out its contents. There were several for Edward Churchill, two betraying a woman’s caligraphy—one ; dashing, large and decided; the other neat, graceful, yet undecided, and ‘bearing the copy- ‘book style still about it. The Squire indifferently threw them over by “his nephew’s plate, and inspected his own. The very first he looked at was also in a wo- man’s hand—striking, elegant writing, with a marked individuality in its style. “Who the deuce is it from?’ muttered the Squire. Ladies did not favor him with epistles often, and this was quite strange to him. He turned it curiously, this way and that, until his glance rested on the post-mark, ‘‘St, Helier’s, Jersey.” . It but imereased his mystification. To his knowledge, he was acquainted with no one there. Finally, he broke the seal, and the mys- tification at once began to get clear. ~ The letter itself was not in the same hand as that of the envelope; it wasa man’s writing, and, though faint and unsteady, seemed famil- iar to the Squire. He looked at the conclusion of the last page, and exclaimed, ‘‘Good gracious! it’s from Mar- tin Heath!” Then he turned to the first page and read:— “Sea View Vinw, St. Clement’s. “My Dear RAVENHALL:— “You will be surprised, > porhers a little offended, at once again behold rso long and el pomp pl a si Be Bite dering how we e were lads together, entered Oxford r, and to- } gether had our first ‘bump ’ supper within its classic walls, I feel now,now that: we are doomed never again in life to, meet, how wrong I have been. ae last letter is lying before me, dated seven years Do you remember it? You had heard niaahte te been ill, and, with that oolter ve Soy et omit is your hature, Area to offer sympath y an inh on a mete or the south 0: os riefly acknow! e promisi to write a re le when I my dest ation. Tnever did wri Y HER HIDDEN FOE. “Hardly had I landed at Hieres than a Cg gee of my malady set in. On recovery, though my was good, and much as I wished to learn aboer jou I was hysically incapable of the exertion of cor- respondence. face doctors fod me to Algiers, where Tost ear wife. Then I was recommended S the Madeira—in fact, Ravenhall, for seven years have been vainly pursuing health. ‘* Finally, I was ordered my native air. You know eee that means, Ravenhall. A gentle way i saying, “No hope.’ I was to break the journey y by residence in this charming island. Ts never leave it. The end has ; I feel that I nae buta short space on earth to ined my weakness increases “Death, wh le it bainee me peace and release — a weary life sickness, b but one anxiety. is a great one—my daughter, my sweet os Ianthe, my ene com! on and nurse! Whether ouare married, and have children of your own” the Squire’s brow clouded, his lips contrac am unaware, though the natural supposition. is that you are and have; then I know, when you look upon sad own fair daughters, you will compassionate mip Owing tomy traveling for so long, I leave her, my poor anthe, utterly alone and friendless, almost a stranger to her own land. Ravenhall, will you be a guardian to my child? ‘She is not sich, but I do not leave her penniless. Will you look a little after her, and afford the ben- efit of your advice to my poor friendless little girl? ** Martin HEATH.” The Squire had read with considerable emo- tion. He recalled those rather riotous but very mirthful “bump” suppers, and the Ox- ford days altogether, in which handsome Heath had always been the gayest, lightest-hearted, and a trifle the wildest in an innocent way, and the favorite with all, even the grave Dons, though they shook their heads at times over his mirthful pranks. Rising, the Squire rung the bell violently ; then, crossing to a desk, began filling in a tele- gram form thus: ‘* Fear nothing, oe old friend! I follow this im- mediately. Expect m « Tell Hills to saddle a horse—the fleetest,” said the Squire to the footman who had an- swered his summons. ‘I want this telegram wired without a second’s unnecessary delay. Then bid my valet at once pack my portman- teau. Iam going to Southampton.” “To Southampton! That’s a rather sudden determination, isn’t it, sir? Thought you promised old farmer Styles to look over those new acres of his?” The speaker had sauntered into the room as the footman, with the telegram, quitted it. He was a young man of about five-and-twenty,: fair of complexion, and his rather heavy build modified by his hight. His features were good; the worst, his mouth, which would have de- clared the nature of the man, being hidden by a long mustache of a straw hue, dashed strong- ly with red. His eyes, of a pale brown, were slightly prominent, and of a by no means pleasing expression, a defect concealed by the lids being habitually half-drooped. Thus Edward Churchill was considered by the fair sex in general as a remarkably hand- some man, a fact of which he was anything but ignorant. “You must carry my apologies to farmer Styles, Edward,” replied the Squire, sharing between the three dogs the contents of his plate, for which he had lost all appetite. “Serious and important business necessitates my starting at once for Jersey. vs * Je !” ejaculated the nephew, raising his lids; then, ‘Trust there’s nothing wrong, sir? You hardly look yourself!” “T have received sad news respecting an old college friend who was very dear to me, His letter will explain better than I can.” He passed it acrossthe table and Edward Churchill read. ‘*Humph! ° Like the world—writes when he wants something,” he remarked, in conclusion. ‘‘Then unlike Martin Heath,” put in the Squire, somewhat sharply —“ an upright, high- minded man, generous to a fault, he. would give the coat off his back to serve a friend.” “You intend to go to Jersey, sir, to see the young lady, Ianthe—pretty name—through her difficulties, and comfortably settled, as Mr, Heath requests?” “T am going | to Jersey, to once again see = ‘. Fa - ae —e my old friend, and. tobring his poor child back with me here,” ‘« Here, sir?” ; “Yes, here. Henceforth, Edward, this will be Ianthe Heath’s home, if she will accept it,” replied the Squire. ‘‘She will lose a good father. As far asI am capable, I will supply his place, I suppose you see no objection?” ‘*T, sir? How could I? Of course, none in the least!” answered the nephew, quickly. But his brow contracted, for he, in his own esecret heart, did see a veryegreat objection, Ravenhall was not. entailed, and the Squire could will it as he pleased. “Her father’s nurse!” he reflected. ‘‘T trust she’s some strait-laced, tract-giving, plain dowdy.” Then it occurred to him to inquire the girl’s age. “JT have been' thinking of that,” remarked the Squire. ‘ After quitting college I learned about as little of poor Heath’s life for some years as he did of mine, But I recollect, in the year 185— meeting Dick Sadgrove, a mutual friend, at the club in St. James’s when he told me Heath was married. So, possibly, his daughter might now be about sixteen or seventeen.” ‘A girl!” put in Edward Churchill, with an imperceptible shrug, as he began to look care- lessly at his letters. ‘‘ Why, sir, you'll have to send her to school, or get masters!” “Tf she require masters, she shall have them,” was the response. After that, silence ensued. The Squire crossed to the desk, and Edward Churchill mechanically, bis mind being engrossed yet by Tanthe Heath’s descent upon Ravenhall, took up his. letters. He gave them but a cursory glance until he came to the one with the dashing! writing. He smiled, and was about to break the seal, when he noticed his other female cor- respondent’s epistle, A frown took the place of the smile, and, crushing the letter in his hand, he thrust it unopened into his pocket, For a moment he seemed hesitating whether to open the rest, but finally placed them all in his pocket, hurriedly concluded his breakfast; then, rising, approached the window, after taking his hat from a side-table, “What time do you leave Ravenhall, un- cle?” he inquired. “T find that if I start by the 1.50 train I shall reach Southampton in good time for the mail-packet,” replied the Squire. “ Therefore, after all, I can ride over to farmer Styles’s.” “Tm not sorry, sir, to confess the truth, for I had half an engagement this morning.” ‘With the charming widow?” remarked the Squire, dryly. ‘‘ You go there very frequent- ly. Have acare. Handsome women of forty are dangerous.” “You scarcely find her so, uncle,” said the nephew, with a laugh; “though not flattering for me to confess, I believe Mrs. Mortimer ad- mires no man like she does you, while you—” ‘* Prove an exception to the masculine rule here, and dislike her,” rejoined the Squire, quietly. “ Wh yourself,” “ As there are elective affinities, so are there elective antipathies. I dislike and mistrust Mrs. Mortimer; and when Ianthe Heath is an inmate here, shall forbid her to form more than a passing acquaintance with the widow.” ‘¢That’s rather unjust. Mrs. Mortimer, who is very handsome—” ‘In her style, which is not mine. To usea vulgar phrase, she cannot for real beauty hold a candle to Mary Blair. ceeded the Squire, fastening down an envelope, and not perceiving the color that had suddenly spread over his companion’s cheek, “‘has her father got any nearer perfecting his invention, by which mankind is to travel at twice the rate they do now, by half the power of steam force?. The man, I fear, will end in a mad- house,”’ “Tf he doesn’t blow himself up before,” sneered the nephew. xcuse me, sir, must be a puzzle to By the way,” pro- | -
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HER HIDDEN. FOE. “T hope that pretty daughter of his will be suitably married first. “You will be back, Ed- ward, before I leave?” “T shall return for luncheon.” As, stepping through the window, he strolled leisurely across the lawn, the Squire, resting on his desk, looked thoughtfully after him. “He’s my own sister’s son,” he muttered; “and yet 1 always feel there is something strangely antagonistic between us. One thing, he is selfish, and, I fear, rather wild still. The fault may, in a measure, be mine. Fifty is not always right in its judgment of twenty-five. If he were to wed and settle down, I dare say he would make a very respectable member of society. I wonder he has never thought of marriage, His is just the nature that loves early. At one time I feared the widow would seek fo hook him, Having failed to land me.” And the Squire broke into an amused laugh. “She played her cards too openly. She let me see her hand, and, discovering that I saw it, favored me with her secret hatred, though she likes mé so very much. No, Ted’s safe, be- ing only my heir by my will, and the widow would land a gold-fish.” He paused awhile, then murmured: ‘*I won- |, der what kind of a girl is Ianthe Heath? If Ted should happen to like her—” And the Squire’s thoughts grew busy in building air castles, which the future was to scatter to the four winds, or render substantial tenements. : w Meanwhile, Edward Churchill no sooner was beyond sight of the house than, taking out the crushed letter, he opened, read it, and again frowning, crushed it a second time in his hand. “‘Confound it! What does she méan by writing? Does she think we can always be meeting?” he muttered. ‘‘I might as well be tied to ber apron-string.” Swinging half round, he altered his course, and left the Ravenhall grounds by a different gate than that he had intended. After a quarter of an hour’s quick walking, making his way through a tangled copse, he reached a retired portion of the river, thickly overhung by willows. ° > Beneath one, which almost concealed her, was a young girl of exceeding beauty, enhanced, rather.than decreased, by her plain attire. She leaned thoughtfully against the tree, watching some floating leaves eagerly, as if they contained her destiny. ‘At the sound of the creaking boughs, she looked up, then sprung quickly forward. ‘* Ah, Edward!” she exclaimed; “you have come?” “Yes; I’ve come,” he responded, shortly. ‘‘ Whatever made you write, Mary?’ “Because I had not seen you for a week,” she smiled, placing her hand fondly on his arm. ‘And, dear husband, I was getting so—so weary !” CHAPTER I. THE SQUIRE TAKES A VOW. THE morning was bright and exhilarating when the mail steamer in whick the Squire was a passenger, rounding Niet sy Point, came in sight of St. Aubin’s Bay, and finally moved up alongside Victoria Pier, which was crowded by Jersey residents, half-pay officers, and half-pay widows. The passage had been a fine one. The Squire had felt no ill-effect from it, and now hastened ashore. Making his way through the crowd of men who were urging the superior attractions of the Royal Hotel, Brea’s Boarding House. the Golden Apple, and others, he entered one of the flys waitiag, and gave the direction—Sea View Villa, St. Clement’s. ; Anxious as he was, the Squire could not but be struck by the charming island—its forts, the quaint, irregular’ row of houses forming Havre des Pas, and the firm, golden sands. Five minutes later, the fly was traversing the St. Clement’s road, and not Ave minutes after had halted before a detached house, standing a little back in'a garden; upon the ‘stucco front of which was the name—Sea View Villa, The Squire, as he looked, dropped back on his seat, a disappointment at his heart. “Too late!” he muttered. girl!” Alighting, bidding the flyman wait, ap- proaching the villa, he knocked. The door was opened by a neat little servant. ‘“‘Mr, Heath—” began the Squire. “Oh, sir, he—” And dear Miss Heath—oh, sir!” (sob.) “ P’r’aps, sir,” (sob), “ you’re the gentleman as sent the telegraph, and who she’s been expecting?” IT am,” answered the Squire. card to her, my good girl.” The maid, showing him into a parlor, as- cended to the upper floor. The Squire walked to the window. He regretted not having been in time to see Martin Heath, and was rather embarrassed at his position as guardian to a young girl who was a perfect stranger to him. What should he say if she saw him—what do? He grew more anxious every moment. He pictured his ward a slim, fair, pretty, delicate girl, who would be unable to speak for tears. “Poor little thing!” he reflected; ‘ how shall I comfort her? I’m so strange at this kind of thing.” Then he was aware the door had opened, and there was-the swirr of a soft dress. The Squire turned and halted, surprised, as he look- ed upon Ianthe Heath. Bet How rarely do the pictures of our imagina- tion come near the truth, and how greatly are we astonished that it should be so! Squire Ravenhall beheld before him, not a child, but a woman, tall, graceful, queenly of stature, dark, with features firmly and ex- quisitely molded, and large lustrous ayes that, in their beautiful depths, showed that their owner had learnt the sad experience of anxie- ty, sorrow. Never had the Squire beheld a face so handsome, and at the same time so womanly gentle. . a “How good—how kind—how very kind of you to come!” murmured Ianthe, in a low tone, advancing, her two long slender hands extended. ‘Would that”—and her lips quivered—“‘I were not the only one, Mr. Ravenhall, to thank you!” “Would, my dear young friend,” respond- ed the Squire, with emotion, as he pressed the small hands in his, “that I could have been quicker, or death slower! But your father got my telegram?” , “He did. Your name, Mr. Ravenhall, has been constantly on his lips. I cannot describe to you the anxiety with which he awaited your reply.” “T trust he never doubted me?’ remarked the Squire softly. ‘‘Never—never! When your telegram ar- rived his look brightened, as it used to in the old days when he was welland happy. Draw- ing me down to his pillow, he whispered, ‘My darling, I fear nothing now. I do not leave you alone. “In trouble, or doubt, you will “The poor, poor ‘Take my ‘have a good man to consult.’ ” The Squire turned toward the window, and drew forth his kerchief. Ianthe had related her father’s words with a quiet simplicity that was deeply touching. Steadying her voice, which had failed her, she added, ‘‘ For that happiness which you gave him, Mr. Ravenhall, I shall hold myself your debtor for life.” ‘Would that I could have done. more!’ re- marked the Squire, again taking her hand. ‘Would that I could have told him how gladly I accept the trust he has confided to me!” “T will endeavor not much to trouble you,” said Ianthe, trying to smile. ‘Only of some things I am so ignorant. My income is suf- ficient for my need, and it was my dear father’s thought that you would kindly advise me as to my future.” ‘‘Had he formed any plans for you, Miss Heath?” “Yes; that I should try to find some nice, respectable family with whom I could live—”’ 3 ‘Miss Heath,” put in the Squire, ‘‘ that fam- ily, I trust, is already found. There is a roof and welcome waiting for you in England. As my ward, my dear old friend’s child, you shall have no other home than Ravenhall. I ask but one return. I am wifeless, childless; let me take Martin Heath’s place. Let me be to you as a father.” Ianthe’s lovely eyes looked bewilderingly into his. Then, as she read tliere the generous sincerity that actuated the speech, they suffused with tears, and she murmured,‘ ‘Oh, this is too much! What can I say? How thank you? How ever show my gratitude for such generosity to me, a stranger?” ‘Every friendship must have a beginning,” said the Squire. As he spoke, he gently rested his hand on the girl’s bowed head. Ianthe, removing it, kissed it gratefully. Her heart was too full for speech. What was it in the touch of her lips, that caused the Squire so violently to start, the color to quit his cheeks, and to suddenly avert ° his eyes? Had her attitude and his recalled some sad | memory of the never-to-be-buried past? In any+case, could Edward Churchill have seen and heard, it would hardly have rendered him at ease in mind. The Squire entered upon his office of guard-» ian at once, taking all trouble and responsibil- ity off Ianthe’s hands. It was a great relief to her. She grieved for her father much, but Squire Ravenhball’s presence was a great com- fort to her. His age, his appearance, natural- ly won confidence, reliance; his tender con- sideration respect, nay, affection; while the more the Squire saw of his beautiful ward, the more he felt a certain void in his life was , being rapidly and pleasantly filled. If he had had such a child, he would have been devoted to her, Why not, then, equally love this his | | adopted daughter? | How satisfactory it would be were his nephew to love Ianthe, and they should suc-! ceed to Ravenhall together, occurred to him. ‘Who can tell?’ he soliloquized, pacing the sands, one evening, before the villa, the only other sounds beside his own tread being the soft-breaking waves and the sand shrimps hop- | ping in myriads about his feet. ‘She is | friendless and alone, while there is no denying that Ted is handsome. Twenty-two—just the | age.” And the Squire turned toward the light- ed parlor window wherein he knew Ianthe was seated. She was so, her thoughts far away in a sun- nier land, where had happened one of the most | pleasant episodes of her life. Ah, how brief it had been! The Squire knew, by her own confession, that she was friendless. He had asked if there was any one she would like to be informed of | Martin Heath’s death, or to attend his funeral. — | “Thank you, no,” she replied, sadly. “TI e9 have no relations, and, owing to our moving so often from one place to another, we made few friends—none whom I need inform.” | “We will soon have friends enough in Eastshire. It’s a pretty and a sociable place,” he rejoined, pleasantly, noting the faint color that rose to her cheek, and attributing it to a sensitive feeling at her loneliness. As soon as free to leave, guardian and ward quitted the island for England. It was late before they arrived, and Ianthe | was much fatigued. The Squire led her through the hall into the pleasant dining-room, 4 where, taking her hands, and lightly touching her forehead with his lips, he said, gayly, ** Welcome home, my child,” Then turning to Edward Churchill, who stood there looking on, with that uneasiness yet about him, added, “‘Ianthe, this is my nephew. You will, I trust, be the best of friends.” ’ Indeed, I hope so!” smiled Ianthe, gazing not unadmiringly on the handsome young man before her, to whom she extended her hand. “Tt shall be my endeavor to prevent Misa EN Ee SS eee 4 : % oT
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* z pA e . juin » Ci 4. Heath altering that hope,” responded the gen- tleman; adding within himself as he gazed upon the new guest’s tall, graceful. figure, clad in sables that enhanced the dazzling clearness of. her complexion, ‘‘ What a splendid wo- man! Beats the widow hollow! _Now I: won- der if it’s my destiny to like or hate her? Has she brought peace or war? That, I fancy, rests with the. governor. He seems remarka- bly sweet on her just at present.” That same evening, at about sunset, an hour after the boat had arrived at Jersey, from St, Malo, a man of. about eighty-and-twenty, handsome, with fair and clearly cut features, in figure, carriage and dress.a gentleman, stop- ped at the gate of the Sea View Villa... After ipsnectine: it a moment, he muttered, ‘I’m sure that fellow at the post-office said there was only one Heath in the. island, and, that they lived at Sea View Villa, St. Clement’s, This is St. Clement’s, and this is Sea View Villa.” : He entered the garden and knocked. The same neat maid answered him. “‘Mr. and Miss Heath did live here, sir. But the poor gentleman died, and was buried, yes- terday.” d The stranger was overcome by the sudden- ness of the intelligence. ‘‘ Poor Ianthe!” he thought;, then said, ‘‘ Where is Miss Heath _ now?” __ ‘CA gentleman, an old friend of Mr, Heath’s, I think, sir, came over from England to her in her trouble, and she’s gone back with him to- ° da bb ‘“‘How glad 1 am that she,had some one with her—some one to take care of her,” thought the stranger. ‘‘Could you oblige me with Miss Heath’s address? I, too, am a friend.” “ T don’t quite recollect it, sir; but, if you'll wait, Dll ask missis.” Returning, the maid handed the stranger a slip of paper. _} The “ missis” had kindly written it down. _ |With earnest thanks, the stranger hurried away, and crossed the road to the sands, Tanthe Heath’s loss had affected him much. “Oh, if I could only Have arrived a week Sas “sooner,” he reflected. Then he looked at the «paper and read, ‘Aubrey Ravenhall, Esq., _ Ravenhall, Eastshire. The address was evidently another and a » severer blow to the stranger. He reeled be- . neath it. Then, his brow darkening, he ex- claimed through his set teeth, ‘‘Ianthe beneath his roof! Then may I renounce all hope of ever meeting her again, for not even for her would I cross bis threshold!” Before dawn, however, the stranger, Mark Glendenning, had changed his mind, Raven- hall was not all EHastshire, and to visit the county was neither doing service to nor re- eciving service from the Squire. “To any other spot than Ravenhall I have as much right as he,” reflected the young man. “Should. we by chance meet, it will be as strangers.” ; So, Mark Glendenning was a passenger in . the Southampton boat next morning. CHAPTER ITI, IANTHE MAKES A DANGEROUS ENEMY, Mrs, HAMILTON was a tall, stout, handsome woman of a little over forty. She was a blonde, vivacious and witty. A woman with a quick discernment of) character, and who - could skillfully adapt her tone and manner to any she might hold in conversation. She dressed in taste, though a trifle floridly, as is the case sometimes with large women. With the opposite sex she was a favorite, for she could flatter judiciously. She gave nice little parties in her pretty rooms, was an excellent hostess, with just that suspicidn of Bohemianism which made her re- unions always a success, She had a nice little property, had ‘traveled, and seen much so- ciety. = ha fate One morning, nearly a week after Ianthe Heath’s arrival at Ravenhall, Mrs, Mortimer, o> 2. x 4 se ae ee aes ra ‘ ‘ 4% HER HIDDEN FOE. attired in a morning toilet of blue cashmere, trimmed with old lace, sat in her tiny boudoir, opening onto the garden, arranging with her soft, white fingers various colored wools, for some tapestry work. The sound. of. horses’ hoofs on the road caused her to look up, She smiled on recognizing Edward Churchill. “Coming here, of course,” she thought. “Well, if I failed to fascinate the Squire, I have succeeded in obtaining the friendship of the nephew. .Not quite flattering, considering the uncle is a sensible, worthy man; and. the other—well, might be any thing not worthy if his brain were not too heavy to plan. Here he comes!” She had heard the gate click, and knew her guest, as usual, had hitched his bridle to the gate-post. Looking up, with a smile, she called: ‘‘ Do not trouble to go. round; come this way, Mr. Churchill. You are too old a friend to stand on ceremony. Shall I not ring for Robert to take Whitethorn to the stables?” ‘No, many thanks. .My visit must be a short one,” he replied, stepping into the room, and shaking the widow’s hand—“ unfortunate- ly,” he added, e “Unfortunately, indeed! I was just think- ing of you... You know the saying, ‘Speak of angels,’” : “‘T fear, a fallen angel, in my case, Mrs. Mortimer,” laughed the visitor, taking his place on an ottoman near her. ‘“Well,”—with a shrug of her well-formed shoulders—‘“‘you are aware there is another version? But we're losing time, and I have been so anxious to see you.” “Honored, I’m sure!” remarked Edward Churchill, balancing his well-brushed hat on his gloved hand. ‘‘ May I ask why?” ‘“ Why’—a woman’s curiosity, of course! I want to know all about Miss Heath. I’m told she is lovely. Is she?” t “ce Very.” _ “Then, as a natural sequence, you are al- ready over head and ears inlove with her, and have no objection to the increase in the Raven- hall establishment?” ‘“‘Humph! I don’t know about that,” replied Edward Churchill, dryly. .‘‘ That’s as it. may turn out. The Squire is a great deal too fond of her to suit my book.” ‘*Gracious! you do not mean that he would give Ravenhall a mistress?” cried the widow, dropping her wools. “Marry her-—he!” exclaimed the guest, bursting into a loud, amused laugh. ‘‘ No, in- deed; though it’s a drollidea; the Squire is not a marrying man,” ‘Don’t be so sure of that, my friend,” re- marked the widow, slowly nodding. her head. ‘‘Gentlemen of fifty do, at times, very foolish acts. Trust me, they are quite as dangerous as widows.” ‘« And are widows dangerous?” ‘A eynical world so reports them, But the Squire and Miss Heath? Iam all ears.” ‘Well, it isn’t your suggestion that fear!” “Then what do you?—that is, if I may hear?” ‘‘Well, I don’t mind telling you, Mrs, Morti- mer,” replied Edward Churchill, balancing his hat now by the brim, and looking gravely into it. ‘I know I may trust you. And you are the only person living in whom I would confide.” “Thanks! I shall not take that as flattery, _but earnest, and prove myself worthy of your confidence,” said the widow. \‘‘Go on,” ‘‘Then the matter lies in this fashion. Though I consider myself the governor’s heir, he never has right-down acknowledged me in that light; so, as I have not the slightest legal claim to Ravenhall, he can leave it to anybody the pleases. Now, you see, Miss Heath has come here as his adopted daughter; he treats her as one—a great deal more like one than he ever treated me as a son.” “T have ce * put in the widow, “that your horses do always run easily together.” “ That’s just it. Ifthe Squire gets to love woke: a6 wi + tae be eae Janthe Heath really as a daughter, to say the least, he’ll leave her a pretty large share out of the estate, if be doesn’t leave her all, and mere- ly an income to me.” “Were there any danger of that,” remarked the widow, quietly, ‘‘surely, Mr. Churchill, you have the remedy in your own hands?” ‘How so?” he inquired, curiously. ‘“Why, marry Ianthe Heath yourself.” A startled expression came over the listener, followed by one of slight confusion. His color came and went, his eyes were again fixed on his hat, as he rejoined, ‘‘ Ah! I wish I could!” | “And why couldn’t you? To a handsome man like you,” said the widow, with her touch of Bohemianism, “all things in the way of feminine conquest should be possible.” He looked at her as.she bent over her wools, paused, pulled his mustache, then added, gloomily, ‘‘ Ah, but that isn’t possible!” _, The widow, struck by the tone, bent her gaze, with sharp, sudden scrutiny, upon him. She was a woman who had seen something of the seamy side of the world, and believed that she understood her visitor. { ‘“‘T think I comprehend,” she said. ‘ Tut! what you men consider obstacles may not always be so, or may be got over with a little trouble. In some cases a woman’s advice is invaluable. I do not seek your confidence, Mr. Churchill, though I should respect it as a sacred trust, and in the true spirit of a friend, would give you my advice and assistance.” “You are very good, he rejoined, with a nervous laugh, ‘‘but I haven’t said that I had a confidence to make.” ; “True. I was judging from your manner,” remarked the widow quietly. ‘‘ Pardon me. Still the ‘isn’t possible’ yet remains to me a mystery.” She resumed the sorting her wools. Edward Churchill, glancing furtively toward her, ob- ; served that she looked grave, that her brow . was slightly contracted. He really liked and | believed in the widow, who had great influ- | ence over young men, who, while admiring,’ also felt confidence in her power to advise. **T hope I have not offended you?’ he said. “Offended me!” smiled Mrs. Mortimer, her brows. raised. ‘Good gracious, no! What made you think that?” “You looked so serious.” “Did I?” remarked the widow innocently. ‘Well, I was serious for I was thinkingof a serious matter. You have placed your position, Mr. Churchill, in quite a new light to me,” “How do you mean, Mrs. Mortimer?” “Why: in regard to Miss Heath. ‘You will excuse me if I take the liberty of an old friend, and speak my opinion frankly?” ‘T should be thankful if you would,” he re- joined, with fervor. “Then I am anxious about you. No one knows so well as a woman the influence of a woman, especially when the lady is young and handsome, and the subject worked upon mid- dle-aged, not to say elder]y, I always thought Ravenhall entailed.” “That’s the worst of it—it is not. Also, you see, I don’t bear even the name—and the Churchills were never favorites of the Squire’s.” “ Humph!” murmured the widow, reflective- ly. ‘‘ How vexing these disturbing influences are! Everything was going on so nicely until Miss Heath’s arrival. Mind, I don’t mean to accuse her of design. She may be as innocent of greed as possible, but she can’t help her youth, her beauty, and the sentiment that hangs around her position—they are her weap- ons, and must be, despite herself.” “Yes; you’re right, Mrs. Mortimer,” broke in Edward Churchill, ‘I don’t believe Ianthe Heath knowingly makes use of them, but she can’t help it. Already she’s everything to the governor. He seems another man in these few days. He rides, drives, visits with her; does nothing without telling her; leaves every- thing to her. Yes, hang it!”—and, starting up, he crossed to the window—‘‘she’s as good as mistress of Ravenhall already. If it’s like this now, what will it be in the end?”
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] +" abs st HER HIDDEN FOE. ‘¢T saw all this at your first words,” said the widow, quietly, but furtively watching her guest as he stood against the framework of the window, his look turned to the floor, his hand pulling his mustache. It was a handsome, but a slightly heavy, selfish countenance. ‘ Hence my marriage suggestion, which, however, you say is impossible.” “ Utterly.” ‘‘ Which means that you care for some one better. Oh, love, what sacrifices we make for ou!” “‘Tt must be a strong love indeed to cause a fellow to let slip such an estate and property as Ravenhall.” i 6 “Then you’re not in love? You would wed Miss Heath to morrow, if—if it were possi- ble?” “ Ah, that I would!” he answered. .. The widow yaused. He looked at her doubt- fully. His lips opened once or twice to.speak, but he said nothing. Rising and approaching him, Mrs. Mortimer said, gravely, ‘‘ Listen tome, Edward Churebill. Your position is very serious. I see it in your manner more than your words. Can nothing be done? Will you trust me, confide in me? Iam not devoid of intellect; I will help you if Ican:' You must not lose Ravenhall without - an effort to retain it.” He looked at her, still playing with his mus- tache, nervously. “Td like to trust you—I know I might, safely enough—you’d never betray my confi- dence. Still—” “You do not know how to begin?’ smiled the widow encouragingly, putting her hand on his arm. ‘‘ Let me use my woman’s skill, and guess. You have got tangled in some foolish love affair, of which you have nepented, but honor—” “‘Tt.is worse than that!” he broke in, “not looking at her. ; “ Worse?” Pm ‘Yes, a hundred times, Mind, you have promised: to keep my secret—I am already married, Mrs. Mortimer! There—the cat is out of the bag!” ‘¢Married! You!” cried the widow; then, in ‘surprise, stepping nee she»-resumed her seat. on the couch. “Yes,” he rejoined, sullenly; ‘that’s a dif: ficulty I don’t think even your skill can get me out of.” She did not answer at once, ouly looked at him; reading him carefully. Then she said, quietly, “I don’t:know. Come, sit down and tell me all about it.. Recollect, our doctors and lawyers must be as our confessors; we must hide nothing from them if we really ex- pect their aid.” The calm, self-reliant tones had such a ring of encouragement and authority in them, that Edward GWhurchill, having made the first plunge, never thought of disobeying them, Then and there he passively surrendered him- self into the widow’shands. He sat down near her. ‘Of course, you have committed the act of a madman, and now repent,” she began. ‘‘ Of course, too, she who has drawn you into trouble is pretty, but beneath you in birth, or you would not try toconceal your union?” ‘That’s true. If beauty were an excuse for my folly, I hadit. She’s the prettiest girl in all Eastshire.” “You don’t mean: Mary Blair?’ cried the widow. “Ido. You've hit it.” , ‘Not wonderful with such a clew. The daughter of crazy Blair, the blacksmith! Love her you might; but however in your position did you come to marry her?” “Because I loved her—because at the mo- ment I would have done anything to make her ‘ mnitiog ”» “Do you love her as ardently now?” “Is it likely?” he rejoined, with a short, irri- table laugh. ‘‘I’m not the first man who has committed a folly and repented of it.” ‘Not by hundreds,” remarked: the widow, ‘ ag ‘Mortimer; rising with alacrity. dryly. “Who. knows of your marriage but yourselves, may I ask?” Only the fellow who married us. It was all done quite hurriedly. I'll tell you the whole affair. ” “Mary Blair, with all her simplicity, knew well how to take care of herself,”’ smiled the widow,. after she had listened... ‘‘She was firm; you were weak, But you have not told me how you were married.” “‘ Just at that time a fellow was staying with me from Oxford. He hadn’t taken orders, or hadn’t. got. a living—a half-fledged parson, in fact, though I didn’t tell Mary Blair so— and he performed the ceremony for us.” “Then in my opihion, you may be safe.” “Tn what. way?” he asked, glancing up quickly. “Tn this. _Should.; necessity occur—the threatened loss of Ravenhall through your being tied to this designing piece of simplicity, for instance—in, my opinion: legally it might be proved no marriage.” “Do you really think that)” he asked eager- ly. og “TJ do,” replied the widow, . confidently. “ At least, it would. be wise, to obtain. legal opinion. T. should advise you to do that. Think. over it, and watch how matters progress at Ravenhall. I should like much to see Miss Heath.” “Why not do so? Let me introduce you!” exclaimed Edward Churchill, consulting his watch. ‘ln half an hour I have promised to imeet them—that. is, her and the governor—at the cross-roads..Are you not riding or driving this morning? You might go in in that direc- tion. I,should be pleased to escort you thus far; ‘¢Thanks;.. I. will. do so,”. answered. Mrs. “Though a woman, you shall see I can make a rapid toil- et. ” = The widow was as ‘good as her word.) She descended, both elegantly and carefully attired, just as her pony-carriage, with its attendant tiny groom, appeared at the gate.. Edward Churchill handed .her in; | then mounting, rode by her side, along the shady way to where the four roads met. .That from Ravenhall and that from Greenbank Villa formed two sides, as it were, of an angle. As the pony-carriagé party reached the place of rendezvous, the Squire and Ianthe on horse- _back neared it also. .Abruptly they met. Had the Squire desired to avoid an introduction, it would have been impossible without down- right rudeness. He raised his hat. . At, the same moment Ianthe looked surprised, and, with cold hauteur, slightly backed her horse. Edward Churchill, failing to observe it, said, ‘‘ Miss Heath, allow me the pleasure of in- troducing you to Mrs. Mortimer.” The widow, looking atthe girl straight, started; then, with a, charming smile, leaning forward, said, “‘I think Miss Heath and I have met before. We are old friends.” “T beg your pardon, madam,” responded Ianthe, icily. . ‘I believe we have met but once, then were not introduced.. We are not even acquaintances,” Ending with a slight inelination, she moyed her horse on. The Squire followed her. ‘You know Mrs. Mortimer, Ianthe,” he said. “As you heard me say, sir, we met but once, at the house of a mutual acquaintance. On dear papa’s finding that she was one of the guests, he retired as early as he could. She was not a person whose society he would allow me to be in. Does she reside here?” “Yes. She is a widow.” “Is she? In Paris her husband was poe but she was divorced.” ‘‘ Was it she who filed the petition?” inquired the Squire, curiously. 2 “No, sir; her husband,” ‘You know Miss Heath?’ had also asked Edward Churchill of Mrs. Mortimer, who, after one’ fierce bite of the lip, had recovered composure. AY ie E \ See ; sites DP “Yes; we met once, at a mutual friend’s, in Paris, where—mind, secret for secret—I fancy I deeply offended her by quite innocently ac- cepting the attentions of a gentleman who, unknown to me, had deserted her colors for mine, But Iam glad we did meet, for I now -can express a better opinion upon your af- fairs.” “ And that?” “Have a caré—be on your guard! Beneath that calm look, which is a mask, she is dan- gerous. Now. go,” laughing gayly, ‘for she will think that I am robbing her of you too!” Shaking the reins, she went quickly on, and her looks grew hard ‘and cruel beneath her vail as she proceeded. “So, Ianthe Heath,” she muttered, through her set: teeth, ‘‘ you are. the daughter of that stuck-up Mr. Heath, who found the air of my society too noxious for his child,to breathe! — £ have never spoken to you, but no woman have Iso. intensely hated! I have often wondered whether we should ever again cross each other’s path... Fate has willed yes; and now, in re- venge for that insult long ago, Pll ruin you! It is no empty threat, for I believe Edward Churchill has made it an easy matter. .We shall see!” CHAPTER IV. EDWARD CHURCHILL’S FEARS ARE CONFIRMED. Tantak HratsH was more than pleased— she was. most gratefully thankful for her new home.’ For the first time since childhood she knew what it was to be taken care of. Even before her mother’s death she had been her father’s constant attendant and narse, and since had never quitted him, The bright, sunny period of youth, that goes like a summer’s day, had been passed by her beside the sick man’s couch—passed. readily, without complaint... Indeed, Ianthe was not conscious of any self-sacrifice, would have won her from her duty. To her her father was everything. His memory would be sacred to her, but she was human, and the lux- | urious) ease and comfort of Ravenhall, where every care was taken off her hands, could not but. bave their effect. Her spirits rose, despite herself. The pallor of her cheek gave place to a delicate, healt bloom. grew more afraid, of her, using his own term, “eutting him out with the Squire,” while on the other hand, he upbraided himself a dred. times for having been led into! that secret marriage. . If it were not legal, after all, and he could wed Ianthe? Then he'd be-certain of Ravenhall, and the Squire’s approval too.” The idea never seemed to occur whether Ianthe Heath would marry nim. The thought respecting the legality of his marriage with Mary. Blair had never been out of his mind since it had been put there by Mrs. Mortimer. He was pondering. over it on the following morning as he smoked a cigar on the terrace, and the Squire joined him. “Where is Miss Heath, sir?’ inquired the nephew, throwing away his cigar. “Getting her hat. I have shown her some of the curiosities of Eastshire,” laughed the Squire. ‘(I am now going to exhibit to her another in the person of Crazy Blair. . Will you go with us?’ “J am sorry, but I promised Thornton — Young to be with him by eleven,” answered Edward Churchill, instantly inventing an ap- pointment. “I might meet you after. I will if I can.” “That’s right; do so,” the Squire rejoined, then added, somewhat ‘abruptly, as he rear- ranged a trailing plant in one of the’ stone vases with his cane, ‘By the way, what is your opinion of Tanthe? You have hada week to judge. ee “She is beautiful, and in every "way ad- | mirable!” ‘‘T am glad we agree,” proceeded the Squire. “For my part, were I a younger man I should strive to woo and win her!” Edward Churchill loos at the speaker sus- . "aie ad No inducement a As Edward Churchill watched, “Ba! OS are Se
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6 HER HIDDEN FOE. piciotisly. Was this breaking the ice? Could the Squire be entertaining ideas of matrimony? Squire Ravenhall saw the glance, and read it. First he laughed, then looked serious. “Don’t fear, Ted; I shall not be a rival to him who would win Ianthe. But listen to me. Stay; come a little way from the windows. There, that will do. Now tell me, am I wrong in thinking that Ianthe Heath has made an im- pression on you?” _ What could he say? «He prevaricated. “Could one so beautiful fail to do that?” ‘Exactly! Well, impressions lead to warm feelings at times, eh?’ He paused, wishing evidently his nephew to take up the thread. Edward Churchill merely remarked, “I be- lieve so, uncle.”’ The Squire looked at him as he stood, stamp- ing with his heel] at a blue pebble in the path. He certainly was handsome. “Ted,” he exclaimed, finally, ‘tell me ~ frankly. I do not—say do you—the days are early—but could you love Ianthe?” _ A home question, truly. He replied to it after a space by another question. ‘Will you first tell me, sir, would it annoy or please you if I could?” “Please me beyond all things!” was the prompt answer. ‘‘It is thus. Ianthe is my adopted daughter. I have vowed to be a fa- ther to her. My knowledge of her, the affec- tion she has aroused in me, have strengthened that vow. On her marriage I shall provide bes portion; on my death I shall provide for we a daughter of my house. Now, I do not to sell Ravenhall. I do not wish to divide Sieg: estate. Also, Ted, I shall leave you well provided for; but should you love and wed Ianthe, then all difficulties and divisions would be prevented. You would share the place as man and wife. I think it just to let you know this,” proceeded the Squire, in his manly, ring- ing tones, ‘‘for though you may not have ;deemed yourself so, I having said or done no- thing to lead you to that belief, I imagine that society looks on you as my heir.” Edward Churchill’s lips were white beneath his mustache. His suspicions were correct then. Ianthe ¢ Heath had ousted him. He must forego Raven- or marry her! And how about Mary Blair? a Society has considered me your heir, sir,” %, remarked, with an effort at a laugh, “ be- liege that you had no other, I being next of eee ‘aagleaise has no business to meddle with airs,” rejoined the Squire, coldly. ‘‘If it chooses to do so, it is not mine to set it right. I offered you an income and a home at Raven- ~ hall. What more I may do rests with me.” ‘‘Tndeed, uncle, do not class me with socie- “ty, ” broke in the nephew, witha laugh. ‘I am grateful for what you have already done, and shall be equally so for whatever you may hereafter bestow on me.” “Spoken well, Ted!” cried the Squire, ex- tending his hand, which the other grasped, while his lips muttered a curse. ‘‘ But Ianthe, Ted? Win her, and you shall be my heir, indeed.” “That is a question, uncle, to which there _ are two sides,” answered Edwatd Churchill. - “To love Ianthe is not difficult; but to win her, yes. If she should happen not to care for me-—who knows?’—and how anxiously he said it!—‘‘her heart already may be another’s!” “Tut! When she told me, as did her father in his letter, that she was alone, friendless? Bias her, force her inclinations, I-would not for the world. That she is my adopted danghter ; shall not prevent her being her own mistress, h All I say is, try. You are young, | handsome, i and oftenin her company. Your union would greatly please me for the reason I have stated, Well, what do you say?” ‘‘ What can I say, uncle, but that I will try,” he replied perforce. ‘The result lays with H Ianthe Heath, not me.” f ‘Thank you.” And again the Squire pressed his hand. ‘“ Recollect, faint heart never won fair lady. Hush! here she comes!” As he spoke, Ianthe appeared on the terrace, advancing toward them. “Phe Squire is going to introdtice me to one of your Eastshire celebrities, Mr. Churchill,” she smiled. ** $0 I hear—Crazy Blair.” “He certainly has a craze,” ptt in the Squire. ‘The poor fellow’s brain is too power- ful for its owner’s limited range of education and experience to master. He is ever on the verge of wonderful discoveries, but never crosses it,” ; “Ts he young?’ inquired Ianthe, as they moved to the terrace steps. ‘* He is fifty; a widower, with one child, a daughter—his safety-valve against insanity. He adores her; she is as the very apple of his eye, as she deserves, for she is beautiful, and one of the steadiest, best girls in the village, though for years she has lacked a mother’s care. Edward Churchill had dropped a step be- hind, not joining in the conversation. His head was bowed, and he struck at the gravel with his cane, ; At the foot of the steps he parted from them, saying jestingly: ‘‘Take care, Miss Heath, that Crazy Blair does not blow you up during your visit!” Adding, as he went, to himself, ‘*T wish he would, the whole lot of them!—for some such event alone seems capable of getting me outof the fix I amin. I must wed Ianthe Heath, or, in all probability, lose Ravenhall, It’s a shame.’ Whatever the Squire may say, I had a right to expect it to be mine. Tl go and consult the widow. Somehow, I don’t know why, I wish that Ianthe were not going to see Mary Blair. Perhaps Mary may not be at home.” But she was at home, and opened the door of the cottage, adjoining the forge, that stood under a large spreading chestnut, to the left of the village green, at once to the Squire’s knock. “Good-morning, Mary,” said Squire Raven- hall. ‘Is Blair at home? I looked in at the forge, but he was not there.” “No, Squire; I fancy he is in the workshop. Will you walk in, and I will see.” Ushering them into the neat little parlor that possessed a swing bookcase, well supplied with volumes upon engineering; steam, etc., she left them. Outside she paused, pressing her hand to her heart, Remembering the tie that bound her to Edward Churchill, she was always nervous in the presence of the Squire. Then she hastened down the passage to the workshop beyond. ‘‘ What a lovely girl!” remarked Ianthe, di- rectly they were alone. ‘Miss Blair is the acknowledged belle of the village!” laughed the Squire. ‘It’s a miracle to me sbe is not married; but I do not even hear that she has a lover. That is the fault of over-education.” “How do you mean, sir?” ‘Why, Blair’s wife was a superior woman for’ her. class; while poor Blair himself holds education as the pure gold of the earth, and nothing would content them but that Mary should be well taught. The consequence is she has been raised out of her own sphere, without the power of entering another.” The blacksmith entered, and Ianthe regarded him curiously as he saluted her with an inborn courtesy. * He was of the middle hight. Iron-gray hair fell over a broad, knotty forehead. His well- formed features were begrimed by the forge fire, as were his hands; yet Ianthe was struck with his appearance. There was the dignity of thought—of brain power about him; but the vague expression of the large, clear blue eyes seemed to betray how terribly the brain was consuming itself, equally with the uncon- scious movement of the muscular hand across the forehead, as if to summon back memory. Janthe thought of the Squire’s words— “Blair’s daughter is his safety-valve from in- sanity ;” and turned toward the girl. She was standing modestly by the window. Leaving the Squire, who was giving some di- rections to the blacksmith respecting repairs required at Ravenhall, Ianthe approached her. “ What a pretty garden you have!” she re- marked, ‘‘ Ca it be that that is a bignonia on that trellis? It grew over our house in Jersey, but. I did not know the English climate was warm enough for it.” ‘This thrives well,” replied Mary, timidly; ‘but then father takes such care. It’s a re- lief to him when he leaves the forge. We have a fern that no one else can get to live, but it does here; father, you see, is so clever.” “(Of that Iam sure,” answered Ianthe, more and more taken by her companion. ‘‘ May I see your garden?” “Certainly.” Quitting the room, the two were soon walk- ing side by side down the well-kept’ paths, their skirts scattering the perfumes of the flowers as they Their walk and talk was interrupted by the ‘Squire’s voice summoning his ward, “My visit’s all too short,” smiled Ianthe. “You must allow me to come again; and if you will let me have a specimen of that fern, I shall be delighted.” ‘‘Tanthe, Ianthe!” remarked the Squire, shaking his head after they had left; ‘I per- ceive you are a terrible Radical! You have inherited your father’s revolutionary ideas; you actually shook hands with Mary Blair.” ‘‘A condescensior[ paid not to the black- smith’s daughter, Squire, but to intellect. She is far cleverer than I!” laughed Ianthe. ‘‘Do you know Mary Blair is quite a botanist? She knows, too, all the Latin names of the flowers, and that I could never acquire, Ah!” The exclamation was hardly audible; but the quick start accompanying it did not escape the Squire. He looked round. ‘“‘ What is the matter, my love?’ he asked. “Nothing. That is, did you notice a gentie- man just now, standing by yonder stile?’ © They -wére proceeding down a broad coun- try road, bordered by high hedges and arched by trees. About twenty yards in advance of them was a stile, leading to the meadows. “T did see some one,” replied the Hgair’, “Did you know him? Ted, perhaps?” “Tt was not Mr. Churchill,” said Tanthe; and her tone was lower, her color a trifle hightén- ed. ‘‘ But the figure seemed familiar to me. It was like some one I knew abroad.” ‘* Not a Nibilist, [hope?” laughed the Squire. ‘““No, indeed! Pray do not think so ill of me, or of those I knew,” rejoined Ianthe. “Though I fear, unless you object, sir, I shall be Radical enough to improve my acquaintance with Mary Blair.” **T shall not object, my love,” remarked the Squire. ‘‘I have not the slightest doubt, if we were judged by the standard of brains, Blair would be found a better man than I. But about the mysterious figure that vanished sorapidly; for I see you have not forgotten him?” Ianthe had not. Her glance had furtively been trying to penetrate the thick hedge, but in vain. They had now, however, reached the stile. Going to it, both looked over. No one was to be seen, ‘* He’s vanished, truly! You will not be able to see if it was the person you believed.” — ‘*It was not; for had it been, he ‘surely would not have disappeared. Besides, it is not at all likely that he could be in Eastshire.” They proceeded on their way until they reached a small lane full of deep cart-ruts, di- ‘mag oy from the road, when lanthe said, halt- ‘Did you not say, sir, that you particu- ary wished to see farmer Styles this morn- ing “Yes, I must call upon him; but I will see you to the lodge gates first.” ‘Pray do not think of it!” cried the girl. “Why, they’re almost in sight. Surely I can go that distance unescorted? You will pain me, sir, really |”
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HER HIDDEN FOE. z ‘Tn that case I yield. Perhaps I may over- take you before you reach the house.” Waving his hand, he turned down the lane. Ianthe pursued her way more slowly. The expression of her countenance was changed. She was lost in thought, *T could have declared it was he,” she re- flected. ‘‘ Yet, how possibly could he be here, -and why should he not speak?” Just then there was a quick step following her, She fancied it was the Squire; but, on turning, started, with a little cry of joy, re- See the gentleman she had seen at the stile, “Then it was you, Mr. Glendenning, that I saw!” she exclaimed, impulsively, extending her hand. ‘I thought I could not be mis- taken.” , “Yes, it was I, dear Miss Heath! At last I am happy enough to speak to you.” CHAPTER V. A SACRED CONFIDENCE. “ How strange that you should be in East- shire as well as 1, Mr. Glendenning!” remarked Tanthe,. recovering her composure, ‘ Why did you not speak to me just. now?’ “You were not alone,” he answered, passing over the first part of the sentence, ‘‘I would not intrude.” “Tt would have been no intrusion. It was my guardian who was with me, One of the best, the kindest men that ever lived.” “‘ Indeed!” remarked Mark Glendenning, a sneer on his lips which he checked in his tone. ‘*Ts he also related?” “Not in any way.” “ That is well!” said Mark Glendenning, fer- vently, beneath his breath. “He was an old college friend of dear papa’s. Ah!” exclaimed Ianthe, stopping ab- ruptly, ‘‘ you do not know—I_haye not told you—though perhaps you may have guessed from my dress.” ‘‘T know of your sad loss, and have grieved for you,” he said, quickly, with ready sympa- thy... ‘‘I arrived in Jersey the day you left. I was informed of everything.” “And you—” ‘Came here,” he interrupted, looking at her—they had been walking slowly on—‘‘ to see you—to say how sorry I was—to ask if there was anything I could do for you, Miss Heath. You can but know how glad—how honored I should be if there were!” ‘You are very, very kind,” she replied, in a low tone, her gaze bent on the ground. ‘Heaven indeed has sent me true friends in my sorrow. _I thank you so much!” “Then I am neither to be glad nor honor- ed?’ he smiled. ‘‘ There is nothing I can do for you, Miss Heath?” ‘‘ Nothing. I almost wish there were, for Tm sure that would please you best.” “Indeed it would. Do you recollect when I saved your little dog that had got into the whirl of the tide round the headland, and could not make the shore?’ “‘How could I forget it?” “Well, it was not a very heroic deed,” he laughed, lightly; ‘‘ but I look back on it as the happiest event of my life.” It was an embarrassing speech to answer. mics i feared to do so seriously. “T thought you a hero!” she laughed, “ Ah! I have no little dog now. Poor Fluffy died of a fit, I fear brought on by an inordi- nate love of eating. Do you intend staying in Eastshire?” “JT hardly know,” he rejoined, scarcely tell, so much depends.” “Tf more important business should not call you elsewhere, I fancy its beauties would repay you—you who sketch so beautifully,” she re- marked. “That is true,” he smiled, ‘‘ Already, I assure you, I have seen enough, Miss Heath, to make me in no hurry to depart.” Whether she did not understand his real meaning, or whether she deemed it best to ap- “T can meres + + pear not to do so, Ianthe rejoined, “ I am sin- cerely glad of that, Mr. Glendenning. Then you will let me have the pleasure of introduc- ing you to my guardian, Mr, Ravenhall? Iam certain you will like him, and that the liking will be mutual.” ‘‘Many thanks; but I fear that is a pleasure I must decline. My-circle of even acquaint- ances is a small one, yet I do not wish to in- crease it. If I may see you occasionally like this—if I can ever be of any service to you, and you wil] permit me, you do not know the boon you will confer.” She looked at him perplexed, wondering. He perceived it, and, with a nervous laugh, said, ‘‘ You are surprised! You regard me as eccentric. What can I say or do to remove the impression?” “Tf you desire to remove it—I mean my wonderment that you refuse a simple introduc- tion to my guardian,” smiled Ianthe—‘ why, the truth is ever the best to be said,” “Ts it always?” he responded, in a voice so seriously interrogative that again she looked at him. Then, as with sudden determination, ‘Miss Heath, you are right; let me confess it, It was to tell you and your father the truth that took me to Jersey, where I learned of your melancholy loss, and came here to ex- press my sympathy. But why not still tell the truth? Why should I not? I have a history— a sad one, . lam sure, Miss Heath, you would hold it as a sacred confidence not to be revealed to those nearest and dearest.” Ianthe, moved somewhat, and slightly ner- vous at the tone the conversation had taken, answered, “‘I would, indeed, regard the con- fidence in the light you say. But why is it necessary at all?” : ‘“Why?’ he repeated. ‘Because, until you know, my presence is a deceit practiced upon, if not an insult to you. Because I may not now again take your hand, may not ask the countenance of your friendship until you have learned the truth. Will you hear it, and then be my judge?” “Your judge, Mr. Glendenning?”’ she said, nervously; ‘“‘ why should I fill such an office?” ‘* Because, for no other’s judgment do I care! Do not refuse, Miss Heath! Give me the com- fort. of having one who probably will not refuse sympathy, to confide in. Do not reject a con- fidence that had your father lived would have been. his.” Ianthe paused. Perhaps her companion was not aware how strong an advocate he had in the girl’s own heart. Finally, glancing up, she said, quietly, ‘‘ Mr. Glendenning, I will accept it in my father’s name! But surely this place—the open public road—is not suitable?. Here is Ravenhall. Will you not enter it?” They had reached the handsome lodge gates by this time, and she motioned toward them. Mark Glendenning di ‘*T would rather not,” “We might not be more free from interruption there than here. Bear with me in my eccen- tricity, Miss Heath,” he added, with an effort to smile; ‘‘ but even the boundary hedges of an estate as large as this seem to press on one at times like prison walls. Do you see this lane? It leads, as you know, toward the river, There it is improbable that any one would disturb us, Dare I ask you towalk in this direction?” — ‘Why not? It will do as well as any,” re- marked Ianthe, moving forward. “Thank you,” he ,said, earnestly, even gratefully, that it thrilled h he heart. The path was somewhat rough, yet Mark Glendenning did not offer his hand to assist his companion’s steps. He knew she would prefer it otherwise. They walked in silence side by side, each one’s thoughts on the other. Suddenly Ianthe Heath stopped. “This is far enough, is it not?’’ she said. “ Quite,” he responded. “‘ See, under this tree is a felled trunk. Will you sit down? It will be more comfortable for you. I will make my recital as brief as may be.” She took the seat, her feet buried in the soft, eee et ip te oe ave > renee mossy grass, enameled by daisies and blue- bells. She could not help being struck by the strangeness of her position, but she had no fear of her companion, whose manner was marked by an almost reverential respect. Mark Glendenning then taking his place near her, standing, one arm leaning against a tree, his handsome countenance grave, and in- dicating considerable emotion, he began in low, clear tones, over which it was evident he kept great control. t “ The confession I must make, Miss Heath, I throw myself on your generosity to pardon, I feel how trebly wrong of me to touch on the matter when your loss is so recent. Yet Iam sure you will recognize that circumstances offer an excuse. You remember how we first met; how we met again and again. You cannot estimate how delightful to me was your and Mr, Heath’s society. I called it friendship, yet not for long. Very soon I knew it to be love—that all the world held no being so dear _ to me as were you!” ’ Ianthe, flushing painfully, made a movement as if to rise. & “This, Mr. Glendenning, is scarcely the con- fession you led me to expect,” she remarked. ““Wait—I entreat you: wait!” he exclaim- ed, touching her arm lightly. ‘‘ Pray hear me to the end! Why I have said this is but to show you why I tell you my history. That you can ever be anything more to me than a friend. Miss Heath—that I should ever dare to hope, ask it, is impossible. There isa barrier between us—I know it. I would tell it you that—that you may not misunder- stand me when I ask for your friendship; 4 that you will think of me now and a ”—he paused, undergoing an internal struggle; then the word came like a whisper through his clenched teeth—‘‘ disgrace!” Ianthe started, then looked at him with pitiful sympathy. He was very pale, and it was very evident that he was suffering deeply. Instinctively she extended her hand, saying, ‘Not through any fault of yours, Mr. Glen- denning—of that I am sure.” ‘‘No, indeed, no! Thank you for those words!” he rejoined, gratefully pressing the slender fingers. ‘When I knew I loved you, — I remembered this disgrace, and fled your presence. Uselessly, I returned; but honor was — not all lost to me. I dreaded—pardon the presumption—that I might not become i different to you, and forced myself fror presence again, To live, however, ever seeing you I found to be impossi came to a resolve. The history of my life, which I had learned from a dying mother’s lips, had never passed mine to a living soul. I determined that it should to you and your father. Before you I would appear under no false colors. Then I thought that you, when I had disclosed all, would accord to me your friendship, without misreading mine or fearing that I should venture to overstep it.” Mark Glendenning pausing, Ianthe said, “My father liked you much, Mr. Glendenning. He, as I, esteemed your friendship. Believe me, nothing you can say will lessen my re- gard.” by y He took the words as they were spoken. He — never dreamed that, in arousing a generous girl’s sympathy, he was the more surely win- ning-her love. : Ianthe’s whole heart seemed to go forth in pity to her noble, handsome companion. ‘Tt will make me happy indeed if it should ge Miss Heath. I will delay my recital no onger. And then, with many changes of feeling from anger to bitter grief, he related his his-- tory. She listened in earnest sympathy and com- on. Her lip trembled, and tears hung on her lashes, when the son, telling of the mother’s death, burying his head on his arms, crossed against a tree, sobbed aloud. When Mark Glendenning recovered himself, > 3 eee fer oe nai
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7 - ™- A o oe he said, ‘‘ You see now, Miss Heath, the bar- rier that holds me back from ever daring to hope for more than your friendship. “Ihave told you all.” ‘‘ And, Mr. Glendenning, I thank you for your confidence, ” she answered, gently. She had risen, and now held out her hand. ‘“ Your poor mother—it is her story, I believe?” “Tt is her story, Miss Heath, that is true. She was an angel: but the world’ would not— nay, does not read it so.” ‘And ’”’—she paused, then substituted for the word she had been about to: use—‘‘him? Have’ you ever met?” , “ But once.” ff “ And then?” ’ ‘‘He was wealthy, honored, prosperous,” “ He knew you?” ““How was that possible?’ faintly smiled Glendenning. ‘‘We meet as strangers. No word of mine shall ever make it otherwise be- tween us.” ? ‘But is this right? I would force him to’ listen—I would force him " repent, and—”’ said Ianthe. “Would repentance briniy back’ the dead?” interrupted Glendenning. ‘No; his path runs one way, mine another. Even were they par- allel, and the intervening space but small, I would not cross it.” ‘I think you are wrong,” she said, gently, though much in secret admiring him. ‘ Yet yours is a hard cross that he has given you to bear, Not, however, too heavy, I trust, for friendship to lighten. mine changed. i You shall never find __ “That is all I wanted—all in this world that’ I care for,” he remarked, as he touched ‘his lips to her hand. The action was not without a witness. At that moment Edward Churchill, chancing ‘to be coming up the lane, saw it through the trees. He had been in ‘consultation with the widow, during which it had been ‘arranged, chiefly, it must be owned, by Mrs. Mortimer’s subtle suggestions, that Mary should be inform- ed that her marriage was no marriage, and that Edward should at once pay his ete to Janthe. Even to the young man, the widow's parti- sanship on bis side had been a trifle surprising; but what is so easily deceived as vanity? Ed- ward Churchill imagined that Mrs. Mortimer was actuated purely out of friendship to him- self, while, in fact, her motive power was re- veng d he whom she pretended’ to serve was but the instrument she used. Her meeting with and cutting reception by Ianthe Heath had aroused all the widow’s worst lities. She was certain that the girl would uaint the Squire, at least, with the truth of ' widowhood; and when she said that she would ruin Ianthe, meant it as no idle threat. Edward Churchill had himself shown her the way. The minister who had performed that secret union had, it had been ascertained, joined a missionary expedition into South Africa. For Mary Blair ever to discover him would beim- possible, as she had been ignorant of even his name, ‘Thus the poor girl was ‘helpless. | t Mrs. Mortimer meant her by no means to be the sufferer in the end, Ianthe once married to Edward Churchill, it'was her plan to find the clergyman by secret means, keeping herself in the dark, to inform Mary and her }- father of the truth, and bring about Ianthe’s disgrace, and Mary, the blacksmith’s daugh- ter’s exaltation to the rank of Mrs. Edward Churchill as a thorn to the Squire. In her own mind the plot was clear, and with great skill she manipulated the strings she held. Even that morning Edward Churchill had, he hardly could have said how, save by his own reasoning, become morally convinced that his marriage with Mary Blair, though one in honor, was hot so in law; and that regard- ing himself in the light of a hardly-used indi- vidual whose generosity and softness of heart had caused him to fall into the snares of a pretty low-born girl, he had every right to free stranger to her, though! ‘are but jesting! Sha Type himself from a connection so detriihaitél to his future. He had quitted Mrs. Mortimer, therefore, with the full intent’ of at once laying desperate siege to Tanthe’s héart, having small fear of success, when, happening to lift his eyes, he had halted from astonishment at beholding, through the trees, Ianthe’s ¥all, graceful figure and that of a remarkably andsome man, who, with marked deference, was kissing her gloved hand. “Who the deuce is he?” he muttered. — “I never saw the fellow here before. ‘“He’s no Meeting in this se- cluded lane looks mysterious! Those high and grand girls can’ manage a little secret flirting on’ their own account, it seems!’ Van the fel- low be an old lover? He looks it. Then I suspect he’ll be poking his confounded nose in at Ravenhall! I wish I could hear what they are saying.” And for that honorable purpose diverging from the path, Edward Churchill strove to ap- proach them through the trees. But his purposé’ ‘was prevented by Ianthe and Mark Glendenning quitting the lane. At the Ravenhall gates they parted, the latter down the road, the oma entering the Raven- hall avenue. On the terrace ia met the Squire, with his dogs. ' ‘““Why, where have you been wandering, my fair maid,” laughed the’ Squire, “that I should reach home first?” “T met an old friend, sir.” “Not the man we saw’ at the stile?” “The same, then, seeing that Iwas not alone. He is an old friend—one whom papa esteemed greatly.”’ “T hope, my love, you told him that he would ‘be welcome at Ravenhall?? “1 did, sir, take that liberty, but I am doubtful if he will avail himself of Ravenhall hospitality, as his stay in Eastshire is uncer- tain, See,” she smiled, “‘ we have all arrived at home together! Here comes Mr. Churchill, Til go and remove my hat. Luncheon must be nearly ready,” When Edward Churchill joined the Squire he said, ‘‘Has Tanthe told you who was the young fellow she was speaking to in the empl ‘Yes; an old friend.” 4d Friend!” laughed the néphew, “Tn confidence—mind, in confidence kissing her hand, and looking things u able, I fear, sir, T T shall find a rival in m ing.” bat “You intend to woo, Ted?” en “Yes, uncle. You took me by surprise this morning, atid T didn’t like to say the truth downright. It would have seemed as if I only said it out of selfish, mercenary motives, to secure ven- hall. But I do love Ianthe, and should consider myself fortunate if I could win her.” **T am. delighted, Ted!” cried the Squire, putting his hand on his nephew’s shoulder. * Ah, sir, but this new ‘ friend?” “Tg no more than a friend. Certainly he cannot be a lover, for Ianthe asked him’ to | Ravenhall, and he refused to come, his fad here being short.” “T am glad of that!” veepaniied Bawara ‘Churchill, who had a dread of Mark Glen- denning’s rivalry. CHAPTER VI. CRAZY BLAIR’S INVENTION, “No, no, Edward, you don’t mean it—you can’t! Think—it would kill me! Say you It would be cruel, but T’d forgive you!” The speaker was poor Mary Blair. With a brutality the outcome of nervous, shame- faced guilt, Edward Churchill had carried out Mrs. Mortimer’s suggestion, and, seeking an interview in the old rendezvous among the | ‘was calmer, but very pale. -willows, had told Mary she had been deceived. The ceremony, as the clergyman, had been but | a mockery, that had apparently made them man‘and’ wife.’ '” me He did not like to address me’ Why should I not own’ it? ‘are testing’ my affection! She had listened at first, too stunned’ to be- lieve, even if she understood. In that very spot, where the graceful wil- lows, casting their delicate branches into the water, made little mimic eddies in the tide, how often had Mary listened to Edward Churchill’s fervent whispered words of love; and now, could it be that the same lips uttered such fearful sentences? The poor girl stood gazing wildly and with rapidly-blanching cheek and lips before him. Then when she noted ‘his expression—how it never softened, how no smile appeared, how his look never met hers—a fear stole into her fond heart, and, throwing herself on her knees, clasping his hand, she had made that piteous appeal. “Get up, Mary,” fejoinad the scoundrel, plucking away his hand, and, perhaps to pro- tect its recapture, thrusting it into his. pocket. “‘T’m deucedly sorry—I really am! It isn’t quite my fault. What could you expect?” “What expect?’ exclaimed the unhappy girl. ‘What, Edward, had Ia right to expect? That you were speaking truth; that you, a gen- tleman, could not, would not, ‘deceive one that you, as you said, so fervently loved, who so fervently loved you! Had I not a right to be- lieve you?” “A gentleman! There you’ve hit it, Mary,” he broke in, seizing at the merest straw of wordly extenuation, however base and coward- ly. ‘Not only am I a gentleman, but the heir to my uncle Ravenhall. Then how could I really wed you, Blair, the blacksmith’s daughter? ‘Your father’s a very clever and worthy man of his class, and you are deucedly pretty and nice, and I do Jove you—yes, I do! —but we hardly could be man and wife. You must see that?” ‘She had not’ risen from her knees but in that humble position looked up at him, as, with face averted, his trembling voice came over his nervous lip. And, as if forced to ex- pend his irritable anger on something, he say- ¢ aly ecrusbed a cluster of daisies beneath the heel! of his boot. “My father!” said Mary, in low, separate syllables as if that part of his speech alone had riveted her ear. ‘‘Do you know what he would do, if what you say is true, and he learned what you have made me, his daughter? He would kill you!” Edward Churchill started, and his color for a moment changed. Crazy Blair was certainly not one tobe trifled with, especially where Mary was concerned. But, like most men, Churchill felt that he might trust in the love of even the woman he deceived, He answer- ed, with a sneer, ‘* You mean he would way- lay me—knock me down—shoot me, Mary? And that, I suppose, would make your heart happy, as it would avenge you?” © ‘*Happy! ‘Your death, and’ by my father’s hand, cause me happiness! Ah, how little you know the depth of a woman’s love! Had,you, Edward, never — never would you have so basely, so cruelly deceived! But ”—with a quick change of manner—‘“I even now cannot believe it. It is too unreaJ—too terrible! You Your words prove it, Edward» *
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“Whether there is no Jaw in England that will right me.” “You, Mary!’ he ejaculated, with sudden uneasiness. ‘‘I thought you said your love was so great you could not harm me.” ‘ And would that?—to make you, Edward, what you have professed to be—my husband?” she rejoined, gently. ‘‘ You yourself say you are sorry for the past.” “Sorry, Mary, that I deceived you; but I couldn’t have married you. Can’t you see that? My«aincle would never have looked upon me again. Whatever I can do for you, I will. Whatever you ask in reason—” “Stay; not another word!” exclaimed Mary Blair. Her bosom. rose and. fell with quick pulsa- tion, her white lips trembled, but her voice was steady and calm. “ Up to this hour, Edward Churchill, I have been your wife! Not for one moment will I be your—” Her voice failed her; she dared not trust it. Had she proceeded, her tears must have flown forth. He did not break the silence, but still kept thrusting his heel upon the crushed daisy. After a space, Mary continued: ‘But I have said I will not believe it, and I will not. How can I tell that you, who confess to hay- ing the heart to deceive, are now telling me the truth?” He cursed her beneath his breath. ‘You'll find it is so,” he rejoined, doggedly. “Then the law must tell me it is as you state, Edward.” —. “What!” and he glanced quickly in alarm at her; ‘‘ you would declare your disgrace to the world?” “Would it be my disgrace or yours?” she replied, yet in the same quiet tone. ‘‘I would leave the world, Edward, to judge between us. Did you think I would bear my misery in silence? Had I been alone, I might have fled somewhere to hide my disgrace—even there,” and she pointed to the river; ‘but 1 have a father. You tell me that I have brought dishonor on name ”—again the poor girl’s voice faltered—* yet he shall know it was in ignorance, that he may not curse me!” ‘What! you would confess all to him?” “Why not?” Is he not now the only one who loves me?” wi “‘Confound it!” he muttered; then aloud, ** Your tone has much changed since the com- mencement of this conversation, Mary.” “Tt has. VPI tell you why, husband—for husband I believe you are. I have guessed your secret,” ani “My secret?” “Yes, You love Miss Heath, or would wed fer, and so desire to be ridof me. That is why I will not believe your word—why I will ask the law to right me.”’ Try as he did to prevent it, this direct, truthful accusation produced a change in Ed- ward Churchill’s countenance. ‘““What absurdity!” he exclaimed, with averted glance. ‘‘ You are mad!” ‘‘No,” said Mary, slowly shaking her head. “Since her arrival, you have changed; and now comes this. Ido not blame her; how could. 1? She is good and beautiful; but she knows nothing of this.” ‘Supposing your wild supposition were true?’ put in Edward Churchill. ‘Say I did love her—that doesn’t make her love me.” Mary gave a little mocking laugh. Poor girl! this man had been her deity, and she could not but suppose he must be so to any woman. ‘‘T must go,” she said, moving a step away. ‘*T ought not te have come, for my father may need me. To-night’s work, he says, is to see the result—the success of bis long toil.” . ‘Stay, Mary!” he exclaimed, following, and placing his hand on her arm. ‘‘ How are we separating?’ ‘* As we met,” she replied, sick with misery and despair. d As man and wife,” “break his ‘heart! HER HIDDEN FOE. 9 He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, look here!” he remarked. ‘ We’ll let matters stand as they are at present, eh? Promise me you'll say nothing to any one—not even to your father—about—about. this uetti we meet again, Mary?” ‘“* All rests with you,” she responded, in “eS tone. ‘‘I shall be in no hurry to give pain to one I love.” “Then Dll see you ina day or two’s time. As I said before, I’m sorry for this!—I am in- deed. Good-by! Won’t you take my hand?” ‘*T cannot!” she answered. ‘‘I never will again, Edward, unless it be as my husband’s,” She went from him up the slight, grassy in- cline, and disappeared among the trees. Edward Churchill looked after her with a brow as black as thunder. “Well, ’'m in a pretty mess!” he muttered. ‘J would never bave believed she was a girl of that spirit. If she tells that mad father of hers, I'm done for. I must consult Mrs, Mor- timer; but I know what she’ll say—‘ Brave it out. The marriage can’t be made a marriage.’ That’s all very well, but she doesn’t know the Squire. He’d have no blot on his ’scutcheon nor his heir’s neither. Besides, Ianthe—she has talked of vothing but Mary since she saw her. Dared I speak of love, she’d send me to the right about at once.” So thinking, he proceeded at a quick pace to- ward the widow’s villa. Meanwhile, poor Mary hastened homeward. All through that last sad hour she had kept a control over her feelings that had surprised herself; but now Edward Churchill’s presence was removed, she feared that she must break down before reaching the seclusion of her own dwelling. Grateful for the darkness of the approaching evening, she finally reached the gate of the cottage. The forge was not closed yet, but it was empty, and the fire merely sent a dim glow around. Her father was,.as she had guessed, in his private workshop at the back. All the week he had been busy, almost through the night as well as day, at his inven- tion, and now was he to know the result— whether failure or success): Crazy Blair, in his own mind, had no doubt which. Going softly into the garden, Mary looked through the small panes of the workshop win- dow. . Yes, there was her father, in leathern apron, and with grimed, strong, yet nervous hands, at work, The furnace was alight. Crazy Blair’s broad, dark brow was contracted by intensity of interest in his work; bis iron-gray hair — flung back. There was something striking in the man— the dignity, the beauty of mental power. As Mary looked, Blair threw up his brawny arms, as if in exultation; his visage lighted up with triumph, a joyous smile was on his lips. The girl cowered back with a stifled sob. ‘¢Oh, how shall I ever tell him? How can I blight his happiness—his faith in me? It will Oh, Edward, Edward, that all this misery should be your work!” She crept to her room, and there, throwing herself on her bed, found relief at last in tears. She had seemed brave before Edward Church- ill, but in her heart she had not been. She had declared that she believed herself his wife, that he was deceiving her by saying otherwise. Yet she could not but ask herself whether he would have dared to state that if it had not been the truth. The night darkened around her. It was black enough in the garden, lightened only by the red glow of Crazy Blair’s furnace. Mary was unconscious of the course of time. Her brain had fiven way for the moment beneath her fearful, suffering; instead of unconscious- ness coming to bring her relief, her thoughts were cruelly active. They made her temples feel as if heavy weights were pressing on them. Thought followed thought; and once she be- came aware as one waking from sleep, that she had been laughing hysterically, for she caught the echo in the room. Nearly three hours had so passed when Mary leaped up on her bed, scared, bewildered, but sensible. Something had roused her, A fear- ful sound—a violent report that had shaken the cottage to its foundation, accompanied by a clatter of broken glass. What was it? Thunder? It was loud enough for the word’s coming to an end. Would it come again? All was silent. What could it have been? Then something of the truth forced itself into her stunned brain. With a shriek, starting up, she ran to the window. “My father!” she cried. There was the red glow of the furnace, fiercer, brighter. And in the garden beneath a volume of white smoke or steam issuing from the workshop window. The window! It had gone; the panes, the frame had disappeared, leaving but the square openinz through which the furnace glare and smoke or steam were coming. Mary turned sick with dread. Then, thinking only of her father, she darted down the stairs, calling upon him, wildly. Running through the tiny passage to the door | leading into the workshop, she threw it open. What a sight presented itself! The place was on fire! The furnace coal was scattered around. Flames leaped up and ran along the ignited wood. Smoke, lurid as with life, rolled over the ceiling. Mary stood as one paralyzed; to move was impossible! The hot smoke rushing toward her probably — brought her back to consciousness. Where was her father? Wildly she glanced. around; then, with a cry sprung forward, The blacksmith lay extended on the floor, a deep cut on his temple. Was he dead?—had he only been stunned? Mary did not stay to ascertain. Frenzied by love and terror, she seized him by the shoul- ders, and, with a strength fear must have given, dragged him into the little passage. Then closing the door, she ran to the front one of the cottage, opened it and filled the dark, silent night with her cries for help. ‘‘What is the matter?” inquired agentleman — passing: ? “My father!” gasped Mary. ‘The work- shop is on fire! Save him! Oh, in merey help me!” She dashed into the house again; and Mark Glendenning—for it was he—followed. Together they got Blair out into the little front garden, in which neighbors, eager toren- der aid, were rapidly assembling. Their rm 7 thought was to extinguish the fire, passing r ning comments on the cause, such as, ‘‘ Que: all along how it would be “This comes = new inventions!” ‘‘ Crazy Blair, indeed!” Mary neither saw nor heard any thing around her. Throwing herself on ber knees by her father, she had gazed at him eagerly. Then, with a piercing shriek, ‘‘He is. dead!— he is dead!” she cried, and fell insensible across his body. It was at this moment that a brougham halted in the road; and its occupant, a lady, letting down the glass, inquired the cause of the crowd. ‘* Only crazy Blair, ’um, -blowed hisself up, and set fire to his place!” “Do you mean that some one is hurt?” said the lady, who was no other than Mrs. Morti- mer. “T think Blair’s done for hisself,’um. He looks as if he’s dead, His poor daughter's ina fine takin’.” The widow instantly alighted. “ Where are they?” she said. them, my good man.” As she made her way through the crowd, she encountered a gentleman doing the same, for whom, however, every one made a pas- sage. f ee Ah, Doctor Gray!” she remarked; “ this is very sad. I hope Blair is not burt seriously. “Take me to | -
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£0 be 7S ae ee - ‘?* % reflected Mrs. Mortimer. Let me come with you; I may be of use te his poor daughter.” Soon the doctor was kneeling by the black- smith. “This wound is a most serious one, I fear,” he said, after a rapid examination. ‘‘The skull is fractured, and I suspect whatever has done it is yet in the wound. ‘Some of you fel- fellows fetch a hurdle or a shutter; the poor man must be taken to the infirmary, and have instant care and attention.” Mrs. Mortimer, who had had an interview with Edward Churchill that evening, had been leaning over Mary, her mind thronged by thoughts that would have astonished the ad- miring spectators, who, as they saw the widow, in her rich evening dress, kneeling by the poor girl, blessed her for her charity. “And this unhappy child,”'she remarked, raising her head, as the doctor concluded, ‘I will take care of. her. She, too, will need at- tention. Will some of you kind people assist me to carry her to the brougham? TI intend to take the poor thing home with me, Doctor Gray,” she added, “‘ where she can be well nursed; and if you will look in at the villa af- ter leaving that unfortunate Blair, I should be obliged.” : +e ‘*T will not fail, madam. I honor you for your charity. The girl may, indeed, need a friend; for I fear much this wound of her fa- ther’s may have a fatal result.” Hands, rough but gentle, placed poor Mary ja brougham; and, the widow seated by and supporting her, they were driven home. _ “This may turn out a most fortunate chance for our plan—or, I should say, for my plan,” “Tf the erazy black- smith die, Edward Churchill will having noth- ing to fear in that quarter; while as to: this girl, while have and can keep her under my roof, I will take care she shall not balk me of the revenge I am determined to have on you, Ianthe Heath! It shalk one day be my turn to pass you as you did me—with cold, haughty . disdain!” ‘zs When the news of the sad occurrence at Srazy Blair’s reached Ravenhall, Ianthe: rose p quickly. “Poor Mary!” she exclaimed. ‘‘Oh, dear sir, may I go to her?—*may I bring her here?” “Of course—certainly, my love!” said the Squire; and Edward Churchill grew white with alarm. Mary, his wife, beneath that roof, nursed by _ Tanthe Heath! His terror was quickly allayed by the next words of the footman who had brought the news, “If you please, miss, Mrs. Mortimer was passing at the time, and took Mary Blair r : . home in the brougham with her.” “Well done!” remarked the Squire to him- self, a little ashamed of the hard things he had said of the widow. ‘‘My love” (to Ianthe), “this, indeed, proves that there are good and charitable sides in every one’s character. I shall go down, though it is late, and get the latest intelligence respecting the state of poor Blair,” CHAPTER VII. lo 4 NEWS FROM AFRICA, THE explosion at Blair’s had not a fatal. re- sult; but it was, nevertheless, serious enough. The fracture of the skull was so severe that it was likely to keep the blacksmith a month, if not longer, at the infirmary. And the double shock of that sad night had told great- ly upon poor Mary. Brain fever had set in, and when that left her, and strength came slowly back, Doctor Gray’s fears were unfortunately realized. Her, reason was in abeyance—he would not ‘say gone. The future alone could prove’ whether _ ber senses would be restored. She had forgot- ten everything ; knew no one. It was as though she were beginning a new life, where all was strange. She was gentle, passive as a child, and, Doctor Gray affirmed, did not suffer, + - 4 : —— — - i te | i HER HIDDEN FOE. “You must remember that, Blair,” said the Squire, kindly, when he broke the news to the distracted fa'her. ‘‘ It must be your consola- tion that she is happy. You must watch ten- derly over her, and give up inventing for a time. You see what comes of it.” “Don’t talk like that, Squire—you, a man of sense,” broke out the blacksmith. ‘‘ Mary shall be my first thought in all things, poor darling| But it was not I—it was my poverty to blame;”' and he clenched his knotty hands, ‘‘T had to work with inferior materials. They couldn't resist the pressure. Yet what would this world be if a man had turned. faint-heart- ed at his first failure? No,” he cried, vehe- mently; ‘‘if Dlive, Pll succeed yet.” Then he sobbed passionately as he exclaimed, “Oh, Mary, my poor child, never have you been dearer to'me than now!” Crazy Blair and Mary found the warmest compassion in every heart save two. Those two, it need hardly be stated, were Edward Churchill’s and Mrs. Mortimer’s. The one saw himself freed from any fear of Mary making public that secret. marriage; while the other perceived the greatest obstacle to the success of her plot against Ianthe re- moved. Let the latter once be wedded, and she had no doubt of finding a méans to prove, without showing her own hand in the matter, that Edward Churchill was legaliy the husband of Mary Blair. “But,” had said the young gentleman, when the widow had advised him to lose no time about the wooing, ‘‘ suppose Mary regains her senses?” ‘‘That will be years,” responded Mrs. Morti- mer, making a decided assertion, for which she had not the slightest foundation, ‘if she ever does, which I and Doctor Gray both doubt. Ask him if you like; though, if you take my advice, you had best avoid showing interest in the matter. In your case, you had better be charged with coldness than give rise to the slightest suspicion.” So two months went by. Crazy Blair had returned to his cottage, which, owing to the strenuous efforts of the neighbors, had only partially suffered in the destruction of the workshop. There also came poor Mary. It was a painful moment to the father. The girl knew the house, and mechanically, in a silence that she rarely broke, went about her ordinary duties; but she did not know him. The miud was void. . Only one person could at all influence it—Ianthe Heath. Deeply touched by the poor girl’s affliction, Ianthe visited her constantly, and tried to in- terest her about her favorite ferns. During these periods she would now and then. find Mary’s look fixed on her in a strange, thought- ful way, while she would press her hand to her head as if to stay, or make clearer, some thought that was troubling her brain. But it generally ended in a sigh, as if the effort had been useless. “‘Poor, poor Mary!” reflected Ianthe, after one of those visits. ‘' Why should I mourn at my lot when [ see hers? Yet is not oblivion of the past and indifference to the present and future sometimes a blessing?” These two months had brought a trouble to Tanthe Heath that she had found it cruel to bear and hide. Mark Glendenning bad gone, suddenly acquainting her of his departure, only after he had left, by a letter she had been unable to understand, save that it was possible they never again would meet, as he thought of going to South America, “Dearest Miss Hears (the letter ran),— “You will be surprised, ‘though, T trust, not of- fended, to learn, on receipt of this, that I have al- ready quitted Eastshire. feel that I ought, even out of common civility and the friendship with which you have honored me, to have made my adieux in person, especially as it is improbable we may ever meet again: but—I trust you will comprehend me— eC Ijdared not. I might, losing self-control, have said that which one in a position has ng right to say, and really offend ou, thouglt 4fou are so generous and kind. are, I believe, more madmen in the world than asylums contain. I, per- fade was mad éver to have come here. Yet no; for I have teld you my history, and wen your sym- pathy. What else had I a right to win? The nowledge that I possess your friendship will be my consolation, my support, in the land to which Iam going—South erica, New scenes may. procure for me the reposeI could never hope to obtain in Europe. Ishall make South America my home, for it is my present intention never to return; so surely I com- mit no wrong whenI ask you to think of me some- times? Soon, no doubt, you will be a happy wife. To believe that you remember me will be an exqui- ae Fours with a sincerit, ssing friendshi : d Pe MaRK Giaanensenra,” In her owv room Janthe had read this, and her tears had blotted the page. Why!had he gone—gone with such singular abruptness? What were his antecedents to her? He him- self was good and honorable. She loved him— she would have wedded him! She was in despair. She could not even write tohim. He had given'’no address. No; as he had said, the parting was forever. “T soon a happy wife?” she murmured. ** Never! How couid he believe it? Surely he must have seen how dear he was to me! Why should he have pained me by saying that?” Janthe Heath was perfectly unaware that, owing to the skillful innuendoes of both Mrs. Mortimer and Edward Churchill, every one in Eastshire was of the same opinion as Mark Glendenning, that her marriage with her guardian’s nephew was a settled matter, only, owing to the very recent loss of her father, the arrangement was not made public. Even the Squire unconsciously aided the conspirators by —when friends hinted their suspicions that such a union was probable—remarking, ‘* Who can tell?—who can tell? Nothing, I can ‘as- sure you, would give me greater pleasure.” These rumors, declared to be certainties by his informants, had reached Mark Glendenning. He had never dared hope to call Ianthe wife. Yet the intelligence came like a blow. When ‘calmer, however, he recognized that it would be no longer honorable to meet. Ian- the as he had, possessing the feelings that he did. Only now that she was, as he thought, to be another’s did he find, not merely how intense was his love, but that there had heen hope ever in his secret heart. | Following one of those sudden impulses that had taken him from her presence twice before, he wrote the letter which has been mentioned, and the same night started for London, uncon- sciously leaving the field open to his rival; of which circumstance Edward Churchill as un- consciously availed himself. va His attentions to Ianthe grew daily more marked, and were apparent to all but the girl herself, absorbed by her own trouble. Hence her passive acceptance of them led the lover, and the Squire also, to imagine that she re- garded them not unfavorably. ‘Poor Heath’s death is so recent,” remarked Squire Ravenhall, “that you cannot expect Ianthe to act as other girls under less sad cir- cumstances, my dear boy; but she loves you—I am sure of it!” , ““T hope so, sir; but—” began the nephew. “ But—tut, tut! True love is ever nervous, Ted!” laughed the Squire, “That’s true, sir; yet, whenever I draw near at all like ‘popping the question,’ whether it is anything in Ianthe’s look, or what it is, for the life of me I cannot get a word out.” Squire Ravenhall laughed heartily; then said, ‘‘My dear Ted, you could not have given a better proof than this that you have never loved before.” (His nephew winced, and pull- ed his mustache nervously.) ‘There are very few men that have not felt as you do. We hear of Herbert having proposed to Ethel; but Ethel herself doesn’t even know how many attempts and failures Herbert had made: be- fore he got the words well out. Take heart!” “There’s yet another thing, uncle; her father’s death being so recent—” ‘Six months ago, quite, Ted.” “Then you think I might propose without offending her?’ “‘ Quite according to how you do it, my boy. You see, your living under the same roof, in every-day communication, makes the matter ee eee i
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Cn HER HIDDEN FOE. 44 different, Without even a right-down set. pro- posal, you might discover her feelings toward ou.” % The conversation was taking place in the library. Rising, Edward Churchill in silence walked to and fro a few moments. He was nervous, but, poor Mary had nothing to do with it. The Squire watched him, half-amused, The nephew lately had turned over such a very clean and nice new leaf, that he had won much upon the Squire’s good opinion. ‘* He’s a handsome fellow!” reflected the un- cle. ‘His glass should give him confidence. Tut! Ianthe will never refuse him. Yet I like to see his doubt; it promises well.” Coming back to the table, and resuming his seat, Edward Churchill said, ‘‘ I’ve been think- ing, uncle. JIanthe regards you as a second father, What might pain—I will not say of- fend—her from me, would not if it came from you.. She might consider me unfeeling, preci- pitous; you she would merely regard as solici- tous.” “You do not mean, Ted, for me to propose to her?’ ' ‘*No, no, sir,” was the quick response; “ T thought if you would feel the way—if you would let her know how much, how very much LT love her, only that I dread to intrude upon her sorrow! How very much, too, you would like such a match!” s The squire drummed with his fingers thought- fully on the table, and his nephew watched him, closely. “TI don’t know that you are not wise in that suggestion,” said the elder at last. ‘It dis- plays a delicacy of feeling that cannot fail to touch Ianthe. I'll do so—and no time is like the present; see, here she comes!”—pointing through the open window toward the girl, who, clad in melancholy sables, was advancing across the lawn. ‘She has been visiting poor Mary Blair. The only change that comes to the poor thing, they say, is when Ianthe is with her. You had better go, Ted; I’ll speak at once, if there should be an opportunity.” Edward Churchill rose and quitted the room. He had lost his color, his limbs were possessed by that nervousness which generally seized them at the mention of Mary. He alone knew that there had been something added to the shock of the explosion that had deprived her of her reason. — As the door closed on him Ianthe appeared at the library window, and perceiving her guardian, entered, : “Well, how did you find Mary?’ asked Squire Ravenhall. ‘“* Better, sir, I am sure—decidedly better,” replied Ianthe, putting off her hat and taking a seat near her guardian. ‘‘Once to-day, just for a second, Iam certain I detected intelli- gence in her gaze.” : “Do we not at times in most mad people’s, my love?” “Ah, but Mary cannot be called mad. Be- sides I did not observe this before—only to- day—so it must be an improvement.” _ “Let us hope it is so,” said the Squire, his mind engrossed by quite another matter. “But let us leave Mary Blair for awhile. I want, my dear Ianthe, to speak to you upon a matter which interests me greatly.” She looked quickly up at him, wondering. “‘T trust you will not ¢onsider the subject il]-timed,” he proceeded, ‘“ Remember my age. Months to me, Ianthe, are as years to you. Life is always uncertain; no one can count surely on it at any time, and less than ever after passing their meridian. Days fly swiftly then.” “Oh, Mr. Ravenhall—dear guardian!” ex- claimed Ianthe; “I hope you have no cause—” “To think death is near me?’ put in the Squire, with a laugh. ‘‘No, indeed; yet he only is a wise man who sets his house in order and prepares for it.” “Surely, dear guardian,” smiled Ianthe, ‘you need little preparation. Your nephew, your heir—” ‘My love, it is your future as much as his that occupies me,” broke in the Squire. ‘*Mine, sir! Indeed, you are most good; but—” “T love you as a daughter, Ianthe,” again put in the Squire; “and I, being yet strong and in health, shall probably see you a happy wife before I die—that is what you think? Well, it is that very hope which occupies me. I would like to see that happiness secured to you, my love; it may be.” She looked up at him, nervous, surprised. “Surely,” he smiled, “you cannot have been blind to what every one else has seen, Tanthe?”’ ‘*J—TI do not understand,” she murmured. “JT refer to my nephew’s sincere love for you.” **Oh, no; impossible!” she cried; then quick- Vy, turned aside, but the Squire retained her and. “Nay, nay—I trust not,” he said, gently. “Tanthe, I have startled you. Perhaps I have been premature, considering your loss; in that case blame me, not Ted. A feeling of delicacy, of fear to intrude upon your sorrow, has held him mute, and when I urged him to speak, he entreated me to plead his cause; as an old friend of your dear father’s you might listen to me without offense,” “How, dear sir, could I be offended with you, to whom I owe so much?’ murmured Ianthe; ‘‘but what you say—” “Do not answer without consideration, Tanthe,” remarked the Squire. ‘You cannot tell how I have set my mind upon this, Tos¢ée you and Ted married would complete my hap- piness. And he loves you devotedly. Ianthe, IT have vowed to take your father’s place in re- gard to you. It was not anidle vow; it is my intention to carry it out in its full sense. If I die, 1 make you, as my adopted daughter, mis- tress of Ravenhall.” “Oh, sir,” cried Ianthe, turning quickly, “I could not, would not permit it. Your ne- pbew—” “Shall not be left unproyided for, though I confess he will be disappointed. As to not per- mitting it, my love, wills cannot so easily be set aside. At present mine is unmade, a delay I intend at once to rectify. Before now it would have been rectified, but for this hope, that, as my nephew’s wife, together you might inberit my wealth. Ianthe, will you think of this? Will you try, for my sake—nay, for poor Ted’s, to say yes?” The girl sat silent, with drooped head. , The Squire, regarding her, little imagined that her thoughts had flown far away across the broad Atlantic. How could she wed an- other, loving Mark Glendenning? ay She looked up to answer, but her heart failed before the anxious expression of entreaty on the Squire’s handsome countenance. ‘Is Ted indifferent to you?’ he said, gently. ‘No, sir. How could he be that? Have I not experienced every kindness from him? Will you—will you give me time to consider?” ‘** Assuredly, my love! This is not a matter upon which I would hurry youl Name your time—a week?” “No, sir; I—I ask but until this evening!” Tanthe had not to inquire whether she really loved Edward Churchill or not. She liked him, thought him handsome and worthy, but love was not hers to give. The question she had to answer was—Could she sacrifice herself for those who had been so kind to her? The idea of her inheriting Raven- hall was repugnant, yet she knew that the Squire could so will it without power of hers to pass it over to his nephew. And what did she sacrifice by pleasing the dear old Squire, her father’s friend? Only her own feelings, for had not Mark Glendenning left her—gone forever? Never again would they meet! : Bitter and long was the struggle TIanthe passed through. Finally, pale, exhausted, she decided. What was the future to her?- That happiness for which she had hoped was im- BY 4 possible, Why injure that of others? Should she not, when the mistress of Ravenhall, feel almost bound to wed Edward Churchill, whose rightful place she had usurped: "Would she bring pain and dissent between those two who before her coming had lived as father and son? The Squire was on the terrace with his dogs when Janthe Heath joined him. ‘Dear guardian,” she said, her slender fingers on his arm, ‘‘ would my saying ‘yes’ really give you pleasure? Is it your wish?” “Tt is, indeed, Ianthe! Nothing, my love, conild delight me more, if you can say yes of your own free will.” “Then I will wed your nephew. Only— only, you do not wish it to be very soon? I could not while—” Her éyes fell on her dark dress. “Tanthe, your time shall be ours,” cried the ‘delighted Squire. ‘‘ Your wish, my love, our law.” He warmly embraced her; then, as she enter- ed the drawing-room, went to find Edward Churchill with the good news. When the young man sought Tanthe half an hour later, raising her hand to his lips with a tenderness and respect that touched her, he said, “I was a coward, lanthe, to intrust my cause to another, but you have made me the happiest man on earth: I will try to prove worthy the honor you do me.” “And J,” murmured Ianthe, in a low tone, “will seek to be to you a true and faithful wife!” aro Before a week was over all Eastshire knew that a bona fide engagement had taken place between Iunthe Heath and Edward Churchill, who was much flattered by the almost ex- travagant delight and congratulations of Mrs. Mortimer. On his own part, his self-con- gratulation was unbounded. He already re- garded Ravenhall as his, when one morning a letter, the postmark ‘ Pietermaritzburg,” re- aroused all his terrors, With trembling fingers he tore it open. His fears were realized. It was from Sydney Cargill—he who had per- formed the secret marriage between himself and Mary Blair. PT It stated that the writer was about starting for England, owing to an uncle’s most serious- ly failing health, and that, during his stay, he, Sydney Cargill, hoped to be able to pay a visit to his old college friend, Edward Churchill, at Rayenhall, ~ CHAPTER VIIT. WEDDING BELLS. Two months had passed since Tanthe’s ac- ceptance of Edward Churchill, and the anxiety and fears of the latter respecting the return of Sydney Cargill had somewhat abated. He had received a hurried letter from the young clergyman, announcing his arrival in Glamor- ganshire, and stating that he had found his uncle, in so precarious a condition, recovery being hopeless, that he must defer his visit. for some while, as he could not leave for even a day. This letter brought iinmediate relief to Ed- ward Churchill. He hoped even that Ianthe would be his wife before Sydney thought of ‘ coming, for Ianthe had consented to a quiet union, at the expiration of her twelyemonths’ mourning. Then they should be abroad, and he could put the young clergyman’s visit off altogether, and by letter lead him to believe that Mary Blair was dead. Ianthe Heath gladly would have postponed their union to an indefinite period, but again eacrificed herself to her guardian’s wish. The Squire had been slightly ailing, and openly expressed his anxiety to see her his nephew’s wife. pao ke “T have made no will yet,” he remarked, smilingly, as the three sat together. ‘What is the use, when I shall have to alter it? And what is the use at all, when you and Ted, save bequests to my old servants, will inherit all ideals? So Ianthe, too listless, too indifferent to Te-
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| 42 HER HIDDEN FOE. sist, yielded. _How could a few months make a difference to her? ~ Not even a line had she had from Mark Glendenning. She did not even know where he was. Mrs. Mortimer waited the union with as great impatience as did Edward Churchill. The arrival of Sydney Cargill in England had given her exceeding satisfaction, for he was ready to her hand. When she met Janthe Heath, and exchanged their customary distant bows, a smile came ever to the widow’s red lips, for she felt her vengeance was almost as good’ as accomplished. Indeed, everything seemed to promise favorably. Even in the ease of poor Mary Blair, Mrs. Mortimer had, by displaying a sympathy which had won her much praise, kept’ a careful watch over the girl, and had come to. the same conclusion as Ianthe Heath, that Mary’s reason was slowly but surely returning. ‘‘ Let them once be married,” reflected. the widow, one morning early, as she drove her little pony-carriage from Blair’s cottage, ‘‘ and Ido not mind how soon the child is herself in.” ‘ Mary, after Mrs. Mortimer’s departure, had resumed her place by the window. It was open, and the soft, warm, bright sunny morn- ing breeze came in across the flowers ranged on the sill. - Her reason being. dormant, had prevented any feeling of care and trouble; thus, in bedily health, Mary had not much suffered.. Her form was rounded, a delicate color was on her pretty cheek; only the wistful, vague expres- sion of the large clear eyes told the mental de- privation. But that apparent effort to catch passing thoughts in their flight, to summon back memory, was very frequent now. Suddenly, Mary, raising her head, listened attentively. There was a sound in the air, filling the place with music—the music of church-bells that rose and fell, now loud and vibrant, now low and flowing on the breeze. The girl, as entranced, leaned forward, drink- ing in the sounds. * Ah, listening to the bells, Mary?” exclaim- eda neighbor, pleasantly, as she passed the palings of the little garden. ‘‘They’re nice, ain’t they? They are wedding-bells. Why, there’s a big marriage to be to-day. You ought to go and see it; it would do you good—rouse you a bit.” Mary’s pretty face made no response, and the woman went on, murmuring a compassionate ‘¢ Poor soul!” But the girl. had heard the words, and grad- ually they worked their meaning into her brain. : , “Marriage!” she repeated, in a vague tone, drawing back and pressing her hand to her temples. ‘‘ Marriage—she said marriage! I was to go! But it can’t be mine! No, no, no; mine—mine— There were no bells. It wasn’t ‘day. There were candles. No; not mine. Whose is it? Why ought I to go?” The word had awakened a sudden train of thought, a memory of the past. But at present the weakened brain could not grasp it, to piece link by link together. She leaned back, shak- ing her head as if the effort was useless, But the words would not leave, they haunted her. They foreed themselves into her ears with the ringing bells, and again and again, with petu- ‘lance, she repeated, ‘‘ Marriage — marriage! Whose? Why did she say I ought to go?’ Abruptly link by link of the past returned to the stunned brain, bringing connection, reason, and Mary sprung from her seat with a ery. She had remembered—it had come back to her—the cruel scene that had first made her reason totter; the interview with Ed- ward Churchill down by the river, where he had tried to make her believe she was not his wife, and she had accused him of desiring to cast her off that he might marry Ianthe Heath. “That is it!—that is it!” she cried. ‘*My -‘usband is marrying her! That is why the woman said I ought togo. I ought to be there ' @ stop it. It must not bé. No no! How can Edward have two wives? I must go—I must go! He is my husband—mine!” Mechanically, bat hastily, she put on her cloak and hat, and quitted the cottage. No one saw her.. Crazy Blair was in his workshop, and the villagers were at the church to see the wedding, the bells for which were yet making the air musical. p Mary, however, engrossed by the one thought, seemed no longer to hear them. Neither did she make her way to the church, but directed her steps to Ravenhall. Swiftly she went, never swerving right nor left. The carriage gates were open, and she passed through. “Goodness gracious me!” ejaculated the lodge-keeper’s wife, hastening to the door. ‘It’s poor Mary Blair!” ; But Mary paid no heed. Quitting the avenue, she crossed the lawn, toward the house. In the morning-room Ianthe was seated with the Squire. Chancing to look up from her drawing, she saw the girl approaching. ‘Look, dear guardian!” she exclaimed, ris- ing in surprise. ‘‘ Can it be possible that yon- der is Mary Blair?” “Tt is, indeed! Whatever can bring her? I trust her madness has taken no worse phase!” ‘“Oh,” remarked Ianthe, ‘‘if her reason has but returned!” Advancing to the window, she called the girl, who had ascended the terrace step, and on her coming, drew her gently into the apart- ment. One glance at the dilated eyes showed reason had not yet resumed its throne. Clasping Ianthe’s hand, Mary gazed round with a half-scared, half-frightened expression. “Where is he?’ she whispered—‘ where? He is not here.” “Who, dear Mary?” asked Ianthe, softly. “My husband!” “Your husband!” ejaculated Ianthe, in a- maze, then looked to the Squire. He had risen, drawing away from them. Sadly he touched his forehead. Mary, apparently, did not see. or heed him. Clasping Ianthe’s arm more tightly, she pro- ceeded, roe “Yes, yes! I know he lovés you, now, in- stead of me. He wantsto marry you, but he cannot have two wives—can he? I heard your wedding-bells—hark! there they are—and I came to save you! I like you; you are kind to me, and—and I wouldn’t have harm come ¢o you; and—and tell me—” Her expression grew fretful, as if the thought were slipping from her. ‘I—I don’t understand; but would it harm you if you were to marry him, while I his wife, was living?” Ianthe’s eyes were full of pitying tears as they looked into the sweet, pretty face turned questioningly to hers. “Ob, is not this sad!” she murmured, in an aside, to the Squire, Squire Ravenhall’s countenance was dark, his brows knit. He signed to Ianthe to question her visitor. ‘* Who is your husband, Mary?’ she said. ‘Don’t you know? But how should you?” with a faint langh. ‘‘He told me 1 must. tell no one, not even my father, and we were mar- ried in secret. And, oh, I was so happy! I loved him so much—so very much! Ido love him still, though he never comes near me now, You see, you came; you were handsomer— better than I; so that he wanted to marry you, and told me it had been all a deceit—I wasn’t his wife. But 1 know Iam. Am I not?’ And, pleadingly, she gazed into Ianthe’s face. ‘Therefore, he cannot marry you. That is what I came to say; and—and you will stop the marriage-bells, won’t you? You will not wed him now you know?” ‘No, most certainly, my dear Mary,” said Ianthe. Then to the Squire, ‘Oh, sir, there sounds truth in what she says!” “I fear there is only too much truth,” re- joined the Squire, ‘‘ Ask the villain’s name!” ‘“‘ Mary,” said Ianthe, ‘‘ you haven’t told me your husband’s name.” “ Haven’t Ij—no. I thought you knew. It is Edward—Edward Churchill, the Squire’s nephew. He told me not to tell; but unless you knew, how could you know whom you were not to marry?” “I believe, indeed, that this poor child’s story is really true,” said the Squire, stepping alittle nearer. ‘Even a mad brain could not put such a one together.” “Then, is Mary Edward Churchill’s wife?” exclaimed Ianthe. ‘‘Not that. I could the more easily forgive him if she were.” “Then, dear guardian,” broke in Ianthe, with crimsoning cheek, ‘‘I could not! Has he not dared to offer love to me? Think if Mary had not spoken!” ‘““Ah! at the moment, I forgot that!” re- joined the Squire, with indignation. “I was absorbed by the sorrow of this poor girl, whom, evidently, he bas basely deceived by a mock marriage—” “lt was. no mock marriage!” cried Mary, suddenly turning upon the speaker, her listless apathy gone. ‘It was true—true! We were married ina room—not a church, I had no bride’s dress; the bells didn’t ring for me; but the words were the same, Who dares say he is not my husband? Look—look! and from around her neck she drew a little silk bag. “Here is my ring! I hung it next my heart, because he said I must not wear it. It’s true —I tell you, it’s true!” Quickly she turned from Ianthe to the Squire as she spoke, and chanced to glance out of the open window that commanded almost the whole length of the terrace. A cry, wild, yet full of delight, burst from her lips. ‘‘And there—there is the clergyman who married us!’ she exclaimed. ‘Ask him! He will tell you—he will tell you!” She moved forward, but her strength, al- ready overtaxed, gave way, and she dropped insensible on the carpet. Tanthe flew to her assistance, while the Squire, looking in the direction Mary had pointed, perceived a gentleman in the garb of a clergyman ascending the terrace steps. “Oh!” he cried; ‘‘Edward Churchill is a scoundrel, indeed; for surely here comes con- firmation to this poor child’s words, It is Sydney Cargill, a friend of my nephew’s. Not ‘another moment shall elapse before this is ful- ly explained.” Stepping onto the terrace, he hastened to meet the guest, and led him back to the room. As Sydney Cargill’s gaze rested upon Mary, whom Janthe was tenderly supporting, he started, and drew back. a “ Mr. Cargill,” said the Squire, gravely, ‘is it true that, guring your late visit here, you performed the marriage ceremony between my nephew and this poor girl?” ‘* Mr, Ravenhall,” replied the young clergy- man, “I hardly know how to answer you. It is a question you should put to Mr. Churchill.” ‘‘ And do you think, sir,” rejoined the Squire, scornfully, ‘‘ that I should get truth from him?’ ** How?’ ejaculated the clergyman. ‘ He does not deny it?” “« Apparently so, sir, since he has wooed my ward, and in a few months might have led her to the eltar, but for this poor girl’s statement. Mr. Cargill, as a clergyman and a man of hon- or, I demand and expect the truth from your li 2? e Pi You shall have it, Mr. Ravenhall, after what you stated, and I hold no promise bind- ing with your nephew,” responded the young clergyman, indignantly. “ When last here, Edward Churchill requested me to do him tiis service. I refused, not liking the secrecy of the matter, and aware of the difference in his and Mary Blair’s social position. He, how- ever, entreated me, and, as a final argument, told me it was to save the poor girl’s character. Mr. Ravenhall, I yielded then, and wedded them.” “Do not think I blame you for that, sir,” and the Squire held forth his hand. ‘‘ You did right. Then this young girl is—”
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“Edward Churchill’s lawful wife.” There was a pause, a temporary silence, dur- ing which it would have been difficult to divine the thoughts of the three. Ianthe’s were grati- tude for the escape she had had, and ineffable relief at the knowledge that she was free. The stillness was broken by the door open- ing, and Edward Churchill’s entrance. He came in hurriedly, but stopped, surprised at seeing his friend. He did not at once perceive Mary. ; “What!” he exclaimed; “‘you here, Car- gill?” “Yes, sir,” answered the Squire, sternly, n otioning toward Mary. ‘“‘ And your wronged, unhappy wife! How dare you, scoundrel that you are, place foot beneath this roof? How dare you? Go, and never cross this threshold again! From this moment you are to me as a stranger!” . Edward Churchill had turned red, then of a white, livid tint. He seemed about to speak, | but his pale lips refused to form words. | - Turning, he dashed from the room. Recall- ing the groom who was taking away his horse, he rodeo from Ravenhall. As the Squire saw him galloping down the avenue, ho said to the young clergyman, “Sir, you will have to regard mo as your host during your stay. My nephew shall never return!” “Mr. Ravenhall,” replied Sydney Cargill, quickly, “my visit this time is to you, not your nephew. I bring you a communication from the dead!” . CHAPTER TX. SHOT IN THE BRIDLE-PATH. For some brief time Edward Churchill rode recklessly on, urging his horse to its fullest ; speed, while, in a stunned, fierce way, he kept heaping curses on Sydney Cargill. Of course. the discovery must have come through him. Cargill had revealed everything, and he, Edward Churchill, was ruined! On tho crest of a hill, crowned by a group Y of trees, he finally arrested the speed of his panting horse. Turning, he looked back at ; Rayenhall. There it lay in the bright sunshine, its roofs rising from a sea of verdure. Only a few days ago he had regarded it from the same spot with the elation of a future possessor, and now it was lost forever! Yet was it lost? When he had cast off Mary Blair, he believed that the ceremony had flaws in it, which, in law, could release him, set him free! Had not that been the widow’s idea also? Why had he fled so precipitatel¥, confessing thus guilty intent? Why had he not braved it out? Should he go back and explain? Even as he reflected, he knew perfectly well how useless was the reasoning. Did he, could he even prove the marriage no marriage, it would make no difference to the Squire. He had acted a villain’s part, and never again would he be allowed to place foot in Ravenhall, : “Which, by all the laws of justice, is naine by inheritance,” he muttered through his teeth, as, his horse secured to a tree, he lay in the long grass, his haggard gaze directed to the home lost to him forever. ‘‘I am his nephew, his own sister’s son, yet he would rob me for Ianthe Heath! What is she to him? If he had been but fair—if he had not put that idea of marriage in my head, this would never have been. It’s all his fault, not mine. Ah! if only he had died before that girl had come across his path!” He was silent, but his thoughts ran on, growing wilder, more despairing, more fierce- ly beyond control. . _ He cursed every one, especially. “the creep- ing informer,” Sydney Cargill; even Mrs. Mor- timer—every one but Mary. " Strangely he wished her no ill; suspected f not that the truth had come from her lips. The sun passed the zenith, and began to SSeS ee decline. Yet Edward Churchill still lay under *the tree—his gaze on Ravenhall. But his ideas had taken a new and danger- ous turn. There was a white, set, desperate look on his face. Some time back a thought had entered his head, which had héld possession ever since, strengthening and enlarging under the bitter sense of that which he termed injustice. If the Squire was dead, by inheritance Ra- venhall must be his, Edward Churchill’s, for the Squire had made no will. Sometimes the white, set expression of the young fellow’s countenance seemed to relax— it might have been with fear; but one glance at Ravenhall, one remembrance of his penni- less future, brought it back. The hour was about four when, arising ab- ruptly, and mounting his horse Edward Churchill rode now at an ordinary pace and with his ordinary outward expression into the neighboring town, drawing rein before the chief hotel, where he had a room, and kept a change of dress and a few other things for his own particular purposes. Alighting and entering, he requested the waiter to bring him information when the next train departed for London, ag he had to go by it. When the man brought him the intelligence, which Edward Churchill had known before, that it left at 4.50, he found the young gentle- man finishing packing his portmanteau. ‘‘Then I have no time to lose,” he said, rising. ‘It is important that I should be in town to-night. Let some one please bring this portmanteau with me.” A porter was summoned, who raised it on his shoulder, and started, Edward Churchill following. Reaching the station, he said to the man, “ Give the luggage to a porter, and have it labeled; then come to the waiting-room. I'll pay you.” The man complied, and Edward Churchill held him in conversation until the train came in and then took his place in a smoking car- riage. He had paid the man well, and, in respect, he stayed until the train movéd away. But Edward Churchill did not proceed to London. He alighted at a bustling junction nearly twelve miles away, and at about eight o'clock stdod once more in the Ravenhall grounds. A felt hat was now pulled over his forehead, the collar of a long coat turned up about his ears, while he appeared, by keeping among the trees instead of on the bridle-patb, desirous of escaping observation, Why was he waiting there, his back against a tree, his arms folded, his chin on his chest, never moving? The church clock struck nine, half-past, ten, and he had not altered his position. Soon after the last hour, however, he bent forward, listening intently. Some one was advancing along the road. The footfall came nearer. A spasm twitched Edward Churchill’s pallid features. Soon, the man—for the step told it to be so—was in view; merely an outline in the dark, but re- cognizable. It was the Squire returning from the Rectory, where it had been his custom every Thursday, for the last ten years, to dine and have an hour’s backgammon with the rector. But there had been no backgammon that even- ing. The Squire’s lawyer had been summoned for the morrow, and the Squire had visited the Rectory to request its master to be one of the executors to his will, at-once to be made. As he passed, Edward Churchill bent still more forward, and his hand clutched some- thing in the long grass at his feet, It was a gun. A moment after, its report rung through the air, and, with a quick, sharp cry, the Squire throwite up his arms, fell face forward on the pa Was he dead? Edward Churchill knew he was a good shot, yet—suppose—if not? Dared he ascertain? Already bad he made a step for- eo, ward, when he was startled by the sound, of crashing bushes at the opposite side, and a mo- ment after a man sprung into the path. ‘The keepers!” hissed Edward Churchill through his teeth, as he fled. ‘A gentleman, miss, wants to speak to you particular,” said the footman, nervously finger- ing the handle of the drawing-room door. ‘A gentleman at this hour, Francis?” re- marked Ianthe, amazed, raising her eyes from her book to the clock marking ten minutes to eleven. ‘‘ Has he sent no name?” “No, miss; but he is quite a gentleman, and says you know him.” ” “Tt is singular. I wish the Squire were here; he is very late,” thought Ianthe. Then, aloud, ‘‘ Show the gentleman in, Francis.” Then, with a cry of surprise, she advanced, exclaiming, “‘Mr. Glendenning! Is it possi- ble?” ““My presence beneath this roof, Miss Heath, scarcely can astonish you more than it bas sur- prised myself,” he answered, pressing the hand she had extended with much agitation. ‘“ Why I am back in England, and in Eastshire, how- ever, I must explain another time. At pre- sent a more important matter claims your at- tention. Mr. Ravenball has met with an accident—” 7 “An accident!” cried Ianthe, her affection for her guardian making her forget even the joy she felt in again looking upon the man she loved. ‘Ob, what is it? It is not anything serious?” ' nah “‘T hope not,” was the grave response; ‘ but a horse is being saddled, for medical aid is necessary.” “Ah, then, it is serious,” cried Ianthe. “Tel? me—speak !—where is he? I must go to him!” “The truth is, whether intentionally or not I cannot tell, Miss Heath, he was shot as he came along the bridle-path.” i * Shot!” ‘T heard the report, which drew me to the spot, and found him on the ground. He still breathes. With some difficulty I found help, and he is now on the sofa in the dining-room; and I myself shall proceed for a doctor, that there may be no unnecessary delay.” “Oh, thank you!” said Ianthe, tears in her voice. ‘I will go to him.” “Yes; but be calm, I pray. Control your feelings. Remember the servants have only you to rely upon for directions.” “Trust me,” she rejoined; and as Mark Glendenning hastened out, she entered the | dining-room. The Squire was on the couch, pale and still, | and but for the hurried and temporary efforts Mark Glendenning had made to stop the hemorrhage, there was no sign of violence | about him. Kneeling by the couch, Ianthe, her tears flowing fast; pressed his hand to her lips as she cried, ‘‘Oh, dear friend, my guardian, my second father, whom all loved, who could have done this? It must have been accident. No one intentionally would harm you!” . ' “Tt’s all them darn’d poachers, miss, that’s what it is,” remarked an old servant standing near. ‘The Squire always votes against the Game Laws, and won’t punish the villains, And this is what comes of it!” “They could hardly raise their hand against him for that, John. ‘No, no!” -A weary twenty minutes’ waiting, during which the Squire showed signs of returning consciousness. Then the medical man arrived, and Mark Glendenning led Ianthe back to the drawing-room. ‘Tt is not a moment for me to speak of my own affairs, Miss Heath,” he said, when he found her more composed; ‘but, as upon Pe hearing the doctor’s report I shall quit Raven- hall, I must explain now.” “Surely you will remain to receive my guardian’s thanks?” she pleaded, with sinking heart. 2 *‘T did but perform an act of common
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elder, man. humanity—nothing more. You ‘received my letter?” (ST ‘dial: j “Well, I started for my new home; but the ship I was in was wrecked off an island in the Pacific. The first vessel that came to our relief was homeward bound, and we had to return; but merely for a time, I-shall depart again shortly.” Attentively she had watched him, and per- ceived the violent emotion he with difficulty could suppress, and that he never met her gaze. ‘“‘Mr. Glendenning,” she said, quietly, ‘“ you once rendered me a service, I am about to ask another: at your hands. Once you said that you would aid*me should I need help. “T have not forgotten,” he rejoined. ‘“«Then Task you to remain. I ask you to support me by your presence and advice in this trouble that has come. Iam alone, friendless onee more, now that my guardian is ill,” “You alone—friendless?” he repeated. ‘‘ Mr, Churchill—” “‘T never regarded as the friend, I hope, Mr. Glendenning, to be allowed to consider you, And to-day, for a most shameful act, has he been banished from Ravenhall altogether.” “Can it be true?” he ejaculated, tremulously touching her hand—‘‘canit be that your.com- passion, your pity goes so faras— Dare I— What am I saying?” “Say nothing,” she interrupted, in.a low tone, her cheeks suffused by a delicate blush; only prove yourself my friend and remain.” “]T will,” he cried, ‘though not at Raven- hall.” - Then he moved back from her; for, the door ening, Dr. Gray entered. ‘What news? Oh, you smile!’ exclaimed Tanthe. ‘Yes, Miss Heath; with a cause. A doctor’s countenance is the preface to his opinion, and his patients anxiously read it,” said Doctor Gray. ‘I am delighted, to say the Squire’s wound is not at all of a dangerous nature; The ball. fortunately glanced off .at the shoulder- blade. In a few days he will be himself again, My message is to you, sir,” he added, turning. to Glendenning. ‘ Mr. Ravenhall wishes much to thank you for your kind services,” A flush passed over the young man’s cheek, which then turned pale. He appeared about refusing to comply. with the request; _ but, glancing at Ianthe a second, he replied, coldly, “Tf the Squire desires it, I will go; but I have a request to make—thas I may see him alone.” Doctor Gray gazed curiously at. the speaker. “T see,” he thought. ‘This. gentleman knows something about who fired the shot, and doesn’t wish it to get.chatted over by servants. Very wise, too, As you please, sir,” he added aloud, ‘ Follow me.” Mark Glendenning did so, halting outside the door of the bed-room to which the Squire had been removed. Soon Doctor Gray returned. “You may enter, sir,” he said. ‘“‘ Mr. Ra- venhall is alone,”, | “Stay one instant, Do you assure me your patient is in po danger?” ‘<Not the slightest. To one of his hale and robust constitution, even the. shock will be as nothing.” “ Thank you.” And Mark Glendenning, entering the room, closed the door behind him. CHAPTER X, MARK GLENDENNING’S HISTORY. Tux Squire lay on the bed, bis fine, hand- some countenance, with its heavy, iron-gray mustache, relieved against the snowy pillow. He was pale; but a kindly smile was on his features as he regarded Mark Glendenning. _ As to the latter, a strong, violent agitation possessed him when he saw the Squire; but by an effort, overcoming it, compressing his lips, his gaze partly lowered, and taking a step nearer, he said, “ You desired, Squire Raven- hall, to see me?” “Not ‘a very strange desire,” smiled the ‘* Considering what I owe you— HER HIDDEN FOE. | probably my life, for your presence must have scared the villain who attempted it—I wished to thank you.” ‘There is. no need, sir. What I did, any other would have done, or I would have done for any othemeven more readily.” The Squire, knitting his brows, looked at this young man;. who, cold, erect, stood so aloof. ‘Pardon me,” he said, ‘‘ but your manner, as your words, are peculiar. We are stran- gers, yet you speak rather as if the service you rendered me gave you no pleasure.” ‘“Tt did not,” was the response. formed it as a duty.” “A duty? As that, I suppose, of man to man? What other could you owe to me?” ‘None. but what the world would easily ab- solve me from, Squire Ravenhall,” proceeded Mark Glendenning, his manner changing to. one rapid and vehement. ‘I, who, as you say, probably saved your life to-night, as a youth, once yowed to take it.” “You?” ejaculated the Squire, rising slight- ly on his elbow. ‘‘Who are you?” ‘Let the name of the woman, whose heart you broke answer. you—the name of my mother—Josephine Woodleigh!” The Squire gave a quick, sharp cry as he dropped back on his. pillow. ‘“My son!” he ejaculated. “Yes, Squire Ravenhall—your son. Your lips have owned it. The son you repudiated; the son you covered with disgrace, giving him shame as.an inheritance; the son upon whom you haye never looked tillthis moment! You comprehend me now when I say duty, and no kinder, feeling, actuated me in the service I rendered you. Now, too, fou will understand when I say this interview has lasted long enough; that I go, for the air that I breathe beneath this roof stifles me.” “Stay; I entreat—I command you! Yes; my sop, whom I.never till now have seen— whose name even I do not know, Listen,” he proceeded. ‘‘ Did it never strike you that you had heard but one side of a story, and that not mine?” = “T heard that ofa dying mother.” ‘Even she did not, know all. I acted pre- cipitately, perhaps. Her guilt was—I should say ”’—noting the crimson anger on the other’s “‘T per- brow—“gppeared so clear. Tell me, I entreat you, the story you heard from Josephine—my wife’s lips!” ‘“‘T was not fifteen when my mother, having but a few days to live, told me her history— that you, Aubrey Ravenhall, heir to this place, were my father. We were living, for the sake of economy and my education, in a small Ger- man town. She told me how she had given you her love; that she married you, and in Italy passed with you eight months, the happiest of her life. At that period you had to go to Rome on business, leaving her at the villa. On the fourth night, at midnight, she was startled by angry words and a scuffle in her sitting- room, adjoining her chamber. Throwing her dressing-gown around her, she ran in, in time to see a man descend oyer the balcony, escap- ing the shot you fired afterhim. She ran to you in alarm, asking the reason. You cast her off, and charged her with the knowledge of the man’s presence in her room. She denied it; declared it must have been some thief. She had never even seen the man.” ‘‘ Well?” asked the Squire, as Mark paused. “You, sir, proved he wasno stranger to her. You declared him to be a former lover; one to whom she had given hope, before she met you. You accused her of having jilted him becau se you were a more wealthy suitor. You accused her of having every night been visited by this man while you were at Rome. That an anony- mous letter, acquainting you with that, had caused your return.” - : “Well?” : “Your wife denied it. Declared that she had not, seen the man since she had wedded ee ear ‘She prayed investigation. You would nothing; you quitted the house. he hi 4 f : Bs) = oo ued wrote, saying that you would not disgrace yourself nor her by making her infidelity pub- lic, but offered her a separate maintenance. She returned your letter, and left your house for- ever.” ~ “ All that is true,” said the Squire. “Now listen to my story. Your mother, my wife, was the only child of comparatively poor but worldly parents, When I first knew her, I was instantly struck by her beauty and amiability. I procured an introduction, and speedily grew jealous of a certain captain, who was ever in | attendance upon Josephine, who evidently loved her, and was favored by her parents. The question was—Did she love him? “Before a month was over, I told myself ‘No; that it was I who possessed her affection; also that the parents had transferred their favor to me, and looked coldly on the officer. I shall not enter into minute details of the fierce hate and.dark looks I received from the man whose placeI bad taken. I was too happy. “Josephine and I were married, and finally took a villa a few miles from Rome for a few months, ‘Business called me to the last-named city. Hardly had I arrived there than I re- received an anonymous letter. It informed me that Josephine had loved, and been as good ~ as engaged to, the Captain before my arrival, when, by her parents’ orders, she had been forced to jilt him, and pretend regard for me, her wealthier suitor. Did I wish to prove the truth of the anonymous information, I had but to return secretly to the villa, when at mid- night I should see the officer climb the balcony of my wife’s room, which he had done every night of my absence. ‘“T need not say I went. I saw the man enter. I followed, in time to arrest him as he had his hand on the handle of your mother's door. On perceiving me, he gave a long whis- tle and mocking laugh, and would have passed me. A struggle ensued, I stumbled, and he leaped to the balcony. Then he looked back. *<Tdiot!? he exclaimed. ‘A woman may sell herself for gold; but her love will ever re- main his to whom it has first been given!’ ‘“‘T had a pistol in my hand. I fired; but he had swung himself over the balcony, and was gone: ' ** Now you have heard my story,” concluded - the Squire, “‘ Was I all to blame?” ‘*No,” responded Mark Glendenning, who had listened with much emotion, ‘* Only to-day did I learn that it had been a plot to destroy your mother’s fair name, and ruin her and my happiness—a base plot con- cocted by the man, my rival, out of revenge. It was he who tracked us, and waited his op- portunity. It was he who penned that anony- mous letter. It was he who bade me return to the villa, and who, to make me believe, scaled and, for the first and only time, entered my wife’s room,” “Curse him!” cried Mark Glendenning, or, rather, Ravenhall, raising his clenched hands. “Hush !” broke in the Squire; “ he is dead, and had repented. The confession of his guilt and my wife’s innocence was brought to me this morning by his nephew, and is in yonder desk.” The young man moved quickly forward, and took his father’s hand; but abruptly the Squire, rising, threw himself on Mark’s breast. ‘“‘My son—my son!” he exclaimed.- Mark Ravenhall could not remove that hand- some iron-gray head resting ou his breast, nor the arms so fondly clasping him. His heart was softened; his tears flowed freely. “Father!” he murmured, The fact of Squire Ravenhall possessing a son spread like wildfire through Eastshire, causing more than a nine days’ wonder, and a curiosity that neither the Squire nor Mark took upon themselves to satisfy, when the matter grew finally absorbed in the news of Mary Blair’s marriage. d+ XO L This the Squire took no pains to conceal. On the contrary, he regarded the girl as his niece openly, and sought in every way to as-
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< ti | i sist her and Crazy Blair, who was once more heart and soul engrossed by his inventions. The dawning of Mary’s reason had been more than transient. After that. fainting- ia the Ravenhall morning-room her senses came back slowly, and daily strengthened. Unfortunately, as they did so, care came ‘in their train, and her health failed proportion- ately, much to the sorrow of Ianthe, happy now in her own love. On the eve of her wedding, however, Mary Churchill wished to see her, The girl’s eyes were sparkling, her cheeks flushed with joy, her voice tremulous. “‘T have come to say good-by, Miss Heath,” she said. ‘‘ Father and I leave Eastshire to- morrow early.” ‘«To-morrow—leave Eastshire! you going, Mary?” “To my husband. Ob, Miss Heath, he has written! He owns me for his wife! He has asked my forgiveness! He is ill—very ill!” “‘ And you are going, Mary?” “Going,’”—and the wife looked amazed at the question—‘‘of course. Did I not say that we start for France to-morrow? Ah, I see what you mean!” she added, rather sadly, but with deep feeling. ‘‘He was not kind to me once; but he is my husband, and, Miss Heath, I love him so dearly!” ““May he, dear Mary, prove worthy of such gentle devotion!” exclaimed Ianthe, embrac- ing her. ‘But I must seek the Squire. You must say good-by, to him.” She hurried to find her guardian, to whom she told Mary’s news, “‘ He has sent for her—he has, acknowledged her as his wife?” cried the Sq } with much satisfaction. ‘‘NowI can forgive him. Go, my love; I will join you and Mary in a min- ute!” When he did so, he held an envelope in his hand, directed to Edward Churchill. “Mary,” he said, “ give your husband this, and tell him that not only do I forgive the wrong he did me on a certain night some time ago—he will understand,”—Squire Ravenhall referred to the attempt on his life; for never once had he doubted whose hand had sent tho bullet—‘‘ but while he makes you a good hus- band, a similar check to that which this enve- lope contains—it is for a hundred pounds— shall be forwarded quarterly.” Mary coloring, hesitated. ‘IT do not know whether my husband might like to receive it,” she murmured. “Poor child!” thought the Squire. ‘She has more delicacy and honorable feeling in her little finger than hein his whole body.’? Then aloud, with a smile, ‘‘Take it, Mary! If my nephew should feel offended, he can send it back.” The check never was returned. On the contrary, Mary wrote a letter of thanks, with an address to which other remittances might be forwarded. Many were the presents Ianthe heaped on Mary; then, with warm adieux, they watched her depart. ata) _ ‘How happy she is!” said Ianthe. ‘ Who, to look at her now, would believe that Edward had so cruelly treated her?” “My dear, nothing is so forgiving as the heart of a true woman. In her love, she for- gets everything but the object of her affection.” “Ts that really so, father?” said a pleasant voice by their side. ‘‘ What say you, Ianthe?” “Tt may be,” she smiled, placing her hand on her lover’s arm. “But, Mark, if an un- worthy husband be so loved, how much more should he be who is worthy of a wife’s affec- tion?” “« & question, dearest, I trust our future may solve,” he answered, gazing fondly on her. “But fancy Crazy Blair going too!” laughed the Squire. ‘What ever will Ted do with him?” Crazy Blair never made himself a matter of trouble to his son-in-law. Assured of Mary’s happiness, he devoted himself to his invention, and this time with success, Where are _ — i. 4 ea : on HER HIDDEN: FOE. The crazy blacksmith of the village was recognized as the man of genius in the great city. Friends aided_him with means and ad- vice;,and..when.the active brain was stilled at last, Crazy Blair left a fortune and a name to his daughter. 5 This, however, was all vailed in the misty clouds of futurity when father and daughter quitted Eastshire. _They were far away—in- deed, near London-—before Ianthe’s wedding- bells broke out upon the air, The church was crowded, and, as the young girl passed up the aisle, leaning on Mark Ravenhall’s arm, all declared never had there been seen so hand- some a pair. All save Mrs. Mortimer. She was there in her place, smiling and amiable, but black jealousy and anger in her heart. Her plans had been baffled, but her secret was her own. Not even her tool, Edward Churchill, had guessed what those plans had been. Thus she held her place in Eastshire society, and considered it politic, though against her wil), to be present, and nerved her- self to witness Ianthe Heath’s triumph, that she might continue still that young lady’s hidden foe, THE END. Half-Dime Singer's Library 1 Wxoa, Esma! and 59 other Songs. 2 Caprain Curr and 57 other Songs. 8 Tar Garnszporo’ Hat and 62 other Songs. 4 Jounny Moraan and 60 other Songs. 5 Tui Strike You Wits A FEATHER and 62 other Songs. * 6 Grorer THE CHARMER and 56 other Songs. 7 Tur BELLE or Rockaway and 52 other Songs. 8 Youne Friuas, You’re Too Fress and 60 othér Songs. 9 Suy Youne Giri and 65 other Songs. ; 10 I’m THE GovERNoR’s ONLY Son and 58 other Songs. 11 My Fn and 65 other Songs. 12 Comm’ Tro’ THE RyE and_55 other Songs. 13 Tae RouLickine IRIshMan and 59 other Songs. 14 Otp Doa Tray and 62 other Songs. 15 Waoa, Cuartie and 59 other Songs, ; 16 In TaH1s West By anp By and 62 other Songs. 1” Nancy Lxx and 58 other Songs. ~ 18 I'm Tar Boy THat’s Bounp To Biazp and 57 other Songs. 19 Taz Two OrpHans and 59 other Songs, 20 WHAT ARE THE Witp WaAvEs Sayine, SIsTER? and 59 other Songs. : 21 INDIGNANT Potty Woe and 59 other Songs. 22 Tar OLD ARM-CHarr and 58 other Songs. 23 On Conry Istanp Bracu and 58 other Songs. 24 Otp Simon, THE Hor-Corn Man and 60 others, ' 25 I’m In Love and 56 other Songs. 26 PARADE oF THE GuARDS and 56 other Songs. 27 Yo, Have, Ho! and 60 other Songs. 28 "Twit Never po To Gipit up So and 60 other Songs. : 29 Buur Bonnets Over tHE Borper and 54 others. 30 Tar Merry Laventne Man and 56 other Songs. 31 Swenr Forcer-mx-Nor and 55 other Songs. 82 LeETLE Bany Minx and 53 other Songs. 33 Dz Bango 4M DE INSTRUMENT FOR Mz and 53 other Songs. 34 Tarry and 50 other Songs. 35 Just To PLease THE Boys and 52 other Songs. 36 SKATING oN ONE IN THR GUTTER and 52 other Songs. ' 37 Kotorep Kranks and 59 other Songs. 38 Nu. DespeRaNpuM and 53 other Songs. 39 Tar Girt I Lerr Brsrnp Me and 60 other Songs. 40 "Tis sur a Lirrix Fapep Fiower and 50 others. 41 Prerry WaineLata and 60 other Songs. 42 Danone In THE BARN and 68 other Songs. 43 H. M.S. Prnarorn, compiarn, and 17 other Songs, Sold everywhere by Newsdealers, at five cents per copy, or sent pest-paid, to any address, on re- ceipt of Sta cents per number. EADLE AND ADAMS, Puprrsners, er agers 98. Wit14M Srremr, New. Yorx, ‘15 a ne noo BEADLE & ADAMS’ STANDARD DIME PUBLICATIONS. Speakers. BEADLE AND ADAMS have now on their lists the fol- lowing highly desirable and attractive text-books, prepared weavhgy h for schools, families, etc. Each volume contains 100 large pages, printed from clear, open type, comprising the best collection of Dia- logues, Dramas and citations, (burlesque, comic and otherwise.) The Dime Speakers for the season of 1880—as far as now issued—enibrace twenty-three volumes, viz. : : 1. American Speaker. 13. School Speaker. . National Speaker. 14. Imdicrous Speaker. 2. 3. Patriotic Speaker. 15. Komikal Speaker. 4. Comic Speaker. 16. Youth’s Speaker. 5. Elocutionist. 17. Eloquent Speaker. 6. Humorous Speaker. | 18. Hail Columbia Speak 7. Standard Speaker. er. 8. Stump Speaker. 19. Serio-Comic Speaker. 9, Juvenile Speaker. 20. Select Speaker. 10, Spread-Eagle Speaker | 21. Funny Speaker. Bi Dime Debater. ia 22. J vers Speaker. 12. Exhibition Speaker. | 23, Dialect Speaker. These books are replete with choice pieces for the School-toom, the ibition, for Homes, etc. They are drawn from FRESH sources, and contain some of the choicest oratory of the times. 75 to 100 Declama- tions and Recitations in each book. Dialogues, The Dime Dialogues, each volume 100 pages, em- brace So books, viz.: Dialogues No. One. Dialogues No. Fourteen. Dialogues No. Two. Dialogues No. Fifteen. Dialogues No. Three. Dialogues No. Sixteen. Dialogues No. Four. Dialogues No. Seventeen. Dialogues No. Five. Dialogues No. Eighteen Dialogues No. Six. Dialogues No. Nineteen. Dialogues No. Seven. Dialogues No. Twenty. Dialogues No. Twenty-one. _| Dialogues No. Twenty-two. Dialogues No. Twenty-three Dialogues No. Twenty-four. Dialogues No, Twelve. | Dialogues No. Twenty-five. Dialogues No. Thirteen. | Dialogues No. Twenty-six. . 15 to 25 Dialogues and Dramas in each book. These volumes haye, been, prepared with especial reference to their avqilability in all school-rooms. They are adapted to schools with or without the fur- niture of a stage, and introduce a range of charac- ters suited to scholars of every grade, both male and female. It is fair fo. assume that no volumes yet offered to schools, at any price, contain so many niga useful dialogues and dramas, serious and comic. Dramas and Readings. 164. 12mo Pages. 20 Cents. For Schools, Parlors, Entertainments and the Am- ateur Stage, comprising Original Minor Dramas, Comedy, Farce, Dress Pieces, Humorous Dialogue and Burlesque, by noted writers; and Recitations and d standard, of th test celebrity auilinterest.. Kdited iy Prof, A, M. Russell, DIME HAND-BOOKS. Young People’s Series. Brapie’s Dime Hanp-Booxs For Youna Propie cover a. wide range of subjectsand are especially adapted to their end. They constitute at once the eheapest and most useful works yet put into the market for popular circulation. Dialogues No. Hight. Dialogues No. Nine. Dialogues No. Ten. Dialogues No, Eleven. Ladies’ Letter-Writer. Book of Games. Gents’ Letter-Writer. Fortune-Teller. Book of Etiquette. Lovers’ Casket. Book of Verses. Ball-room Companion. Book of Dreams. Book of Beauty... Hand-Books of Games. BEADLE’s Dive Hanv-Books or GAmMuS| AND POPULAR HAND-BOooKS cover a pariety, of subjects, and are es- Book of Croquet. achting and Rowi Chess Instructor. 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