Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 61) (1881 01 11)
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No. 61, Vol. Ill ~~ D WEEKLY BY We WIS | ~ | | \ tagline oe i Te ee fae La: Tecan ETTTED (quam Wf Fiii as | A Wicked Heart; on, The False and the True, BY SARA CLAXTON. CHAPTER JI. EVENING was fast closing in: the storm, which had been threatening | allday. seemed but to wait for the last red streak, left on the horizon by the setting sun, to fade away, ere it came down with a fearful fury. The trees in Chiltern Park swayed back and forth in the wind which | oremorselessly tore from them the leaves that the autumn had already : of First-Class Copyright Novels Published! LY BY BEADLE AND AD Price, but 5 cents eaeh. ° RP Noe i ‘pth do RS CPM y adh With | Mt | | ae a Ai Pin we tone Bit oe ie a 4 y Nit) i i ij ba f 5 AND GRANDMAMMA.” turned to brown and gold. There were huge oaks, th whick re- fused to bow their heads or bend in the blast: and the rm, acifin revenge, snapped off branch after branch, and hurled them to the. ground. The Manor, with its heavy masonry, frowned ominously im the gathering gloom; scarcely a light shone from its windows. Mo seundsof | merriment were ever heard within its walls. Most of the servants had grown old in the Squire’s service, ond Spey had learnt to mount the broad oak staircase, and move atéut the ra - corridors and disused rooms softlv, doing their work noiselessly. Sometimes a young housemaid, new to the ;lace, would lengh .out merrily, but the sound would die away on her lips, for no one joined i her mirth, her fellow-servants only regarding her with surprise and re | - s
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an SS ees ae ee apwen ees wonder.’ Soon the too would forget ‘to smile, and it a few mouths become as gloomy as the Test. “Squire Chiltern was in his study, poring, as usual, over his books, reading by the light of a shaded Jamp. His features were stern;and there were hard times about his mouth; his shoulders were bent with constant study; his bair, thin and per{ect- by-white; féll Over the collar of his coat, He ~wassed most'of his tirne in the room he now oc- wupied, and ‘was generally alone. ‘This evening, however, his wife, frightened by the storm, imi crept-here from her own apartment, and silently sunk into a chair near the fireplace. The ul ‘glow from the fire fell upon her, ramusing her pale features to look almost ghast- ly. Her countenance wore a look of the great- em terror; ber eyes, unnaturally distended, were fixed on vacancy; her hands clasped and wuclasped themselves nervously. Presently,-a great blast of wind caused the windows to rattle in their casements, and a heavy fall on the terrace outside told that some large tree had been cast to the ground. A shriek from his wife caused the Squire to took across at her hastily, and gaza at her theughtfully for a few minutes. He did hope that she was not going to have one of those nervous fits which had been so frequent of late. Perkaps it would be wiser to ring for Abigail; ’ -. we did not like being alone with his wife when } 8be became excited. Poor Mrs. Chiltern! Eighteen years ago her amind, never very strong, had received a shock, sand, though not exactly imbecile, she suffered frem the most painful nervousness, ; She rose from her seat, and, approaching her busband, laid a hand upon his arm. There was something pitiful in the way in awhich she touched him; fear of him was so plainly shown in her half-shrinking figure and ‘the tremble of the thin white hand which rest- vil, half-deprecatingly, on his sleeve. ** William,” she said, in a voice little above n whisper, ‘do you remember what day this ix? Highteen years ago, on just such a night ws this, she left us. ‘‘ No, no,” she continued, ws be shook her hand off roughly; ‘“‘1 am not woing to mention her name. | promised you I would not, and have not broken my word in vi} these years; but something makes me think _of her more than usual this evéning. Perhaps - itis the storm. Hark how it moans and sighs through the trees! Theraf—do you hear? I - vould almost fancy I heard a child’s voice, just as heard her child cry when you cast them out.” _ The Squire raised his hand as though to push chr away; but she clung to him. “*¥ must speak,” she cried—‘‘I must! Ob, to knew even if she be living! To-night it all comes back to me as if it were bub yesterday. Ivan see her nowas shoe knelt before you, #nliing her infant up to mutely plead with her. How I longed to clasp her in my atms, but you vt me back. Had she come to ask forgive- wesa; I think you would have pardoned her; but +e had come to plead for him—her husband— the¢man who had stolen her from’ us, and you “would not listen’ to her. ‘you ‘uttered entered my heart, and seared it ike @ burniny coal. ‘Go, leave my house!’ you-eried, ‘Not one farthing will I give to +#¥e8.your husband! Let him die!? Then she durmed to me, appealingly, with tears stream- juglown her cheeks; but I was spellbound— powerless to move. [ tried to go to her—tried _ be speak, bat my limts refused to obey me; no words would come. She bad sent the fly, by ~whidlz she had come from the station, back to Btexby; for she thought we would surely keep hrtthat one night, but you would not let her rtayy Out into the wind and rain she went, jiessing her little frightened baby to her ‘teenst, And, oh! worse than all—far worse than all!” she wailed—“‘ thinking that I, her » other, was also harsh to her; that I had let hb x go without one kind word, without one ef- dura to detain her!” I hear your words | both looked into the hall. xew. How stern you looked as you drew ‘your- | sf wp, and pointed to the door! Each word | _A WICKED HEART. Her voice rose almost to a scream, and sink- ing down on her knees, she covered her face with her hands. “Why will you agitate yourself in. this way?” said the Squire. ‘‘ Mabel sacrificed all consideration from us when she left her home to-become the wife of that beggarly Italian artist. Confound him!” he went on, angrily. **T shall never forget his airs of equality, nor the cool, impudent way in which he asked for my daughter—as though he never dreamed of a refusal, when’all the time he must have known T had-as good’as promised her to Wil- fred Gray.” The Squire was gradually working himself into a passion, entering into the details of his fancied wrong, and trying to justify himself for the harshness of his conduct. But, somehow, now that so many years had passed, he could not help viewing it ina differ- ent light, ‘Was it possible,” he asked himself, “ that he had been unnecessarily cruel to his only daughter?” It was late in the day to take this view of the case. Mabel must be not far from forty now. Bah! why did he let his thoughts rest so on the past this evening? Was it possible he was growing nervous and excitable, like his wife? Just then a loud pealrung out from the front door-bell, causing Mrs. Chiltern to riss to her feet, with another cry, and cling once more to her husband, Even the Squire looked dis- concerted. The arrival of a visitor was an almost un- heard-of event at the Manor, and to-night of all iights, with the storm raging with unbated fury, few persons, unless obliged, would care to ventur> out. . “Tt is she!” in an awe-stricken tone whis- pered the oldJady. “I felt something would happen to-night. You wiil not send her away again, William?” she went on, pitifully. ‘She knew you could not really. mean her to walk all the six miles to Blexby through this dread- ful storm. There,” she said, smiling feebly through the tears which coursed each other down her withered ‘cheeks, “let me go and meet her, and bring ‘the baby in here: to the fire. Poor little thing, it will be quite cold.” ‘The poor lady’s thoughts had gone back to that night so long ago, fancying only some: minutes had elapsed since Mabel had been re- fused shelter. All forgotten were the eighteen weary years of sorrow which had slowly dragged themselves along since then, In the meantime, the hasty summons had been answered, There were now sounds of voices in ths hall. A woman was speaking broken’ English in a high-pitched tone, A gentler voice now and again interposed more quietiy. Mrs, Chiltern’s heart died within her as she listened, a look of intense disappointment steal- ing over her anxious ‘countenance. Neither’ spoke in the well-remembered accents ‘of her beloved daughter. ot Tremblingly she followed her husband, who’ had gone to the door’ ofthe study, and they’ _ Malpus, the’old butler, was weakly protest ing st some heavy boxes being carried into. the house from a hired carriage which ‘stood’ near the steps, while a stout, dark-browed, red-faced womun was gesticulating wildly, and insisting upon her orders being obeyed. She succeeded in having her way, and the last of the trunks was soon deposited on tho polished floor, : A young girl, tall and exquisitely beautiful, half reclined with infinite grace against the old-fashioned carved fireplace, and regarded the discussion that was going on near her with an indolent expression, half-scornful, half amused, Presently she caught sight of the old couple standing near the study door, and, with a smile, approached them. “It is grandpapa and grandmamma!” she siid, in sweet, soft tones. ‘‘I should have re- cognized you anywhere from dear mamma’s ? «i a st, %4 i ae | is burning? description of you. Ah, how often we have. talked of you!” There was not a shade of embarrassement in: her manner, and before the Squire well knew what she was about she had thrown her arms around his neck and embraced him warmly. He was so taken aback, so altogether startled and bewildered, that words failed him. It was Mrs. Chiltern. who. now jooked the more composed of the two. She *passively allowed the young girl to kiss her, but did not return the embrace. ‘“T do not know you,” she said, in accents thut were almost fretful. ‘* You are not Mabel. Why do you come here; and why do you call me grandmamma? I have only one grand- » child—she is a little baby, a little weak child; I heard it cry as it left the house. I hear it cry now very often when the wind moans in the trees,” The girl took both the old lady’s trembling hands in her own warm soft ones, and gazed down at her sympathetically, saying, in clear, distinct tones, though not without a slight foreign accent, ‘‘Dear grandmamma, I will explain everything to you presently. May we not all come into this room where I see a fire I am tired and chilly, for we have had a long journey. Come madame,” she said, turning to the other lady, ‘‘help me to tell my dear grandparents all that has happened, and why I come to seek a home with them. How dark it isin here!” she said, as she entered the study. The shaded lamp left the corners of the room in obscurity. : “May 1 ring for more light? You have hardly seen me yet.” Without waiting for an «answer, she pulled the bell-rope, which none but the Squire himself had dared touch before. _ “JT must be as a daughter to you now,” she said to the Squire, as if in apology. ‘‘I do not want you to look upon me as a stranger.” From the first she seemed to master the situa- tion. Sinking on her knees before the fire, she held out her small white hands to the warmth. “Ah, I am so glad to be home!” she mur- mured as if to herself. One would have thought she was a loved daughter of the house just re- turned after a short absence, The Squire resigned himself to the inevit- able. He, who had ruled every one witha rod of iron, seemed gentile as a child in the presence of the young girl, He felt that he should le: her have her own way, ask what she would, She took everything so for granted—was so sure of a welecome—so certain that her arrival at the Manor could not but be a pleasure te them. i When the candles, were brought she rose and took a seat near the old lady. heii Then, smiling on her, she said, “ Look at me well, grandmamma; tell me if you :do) not think you could love me. I am notilike my mother in appearance, but I will try to: love you both as much as she would baye done,” | It was a beautiful countenance: on . which ‘Mrs. Chiltern gazed. © A pale olive:complexion, with eyes almost unnaturally dark, that one could not fathom, fringed by long silky lashes black as night; lips small and red; but ‘these. when not smiling, were apt to close-tdo firmly over white teeth, and there was a haughty curve about the well cut nostrils. - “Tlove no one but Mabel!” said the alu lady, turning away her head, and beginning to rub her hands together in the old nervous way. “‘ Where is Mabel? Did not some one say she was coming?” ; Fy “‘There—there! come this way, and speak to me!” said the Squire to the young girl, who was looking a little surprised at the way in which her advances were received. ‘‘ You have told us of yourself, but you have not in- formed us who this lady is—not related to your father, I suppose?” he added, determined, if such were the case, to make some show of re- sistance should she contemplate remaining here also, , ¥
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—_—_ “Ob, LIbeg your wisi I had quite for- gotten. This is Madame Veroust, my dear friend and governess. I hope you will allow her to remain with me for a time, for she has been very good to me since my darling mother died.” ‘“Dead!” echoed the Squire. dead! When did she die?” “Dear grandpapa, it is all such a long, sad story. May I not postpone the telling of it untii Iam rested, and we have had some re- freshment? Madame, if you will be so good as to ring, we will ask to be shown to our apartments.” As the door closed behind them, the Squire turned to his wife. “Did you hear, Caroline? Mabel is dead. You will never s2e heragain! ‘You must never listen for her now, nor expect her to return.” She looked hastily up at him with a startled, hunted expression. “Tdo not understand. “Your mother You mistake, Wil- | WICKED HE BART = A | answered the woman, indignantly. ‘ Miss Mabel herself was the last to oecupy it.” “‘And that was exactly eighteeu years ag, mused Christine. ‘Ts it possible vo one has slept here since?” oxclaimed Madame, uplifting her hands and eyesin horror. ‘‘ You will die of rheumatism, bE my poor child! And where, then, am I to sleep ; to-night?” she inquired, in some concern. “Mr. Grey’s room is opposite this, ma’an.’ The housekeeper thought you could take that until he arrives, and we can ‘hen prepare an- other for you. My master s:vs so little com- pany that extra rooms are seldom required.” “Yes, of course,” interrupted Christine, ‘we quite understand. If you will havea fira lighted here, and see that the bed is well aired, and light plenty of candles, I shall do very well, I dare say. Whois this Mr. Grey?’ she asked, as the servant was about to withdraw. ” My master’s nephew,” replied the ole liam; it is not Mabel who is dead, but this | fond of being questioned. stranger’s mother.” ““Yos, yes,” he answered, impatiently; ‘‘ but this stranger’s mother was Mabel.” ““No—oh, no; that cannot be. Mabel’s child is a little baby.” “Can't you-—-won’t you remember that eighteen years have passed since you saw that child? She has grown up into this handsome young girl. How am I to make you under- stand?’ he went on, fretfully. He always grew angry when his wife was in this mood. “T do comprehend you quite well, William,” she said, speaking slowly and distinctly, enun- ciating each word clearly. Poor lady, she seemed conscious that she often talked sense- lessly. “* You wish me to know that Mabel is dead. I shall never see her again, you say? Ab, yes! she will visit me in my dreams, and sbe will tell me that this tall young lady who calls me grandmamma is not her daughter. Did you not see? Sheis dark and foreign-looking; she has neither Mabel’s eyes, hair, nor voice, Oh, I tell you I should know Mabel’s child! My daughter’s child would be more like her- self” The Squire turned away impatiently. It seemed hopeless to argue further with his wife. He knew well when she had a settled convic- tion on any subject it was hard to change it. ‘‘ Perhaps we had better go to the dining- room,” he said, presently, ‘‘and I trust Ishu:l not have to complain of your conduct toward our granddaughter, but tbat you will receive ber with the kindness which she has every rea- son t>» expect at your hands. After supper she will give us, I doubt not, the details of her mother’s death, and the reason why she has geome to us in this unexpected way. I must insist that! you do not interrupt her while she is speaking, as you so cften are fond of doing with people., lt you cannot make up.your mind to behave in a proper manner, I shall re- quest that you sup in your own room.” Of, course, his poor wife promised anything; she was always submissive when he spoke to her in that way, In the meantime Christine Vira, and her — had been shown into a large apart- They shuddered involuntarily as they crossed the threshold, There was a ‘musty, moldy i scent in the air; the room looked as though ") | had not been. slept in for years. Christine took the candle from the servant.) emergency she, as pe Grey is evidently a constant visitor,” said Christine, when they were alone. ‘‘ I} must make a friend of him.” “You will probably make more than a friend of him,” replied Madame, ‘unless be prove very different from other men. But come; we must not waste time talking here. Tam dying of hunger, and the antiquated do- mestic informed me supper would be served in a few minutes.” They shortly after descended to the dining- room, where they found the Squire already seated at the head of the table. was opposite to him, looking nervous and un- easy, starting every time her husband spoke, fearful lest she would do something which should call forth some rebuke from him. The meal passed almost in silence. Christine was thoughtful and preoccupied, while Madame Veroust was too intent upon satisfying her ap- petite to trouble much about conversation. © At last the cloth was removed, and the ser- vants left the room. Christine drew her chair nearer her are ore and commenced her story. “‘T will begin,” she said, “at the time when my mother left this house, and, carrying me in her arms, walked through the storm to the ’ station.” “Tt is hardly necessary,” interrupted the Squire, ‘‘to revert to that, I think.” “T only mention it,” went on Christine, ‘because that day commenced my father’s bet- ter fortuues. “When my mother returned, ill and tired with her jouruey, and sick at heart with disap- pointment ”—she dwelt uson the words: as | though determined to spare her grandfather nothing,—‘“ she found a lady with ny father: She was his sister, who had, a few years be- fore, married a rich English banker, and theu resided in London. My father bad written to her repeatedly; but sbe had been from home for some time, and had not received his letters. On her return she at once hastened to the poor lodgings my parents occupied, and, as soon as the inva’id could be moved, insisted upon our going to her own house, “My father, as you know, was an artist, but: what money he earned by his paintings was generally spent as soon as received; so, when | he fell.ill, my poor mother found that, at the end of a few weeks, the little money she had E her was almost exhausted. It was in this { a last resource, besought who conducted them, and, holding it high | your assistance, above her head, looked around her. A huge | four-post bedstead was at one end of the room, hung with faded chintz, which once, doubtless, blossomed over with brilliant flowers, but which now, alas! showed but little trace of any color; ety, spindle-legged tables, each more old-fash- jioned than the other. She turned to the servant in some dismay. “Ts this the most habitable room you can offer me?’ she asked. “Tt is almost the best in the house, ma’am,” | “Tender nursing and good living soon par- | tially restored my father’s health: but the doe- tors insisted that the air of his native country was necessary for his perfect recovery, declar- jing thata winter in England would be most heavy wardrobes, uncomfortable couches, rick: | prejudicial to bim. * We accordingly went to Italy, Mrs, Blount, my aunt, providing my parents with ample | Means, “Here my father was soon strong enough to commence his painti: g again, and his pictures were much sought aficr, Me ee Mrs, Cniltern- bb "NO ‘united than we were, We traveled abou: es my mother and ber; and her daugitite jamily could be happier and iu. -e ‘over Italy and the south of France, selditr old, that we first became’ acquainted wit She was then but lateixvt. Juliette, a girl about my own age, and I wie — fast friends. “Poor mamma: bad up to this timu unés | taken my instruction herself; but she. waers%s ; Strong, and, as she disliked my being ‘taugti,s» ° strangers, it was arravged that Madame — teach me with her own daughter. | “From that time we were inseparable, Yrs } woman, in a way which showed she was not | when we traveled, Madame let her house-ait* , ; accompanied us, 5 “Within the last few years my andthe health began to fail, and we resided almost-e~- | tirely in Lyons, my father having several Ft patrons in that neighborhood. the proprietor of a fine chateau a few naiiee | trom the city, to restore some beautiful pair ' ings which decorated the ceiling of his hall. “One day, when the work was almost cute pleted, my mother expressed a wish to see.) and arranged that she und J, Madame Venm#+ and Juliette, should all drive to the chatée M. Dupont Leing at tbat time from home. “The hall was, indeed, a noble apartmead: the floor inlaid with colored marbies; the wii bang with trophies of the chase and andex armor; but it was the ceiling which atirat®4 most of our admiration. It was extremely lhe ~ »and dome-shaped. The paintings upon it rege sented a boar-huit, and were magnificent wees - My father, as we entered, was in Sx ’ of art. -act of putting the finishing touches to ome? the principal figures. “He stood upon a narrow platform compandi ofa few planks of wood. My mother sist. t dered ‘as sbe beheld the insecurity of his pub linn, and begged bim to descend. “He laughed down at us merrily, sayin ‘How glad lam that you did not come whit Iwas at work on the center figures. I bad e _paint them lying on my back. The posite was altogether much more perilous, But Lit “Last year he was engaged by a M. Dupadi:. - eome down !o you now if it alarms you tews me bere;’ and he proceeded to walk along ™ ‘platform in order to reach a ladder —— stood at one end. *" He had gone about half-way whew a: turned, and looked back at my mother to enim reassur ‘ingly. At that moment bis foot slipge’ He vainly tried to recover bis balauce, “Vhers was a wild, awful sbriek. He fell. I saws mother rush forward, and raise my futher head. It was frightful! y disfigured. | Newer shall I forget the sight. I fainted. _ “When I at last came to myself, £ bow: that I had been ill for two days, and learngataie: : ;my mother was at the point of death, “I insisted upon going at once to hor fe® side; but I was only in time to listen to G& dying request, which was that I should got - once to England; for she felt sure that you, em ‘dear grandparents, would receive me when pm knew I was an orphan.” Christine paused, and looked inquiringty we ‘the Squire. come, Let us hope we shall make you bapyer ful tragedy. But you say nothing of yorr companion, Juliette. How is it, Madans Veroust, that you did not bring cer also England?” ‘Ab, monsieur, spare me!” cried Madatue, of my poor daughter is even more terrible thas that of Christine’s parents. My darling Juk ette had always been of a very exci’able nature } Only to see an animal in pain would make Ameer “Yes, my cbild,” he sail; “ youdid right we here, and get you in time to forget this frigit=. raising a handkerchief to her eyes; “the fwte .
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> ae a pes Sas bitterly,.as aw a —~ athe gasemenis. would be dashed in. é eee ill; and often have I krown her to faint ¥ Z did but cut my finger. Monsieur will wualily suppose how great was the shock to this aswsitive child. when she saw Monsieur Vira, yrwipitated from that fearful bight, fall almost a®¥ ber icet. Her brain never recovered the ehwek of that moment. Ihave been forced to yet suy beloved Juliette under the care of a wedical man. Fortunately for me, my brother- ie-taw is a doctor, and much experienced in wih eases. He undertook to receive my @eeghter, but strongly advised my vot even sifernpting to see her until he had bad charge «® her for some time. Ab, monsieur,” she solibed, “you. may imagine how bitter it was io# me to promise not to see my Juliette; but % i for her. good. I would not selfishly con- skier my own feelings. I therefore devote sxueolf to my other daughter,” she said, .smil-: tag sadly, aud patting Christine's hand, “and kege to find some consolation in being permit- %xtto remain near her.” ‘@he teliing of Christine's story had occupied mae time, and, as it was already late, Madame suggested their retiring. Mas, Chiltern was gazing at the dying em- tem, ber hands clasped on her lap; she had oc- «pied the same position all the time her grand- ter was speaking. It is doubtful if she bad: heard half that was said. CHAPTER IL Manama VeRoust would have entered ®hribtine’s room with her, but the young girl «iwhod her good-night at the door. *{ would rather be alone to-night,” she said, “¥ lave so much to think of.” She changed her dress for a loose wrapper, ws unbound her hair, which fell in heavy, jetty maasses far below her waist; then threw, texe@alf wearily into a large arm-chair near the: fie, Resting her head on her hand, she mused | tar xowe time, Siiowly the tears gathered, and taking a Seekab, which she wore concealed in her bosom, ’ ee pressed it wildly again and again to her Myej opening it, she gazed long upon tha por- of a youvg man; then sh3 swayed back sx forth in an agony of grief. A WIC KED HEART. gloomy pert she might have had the night before, and Christine rose, determined to make the best of her position. Not many weeks passed before great changes took place at the Manor. The drawing-room, which had been disused for so many years, had the covers taken off its furniture; the piano was tuned, and once more gave forth sweet sounds beneath Christine's supple fingers, The conservatory was robbed of its choicest blos- | soms, notwithstanding the old gardener’s re- | monstrauce, au: the vases filled with flowers, A smart lady’s-waid arrived from London, who scandalized the staid old servants by her giddy manner aud grand dresses. ‘Christine’s bedroom underwent a complete transformation. The old furniture was con- signed to an attic, and was replaced by a pretty French bed, dainty dressing-table, modern wardrobes, chairs, and lounges. A room ad- joining became a charming little boudoir. The neighboring gentry called one after the other, and were received by Christine with such dignity and grace that the Squire was more than ever charmed with his granddaugh- ter. He was seldom out of her society; if Christine were bored by hii, she had too much tact to show it, Mrs. Chiltera kept more than ever to her partments, She had taken an instinctive pase nacoodatcbls dislike to Christine, and by degrees ceased even to take her meals witia the others. Her husband, now that he had other things to occupy bim, took less pleasure in worrying her, and in the company ot her faith- ful maid Abigail the poor lady suffered much less from the fits of nervousness to which she had heen accustomed. She would sometimes walk up and down the terrace with Madame Veroust, but did this mure out of politeness to ‘the Frenchwoman than for the sake of any pleasure derived from her society, _. Wilfred Grey will bo here this evening,” said the Squire one morning, after reading a letter which had justi arrived. ‘‘Hois anxious to make your acquaintance, Christine. I trust you and he will be good friends, He was at one time greatly attached to your mother, but 4 &aguste, Auguste!” she moaned, “I shall ' she had the bad taste to refuse him and his ten never see you more! Already I begin to regret ii: step Thave taken; but it is too late —too — ‘. cannot now go back! Do you miss me I wonder?” she went on, brushing the py a a away, and pressing the locket ba more to her lips. ‘Ah, me! those were —y days when: we thought only of our love, forgot that.we were poor. Fancy me the wife of a poor man!” sho laughed, scornfully. * Bo, no, Auguste; it was a pleasant dream while it lasted; but I must think no more of yom after to-night!” Saying this, she drew the portrait from the Yehek, and, without one more look at it, cast it int bhe fire, She watched it curl and shrivel ‘i Mee heat, and at last disappear; then she men,and walking to the toilet table, looked mwenostly at the reflection of herself in tho “i thought I was. above such weakness!” she as she saw her t-ar-stained . @aeks... “Bab! I am not like myself, to-night; & must be that I am tired.” Looking round "ie soom, she shuddered a little involuntarily, . *“% is Incky Iam not afraid of ghosts; ., this ‘Eoks the yery picture of a haunted room If spetts #id.visit this world, surely the last occu- How foolish I am! I will hasten to twai,.and forget my fancies in sleep.” it was many hours before Christine sinwmad. her eyes, Every sound caused her beart % beat so that she could almost hear it. “ie long disused furniture cracked and gyvaned as the fire died down, and the storm, wide still paged outside, shook the windows so ssinleuthy that Christine thought every moment At last, wam.out by sheer fatigue, she fell into a heavy @eep, and did not wake until it was broad day- By With the darkness disappeared whatever thousand a-year for that—ahem!—I should say, for your father!” “He is now no longer young, I conclude?” said Christine. “ Not young!” exclaimed the Squire. “ Well, that depends entirely on what you consider young. Wilfred is barely forty, and one of the handsomest men I know,” Christine took some pains with her toilet that evening. She looked dazzlingly beautiful as she entered the drawing-room, clad in a robe of rich ruby silk, with ruffles of costly lace at her neck and wrists. No matter what dress she.wore, she always looked as if it were the very one that suited her best. Mr, Grey was standing near the fire-place, talking to the Squire. Cuaristine could not help smiling a little ecornfully to herself at the thought of having taken any pains to please the very ordinary-looking gentleman before her, Surely she would find it not very difficult to captivate this man; and yet, if she were not mistaken, his expression showed more of dis- #ppointment than admiration as their eyes met. She advanced with hand extended, and a _ smnile on her lips, not waiting for the Squire to introduce them. yank, of this chamber would appear tome to- | _ “We are cousins,” she said; ‘‘ we shall be ‘friends also, I hope.’ . And soon they were conversing as easily and naturally as if they had known each other for years. Some days passed, and though Chris- tine used all her arts, tried all her fascinations, she felt that Mr, Grey’s heart was as safely in his own keeping as ever, _ One evening, after dinner, Christine, com- plaining of the heat of the drawing-room, passed with ber cousin into the conservatory, which was adjoining. An arbutalon wound its delicate tendrils round a carved pillar near | them. Plucking one of its bell-like flowers, she : offered it to Mr. Grey, with one of her most captivating glances, He shook his head, and, smiling gravely, said, “T never wear flowers; the practice always seems to me effeminate. There is something so incongruous in the fact of ornamenting the severe and prosaic evening dress of the present day with a flower.” ‘Ts never struck me in that light before, but T dure say you are right,” said Christine, bend- iug her head, and fastening the flower in her own dress to "hide her discomfiture. As Mr. Grey watched her, his locks fe'l upon a bracelet which she wore, composed of flat medallions of dead gold. He started as he caught sight of it, and begged to be allowed to examine it nearer. She uoclasped it, and handed to him at once. sage! | recognize it, * he said as he took it from her. “It is one which I myself gave to your mother. It used to contain my likeness.” ‘* Really,” exclaimed Christine. ‘‘ You sur- prise me. I was not aware there was place for any likeness. Has it any secret spring?” ‘Yes; see here!” As he spoke he touched a spring and one of the medallions opened, disclosing a beautifully- painted miniature of a fair young child, with large expressive eyes and thick clusters of curl- ing golden hair. For some time neither of them spoke. Wil- fred Grey seemed strangely agitated, but Christine was too much occupied in looking at the portrait to observe him. ** Who is this child?’ at last he said, in as careless a, tone as he could command. ‘‘It is the daughter of Madame Veroust,” she answered. ‘Dear Juliette and I were very much attached to each other. I shall value the bracelet still more now I know that. it contains her likeness,” ‘*‘ How strange that you should have known nothing about it!” he said, regarding her fixedly. “Yes; is it not? I must ask Madame to explain ‘it, She probably gave it to mamma. You see, this was taken when Juliette was quite a child, so it is not asienishing that I should have forgotten the circumstance.” That night Wilfred Grey paced up and down his room in the greatest excitement, He knew not what to think—~what todo. The innocent young countehance which had looked out at him from the bracelet was so exactly like what Mabel had been at the same age. The samo pleading expression ; the clustering curls grow- ing in the same rebellious manner over the low white brow. Surely this could not be the portrait of the daughter of that dark, swarthy- looking Frenchwoman! And then he remembered how he had heard that Madame Veroust’s daughter was insane; even now under the care of some medical mau —probabiy in some private asylum, His mind was filled with the darkest fore- bodings; he bardly dared own to himself what he feared. Often had he wondered how it was Christine was so totally unlike her mother; and, indeed, unlike her father, too. He re- membered well the weak, handsome Carl Vira, and she in no way resembled him. He seemed to be able to account for everything now; and yet, if his surmises were correct, what ought he to do? He could not accuse this young girl of being an impostor, just because the face in the por- trait was more like what Mabel’s daughter should be. The very idea was preposterous; and still he could not let the matter rest. He shuddered at the thought that perhaps the daughter of his old love was, even now, incarcerated in some foreign asylum, where she might be ll treated; while the girl who had pretended to be her friend for so many years was here filling her place. Before he went to bed that night Wilfred Grey had resolved that he would himself go to Lyons and hunt up this Doctor Veroust, Ma- dame’s brother-in-law. At the last, if he were unable to see the young girl under’ his charge, di. t 7 | | |
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. eta ee eae sepa SE es he would, if necessary, call in the aid of the | police, but that must be only as a last resource. He was fully aware how important it was to grouse no suspicion until he had proved beyond a doubt that she was indeed’ Mabel’s daughter. It was rather late when Mr. Grey entered | the breakfast-room next morning. | Christine rallied him piayfuliy upon his !«zi- ness. She wa3 wnusualy arimated; while | Madame, deep in thought, held a pencil ina contemplative way against her lips, as she bent over a sheet of paper which was on the table before her, and on which was a long list of names. ‘You are the very person we want,” said Christine. ‘In fact, we cannot get on at all without you. I have a grand pisce of news. This morning grandpapa has given bis consent to my having a ball on my birthday, and as there is barely a fortnight before that import- ‘ant day, I am anxious to send out the invita- tions at once,” And what does my aunt say to this arrange- ment?” asked Wilfred. ‘16 will hardly suit her quiet habits, I think.” Christine made a little move of annoyance. “Surely it is enough if grandpapa makes no ‘objection? Grandmamma will, of course, keep to her own apartments.” “You seem to have settled it all your own way already,” he replied, coldly. ‘I should have thought”—glancing at the black dress which she wore—‘‘ that it would have been ad- visable to wait a few months, “My goodness, monsiefir!” put in Madame; “ would you have the poor child dwell forever on her berea.ement? Weare only too thank- ful, M. Chiltern and I, that she wy pes ly $0 bravely to find distractions,” An expression of keen contempt for a mo- ment crossed Wilfred’s features; fleeting as it had been, Christine noted it, and the hot color rushed tu her cheeks. She bit her lips to hide her confusion. Sho felt that this man despised her, and it piqued her beyond endurance. Why did he see faults in her which no other man had dared to do? She was used to flattery, ad- miration—adoration, even—and yet from this cool, impassive cousin she had heard no “word which showed that he even considered her beautiful. Already, though their acquaintance dated back but a few weeks, he had shown by his manner that he thought her heartless, self- ish, and a coquette. Ob! it was humiliating, she thought, to be treated thus by a man old- enough to be her father, and one whom most girls would consider plain and uninteresting. Had Wilfred sought to gain her affections, |. he could not have gone a better way to work; but this ho had no desire todo, Indeed, much as he strove to master it, he had always been conscious of a feeling ’ almost amounting to aversion for his lovely cousin. As may be well imagined, these sentiments were tenfold in- creased since the discovery of the portrait. He perceived Christine’s annoyance, and had no wish to quarrel with her. ‘* Will you nct give me some breakfast?” he asked, smiling and seating himself at the table, ‘* 1 see Mary has brought me some fresh tea, May I ask you to pour it out for me?) We will talk over this wonderful ball in the meantime. Where is my uncle?” “Grandpapa rode off to Blexby the moment he had finished his breakfast, to order sett grammes.” “Ye gods! what a victory!” Jaughed Wil- fred. ‘‘Do you mean to say you have so far conquered and subdued the Squire as to get him to run on errands for you? I tremble at what I may be expected todo. What do you require of me, oh, charming, yet despotic, princess?” “I only wish you to be serious,” pouted Christine, ‘That is easily done.” he said, looking grave immediately. “Ts that really all?” “Oh, of course it is not. You are to tell Madame the names of all the people who are to be invited, in order that she may add them to her list.” + ai AL WICKED HEART. ‘Tt seems to have reached a gigantic length already,” he said, running his eyes over what was written. ‘I see you have left out the De Veres, the Grants, and the Campbells, to say nothing of Major. Sandown, who would bring daneing men from Blexby. » “Oh, of course; how stupid of us!’ said Christine, taking a pencil and quiekly writing the names mentioned. ‘I was getting nervous about the scarcity of dancing men. We shall get on finely now you are here to help us. And mind, every time; I will even give you the first waltz as an inducement.” ‘But I am not at all sure I shall be here.” ““Not ‘be here?” echoed Christine. ‘T thought you were going to stay untii next month.” “I fear it will be impossible; I have some important business which must be attended to. I start for town to-morrow.” “Oh, itis too annoying!” And* tears of vexation rose to Christine’s eyes. She had hoped great things from this ball; she never looked so well asin a ball‘dress, and was determined to wear one that should eclipse all others. Then she danced divinely, and had hoped that even he would on that night succumb to her attractions. **Could you not return in time?” she asked, eagerly. ‘““T fear not,” responded Wilfred; “but if it be possible, I will do so.” They were interrupted by the entrance of the Squire, who had just returned from his ride. A long consu!tation was at once com- menced as to the desirability of having the ball-room decorated with evergreens and hot- house plants, etc. The refreshment-room was to be turned into a perfect bower of flowering shrubs and ferns; tiny fountains were to spring out hers and there from beds of moss; the whole to be dimly illuminated by Chinese lanterns. This was entirely Christine’s idea. ‘‘ Will it not ke charming?’ she exclaimed. ‘¢ Just like fairyland!” “What, with Malpus as presiding king, popping champagne corks, and directing the movements of his satel]: tes as they dispene chicken and other solid food?” remarked Wil- fred, laughing. “Oh, cousin, what shocking ideas you have!” cried she. ‘' 1 never knew any one so fearfully. prosaic; but I will not quarrel with youif only | : you will promise to return for my birth- day.” “Why, Wilfred, you surely are not think- ing of leaving us?’ asked the Squire. ‘‘Tam very sorry, sir, but 1 fear it cannot be avoided.” ‘Ah! more trouble with those tiresome lawyers, I suppose. Well, my boy, you must not let them detain you long; Christine, I know, would be greatly. disappointed it yas were absent from her ball.” Mr. Grey was silent; but he knew well many miles would probably ‘stand between him and Chiltern Manor by that day. ’ The next morning he was to start eariy, and thought to leave the house quietly, without dis- turbing any one; but he found Christine down looking superbly lovely in a soft aoe sca wrapper. “*T knew if I did not get up and look after you, you would very likely go away without any breakfast,” she said, as she gave him her band. “T am afraid I must plead guilty to some such intention,” owned Wilfred, smiling. ‘And you do nct get to London for more than four hours!‘ How thoughtless you men are! Come, you have no time to lose; the ear- riage will be round in ten minutes,” Mr. Grey felt just a little uncomfortable; he would so greatly have preferred not to see Christine again. Why would she not quarrel with him, or, better still, ignore him altogether? It would have made his task so much easier. | He hated that she shovnla he so esreful of’ bis sir, I shall «xpeet you to’ dance |” i) Katede 80 thoughtful about him, when all the time he was contemplating ber destruction. She remained on the steps as he drove away, her white figure standing out clearly against the dark gray stone. He sighed ‘as be turned his head away, and, for the first time, almost thought of relinquish- ing bis journey; but the remembrance of the pleading, wistful eyes of the miniature of her whom he really believed to be Mabel’s daughter onze mcre decided him. CHAPTER IIL CHRISTINE turned, and, with a sigh, entered the house. She hardly dared own to herselé how greatly she sbould miss her cousin: abs: was already getting to care for him too much for ber peace of mind; she wondered how she could have tancied berself in love with August. Le Roy. It was now nearly five months since she had seen him. They had lett Lyons ‘go suddenly that she had not even wished him good-by. Madame had sent a letter to his lodgings explain; that was all. Yes, that was all; but Christine sighed a little as she thought with what anguish he must bave read that letter. She knew too well wi at it contained, for she ha& helped Madame to compose it. How each woré must have struck bim to the heart! Poor Auguste! she was not so sure, after all, that she did not Jove bim still. The feelings she had tor Wilfred Grey were more engendsr- ed by pique and vanity tban love. It is cows ful if a girl of Christine’s ambitious natare eould really truly love any man; self love, waz ever too strong with her. She had returned to the breakfast-room, and she saw that in her absence the letter-bag bad been brought in, and put on the table by the Squire’s place. She knew where her grant father kept the keys; she would open the bag, and see it ‘here were anything for herself; & would help to pass the time until the others de seended. _ Yes; here was an invitation to dine a& Springfield Hall, and here a note from he dressmaker. But what was this? A foreign letter for Madame, tearing the Lyons post-mark! From whom could it be? She ran with it to Madame Veroust’s | where she tound that lady bullying her for some trifling carelessness. Christine signed to Ler to dismiss the gir, and as soon as they were alone, produced fixe letter. ° «From whom can it be?” she said.’ ay thought no one in Lyons knew our address.” Madame took it from her excitedly, and as she saw the writing, gave an exclamation of surprpise and annoyance. “Tt is from Antoine Veroust! How cowl he have discovered we are here, and what cma he mean by writing?’ ‘Would it not be as well to open the letter, and see what he says?’ responded Christina. impatiertly. ‘‘He knew the object cf our journey to Ergland. ‘You might just as well have confided entirely in him at first. I dam say he discovered all he wanted to know {from bis patient.” “ Ah! of course; thatis it! How stupid of mé not to h ve thought of that before!” Saying which, she tore open the letter, and eagerly read its contents, “Ab, my child, we are ruined! It is frigixt- ful what he esks! He says that he bas @ix covered Mr. Chiltern is enormously rich, we ‘that, dountless, you have command of lage sums of money. He demands- listen to thatz demands !—that we send bim six huvdrwl pounds a-year for the maintenance of. the young lady under his charge. She has already been nearly six months with him. and be ay quests that three hundred pounds be-sent witie. the next fortnight.” “But I thought he had promised to he sat fied with the two hundred pounds you garw him the night we left, «ud under no circum stances to ask more.”
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Rs ey ‘ would have been any the wiser. » wae?’ said Madame. » Sa my ball-dress, but I dare not ask him for ' i Surely you know Antoine better than to | “gat much faith in his word!” said Madame, titterly. “Oh, what a fool I was to trust Sim! You know what I wished to do; no one lL wish, sow, that I had not listened to your foolish saruples!” “For Heaven’s sake, do not talk like that!” aid’ Christine, turning very white, and seizing. ier eompanion by the wrist. d Would you have had us stain our soul’s with—” “There, take away your hand—you_ hurt } “Why excite yourself? Let us think whatcan : How much money have you?” “Dme one will hear us. gst be done. i WICKED HEART. + ER in the direction she indicated. ** Some of your guests arriving rather late.” “That cannot be,” she answered; ‘ for all have arrived whom we expected, It must be Mr. Grey, my cousin, but I cannot understand | how he can come at this time. be he,” the door, and a gentleman stepped out. Yes, it must she cried, as the carriage drew up near She took a rosebud from her bouquet, and, leaning | forward, let it fall on his head. He looked up, and Christine, giving a cry of surprise and alarm, drew herself back into the | shade of the window. Soon she made an excuse for quitting her : companion and hastened from the room, ‘Not more than fifty pounds, though I dare } asy I could easily get grandpa to give me a ; just arrived. In the hall she met the gentleman who had | He came forward, and took jer | eleek for a hundred on the pretext of paying | hands eagerly. more.” { \ Jady!” he cried. ““And that would only be half the sum re- | is well? I thought I would come and give you | “How glad amI to see you, dear young “ And my sister—TI hope she aired,” sighed the Frenchwoman, hopelessly. | both a little surprise.” “You must write to him, and say it is im- gossible for us to send more at present, but that wes will endeavor to forward what he asks be- | igrerthe end of the year.” “Ab,.] know Antoine; he is determined, | merciless.” Burt, nevertheless, Madame sat down before tee desk, and wrote what Christine suggested. | » The letter was sent off that same afternoon, i wmd.the money inclosed. The Squire raised | aés-eyebrows a little when Christine stated that | i Was impossible to get anything fit to appear iat the ball under a hundred pounds; but, as { owaal, she had her own way, and the check was i ae Beds. Lt Days. passed, and no answer arrived from ; Uetor Veroust. Christine began to hope that would trouble them no more for a time, but | | Wedame was still far from easy on the matter. ; . “His very sileuce makes me nervous ) sho | aad. . “ Who knows but what he may be even | very on his way to England?” | “That is not. at all probable,” answered | “Brishine. ‘In the first place, ho could nbs | vasily. leave his patient. Any way, wé will | ‘suis meet troubles half-way; we have enough- oty.think. of without that. , beirtiday: let me enjoy myself without thiok-') 2g of disagreeable things.” ; | i wigice rubies and diamonds; these the Squire | iis insisted: upon his wife lending, though if. ‘mwsmot without sonie show of resistance that | * Do you mind our not dancing this waltz?” fm the meantime nothing had been, heard of, filfred Grey. Up to the last moment: Christine, ‘p¥emght that he would have returned in. time.| “of her ball. She even sent the carriage to the | ‘tion in the evening, on the chance of bis ar- I ‘wimg by the last train, and great was her dis | appoiytnrent whenrit: returned empty, | » Sbevhad never appeared more lovely in her life CNan she did that night. Her dress, of rich. ‘weama-corored satin, almost covered w ith clouds «delicate Jace, was fastened, here and there,’ with yereaths of deep réd roses;:a cluster of the | jxme Aidwers were in her hair, Her ornaments ae. Chiltern consented. - Whevball was at its hight, and Christine, lean- ~~ @gron-the.arm of her partner, passed into a amal drawing-room which opened from the ‘wll-room. She sunk into a chair, with a sigh relief. ot@zesked\her companion. ‘Iam a little tired; ‘seekhe rooms are so warm. We might goon- vate baleony for a few minutes—the night is, béautifally fine.” “I must not let you take cold, then,” said ‘ba~young wan, smiling; and, taking a soft, tite shaw], which some one had left on a oaair near them, he wrapped it round her dmaldars. “ELow calm and peaceful!” said Christine, as stmgazed on the landscape spread before her. | We moon was almost full, and every object in iixgrepark was rendered’ distinct as by day. | “INbat is that moving there, by the trees? vel itis a carriage coming along the tare?” Fe it certainly is,’ said her co:mpanion, | To-morrow is) niy- “rt just ten days ago. ‘Come into this room,” she said, trying to | speak calmly, to hide the annoyance she felt. *¢ John, les Madame know that Doctor Veroust is here. Then, closing the door, she looked round haughtily at him. ‘‘Why have you come? You might naturally guess that your i presence would nots be welcome here, And | your patient—what of her?” Madame Veroust here burst into the room. ‘- Is it possible, Antoine, that it is you?’ she | cried, much excited. England?” “You do not, either of you, seem very pleased to see me,” said: their visitor, casting himself into a chair, and, throwing back his head, be laughed out, as though it were the best joke in the world. “You ask why I am here; I will tell you. First, I. discovered your address in England. My’ interesting young patient had often heard Madame Vira speak of Chiltern Manor, near Blexby, and I guessed it was to the grand- parents you would go, Well, I thought it probable that the old gentleman was wealthy. So many English are. I, therefore, sent. off the little letter, to which I received an answer I soon came to the conclu- sion that a young lady who could send one hundred and fifty pounds by return of post could. possibly be made to give much larger ‘suis without much difficulty. _To-night I ar- vived at Blexby. I went to the hotel, had my dinner, entered into conversation with the waiter. From him I hear of M. Chiltern’s great wealth, and also of the beautiful grand- daughter who bas but lately returned from | France, and who already rules the Manor, as though the whole place belonged to her. His news charmed me, as you may suppose, and though I bad not intended coming on-here be- fore the morning, I changed my mind, more especially as I heard there was a ball in honor of Mademoiselle’s birthday; so I knew I should find every one up. Besides, I felt sure that so dear a friend as I am would be made welcome at any hour. I, therefore, propose stopping the rest of the night here, and starting for France by an early train to-morrow. But, first, we have a little matter of business to ar- range,” Rubbing his bands together gleefully, he gave another unmusical laugh, greatly enjoy- ing the discomfiture of his listeners. Madame had sunk helplessly on a couch, and was sobbing hysterically, behind her handker- chief. Christine paced the room for a minute or two, without speaking; then turned and faced him like a hunted animal at bay. “What is it you want of us?’ she hissed, through ber clenched teeth. ‘I have already | sent you all the money I possess.” “But you will ask the good grandfather for more. Ido not expect it to-day, nor to-mor- row; I give you a week. Listen! I will be candid with you. Iam tired of the quiet, re- tired life [lead. I have my little ambitions, like Mademoiselle here; wr ’ Lad - ‘ae 7 4 = “What brings you to | in fact, I am about to | get married.” He sighad and ‘simpered as he | | spoke, like a school girl, ‘‘My betrothed is fond of gayety, and wishes to live in Paris. Of course, I desire to please her in all that is in my power; but Paris is expensive—very expensive! You will, therefore, easily com- prehend that I shall require rather a large sum upon which to begin housekeeping. To whom | can I turn under such circumstances but to my dear friends here in England,” | ‘* How much do you ask?” interrupted, Chris- | tine, fiercely. | Just one little thousand pounds,” | “It is impossible! I could as soon get you | ten thousand pounds,” “Really, then, ten thousand pounds be it!” | murmured their visitor, resignedly. ‘And he jokes about it!” exclaimed Ma- dame, through her sobs | ‘*See here!’ said Christine, ‘ It may be— nay, it is almost certain—that I shall not suc- ceed in getting this thousand pounds. Suppose I cannot do so?” : “No, no!” he said, softly. ‘‘ We will not | suppose anything that would lead to such seri- ous consequences. You have your rings, your laces, your jewels,” he went on, looking at her with the eye of a covnoisseur. ‘In a word, | you havea rich and loving grandfather, who refuses you nothing. I fee) sure that you will | get over this litile difficulty. | quire the money for a whole week. It is then | that my marriage takes place.” ** And youF patient,” asked Madame—“ what | is to become of her if you go to Paris?” | . “She is delicate, poor child! The close con- finement to which I have been compelled to subject her has affected her health. It may be that she will succumb.” As he spoke, he look- ed up to the ceiling, and sighed heavily. ‘“Should such be the case, I could, of course, make no further calls upon your generosity.” Christine sprung forward with a cry, and seizing his arm, looked wildly at him. ‘*T understand you!” she eried. “ You mean that she shall die? Ob, to what bas my ambi tion led? Say—tell me the truth!—would you kil her?’ He smiled down upon her, calmly. ‘You make use of such unpleasant terms!” Then pushing ber from him roughly, and rising to his feet, he said, haughtily, ‘‘ Even if I con- templated what you say, why should it shock you? I tell you the life you have condemned her to is worse than a hundred deaths.” “ Wretch! What have you done to her?” asked Christine. He shrug .:! his shoulders deprecatingly. é My house, like all others where insane per- sons are@confined, is, as you may be aware, visited at stated periods by inspectors., Now, of course, it would bave been particularly awk- vard if a sane patient had been found with me. I, therefore, was under the painful neces- sity of taking means so to affect the brain, that— As ett say DO more! ful!” chair, ““T was about to say, my charming young lady, when you so rudely interrupted me, that your little friend, for whom you seem to feel such sudden sympathy, is now perfectly in- sane—in fac‘, one of my most hopeless subjects.” Ob, this is fright- And Christine sunk, half-fainting, into a When Madame descended the next morning, she found, to ber inexpressible relief, that their visitor had already departed. She hastened to Christine’s room to inform her of the fact. The young girl was in a nervous and excited state, and had evidently had no sleep. “That is well,” she exclaimed, when she heard, ‘‘I am at least spared the fate of seeing him again! About this money,”—speaking fast, and pressing her hand to her heated brow—“T have a plan, a fearful, a dangerous | one, but still a means by which to obtain it.” “TI knew you would,” exclaimed Madame, looking at her admiringly; ‘‘and, perhaps, it will be the last sum that will be required of us. How clever you are! Tell me your scheme.” ‘It is this: Grandpapa keeps his check- I shall not re--
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book in the little secretaire which stunds ne‘ the window in his study. I must manage to | tear a leaf out of it, aud make outa check to myself for the sum asked.” * But it would be at once seen that it was not in his handwriting, and suspicions would be aroused; besides, surely, in any case it would soon be discovered.” “T think not. I bave heard, Mr. Wilson, the lawyer, complain of the Squire’s great careless- ness about money matters. I believe he keeps no sort of account of the money he spends in the year; and, as regards the handwriting, see here,” Christine went-to a table, on which stood her desk. Unlocking it, she took out several sheets of paper, written closely in a small cramped hand, The same sentence occurred on them over and over again,—‘‘ Pay Miss Vira £1,000—one ‘housand pounds.” This was how Christine had passed the few hours since the departure of her guests. Madame Veroust could not suppress a cry of exultation as she Jooked. “And this is your doing? It is wonderful; no one could tell it from the Squire’s own writing.” As soon as breakfast was over, Christine said she wished to drive into Blexby with Madama Veronst. “T won’t ask you to come with us, grand- papa,” she said to the Squire, “for we are going to do some tiresome shopping, and 1 know how you dislike being kepé waiting out- side, I wish, by the by, if you do uot mind, that you would walk round to the stables, and look at Lightfoot. The last time I drove her it struck me she went a shade lame. I spoke to Thomas about it, and he could see nothing wrong. Perhaps it is only fancy; but I should feel more satisfied if you looked at her your- self.” The Squire, fearful lest anything should have happened to the beautiful mare, at once hurried off to the stables; and Christine, know- ing he would stay fussing about there for some time, made the best of the opportunity. Sign- ing to Madame to follow, she made her way to the study. The keys were in the secr ‘~'re, where the Squire often Jeft them. Eveu i tucy had not been, they could easily have been found. Being heavy, her grandfather never carried thera in his pocket, but kept them in a small table drawer in the same room. It was but the work of an instant to find the check-book, and abstract a page. Then they both hastened from the study with beating hearts. An hour later they were driving along the road to Blexby. ‘*]7 shall cash the check at once,” said Chris- tine; ‘‘my mind wiil be easier when it is done.” ‘“How calm you are!” remarked Madame, nervously. “i tremble like a leaf.” “Ttis lucky, then,” Christine auswered, ‘that I am able to act for both of us.’’ At that moment she pulled up before tbe bauk; and, descending lightly, entered it with a firm step. There were a few minutes of awful suspense | to Madame; then she saw the young girl returr, and knew by Christine’s look that all was well. On the way home no word was said on the | subject. Madame could not speak without betraying ber excitement, and they had to be cautious, lest the servant behind them should notice that something unusual was going on. The next day the money was sent to Doctor Veroust, and Christine hoped that, at any rate, lor a time, she should be at peace. CHAPTER IV. WILFRED GREY was quite right when he surmised that it was the daughter of Mabel Vira, and not of Madame Veioust, who was confined in Doctor Veroust’s asylum, The real Christine, on the day of the frightful accident ubich bappened to her father, was brought A WICKED HEART. | home in a swoon, and for some time her life was despaired of. Madame Vira only survived ber husband | three days. Juliette also suffered from the se- vere shock to her nerves, but i. was not long before she was able to assist her mother to nurse the invalid. A few nights after Madame Vira’s death, Madame Veroust and her daughter sat whis- pering 1ogether in Christine’s room. ‘* Let us hope,” Madame was saying, ‘ that we shall find sufficient money to pay for the funeral. We must have it as quiet and inex- pensive as possible. Do you know, Juliette, where Madame Vira kept the money? It was she who always took charge of what there was. I bave often heard her say her husband was too careless to take care of it.” “*T believe,” answered her daughter, ‘ that there is some in the little desk in her room. Perhaps I bad better go and see.” ,Saying which, she went out, and soon re- turned with the desk in her hands, Unlocking it, they soon found what they sought. There were two hundred pounds in notes and gold. ‘“Not so bad,” muttered Madame. I am surprised there is so much. But what is to be- come of Christine? It is impossible that I can keep her for nothing. Out of this two hun- dred pounds I am already owed fifty pounds for rent.” ‘““Had not Madame Vira rich parents living in Englan 1? asked Juliette “Yes; but they were not on friendly terms. I believe they quarreled at the time of her marriage.” “That may be, but they might be willing to receive the granddaughter, especially now she isan orphan. Supposing we look over these papers; we may find out something from them. Ah, yes; I thought ‘so; here is Madame Vira's diary. Now we shall soon know all we wish.” As Juliette spoke, she took up a little red leather book, and on opening it a photograph of Chiltern Manor fel out from between the leaves, “What a noble-looking place!” Madame cried, as she picked it up, and examined it carefully, ‘This is, doubtless, the residence of the grandparents. Christine is lucky in having them to go to.” ' Juliette paid little attention to her mother.’ She was already busily engaged in reading the diary. Presently she looked up thoughtfully. “Did not Doctor Veroust say that it is pos- sible Christine may not recover from this ill- ness? In that case, an idea strikes me.” “T hope it is something by which we can make some money,” sighed Madame. ‘ The death of our friends will make a great differ- ence to us.” “T see by this diary,” went on Juliette, ‘‘that Madame Vira’s parents have never seen their granddaughter, and that their daughter never wrote to them since she left England, therefore they can have no idea what she is like. Now, what I propose is this: that, if Christine should die, I go to Chiltern Manor, instead of ber. The grandparents must be old people, and probably I should inherit the property.” ‘““Ah! my child,” cried Madame Veroust, throwing ber aims round her daughter, ‘I should be glad indeed to see you the mistress of so fine a place; but I would not Jet you go to | England without me. You would not wish to | leave me, Juliette?’ she said, plaintively. ‘“Of course not, mother; you would accom- pany meas my valued friend and governess. But itis quite pos-ible that*Christine may re- cover; in that-case, it is she who will be the future mistress of Chiltern Manor, and not I.” ** Juliette,” said ber mother, “it must not be; now that I see such wealth within our reach, I cannot bear the thought of relinquisb- ing it. Christine's life hangs but by a feeble thread. One little overdose of this medicine, even a little less care in nursing her, and she never recovers.” “No, no, mother!” and Juliette shuddered; Maxi ee 3 ne but that. I bave a better eo My uncle, in c:nsideration of a sum of mency, would take charge of her. She would teas - much lost to the world in bis asylum as though she were dead!” ‘ But there is another difficulty,” interrupted. her mother. ‘‘If we left Lyons, Auguste Ee Roy would follow us; I know him. As futar: mistress of Chiltern Manor, I should not cube > to marry a commou clerk. ’ Juliette thought for a moment. “Stay,” she said; “there is one wax:im « which everything could be arranged. He shunt --.- not seen me since that accident; he knows ttas . I received a great shock - that I was ill Ye must tell him that it bas affected my braim aad that, for a time, you intend to place me unvee: the care of Doctor Veroust.” ‘But be will come here, and insist upom-eee--- ing you?” ** Well, then, you must write to hit, and nak post the letter ‘until the day we leave.” A feeble cry from Christine interrupter their conversation, and Juliette instantly eress- ed the room to see what she wanted. “You are better, dear?” she said, as she a cup, containing some cooling drink, to tha: parched lips of the invalid. “Yes, I am much better now,” sighed Cimris- tine; “but, if it were not wicked, I should wish that I had died with dear mamma, It seems ungrateful to say so, I know, with you and Madame so good to me; without you twe. I should have no friend in the world.” Juliette’s conscience must bave smittem kher~ as Christine spoke. Day by day the invalid grew stronger, aad . at the end of a fortnight Doctor Veroust pre- as nounced her well enough to be removedte bis house. hoping to see Juliette, but her mother imsixtec! Auguste Le Roy had called several ere 4 that the girl was too unwell to see any one; and each time be left the house sad and disay- - pointed. It was arranged that Madame Veroust ani Juliette, the latter closely vailed, should leas« Lyons by the night train; and that a few miw- utes before their departure, Doctor Vereus:, having previously given her a powerfal msr- Fe cotic, should bring a close carriage for Chriss — tine. She was carried from the house in an teem. - scious state, wrapped up entirely in a thivk shawl. On the way to the station Madsas posted a letter to Auguste Le Roy, telling brine of the fearful malady which had overtskeu her daughter, and saying that she was toe much overcome with grief to be able to see him before her departure. When Christine recovered consciousness, she: was surprised to find herself reclining in a ex - riage, opposite Dector Veroust. ‘* Where am I?” she cried, looking “ae much alarm—‘“ and where are you taking mx#> “Do not distress yourself, my dear young lady. Iam taking you home.” “Home!” echoed Christine. my grandparents? It is there mamma, be cue she died, made me promise I would go.” The doctor was interested, and soon, as we have recorded, found out Squire Chilterm, name and address, which he at once entered t« his note-book. Then looking up with a snsile, he said, in a soothing way, ‘Why will yeu persist in keeping to this absurd idea—why mistake your own identity? You have nw grandparents that Iever heard of; and your mother, Ma#ame Veroust, is still alive.” “Madame Veroust my mother!” ' ered. Christine. ‘‘Is it possible that you take me for Juliette in this half-light?”’ - © There, there; do not excite yourself, or you will be ill again! M. Vira’s terrible death 4 2d such an effcct upon your brain that, ever site that time, you bave been bkaunted by strergey fancies, the strangest of all being that your in- agine yourself to be his daughter, and pe ri. in calling Christine Juliette.” For a time Christine was stunned, She Iswewer: net what to think. She had always dis beiiwek | .
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ee H and mistrusted this man, and felt that he had ! sume sinister motive in speaking ashedid. She | saw alse by his manner that he did not believe awivat he said, Fevtivg it would be useless to argue with him, ‘#hac.asked present!y, in as calm a tone as she «oa ad command, ‘‘ Where are Madame Veroust en i—and my friend?” “« My sister-in-law is accompanying Christine to England, where she is going to join her gra..dparents.” * _@hristine eould not restrain acry. She saw it.2!i now; they were pretending she was mad, | im «rder to send her out of the way, and Juli- 4 ; ette had gone to usurp her place. “ Tell me,” she said, looking at him wildly, “where are you taking me? Say, is it to your hsuse—to the asylum for mad people?” 4 ‘Before he could prevent her, she dashed her | jand throngh the window, and shrieked for hel, i Tho next mement she was lying helpless at | “the bettom of the carriage, with the doctor’s R drumdkerchiet tied tightly over her mouth, “ There!” he said, leaning back complacently ~y - da kis seat. ‘ Why will you compel me to use each harsh measures? Luckily we’re in a quiet : road, where there are few people likely to be (ae you that a second show of such violence will ; necessitate my putting you in a strait-waistcoat upon our arrival,” Peor Christine! It is impossible to describe the agony of mind she exdured during that ative, Sbe felt that she was entirely at the mercy af this man. She thought for a time that she really wou'd become the maniac he affected to “Melieve her; but before the carriage stopped she reviewed her position more calmly. Ho, she told herself, she would not go mad; -She would not go mad, and thus play into her - enemy's hands; sie would let nothing he could aoe say excite or annoy her, but she would make gl it.apparent to the keepers and servants that she «as sane. Perhaps, too, one of them might _ © ‘befriend her, and in time help her to escape. _ « ~“Snder no circumstances would she despair. t JEfardly bad she come to this conclusion, when “the carriage came to a standstill before a large, » «ireary-looking house, The doctor put his head out of the window. “ Here, Jean! Guillaume! one of you, come Chere! I may require your assistance!” ‘we rough looking men ran forward in an- - =gwer to his sammons, He then raised Christine ith no gentle hand, and, taking her in his “ern, carried ber into the house. If he had -watculated that she would resent this, and make ssopae resistance, he was disappointed, for Chris- ,_ oe " ~thine Jay perfectly still, never moving a limb. 4 ** Ah?” said the doctor; ‘‘sbe is quieter now, ; sand time, too. I had to gag her, as you see, | aud she has driven her hand through the ocarringe-window.” & severe cut on Christine’s wrist bore testi- ' * “mony to his words, ’ ' £ _ >. #iew bitterly she regretted this rash act of o “hers, now that she saw how it could be used . against her! At any rate, it served as a lesson ‘to show how careful she must be for the future. } “Where is Madame Roux?” said Doctor , Weroust. ‘I left orders that she should be , weady to receive this young lady as soon as we ‘7 mrrived. Ah! there you are!” he exclaimed, 5 aa as a tall, masculine looking woman came from " un adjoining room, ‘Here is your patient, . Madame Roux. I shall place hey,immediately under your care. She will, doubtless, give ‘ ‘you some trouble; but you can always call me _ af she is more than usuaily violent.” is Madame Roux smiled grimly as she cast a contemptuous glance over Christine’s slight and «letieate figure. “T think I shall be a match for her, sir, let M4 her be as wild as she please. Come, young jady, follow me!” i And, mounting a flight of broad stairs, she proeeeded along a corridor, from which many hae _ deers opened on either side, numbered like ii thee ia a hotel. ° A WICKED HEART. Stopping before one, she selected a key, which was attacbed with many others to a cord round her waist, and, unlocking it, they en- tered a barely furnished apartment, with white- washed walis and a small window, placed so high that it was impossible to look out of it, and heavily barred. _ Well, mademoiselle,” said the - woman, “how do you like your qnarters? You see, we waste no thougbt on little luxuries. Just a chair and a table; your bed, too, is hard and healthy. Sit down on it while I relieve you of the handkerchief with which Monsieur has so affectionately protected you from the cold. Ab! be is a good gentleman; but apt to be a little determined if the inmates are unruly.” Christine felt that any attempt to win over this woman would be futile; she, therefore, re- mained perfectly silent, though the gag was now removed. Her wrist gave her great pain, though, and she presently asked quietly if she could bave it bathed and bound up, ‘*Ob, I have no time to waste on such trifles,” was the answer, ‘‘ but my daughter will be up presently with some coffee Monsieur hs ordered for you. I will tell ber to look to it.” Christive’s beart beat with hope at the men- tion of a daughter; a younger woman would walking at this hour; but 1 may as well warn | perhaps uot be so hardy so beartless, For some minutes she was left alone, but she had beard the key turned in the lock as Ma- dame Roux departed. She sighed as she saw how hopeless any attempt at escape would be, and shivered with cold as she sat dejectedly on the edge of the little bed. There was no fire- place in the room, and her teeth chattered in- cessantly; her limbs, too, were cramped and aching, but sho was brave at heart, though her body might be weak, and determined that she would not despair. At lust steps souaded in the passage, her door opened, and a young woman entered bearing a tray, on which were coffee and a small roll, How eagerly Christine gazed at her; how anxiously searched for any signs of kindness or sympathy! But the features on which she looked were utterly devoid of expression of any kind. She did not even look up as she placed the tray on the table, and would have lett without a word, but Christine detained her. “Your mother said you would bind up my wrist for me; will you not do so?” The girl looked up now, at the unusual soft- ness of the voice, and gazed for some moments on Christine; but made no further sign to show that she had heard. Going out of the room, she relocked it behind her. ; In less than five minutes, however, she re- turned with a basin of warm water and some soft linen rag, and proceedaid so gently to bathe the wounded wrist, that Christine ventured to address her once more; but before she had said three words the girl interrupted her. * It is no use your talking to me,” she said bluntly, ‘for I am not allowed to speak to any of the patients. You had best take your coffee when it is hot, for you seem a poor weak thing enough.” Then, seeing that Christine’s hand shook so that she could not help herself, she took the coffee-pot roughly from her, and poured out a cupful, ‘There, take that down quickly; you shake so that I cannot bind up your wrist. How cold you are! I never felt such icy hands. You had best get into bed to warm you. [ shall catch it if my mother hears me talk- ing.” “Stay one moment,” said Christine. you really think that Iam mad?” . ‘‘Mad! why of course you are, and most likely when youthink you aren't, it’s just when you are maddest; that is the way with you all. But I can’t stay here talking. Your gas will be out directly.” There was a tiny jet of light fixed high up on the wall; Christine had not been alone many moments before it began to grow less and less, and then died away. She made her way, as best she could, to bed in the da‘k, though it “Do ee ee was hard » ork undressivg with one hand, and she foundit impossible to use the other. Weariei out in body aud mind, she soon fell asleep, and, for a time, forgot the troubles: which seemed to overwbelm her. Sbe awoke with a start and a strange feeling of terror upon her; ber heart beat so that she could distinctly hear its pulsations. There was no ray of light in the rcom, end Christine sought in vain to pierce the impenetrabie dark- ness, Sleep was banished for the rest of the nigbt,, and the poor gtl fixed her eyes on the httle barred window, loi.ging f.r dawn, yet dread- ing the commencement of another day. The first gray streaks of moruing soon hegan to appear. Then she beard the twitter of a robin. Os, how she envied it its freedom! Before long, people were moving about the house; then there were burried steps overhead. A voice called out shrilly for Madame Roux, and Christine wondered what was the matter, Suddenly she remembered the sounds she hed heard in the night, and she looked up at the ceiling. Her eyes remained there fascinated. What was that dark stain, locking almost black in the imperfect light? Her eyes fell from the- ceiling to the floor, and what she paw there> caused her heart to stand still with horror; then,. with a haif-stifled cry, she buried her faee in the pilows. Only too well had she discovered. what was the stain on the ceiling, Ob, what. was this fearful house to which she had beca. brought? What were the dark deeds which: went on beneath its roof? The door opened, and Madame Roux entered. ** Ah!” she exclaimed; ‘‘ bere is nice work !—- as though there were not enough to do up-stairs. already. Come, young lady,” she went op, as. she caught sight of Christine’s shrinking tigure;, ‘get up and dress yourself; breakfast will be here directly. If you had seen No, 40 up there when we found him dead, just now, you might have shivered a little, and small blame.” ** Had some one killed him?’ Christineasked,, in a whisper. “Bear that, now? A good joke, indeed!" No. 40 killed himself. Monsieur has received no money for bim this last eighteen months;: he’s well rid of him, I'm thinking.” Christine could not help wondering if poor No. 40 would not have been taken better care of if the money had been regularly, paid. Madame Roux led the way to a room oppo- site. This room, though simple in the extreme, and. | plainly furnisbed, was luxurious. compared to» | her own. It was lighted, not by a small barred loop-- hole, but by a good-sized window, which looked out onto a pleasant garden. A few pots of flowers stood on the window-sill, and several: colored prints adorned the walls. | ‘Hi, Marie!” gelled the woman. ‘‘Come: . here and see to No. 6, while I go and lookafter | Jean, ou can bring the soup and the rest: with you.” And hurrying off as soon as, her daughter entered, she shouted to Jean to come down, Marie looked gloomier and more stolid than. on the evening before. She placed the basin of broth with a huge piece of bread before Chris-. tine, and then, half turning ber back upon her, took up a piece of work and began to sew away diligently. ‘‘T wish you would give me some work to do,” said Christine, after a long interval of silence; ‘the day will be so long to me if I have nothing to do,” ‘* Against orders,” saapped out Marie, “I have already seen Monsieur, and he insisted you were to have no exercise, do nothing, speak to no one.” Was Christine mistaken, or did she really hear the last words spoken almost with a sob? She turned round, and though Marie beat low over her work, she saw something very like a tear on her cheek. “Marie,” Christine said, going over to her and taking one of the hard brown hands in
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hers, “ you are sorry for me; I can sée that you are. I believe you know that I am not mad.as they pretend.” “Not I,” answered Marie, jerking her hand away. ‘“ Who should know better than Doctor -Veroust? He says you are mad. Anyway, if you stay in that 100m from monxth’s end to month's end, without anything to do, and only the bare wal.s to look at, and never go out in the open air, I know one thing, if you aren’t mad now, you very soon will be.” Christine recoiled, shuddering. “Ts that why I am doomed to such close confinement and such idleness?” she asked. Marie shrugg+d her shoulders and continued her work without replying. “Here comes my mother,” she said, ‘so I ean be off!” And, rising, she took up the tray and left the room. As she did so, shé let something fall Christire sprung forward, and, picking it up, put it quickly into her pocket. It was asmall ball of worsted, in which were stuck a couple of knitting needles. Was it by accident that it had been dropped? Christine felt that it was not, and already began to Jook upon Marie as a friend. When she returned to her own room, she found it had been swept and tidied up a littie, Days, weeks, months, even, passed, dragging out their weary lengths, and yet Christine bad not given up ail hope of one day effecting her escape, but bore up bravely under her confine- ment, She portioned out the day into equal parts, taking regular exercise up and down her room every morning and evening; then, for a time, she knitted, undoing her work in order to be- gin again as soon as the ball of worsted was finished. She discovered that by placing her chair upon the table she could reach the little win- dow, and from it she could see the trees and the fields, and even the white road leading to Lyons, It was this last e2he loved most to watch, Sometimes a peasant would pass with a heavy load of wood, drawn by a yoke of sturdy oxen, or a woman driving her cows to pasture. Sometimes Doctor Veroust himself would drive along on his way to town, little thinking that his patient was watching him, He had only visited her twice since her ar- rival, and each time seemed surprised to find her in such good health, On his last visit, af: ter feeling her pulse, and asking a few quen- tions, he turned to Madame Roux, who was present, and asked, ‘‘ Have my orders bven strictly attended to? Do neither you nor your daughter hold any conversation with this pa- tient? She, of course, has not been allowed to employ herself in any way?” “« Of course not, sir,” answered the vreman, ineekly. ‘‘ No one comes near her but Marcie and wyself, and you know you can depend upon us for doing what you say.” **T must have recourse to some cther treat- ment,” he mused. ‘The young lady is cer- tainly not quite what I should wirh to see her. The inspector will’be calling here before long, and | hope to see a great change in her by the time he comes.” He spoke cheerfully, as though he were only anxious that Christine shvuld appear in better health; but she felt sure that he intended to try some other and more sire means by which to deprive her of her reason. Marie, that evening, she found her nervous and excited, with flushe1 cheeks, dreading what new ordeal she was to pass through. Marie held up her hand as a sign for silence; then said, gruffiy, ‘‘I have brought you some medicine; drink it down and make no fuss; I have no time to waste on you!” And, to Christine’s astonishment, she placed the caair on the table, and, mounting it, opened the window, and, passing her hand through the bars, emptied the contents of the glass into the garden below; then, stepping down more lightly than one would have thought possible, she __A WICKED HEART. placed her mouth close to Christine’s ear, and whispered, hurried!y, ‘‘Do not speak; my mother is in my room, and the doors are open.” Then she continued out loud, ‘‘So you have swallowed it at last; and time, too] I thought you would never have done sipping and smell- ing. Ishall not bring you your coffee for an hour later to-night, so you will have time to get an appetite.” Christive wondered much what all this could mean, and anxiously looked forward to Marie's second visit, hoping then to hear some explana- tion, “Did Doctor Yeroust mean to poison her?” she asked herself. ‘*If so, would it be safe to eas or drink anything that was placed before her? As well, though, die of poison as of starvation!” It was so long before Marie came, that she had almost given up all hope of seeing her again that right. At last the door opened, and she entered, closing it behind her. , Putting d-wn her tray, she seated herself on the edge of the little bed, and regarded Christine intently. “Are yov brave?’ she asked. ‘‘Can you hear quietlr what I have to tell you? Could you see feat ful visions, have specters appear to you, and yet not go mad?” “Oh! wkat do you mean?” cried Christine, excitedly. “ Listen, tnd I will tell you, I have waited before coring to you until I was sure my mother ws safely out of the way. Doctor Veroust is busy at the other end of the house, You saw me throw away the medicine which was intevded for you; if you had drank it you would now be suffering from a severe head- ache, av 1 would be far more excited than you are ab present. It is, supposing you to be in this pe'vous state, that Doctor Veroust now contefnplates giving your brain such a severe shock. by causing sudden and awful fright, that b2 calculates your reason will at last give way! “Oh, Heaven, give me strength!” cried the pocr girl, folding her arms on the table before her, and fetting her bead fall on them. ‘ How wk, how helpless Iam in the power of this man!” “Do not give way,” said Marie, laying her Arnd on her shoulder. ‘Am I not here to belp you?” “© Dear Marie, I am not ungrateful, believe me: See, I will be brave;” and she tried to smile through her tears. ‘ Tell me all you know, I beseech you. What will this he like, and when will it appear to me?’ ‘Between twelve and one o’clock to night. It is intended that you should be startled out of a restless and feverish sleep by seeing a tall figure standing by your bedside. It will be clothed in white, and chains will rattle at each movement, Through its cavernous eyes will shine a pale blue flame. It will hold a naked sword in one hand, while with the other it tries the edge of the blade. The moon which is full to-night, will render ts whole still more ghastly by the feeble rays which will penetrate your window.” Christine shuddered. She felt that, had so fearful an object appeared before her unex- pectedly, and without any warning, she would, indeed, have lost her reason. Throwing herself on Marie’s neck, she em- braced her. “Ob, Marie, you have saved me from worse than death! What would have become of me if you had not proved my friend? I thought you cold and harsh at first; now I know how good, how kind you are!” Marie gently put the young girl from her. “Do not call me good,” she said. ‘Tam wicked--ah, you do not know how wicked! You would not call me your friend if you knew all. Listen to me. This tyrant— the man who has caused you so much mis- ery — Doctor Veroust—I loved him—loved him so that I was ready to lose body and soul to please him. And he accepted the sacrifice. I have seen most fearful things done CO; a a under this roof; I have even assisted him. What cared I so that 1 won his approbation? {£ was even happy; for I believed he loved me. Blind fool tbat I was! Only two days ago he told me he was about to be married The news sent a chill to my heart. I had felt that some day it might come, but was not prepared for what followed. He said be intended giving up the asylum, and going to live in Paris. ‘And I? I asked, us calmly as I could—‘ what is to become of me# You will not leave me behind? He laughed contemptuously. ‘I think my wife would be likely to object to your accompanying us. No,’ he said; ‘you must stay here with your mother. Iam even ~ willing to make you some small allowance, so that you shall never want.’ I threw myself on my knees before him; I wept—implored only to be his servant, to see him sometimes; but he would not listen to me. He grew angry at last, when he found how persistent I was, and told me he had long ceased to care for me, that my presence even now was repulsive to him, and, pushing me roughly from him, left me, Then my mother came fo me, and begged _ me to listen to reason. She said if only I | would be sensible, the doctor had promised to allow me five hundred francs a year, and also to stipulate that the next proprietor of the as/- lum should keep on her and me at a good sal- ary. At last I allowed my mother to suppose she had persuaded me, and in the evening sought Doctor Veroust, and asking his pardon for my ill-humor, said that I agreed to accept. | his terms: and even told him that, after all, f believed I should have been sorry to leave my mother ana Lyons. So well did I deceive him, that he patted me on the back, well pleased, saying, kindly, ‘Now you are a sensible gir and yourself again. To show my confide in you, I will even ask you to assist me ina little masquerade which Iam contemplating.’ And then he told me of the diabolical plan by which he intended to deprive you of your rea- son, Icomplimented him on bis cleverness, ° and myself undertook to personate the specter. It was simple enough. A chemical prepara- tion which burns with a blue flame is to be put within a skull. This is to be fastened above my head. A large sheet will entirely envelope me, and chains will be attached to my wrists,” ‘¢ Then it will be only you, after all?” smiled Christine; ‘‘and I shall not be at all alarmed.” “Ob, but you must,” answered Marie; ‘‘ or,, rather,-you must feign alarm. Do you not. see, if Monsieur supposes that this trick fails,, he will concoct something still more fearful, and perhaps next time I may not be so fortu- nate as to be informed of it. This is what you: | + must do. Instantly upon seeing me, you must utter piercing shrieks, for Dcctor Veroust andi my mother will both be within hearing; then,, after a time, you must pretend to become un-- conscious. No one will approach you again before morning, when Doctor Veroust will come to see the effect which the fright has had upon you. He has no doubt that, having been already rendered in such a nervous state by the medicine, he will find you insane. You must not undeceive him.” “ What, then, am I to do? Will henot soon perceive that I have not suffered from the shock?” - “You must feign madness,” ‘‘ But how?” asked Christine, hopelessly. have never even seen a mad person,” “Do and say anything that is outrageous; laugh when you should weep; talk senselessly ; | sing, dance—do anything. He will be ready j to believe, for he will not doubt but that you are really mad.” "Y ‘‘Oh, Marie, how is it possible that you can love this wicked man?” r “ Love him!” cried Marie, excitedly. ‘‘Love him, did you say? I tell youl hate him, and with so fierce a hate that, were he dying at my feet, I would not extend a fingér to save him. ; No; I would jeer at his agonies—would laugh at his torture. You have never known what — f “Let us hope not,” repli:d Marie. “Ty it is to love as 1 loved, and then to be repulsed
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with scorn! Hark!” she said, growing calmer on the instant; ‘‘I hear my mother’s step. I must hasten away.” At the door she met Madame Roux, who in- quired softly after No. 6. ““Oh, she will do well enough, mother. You had best not disturb her again. She is fever- ish and excited, and suffering much from her ead. Nothing could be better for our little masquerade to-night!” Her mother chuckled at the idea, and soon Christine heard their retreating steps going along the corridor. CHAPTER V. No thought of sleep entered Christine’s mind that night. She had already heard the little ‘clock in Marie’s room strike twelve, and waited in breathless suspense, : It seemed to her that almost an hour had passed, when there was a sound of stealthy footsteps near her door; the key was turned, there was a clanking as of chains, and by the faint light of the moon she saw a tall, white figure enter, and approach her bed. Although she had been well prepared, she could scarce repress a cry at the sight of the awful apparition, and involuntarily shrunk against the wall. Never had she seen anything so ghastly, so unearthly. Instantly the white garment was parted from nder the bony chin, and Marie’s face looked ont, “ Take courage,” she said. ‘‘ Remember it is _but I who am near you. Do not scream until _ after I speak.” . . Then the face was again covered, and in a - »deep and stern voice came the words, ‘* Awake, -and meet your doom!” followed by the whis- per, “Cry out now as loud as. you can!” Amd Christine made the house echo again with heartrending shrieks. She sprung out of bed as though to escape _ the monster; but it parsued her, and, with a ery more wild than ali the rest, she fell to the ground, apparently in a faint. “Tt is all right,” called out Marie; ‘she has swooned,” “Not dead, I hope,” said Doctor Veroust, ning forward, followed by, Madame Roux. es do. not Wish. that, if it, can be avoided,” ““No, no,’ ” answered Marie. ‘She lives; I ean detect a feeble flutter at the heart.” “Then come away quickly,” said the doctor, _“*I wish her to be alone when she recovers; and, if I mistake not, the inspector will find ‘her mad enough when he pays us his next visit.” In a few moments Christine was alone again, and, soon growing calmer in her mind, she composed herself to sleep, knowing that she would have need of all her strength on the _ morrow. Long and soundly she slept. In fancy she ‘was a child again and free, walking through green fields, hand-in-hand with her mother, and se stepped along so lightly, that she scarce __ bruised the grass beneath her feet. She was enjoying the fresh perfume of the flowers, and the song of birds filled the air. Her heart seemed full of bappiness, and she awoke with a .smile upon ber lips. Marie stood beside her. “Ah, mademoiseile, how imprudent!” she | ‘exclaimed, as Christine opened her eyes. ‘‘ What, think you, would my mother have thought had she been the first to enter your I ought to have found you wandering | room? aimlessly about, crooning a song or muttering disjointed sentences; and here you are, looking | calm and baving had a refresbing sleep. Do you not know that the insane sleep but little?” Christine looked up brightly. “T do not know how it is, Marie, but to-day | I feel full of hope. Have I not. reasun, now that you have proved yourself sodevotedly my | friend? Oh, how much stronger I am now that there are two of us to plot together against Doeter Veroust! Youshall see bow well | will A WICKED HEART. sia my part jase But, Marie,” she went on, eagerly, ‘‘ you will do still more for me, will you not? You will help me to escape from this house? We might leave ‘t together, you and I.” ‘Tt is impossible,” said Marie, moodily. ‘I dare not. Besides, what. would become of my mother? If you escaped she would be blamed, perhaps dismissed, and would then find herself without any means of support. No, we must not think of running away, but I will befriend you, nevertheless.” “ How,’ asked Christine, sadly, “if you can not hold out any hope of my leaving this hate- ful house?” “T did not say that; I only told you that you must not run away. But it is quite possible your friends, when informed that you are here, will come and fetch you.” “T understand, You mean that I should write to, them; that. you will find means of posting a letter for me; but you do not know how unfortunate I am.” And in a few words she told Marie her story. “You see,” she concluded, ‘‘if I wrote to my grandparents, they may by this time be much attached to Juliette; it. would be difficult for them to believe her an impostor, and they would not readily credit what I said. Juliette is so clever, that if she found out I had writ- ten, she would soon inform Doctor Veroust. of it, and who knows what fate would await me?” “But, surely,” interrupted Marie, “there is some one else to whom you might apply?’ “T can think of no one. .We made so few friends, moving about as we did from place. to place. There is M. Le Roy, but he and Juliette are engaged to each other, and he would perhaps be against me. Ah! yes, there is some one, though,” she exclaimed, eagerly. “T had forgotten, Ihave an aunt in Eng- land; my father’s sister. She is good and kind; Lremember her well. She once visited us in Rome. when I was quite a child, but I believe she has not left England since her husband died, which was. nearly eight. years ago; so, though she occasionally wrote to my mother, I have not since seen her. [ feel sure that she would do all in her power to rescue me.” “That is well, then; itis to her you must write. I will, if possible, bring you ink and paper to-morrow. Hush! here.comes_ the doctor! Laugh—scream—do something! My word! yculook as mild asa kitten. At least get out of bed, and pull your hair over your _ eyes!” she went on, imploringly, When Doctor Veroust entered, Christine was seated on the boards, her hair falling over her shoulders in the greatest disorder. She was nursing her pillow like a doll, and singing softly to it. The doctor looked at Marie with a meaning smile, and she nodded back at bim. “You see h w it is, monsieur; I ean do nothing with her, Here is half an hour and more that Ihave b-en trying to get her to take her breakfast.” “Never mind the breakfast; she will take it when she is hungry.” Going up to Christine, he placed his hand on her head and made her look up. It was a trying moment, but she avoided meeting his gaze by shutting her eyes and making a grim- ace of pain. “Go away.” she said; ‘‘you hurt me, and you will awake dolly. Do you not see she is asleep?’ Then throwing the pillow aside, she leaped to her feet and rushed to a far corner of the room. And she pointed wildly to some imaginary object, crying out, ‘‘ What is that frightful being? See its glaring eyes! Oh, what is it —what is it?” and she screamed out again and | again, ending in a burst of wild laughter. “We ‘have succeeded beyond my most san- guine expectations,” said the doctor, as he left the room. A few minutes after, exhausted, into a chair. *“T am su glad he is gone,” she said, Christine sunk, quite ‘*T was ree DVT wo a ———— getting quite tired, and my throat is as sore as if I had been singing all day.” ‘*No wonder,’ replied Marie. ‘I never heard any one cry out so finely. I must con- gratulate Mademoiselle on the strength of ber lungs.” **Ob, Marie, if you only knew how I longed to strike him or scratch him in my mad trans- ports!” ‘‘Never do that,” was the answer, spoken with unusual gravity, ‘‘or you would see what effectual and severe means are sometimes re- sorted to to subdue refractory patients.” “Do you mean to say that Doctor Veroust actually punishes mad people—poor things whe who are not responsible for their actions?” ‘“‘Indeed Ido. I have seen them rendered almost insensible by semi-drowning in the bath- room. I have known a man beaten till he could hardly stand; women faint for want of food. Only last year Guillaume caused the death of a man by striking him on the head with a heavy stick.” ‘‘ But do not these dreadful things get known? When a patient is discharged, for instance, he would naturally complain of the treatment he had received.” “That does happen sometimes; but, after all, who would believe him? A man who has but just returned from an asylum is generally looked upon as more or Jess mad. Sometimes a case of sudden death is taken up and inquired into; as happened when Guillaume killed the man I mentioned. But Doctor Veroust brought up witnesses, among them myself, and we all swore that the man was most violent, and that Guillaume bad to strike bim in self. defense.” “But was, that really the fact?” interposed Christine, “No; the poor fellow was a tailor by trade, and Guillaume, thinking to have a suit of clothes made cheaply, bought some cloth, and set the man to work. The suit was almost completed, when one day he left him alone for a few minutes, and when he returned the cloth was all cut up into strips. Guillaume was furi- ous with rage. Rushing up to the man, he struck him on the head with a stick he hap- pened to have in his hand. I do not think he really intended to take bis life, but this will serve to show you how entirely the inmates of an asylum are at the mercy of their keepers. You will, if you ever inquire into the matter, find how very seldom it is that a keeper is dis- charged. The fact is, they know too well what goes on; and, asa rule, dcctors and keepers are on very good terms, ‘It it were not for my mother, I would myself publish some of the crimes I have seen committed, for I should not care what became of me if I could be revenged on Doctor Veroust, but I could not betray him without implicating her!” It was not for two days after this that Marie procured paper and ink for Christine to write to her aunt, but at last the letter was written. The difficulty was, how to jost it; for Marie seldom got a holiday, and did not dare to give it any one to post for her. Fate favored her, however. The next morn- ing she entered the kitchen, where Jean was seated at breakfast. “Good-morning, Mademoiselle Marie,” he said. ‘‘ Have you any commissions for me? I am going to the town at once.” ‘Oh, indeed,” answered Marie. ‘ What may take you there? Is it anything important? To the post, I suppose, for cne thing, as I see you have the letter-bag?” “Yes, I go to the post with a lot of letters for Monsieur, but I also have to call at the jew- eler’s for a small packet; doubtless a present for the bride. I hear the doctor contemplates marriage.” He eyed Marie inquisitively, but she showed no sign that his words had wounded her, “To the jeweler,” she said, ignoring the latter part of his speech. ‘‘If you will be so kind, perhaps you will take a brooch of mine, which requires a pin put to it. Just wait one moment, end I will get it fer you.” |
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44 ee that there was a strong resemblance between yourself and your mother; therefore, when your grandparents once see you, they will believe | your story.” ‘And you, Marie—will you not come, too?” “No,” she answered, firmly; “I shall have She soon returned with in her hand. must be where there are trees, and fields, and “ Now, see, Jean, tbat you are careful, and | flowers. Ah!” she cried, in an ecstasy, ‘‘ the do not lose it. It is a brooch to which I attach | happiness of walking once more in the open great value. Let me see; the letter-bag will | air, with nothing overhead but the sky and the be the safest place. I will put it in myself.” free breath of heaven fanning one’s temples! He had slung the bag round over his shoulder, | Marie, I believe I should never tire of hearing so could not see what Marie. was about. Quickly she took the letter from the pocket of her apron, and slipped it into the bag with the brooch. ““M, Ricard must ‘not charge you more than ten sous for it... Mind you tell bim so, Jean,” she went on, quietly; all. the time her heart beat with anxiety lest Jean should turn round and see her. She gave a sigh of relief as he started on his way, then hastening to Chris- tine’s room she told her the good news, Christine began to count how long it would take before she could hope for any, results from it, . There would be two days for it to get ‘to London; then, supposing Mrs. Blount should send some one to Lyons, that would take two days more. Ah! how she hoped that her aunt would herself come in search of her! How she longed to be clasped in those fonds arms! But then, if her aunt came, she would have to make some preparations before undertaking. the journey; she would hardly be able to start at a moment’s notice. Well, even supposing that no one came for a whole week—let the, days pass ever so slowly — a week could not be very long. She grew nervous and excited. as the days slowly dragged themselves along. Five. days passed, six, a whole week, and still nothing occurred. On the eighth day Marie entered the room in some agitation. “Mademoiselle,” she said, ‘‘I have news. Monsieur starts. to-morrow for Eagland; be has but just told me so. Nothing could be better for you, for I have determined that, should you hear nothing of your aunt.in a few days, you shall regain your liberty without her. I have seen how this suspense is telling upon you; I feel that, if you remain here much lopger you will, be» really ill,.and.I will not. allow that. Perhaps your letter bas miscarried, or your aunt may be, from. home;.at any. rate, you shall no longer, depend .upon.; her, Doctor Veroust is to be, married jin, Jess‘than a, fort- night; he. ‘told me of »it,proudly, at the same time praising the beauty of his future. wife, He showed me her portrait—she is lovely; even I must own as,much. . Perhaps he, showed it _to me to prove how. impossible it is that he could, now, think of me;,he might have spared me the humiliation. I hated him sufficiently before,,and am_ reckless now. , I care not for myself;,E will follow him to Paris when he is married, and be revenged on him. I could have, bim arrested now onthe charge of having caused the death of two or three patients; but f will not until he has made that beautiful weman his wife. . How wiil she look, I wonder, when she learns that her husband i8 an assassin? She will turn from him in horror. .Then, per- haps, he will sue for her love as I did for his, znd sbe will spurn him. Ah!” she laughed, ‘‘] wouldigive my life to see that—to see him on his knees,,and bis wife turn away from him with loathing.; He would think .of me then, and remember, how I would have clung to him through all if he had but been true to me.” Christine endeavored to soothe her. ‘* Dear Marie, you are unlike yourself to- night. .Think of her—how she would suffer too!, I do not believe you really wish to harm a woman who has neyer knowingly wronged you. Oh, if. you would but forget this wicked man! I believe you, would be happier if you were once away from this frightful house, _ If Tam lucky enough to escape, we could go away and live quietly together. Even if my aunt is dead, which | fear may be the case, and my grandparents refuse to believe that I am Christine Vira—even then we should man- age. Iam clever at my needle; I could earn something by sewing, or could perhaps give lessons in English and music. Ob, how pleas- ant it would be! 1 fancy Isee us in some pret- ty cottage, not too near any town—no, we a i * " 4p Se ee oe ee ee ee the birds sing.” The poor girl fell sobbing on Marie’s neck. | The thought of freedom unnerved her even _ more than the cruel hardships of her imprison- ment, “There!” said. Marie, stroking the golden other work to do.” | And Christine felt that she referred to Doc- | tor Veroust, and forbore to urge her further, | knowing how useless it would be. | Doctor Veroust visited Christine the ‘next morning, before he set out on his journey; and curls; “if you go on hke that, I shall never be | she had to keep up the farce of madness, as able to tell you whatI have planned, Try and compose yourself, for I must not wait here long. To-day is Saturday. Next Friday my mother, taking advantage of Doctor Veroust’s absence, intends tospend the evening with a friend; that, then, will be the time for us to fly. I will leave a note for my mother, telling her that I have started for Paris to await Monsieur’s arrival there. She will think that, after my departure, finding yourself alone, you made your escape.” “ But how could I do so with the door lock- ed?’ asked Christine. ‘“‘T have thought of that. I must turn the key in the lock when the door is not quite shut; she will, perhaps, think it was done by acci- dent.. Any way, we must risk that. It would not make much difference if she knew we were together; but I would rather she thought you had gone alone, She will know all before long. What I wish is for us to. get a start before they commence a search for you. Monsieur does not.think of returning before Sunday, and in three days after he starts for Paris for his wed- ding.” “ Tell me, dear Marie,” said Christine, fear- ful lest the girl should break out into another fit of wrath and jealousy—‘‘ tell me how you propose. we shall make our escape? If we calmly walk out of the house, will not some cf the servants see us, and insist upon detaining me?” “Certainly they would, if we contemplated anything so rash; but I have no intention of letting them, see us. You know my room; you were there once, I remember, the day I amade you.a present of my knitting.” “Dearest Marie, how I blessed you for it!” “Well, to continue, you doubtless noticed that the window is.large enough to permit us to pass through it, Do not look so startled! I ‘do not mean that we shall jump; it is too far from the ground for that. We mast tear your sheets into strips, and knot them firmly to- gether,, When we have what we consider a sufficient length, we will fasten it to the bed- post. which is near the window, and must let ourselves down, hand under hand, until we reach the bottom. Do you think you could manage it?” ~ ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Christine; ‘‘I could do much. more to effect my liberty. But why do you suggest tearing up the sheets? Could you not procure a rope without much difficulty?’ “Probaby I could; but it would, in that case, be seen at once that you had had aid, | whereas I prefer it to appear that you have | made your escape alone.” ‘“‘Oh, Marie, I can hardly realize that there | is almo:t a certainty of my being free in six | morning, she still locked ill and pale. more duys; and perhaps, after all, my aunt may come and fetch me even before that time. I do not know how it is, but the days seem longer and more unbearable now that I feel sure of my liberty. But tell me, Marie, shall we not want money? I have a little. pocket the night I was brought here. contents into Marie’s lap. ‘‘ Over fifty francs; ' not a large fortune, but it will take us some | distance, will it not?” “Yes!” Marie exclaimed, in some surprise. “‘T had never thought of your having any- | thing; but Iam glad of it for your sake, for I — a | a little, that is all. For-" tunately, I happened to have my purse in my | See,” she said, taking a little purse, and emptying its | | Friday night! usual, whenever he came to see her, which was generally about once a week. Either she was growing careless, or she was unable to act her part so well in her present excited state, but the doctor seemed anything but pleased with her appearance. He looked at her steadily once or twice, and then felt her pulse. ' “T am not very satisfied with the state of Mademoiselle’s health,” he said to Marie, ‘I think it would be as well to administer a little more of the medicine like she took before—in- deed, it would be better for her to take it twice a week during my absence. Stay! I will see her take the first dose myself.” He left the room, returnivg at the end of a few minutes with a small bottle and a glass. Pouring out a few drops, he filled up the glass with water and handed it to Christine. “There, drink that, dear child,” he sai soothingly. “It will do you good.” sf Christine turned pale, and trembled- with _ fear. What could she do? She did not dare refuse, and if she swallowed the medicine she would, a | perhaps, be very ill. Just then, Madame Rovx’s step was heard in the passage, and the doctor walked to the door and called her. In that instant, Marie snatched the glass from Christine’s hand, and drank its con- tents. me: ‘Come here, Madame Roux,” the doctor was saying. “TI want to leave this bottle in your charge. I wish No. 6 to take some of it twice a week. Ah, she has drunk it!” he said, as he perceived the empty glass. ‘ That is right. It is lucky for her that she is pretty tractable, for I am not given to standing any nonsense, | Well, I must be off. The carriage is already — at the door.” Saying which, he left the room, followed by Madame Roux. Christine threw herse!f on Marie’s neck, and embraced her again and again. “Oh, dear Marie! why did you do it? I shall never forgive myself if you suffer from taking this medicine! I ought to have taken it myself. Why should you suffer for me?” . “ Because I am stronger,” answered Marie. “T may beill for a short time, but it will have less effect upon me than it would have had upon you. I must take care that I, and not my mother, bring you the next dose. There is no knowing what the consequences might be if you were forced to take much of it.” > Poor Marie! When she went to bed that night, her head was racked with pain; and— when at last she fell into a feverish sleep, she was haunted by fearful dreams. When she entered Cbhristine’s room next Sbe made light of it, though Christine saw , She was still suffering. “It is nothing,” she said. ‘‘My head aches I shall be quite well to- morrow, I tremble, though, when I think of the effect it might have had on your delicate frame. Perhaps, even, we should have had to relinquish our plan of escape, or, at least, have had to postpone it.” How anxiously Christine waited for that It seemed as though the time would never pass. Nothing was heard of her aunt, and Chris- _ tine felt that should she fail in this attempt to may run sbort. I have one hundred and | eighty francs; but we shall need it all, for I) | incend that you sball go to England. You say | escape, she would most probably be a prisoner here ali her life. She hardly knew how to repress her excite-
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' who was close behind. 42 A WICKED HEART. ment when at last the time for action had ar- rived. Marie came in about eight o’clock in the eve- nivg, bearing a bundie, which contained a tew of their clothes, a warm shawl and a hat for Christine; then shutting themselves in, they | both set to work tearing up the chects. Christine nade a puor hand of knotting them together.. It is doubtful if it had been left to her it they would have reached the ground witbout a broken limb, . Luekily Marie understood such work better. She had a cousin who. was a sailor, and had learned from him how to tie a safe knot, little thinking when so learning, how useful the knowledge might prove to her. Listening for amoment at the door, in case any one should be near, they passed into Marie’s room, bearing their long rope with them, Christine gave a sigh of intense happiness as she paused for a moment by the open window, drinking in the freshness of the coid night air. But Marie would not let her waste time in that way. “Come,” she said, ‘‘ Which of us is to de- scend first? Ihave already attached the rope firmly to tho bedpost.” “‘T will,” answered Christine, without a mo- ment’s hesitation, though the window wasa great distance from the ground. She stepped out on to tha sill, then taking _the rope firmly in her hands, let herself down. It was a more difficult task than she had cal- culated on. Her body swayed against the wall, and her knuckles were bruised by the stones; but at last she felt the soft earth be- neath her feet, and shook the rope, as a signal to Marie that she was safe, A few moments later the two girls were hur- rying along the garden, . The night was dark, though a few stars , shone overhead. More than once they stumbled over the root of a tree, and Christine gave a sudden half-sup- pressed cry of alarm asacold branch swept across her face, “T fear we have missed the path,” whispered Marie. ‘ But never mind; we have but to keep straight on, and we must come to the wall, I hope you are good at climbing, for we aust scale it.” As she spoke, she almost fell forward into a dite oteke care,” she called out to Christine, ‘ Here we are, at the end of the garden. We must walk over this soft ground, and, for all I know, there may be water in the ditch; but we cannot jump, for it is too wide, and there is no firm foothold on the other side. Keep close to me.” They stepped bravely forward, their feet sinking deep into the soft earth, and both gave .a little gasp as they splashed suddenly into water which reached over their ankles, “What is the matter?’ Marie asked, as Christine paused. ‘‘ What are you waiting for?” “T have lost my shoe,’ answered Christine. . “Oh, whatever shall Ido? How can I get on now? I cannot find it, _ moud,” for it has sunk in the **Tt cannot be helped,” Marie said, taking her by the wrist and pulling her forward. ‘‘We must get on, come what may. I will get on top of the wall first. There, that is accom- plished; now hand me the bundle; now feel for a foothold, and give me your hand.” This was done, and they were now standing on the top; then Marie threw down the bundle, and jumped after it. “Now, mademoiselle, can you see just a glimmer of my white apron? You must jump straight for it, and I will endeavor to catch you in my arms; for should you alight upon a stone, you might bruise your foot and be un- able to walk to the station.” Christine did as she was desired; the result was, the two girls found themselves lying on the road; but fortunately they were unhurt. They had not proceeded tar beic re Christine began to limp; ber foot was cut and bieeding | 1? Pa ' from the stones. She bore it agile for some | time in silence, but at last the pain became un- | endurable, and she begged of her companion to rest a little. “How thoughtless I am!” said Marie. ‘TI | had quite forgotten your foot, Here, | will tie our handkerchiefs round it, so that you may not feel the stones so much.” She knelt on the ground, and was about to do as she said, when she caught sight of car- riage lamps quickly approaching. She sprung ; once more to her feet. | * Quick!” she cried, ‘‘ Let us keep close to the upposite hedge. I would rather no one saw us until we are further from the asylum.” They both crouched together as close as they could, hoping that they would not be discovy- ered in the darkness, But as the carriage drew near, the lamps flashed upon them, and the horse shied, refusing to pass. ‘““Why don't you drive on?” said a voice, which made the girls tremble with fear. It was Doctor Veroust! “T c.in’t, sir,” answered the coachman; “ my horse is startled by something in the hedge, and won’t move,” “Then get down and lead him,” was the reply. ‘‘ Why it’s nothing but a couple of girls, after all,” the man said, withan cath, ‘‘ What are you hiding here, fur? Up to no good, Vl be bound,” “ Two girls hiding, did you say?” and Doctor Veroust sprung from the carriage. In a mo- ment he discovered Marie and Christine, and instantly understood the facts of the case, ‘Here, leave your horse and help me*with these women; they have escaped from my house.” Christine struggled to free herself from the doctor’s arms, but she was like a child in his grasp. The coachman would have held Marie, but she shook him off. ‘Do not touch me,” she cried, sternly; * even Doctor Veroust dare not say that I am mad.” “No,” said he; ‘‘but she is assisting a patient to escape, and we must detain them both.” It is doubtful how all this would have ended, for Marie would not have been mastered with- out a struggle. So occupied had they all been, that two car- riages had approached quite close before they were aware of them. Marie was the first to see them, and she called out loudly for assistance, ‘‘Hullo! what is wrong here?” cried the near- est coachman, as he pulled up sharply. ‘‘A lunatic, escaped from Doctor Veroust’s asylum!” answered the man, who was still en- deavoring to seizo Marie. ‘Doctor Veroust himself is here,” “Doctor Veroust!” exclaimed each and all of the occupants of the two carriages. And, soon, no less than four gentlemen and a lady joined the group. ‘‘Gentlemen, I appeal to you,” said Marie. “JT am aiding this young lady to escape because she is not mad. She has suffered greatly at Doctor Veroust’s hands, and 1 am ready to bear witness to the fact.” ‘*Mercy on us!” cried the lady, who had now drawn near to Christine; “it is my niece!” Aud she folded the poor girl, who was half- faint with fear, fondly to her breast. ‘‘My poor, dear child!” she exclaimed, em- bracing her ‘warmly; “what you must have sufferei! How thankful I am that we have ar- rived in time to save you!” : It was Mrs. Blount, who, accompanied by her legal adviser, had come to deliver Chris- tine. A gentleman, stepping for ward, laid his hand | on the doctor’s shoulder. He was no other than the chief of police from Lyons. ‘‘T arrest you, Antoine Veroust, on the charge of falsely imprisoning Christine Vira, and treating her as a lunatic, though you ee a en i 5 oo ee knew here to be in perfect possession of her senses.” “ And I,” said Marie, can testify to his hav- ing caused the death of Jacques Fernand and Jeanne Le Blane by cruelty and lack of proper nourishment!” The doctor spoke not; but he fixed a look on Marie, the expression of which was so full of hatred and malice that she shrunk from him out of the light of the lamps. The other two gentlemen were Wilfred Grey and Auguste Le Roy. When Doctor Veroust caught sight of the latter, he smiled grimly. “So you are against me, too, M. Le Roy? At any rate, you will have the satisfaction of knowing that your beloved Juliette is as guilty as I am in all that concerns this young lady.” “T know it!” answered the young man, hotly, ‘‘and I do but seek to be revenged upon you both!” “Mr, Grey,” said Mrs, Blount, imploringly, “do help me to carry this poor child to the carriage; she is trembling with cold and fear- while we stand here talking!” But Christine had hold of Marie’s hand, and would not let it go. “Aunt Claire,” she asked, ‘‘do not leave: Marie behind. Let her come with me,” “Of course, deer!” Mrs, Blount answered, kindly. ‘‘Get into the carriage also, my good girl. I know what a friend you have been to my niece, and you shall not be unrewarded.” Few words were spoken as they drove to Lyons. Christine clung to her aunt as though fearful lest she might yet be recaptured, and that lady clasped her closely, and kissed and soothed her as though she were fondling a sick child. Marie looked on with a strange pain at her heart. How happy they were! Christine did not want her now, she told herself. No one wanted her— no one loved her! When the carriage stopped before tbe en- trance to a lirge hotel, she slipped quietly away unperceived, Meanwhile, Mr. Grey, Mr. Wilson, and M. -Le Roy had already arrived, and were holding a@ little consultation. ‘““What do you intend to do?” Wilfred was asking the lawyer. ‘‘I suppose you will tele- graph to the police to-morrow morning, and have Madame Veroust and her daughter ar- rested?” “T think not,” replied Mr. Wilson, “ Mrs, Blount wishes to have everything done as- quietly as possible. 1 shall start for England. myself to-morrow, accompanied by a detective from this town, and shall see that they are ar- rested with as much secrecy as possible, and. brought quietly. I feel sure that Squire Chil- tern would wish to avoid all possible scandal.” “T suppose Mademoiselle Juliette’s sentence will be a severe one?” questioned Auguste, quietly, : “Probably a term of imprisonment from ten to fifteen years at least,” answered the lawyer. Auguste shuddered. It was painful to him to think of his love—his beautiful Juliette, in prison. His mind was filled with conflicting emotions. as he walked to his lodgings a few minutes later. True, he told bimself, she had proved that she did not love him—had deceived him cruel- ly; but he could not forget the many happy days they had passed tagether. Even as chil- dren he had ever been her little friend and champion. Should he not try to save her nowt He took out his watch, and paused under a lamp-post to examine it, Half-past ten, and the mail started for Paris at eleven. He hurried to his room, and, putting some money into his purse, threw a few clothes into a traveling-bag, and hastened to the station. He was but just in time. Before he had well realized what he was about, he found him- self already in the railway carriage, being borne swiftly on his way. CHAPTER VI. Ir is right that we should now give some ex- planation of bow Mrs, Blount, Wilfred Grey,
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48° as. ae” A. WICKED HEART. and Auguste Le Roy happened to arrive all together, and at so opportune a moment for Christine. When Mr, Grey reached Lyons, nearly a fortnight later than he intended, owing to some business which had detained him in London, he drove straight to a hotel, had some refresh- nen", lighted a cigar, and strolled quietly along in the direction of Queen Street. Madame Veroust’s house was situated in this street, and —yes, there was the house, and still unoccupied, with the words ‘* To Let!” painted in white, on the windows, Next door was a pastry-cook’s, and he turned in, in the hope of gaining some infor- mation, There was a pretty girl behind the counter. He commenced the conversation by giving a Jarge order for cakes and bonbons. “Perhaps Mademoiselle could inform him how long the house next door had been va- cant?’ And Mademoiselle, who was not averse to a little gossip, in a very few minutes told him the whole story, most of which he had known perfectly well already. ‘The saddest part of it all,” concluded the girl, ‘‘is that Mademoiselle Juliette was en- gaged to be married to Monsieur Auguste Le Roy, and the poor young man looks more mel- anchely and desponding each day. He passes this door on his way to the office in the next street, and my heart bleeds for him! Ah, it is worse than death to lose one’s reason!” she said, sighing. ‘*And Mademoiselle Juliette was so beautiful, so very beautiful!” Here Wilfred interrupted her by taking a photograph from his pocket, and handing it to her. “Why, monsieur,” she exclaimed, “it is act- ually Mademoiselle Juliette herself! And here J have been chatting away, telling Monsieur what doubtless he knew far better than [ do! Perhaps Monsieur is a friend of the fami}y?” Wilfred laughed, but made no reply, faking up his purchases, and wondering much what he should do with them, he left the shop. A couple of little gamins, ragged and dirty, were gazing into the wiudows, their hungry looks fixed on the tempting sweets spread out there in such lavish profusion, Opening the bags, Wilfred divided their con- tents between them, and left them standing open-mouthed with astonishment, and too utterly overcome by such generosity to speak. *“‘Tha& must be an angel come down to feed us!” said the younger, looking after the retreat- ing figure of their benefactor with awe and ad- miration, ‘‘ Who else would give us such cakes? Just look, brother; they are neither stale nor broken, but the richest in the whole place—all chocolate, and sugar, and cream! Oh, my gracious! What a feast we will have!” Wilfred’s next visit was to the police office, and he very soon Jaid the facts of the case be- tere M. Pitard, the chief. “Tt is rather a delicate case,” said M. Pitard, rousingly. ‘* You seem to have so little to go upon.” ‘T cannot see that,” answered Wilfred, ‘I told you that the girl in the confectioner’s shop identified the photograph of the lady calling herself Christine Vira as an exact portrait of Juliette Veroust.” “Still, ’ said M. Pitard, ‘I should have liked some further proof; photographs are so decep- tive. Doc:or Veroust bears a high character here. I will, however, accompany you to the lodgings of M. le Roy. I know him well; he is an exemplary young man. If there has been any plot, he certainly is not aware of it. He will at least, though, be able to give us a full description of the two young ladies,” They found Auguste Le Roy at-home. His astonishment and rage knew no bounds when he heard how he bad been fooled and deceived. He recognized Juliette’s photograph beyond a doubt; he himself possessed one exacily similar to it, on which her name was written. He de- scribed Christine, showing the great dissimi larity which existed between them; and volun- teered, moreover, to accompany M, Pitard and nL = Oe ene Wilfred that very evening to the asylum in order to identify Christine. He was ready to do anything, far he was furious at ths thought of Juliett~’s falseness, But M. Pitard suggested that it would be time enough if they went there the next morn- ing. When Mr; Grey returned to his hotel, he found in the hall a little stout gentleman, of unmis- takable English origin, endeavoring to ask some questions of a waiter in very bad French. The waiter who persisted in trying to talk English, succeeded in making himself equally unintelligible, ‘Perhaps I can be of some assistance to you,” said Wilfred, going forward. The little man looked up suspiciously; but was apparently prepossessed by Wilfred’s ap- pearance. He smiled and thanked him. “T fear,” he said, ‘I have forgotten a good deal of my French since my school days, I find Iam not able to ask the simplest ques- tions. Perhaps you know this city, and can inform me where I shall find the police-sta- tion?” “Certainly,” answered Wilfred. ‘'I have but just returned from there.” “ Indeed!” said the stranger. ‘‘ Will you further oblige by asking the people here if they know of a Doctor Veroust, who keeps a lunatic asylum a few miles from here?” Wilfred started. this seemed more than a coincidence. ‘““Itis very strange, sir, but I have myself been making inquiries about this same Doctor Veroust.” * Biess me! You don’tsay so! Might I ask if your visit to the police was in any way con- nected with this gentleman?’ ‘*Tt was,” answered Wilfred; “and I am go- ing to call at the. asylum to-morrow morning. If you will come up-stairs to my room we could talk more at our ease. It strikes me as being just possible we may have arrived here on the same errand, and if so it would perhaps be more advantageous for us to work together.” Explanations soon followed, and Wilfred learned that bis little friend was Mrs, Blount’s iegal adviser, and that she herself was at that moment in the hotel. Mr. Wilson hurried off to inform her that Mr. Grey, the cousin of Christine Vira, had also arrived on the same business as them- sel ves. He soon returned witb a request that Mr. Grey would come to Mrs. Blount’s apartments at once, She had been much excited since her arrival only an hour before, and had insisted that Mr. Wilson should immediately communicate with the police, in order that they should that very evening restore Christine to liberty. “JT shall never forgive myself,” she said, ‘¢for being from home when the poor child’s letter arrived. What must she have endured at the thought that I let the days go by and made no effort to rescue her? It is impossible to say what torture that man, that fiend I should say, may not have made her suffer!” When Wilfred entered, he found Mrs, Blount pacing up and down the room in great agita- tion, Sbe came forward and took his hand. ‘‘ How strange that we should both arrive here with the same object, and on the very same day! Mr. Wilson tells me you propose not going to the asylum before to-morrow. I cannot postpone my visit until then, I think what that poor child may be suffering; we must not allow her to remain a single hour in the power of Doctor Veroust more than is ab- solutely possible. I propose that we drive im- mediately to the asylum, M. Pitard accompa- nying us.” ‘Perhaps it would be better for M, Le Roy to comealso,” said Wilfred. ‘*Certainly; it is a great many years since I have seen my niece; she may be much altered; but this young man was, probably, well ac- quainted with her, as he was engaged to Juli- | ette, and will be able to recognize ber at once.” * -T Mr. Grey volunteered to goin search of M. Pitard and Auguste, and Mr. Wilson went with him. Mrs, Blount entered her bedroom, and began to put on her bonnet and shawl. “ You surely will not go out, madame,” said her maid, * before eating something? You have had no dinner,” “On, Louise!’ her mistress answered, sink- ing into a chair, ‘‘I am so excited at the thought of seeing that poor dear girl, that I caunot think of anything else. Get me a little wine, it is impossible tor me to eat.” Louise went out, soon returning with the wine; but she brought a plate of chicken also. ‘‘Come, madame, you must not refuse to try and take a little; suppose you should taint on the road, and nut be able to go as far as the asylum?” Mrs, Blount allowed herself to be persuaded, and manag: d to swallow a few mouthfuls, “Louise,” she said, looking round, ‘1 think my niece would prefer sleeping in my room to- night, she may be nervous, Give orders for another bed to be made up here, and havea fire lighted; it is chilly this evening. Poor child! I wish tbat she should see everything looking pleasant and cheerful. You might go out and buy some flowers, and fill these vases; I dare say she hasn’t seen any for months, Hark! | hear a carriage stopping outside. Go see, Louise; it may be Mr. Wilson and Mr, Grey returned.” > “You are right, madame,” said the girl, looking from the window; ‘“‘und they are ac- companied by two gentlemen.” “Thank goodness!’ exclaimed Mrs, Blount, with «a sigh of relief. ‘Then we can start im- mediately! Follow me with these shiwls. We may be glad of them.” And she hurried down the stairs. So it h ppened that Christine was rescued, owing to tbe indefatigable efforts of her aunt. Had her friends not come before the next day, there is no knowing what fresh troubles she would have experienced, “What a charming morning, is it not, grand- papa?’ cried Juliette, for we will now call her by her right name. ‘The first glimpse of spring? I shall go directly after breakfast; and see if there sre not any snowdrops out yet in the park. Will you not come, too, madame?” ‘‘No, indeed!” answered Madame Veroust. ‘Tt is too dreary under those great trees, I prefer to stay in, and finish my book by the fire.” Juliette was feeling happy and at ease at Chiltern Manor now. She had grown so to love this luxurio.s life; she wondered some- times how she could ever have put up with the existence she had previously led io Lyons, She smiled as she thought how she would now miss her pretty carriage, with its handsome ponies; her thoroughbred riding horse, her. costly dresses, the thousand and one little lux- uries which went to make up ber present life. In three months more she would go to London, and would be presented. Her head was full of the anticipated pleasures of this her first season in England, as she stepped lightly along through the park, swinging a little basket in one band. A man was just coming through the lodge gates, walking quickly. ‘‘ What a hurry he is in!” she thought. Then something in his figure seemed to strike her. She watched him eagerly as he approached. “Tt is Auguste Le Roy!” she cried, amazed. What can bring him here?’ She stood still, trembling and white with fear, awaiting him. She knew well that he must have heard all, or he would not bave come. “ Juliette!” he said, coming close to her, and laying his hand eagerly on ber arm. ‘‘ How fortunate that I have found you alone and so soon! Icome to warn you! You must fly! Ail is discovered!” ‘‘ What is discovered?” she said, drawing her- self up proudly. ‘Tell me what you mean?” He frowned impatiently. * There is no time for trifling!” he said, in a aa = # ‘ o. Pye a , Tree a
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414 hag stern voice, traveled night and day for nothing? Christine has escaped from the asylum, and Doctor Veroust is already in prison. In two days, at Jatest, you and Madame Veroust wiil be ar- rested! ‘You see there is no time to be lost; you and your motber must leave here immedi- ately!” She realized her position instantly. “Yes; we must go at once; but where? If we could but gain a few days it would be something!” “T think Paris will be best for the present,” he answered. ‘‘Once there,’ we can arrange what is best tobe done. Go now to the house; inform Madame what has occurred; order a carriage, and drive to Blexby; you can pick me up on the road.” It we lose no time, we may eatch the London express.” Juliette was about to hurry to tho house; but she paused a moment, and held other hand. “ Auguste, can you ever forgive me? You have saved me; it is more than I deserved!” He took the hand, and raised it passionately to his lips. Strive as he might, he could no more help loving her than he could help living. “T tell you I won’t believe a word of it!” aA: Fi a said the Squire, trying to work himself up into a passion, to hide his evident agitation. He was closeted in his study with Mr. Wilson, who had arrived a short time befire, “TI insist wpon believing that’ the young lady who so un- accountably left her home two days ago is really my granddaughter. I have no doubt that she will return soon, and explain every- thing satisfactorily.” “T think not, sir,” answered Mr. Wilson, dryly. “If you will allow me, I will once mre go over the facts of the case, and—” “T tell you I will not listen!’ roared the Squire. “If she is not my granddaughter, T re- fuse utterly and emphatically to acknowledge any other. Tinsist upon your taking no fur- ther proceedings against this young lady. Do you hear, sir? I insist that she shall not be followed nor molested!” “T am acting for Mrs, Blount, Miss Vira’s aunt,” said the lawyer, coldly. “Then you can let her know my wishes on the subject. You say you have got the girl out of the asylum; I don’t see what more you want.” Mr. Wilson rose to depart; he saw it was utterly useless to argue further. After all, perhaps the wisest thing would be to write to Mrs. Blount. She might not wish to go against the Squire in the matter. By return of post came the answer, saying that Christine herself was most anxious that no further steps should be taken. “Tam very much troubled about my niece,” Mrs. Blount wrote. Sié has been very unwell since you were here., phen ous 1 who eee Dada Ot: geen ak since te night she drove with us to Lyons. Her mother, a woman named Madamo Roux, been. arrested as Doctor Veroust’s accomplice and shocking revelations are expected to be made. about the bibearre a It is thought that this woman, in eT of mitigating her own sentence, will eon- Poor Christine was. indeed very ill, suffering frora a low fever brought: on by excitement and exposure to the night’ air after her long confinement, , She dreaded the day of the trial, for she would be compelled to be present, and fel nervous at the thought of having to’ give’ her evidence before so many people. This last ordeal, however, was spared her in a way no one had looked for. The very morning of the trial Doctor Veroust was:found dead in the prison. He had taken poison, but bow he had been able to procure: it was never proved. Madame Roux, owing to the insufficieney of evidence against her, was discharged. Poor Marie’s fate was ascertained shortly after, Her body was found one morning by . some washerwomen among the rushes on the river’s brink. She had been dead many days. Ohristine was greatly affected by this sad news of her poor friend, and bitterly blamed. “Think you I should have = A WICKED HEART, Ry wey ' herself that she had lost sight of Marie fora moment. It had so bad an effect on her health that Mrs. Blount insisted upon their starting for Cannes immediately, where she intended to stay some mouths, in the hope that an entire change of scene would keep Christine’s mind from dwelling so much on the past. Wilfred Grey accompanied them south. He had taken a great fancy to his little cousin, and Christine liked nothing better than to sit near the window in the hotel, gazing listlessly on the deep blue of the Mediterranean, while he read to her. Wilfred, as he looked at her, forgot the long years that had passed, and almost fancied it was Mabel who was listening to him. As the days went on, Christine grew stron- ger, and was able to take long drives into the country with her aunt and cousin. How pleasant those drives were; how: brave- ly their little Barb ponies climbed the hill, and then what glorious glimpses of the sea! The soft, balmy air that fanned their temples came bearivg with it the sweet scent of the orange tree. Those were happy days; but, by-and- by, a littie cloud came over their horizon. No one seemed quite to know how it began; a feel- ing of constraint, a coolness, gradually arose between Wilfred Grey and bis cousin. Ever since their arrival at Cannes he had gone to some trouble to procure a bouquet for Christine, and each morning she found it by her place at breakfast. She loved such little attentions from him, and generally wore for the rest of the day one of the roses or a few of the fine St. Jean violets of whieh her bouquet was composed; but latterly she had omitted to do this, and Wilfred thought she no longer eared for his little offering; so one day there were no flowers, and Christine shed a few tears over their luss when she was alone, One evening, a telegram came for Mr, Grey to say the Squire was dead. He would have to start immediately for England, in order to be in time for the funeral. “Dear Wilfred, how we shall miss you!” said Mrs, Blount. They had grown very in- timate during the close intercourse of the last few weeks, ‘‘ITreally Go not know what we shall do without you.” He glanced at Christine, but she was bend- ing over some needle-work and made no re- mark. Presently, she rose and stepped out through the open window, onto the balcony. **Christine will not miss me much, I think,” he said, a little bitterly. ‘‘ I’m afraid my com- pavy often aunoys her.” “Why should you think that?’ asked Mrs, Blount. “There is so much difference in our ages,” he replied, gloomily; ‘it is too much to ex- pect that a young girl should care for my so- ciety. I fear I have done a rash thing for my own peace of mind in coming here; I ought to have gone back to England when we left Ly- ops.” “Oh, how blind, how very blind you men are! See!” continued Mrs. Blount, laying one hand on his, and pointing with the other to- ward the’ window; ‘‘ Christine: looks: very pretty out there, does: she not, with: the soft moonbeams falling on her hair? Shall I tell you what her thoughts are? I can read them as well as if I could see into her pure, loving heart. She is thinking how hopeless is the love she bears you, and wondering what the days will be like when you are gone,” ‘Do you really think it possible she can care for me?” “Go and ask her yourself; you will soon know.” With what a glad heart he joined the young girl on te balcony! She started as she heard his step, and turned away her head, but not before he had perceived traces of tears on her cheeks. He took her two ne trembling hands in his, ‘Are you angry with me?” he said, very tenderly. “Angry? Ob, cousin Wilfred, no! How could Ibe angry? You, who are so kind, so x 4 ee ie . 3 aie It is that I feared T had offended you, because—because—” ‘Christine, answer me!”’—and his voice was hoarse with emotion—‘‘ tell me that you do not hate me—that some day you will even try to love me! Oh, my darlivg!”- her head had suuk upon his breast now, and she was weeping happy tears,—‘“‘ my little wife! It is too great happiness to think that you can love ine, Tell me, my child, could you really be happy with a man almost old enough to be your father?” Raising her head, she gave bim one timid, tender glance, and Wilfred clasped her to him. What need of words where looks could speak so well? It’ would be bappiness to die now, Christine thought; but to him it seemed life had but just begun. ‘So you have made it up,’’ Mrs. Blount said, as they entered the drawing-room a few min- utes later, ‘‘ Do you know it is near ly twelve o’clock? I dare say,” she said, addressing Wil- fred, “‘that you have not thought of telling your man to pack up yet?” He was bound to acknowledge he had made no arrangements for the morrow’s journey; so wishing them both good night, he went to give the necessary instructions. “ Aunt Claire, I have so much to tell you,” said Christine, with hot cheeks, seating herself on a stool at Mrs, Blount’s feet.| ‘I do not know how to begin. It will so surprise you.” “Shall I guess what this important news is?’ asked her aunt, smiling; and tenderly smo:tb- ing the golden curls. “Is it that Wilfred Grey has told you he loves you, and you have } rom- ised one day to be his wife?’ My pet, I saw it all so long ago! I suppose we must be thinking of returning to England now before long. May will soon be here, and Cannes will be getting too warm, What do you say, little one, to our starting in a fortnight? Do you think Wilfred will be glad to see us by then?” “T think you are the very best of all good aunts,” said Christine, kissing her warmly ; ‘and I believe Iam the ary happiest girl in all the world,” Just one last look at Chiltern Manor. It is more than three months since the Squire was carried to the family vault, and Mrs. Chil- tern looks ten years younger. Herold nery- ous fits. occur very seldom now, She never speaks of her husband but with the utmost af- fection, and almost persuades herself. that she will never get over his loss, ‘“* Yet one would think she is almost happy this evening, as she trips from room to roum to see that everything looks comfortable and home-like for the expected guests. Her deep widow’s. mourning and snow-white cap suit her marvelously well. “ Surely,” she asks Abigail, for the bun- dredth time, “It is time they arrived? There} I hear the sound of wheels upon the graye); it niust be they at last!” The door was thrown open, and, Mrs, Blouns and Christive entered, followed by Wiijfred. The old lady tried to welcome her gues s, and receive them with proper dignity, but she quite broke down, ‘““My darling,’’ she said, throwing herselt into Christine’s arms, ‘‘it is like baying my own Mabel back to me!” And she let her. head fall on the young girl’s shoulders, What a pleasant evening that was!, They al! had so. much to say, and sat up) chatting until it was quite late.., “You must. live with me now, my. dear,” said Mrs, Chiltern to her granddaughter. . ‘But I look. upon Christine as my daughter,” put in Mrs. Blount. “TI think I have a stronger claim than either,” said Wilfred, laughing. . « You ? exclaimed his aunt, in astonishment, “Yes, I,” he repeated; ‘‘for Christine bas. promised to be my wife.” ‘*My dear boy, I am so glad!” cried the old lady. ‘‘And you will both live here, of course? Oh, Wilfred, if you only make her as kind a husband as deur William was to me, she will indeed be happy!” ie re y
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A WICKED»HEART. And she shed a few silent tears as a tribute to the Squire’s memory, Pvor loyal eld lady! Almost the only kind thiog he ever did was when he died and made ber a widow. “ Grandmamma!” “Yes, dear”—the old lady passed her hand levingly over the golden curls which rested on her Jap—for Christine had taken a stool at her feet. ‘«There is one thing I should like before I co to bed tonight. I have so often heard my mother speas of this dear old house. I long to see the rooms she occupied; and Wilfred says there is a portrait of her in the picture gallery, painted when she was a young giil ” “Will you not wait until to-morrow, Chris- tine?’ said Mrs. Blount; ‘‘ you must be tired, my child. Wait until then, and we will go through the house together. There is always something interesting in an old family man- sion.” “P.ease do not be offended, Aunt Claire; but I think I should like to see these rooms alone, first.” “Well, well, child; have your own way.” “ Abigail will show them to you, dear,”’ said ber grandmother. ‘She was your mother’s maid; but I fear you will find the rooms very different to what they were when my poor girl eceupied them. I had always wished them to remain as they were when she left us; but it was not to be.” Mrs. Chiltern sighed, and a tear stole slowly down her withered cheek. “This is the boudoir, Miss Christine;” and Abigail threw open the door, and stood aside to let the young girl pass. ‘The dressing room leads out of it and the bedroom is beyond. They are a handsome suite of rooms, but very different to what they were in my dear young mistress 's time.” Christine stood on the threshold, with a troubled look on her sweet tace. The room ap- peired to have been lately cccupied. A garden hat was thrown c.relessly on the window seat; near it an overturned basket balf-fall of with- ered violets. A water culor sketch, unfinished, Jay on the table; but the flowers in the vases were faded and dry, and the dust lay thick over everything: “Nothing has been touched since Miss Juliette left,” said Abigail, softly. ‘It was the Squire’s wish. This is the first time the room has been opened since his death.” “Tt was her room, then, too,” said Chris- tine, thoughtfully. ‘Did he love her very much?” ‘‘Ay, that he did, miss! Many’s the time I have heard him come here at night, when he has thought everybody was in bed, and pace up and down for hours together. Shall we go on to the other rooms?” “No, not to-night. I thought I should have found something that would have reminded me ef my mother; but these are Juliette’s rooms— everything speaks of her presence.” She turned away with a weary sigh. Wil- ot I knew ’ fred was waiting for her outside. you would be disappointed, darling,” he said, drawing her hand within bis arm; ‘but there Shall we go and see it?. is still the portrait. You might have stood for the model yourself —it is marvelously like you.” _They walked down the long corridor, and entered a room on the right. Christine was very silent. The little boudoir.she had left had brought Juliette forcibly before her—she was thinking what that proud, ambitious girl must have suffered, preparing for her hurried departure, then flying, like a thief, from the home she had learnt to love so well, and staked se much to win. A slight pressureof her hand against Wil- fred’s side brought her thoughts back to the present; they were standing before her mother’s picture, Christine gave a little cry of astonishment as, raising her eyes, she met those of the por- trait; she might almost have been gazing at her ewn reflection in the glass—yet there was : something different, and she could not at once discover what it was. “Wilfred,” she said, looking up in his face somewhat puzzled, ‘‘ what is there in the ex- pression of the portrait that I have not?” He stooped down and kissed her fondly before replying, *‘ Dearest, your mother bad uever known trouble when that was painted; she was light-hearted, with the happiness of a child. But there is a depth of sadness still in your eyes which, with Heaven’s help, I will try to change in time.” They had turned away, and were slowly leaving the room, when Christine stopped sud- denly, and clasped her companion’s arm in some agitation, “Oh, Wilfred, look!—it is Juliette!” There was some excuse for her nervousness; the painting was so exqusitely executed that one might almost think Juliette herself stood before them. “How beautiful she is! Wilfred, I cannot bear to think that we cannot even learn where she is.” ‘‘My darling, why distress yourself about her? { daresay she is happier than she deserves —perhaps married to Auguste Le Roy.” “No, Wiifred;’ Auguste would never marry ber after she had so deceived him. He rescued her from a sense of duty, but he would consider her unworthy to bear bis saps” A little crowd was collected outside the Kursaal at Monte Carlo. “What is wrong?’ asks a young man of his companion,* whose superior hight enables him to conmand a better view. Before he can answer, the crowd divides, and a lady walks through their midst, escorted by two gendarmes. She flashes her black eyes defiantly on the people as she passes. She has been detected cheating at the gambling-tables, There is something familiar about the haughty carriage of the beautiful head, the queenly grace of the perfect figure. Was it Juliette? THE END, The Half-Dime Singer's Library. 1 Whoa, Emma! and 59 other Songs. 2 Caprain Curr and 57 otherSongs. _ 8 THE GArNsporo’ Har and 62 other Songs. 4 Jonnny More@an and 60 other Songs, 5 [tx Strike You Wire A FEATHER and 62 others, 6 GrorGn THE CHARMER and 56 other Songs, % Tue Bette or Rockaway and 52 other Songs. 8 Young Frnuan, You’Re Too FresH and 60 cioat Re 9 Say Youne Grew and 65 other Songs. - 10 I’m HE GoyERNOR’s ONLY Son and 58 other Songs. 11 My. Fan and 65 other Songs. 12 Comin’ THRO’. tHE Ryx and 55 other Songs... . 18 Toe RoLiickine IrtsHman and 59 other Songs. 14 Otp Doe Tray and 62 other Songs, . 15 WHoa, CHARLIE and 59 other sy es 16 In THIS WuxEAT By AND By and 62 other Songs. 17 Nancy Lrg and 58 other Songs. 18 I’m THE Boy rHat’s Bounb 0. E and. 57 others, 19 THe Two Orpnans.and 59 other Songs. 20 Waar arg THE Witp WaveEs Sayina, Sistery aon and 59 aor Songs 4 80 othe IGNANT Potty Wo@ an other Songs. 22 Tue OLtp Arm-Cuarr and 58 other Songs. 23. On Conry IsLanp Beack and 58 other Songs, 24 OLD Simon, THE Hot-Corn, Man and 60 others, » 2 I’m in Love and 56 other So » 23 PARADE OF THE GUARDS and 66 other Songs, 27 Yo, Heave, Ho! and 60 other Songs... 28 "Twit Never po v0 Gre 1T-uP So and 60 others, 23 Buur Bonners OvER THE BorDER and & others. 30 ‘Toe Merry. LavGHine Man and 56 other Songs. 31 Sweer Fora@rr-mx-Nor.and 55 other Songs, » 82 Lerrie Bay Ming and 53 other Songs, , 33 Dz Bango. AM DE INSTRUMENT FOR Mz and 53 others: 34 TarFy and 50 other Songs. ' 35 Just 70 PLease THE Boys and: 52 other Songs: . 36 SKATING ON ONE IN THE GUTTER and 52 others, : 37 KoLorep Kranks and 59 other Songs, 38 Nit DesPERANDUM and 53 other So 89 Tur Giri I Lerr Bexinp Mr and:50 other Songs.» 40 °Tis sur A LitTLte Fapep Fiower and 50 others. 41 Prerry WuiILHeLmria and 60 other Songs, 42 DANCING IN THE BzRN and 63 other Son 43 H, M.S. Prinarore. coMPLETE, and 17 other Songs Sold everywhere by Newsdealers, at five cents per copy, or sent post-paid, to any address, on re- ceipt of Six cents per number. BEADLE AND ADAMS, Puriisuers,: 98 WinL14M Stresr, New Yorn, * hes ‘ » ry *. 15 BEADLE & ADAMS’ STANDARD DIME PUBLICATIONS. Speakers. BrADLE AND ADAMS have vow on their lists. the fol- lowing highly desirable and attractive text-books, prepared aepreaay for schools, families, ete. Each volume contains 100 large pages, printed from clear, open type, comprising the best collection of Dia- logues, Dramas and citatic s, (burlesque, comie and otherwise.) The Dime Speakers for the season of 1880—as far as now issued —cmbrace twenty-three volumes, viz. : 1. American Speaker, 13. ‘ ‘2, National Speaker. 14, Iudicrous Speaker. 3. Patriotic Speaker. | 15. Komika] Speaker. 4, Comic Speaker. | **, Youth’s Speaker. 5. Elocutionist, | Ji, aloquent Speaker, 6. Humorous Speaker. . Hail Columbia Speak- 7. Standard Speaker, 8. Stump Speaker. 9 10. il 12 School Speaker. er. 19. Serio-Comic Speaker. . Juvenile Speaker. 20. Select Speaker. . Spread-Eagle Speaker | 21. Funny Speaker. . Dime Debater. 22. Jolly Speaker. 2. Exhibition Speaker. 28, Dialect Speaker. These books are replete wit choice pieces for the School-room, the Exhibition, 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 twenty-seven books, viz.: Dialogues No. One, | Dialogues No. Fourteen. Dialogues No. Two. Dialogues No. Fifteen. Dialogues No. Three. Nialogues No. Sixteen. Dialogues No, Four. Dialogues No. Seventeen. Dialogues No. Five. Dialogues No. Kighteen Dialogues No. Six. Dialogues No. Nineteen. Dialogues No. Seven, Dialogues No. Twenty. Dialogues No, Hight. Dialogues No. Twenty-one. Dialogues No. Nine, Dialogues No. Twenty-two. Dialogues No. Ten. Dialogues No. Twenty-three Dialogues No, Eleven. | Dialogues No. Twenty-four. Dialogues No. Twelve. | Dialogues No. Twenty-five. Dialogues No. Thirteen. | Dialogues No. Twenty-six. Dialogues No, Twenty-seven. 15 to 25 Dialogues.and Dramas in each book, These volumes have been mepnned with especial reference to their availability 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 to assume that no volumes yet offered to schools, at any price, contain so many aeatvlable and useful dialogues and dramas, serious and comic. : Dramas and Readings. 164 12mo Pages. 20 Cefts. ; For Schools, Pario s, Entertainments and the Am- ateur Stage, rire Original Minor Dramas, Comedy, Farce, D ess Pieces, Humorous Dialogue and Burlesque, by oted writers; and Recitations and Readings, new : nd standard, of the greatest celebrity and interest. Edited by Prof. A. M. Russell. DIME HAND-BOOKS. Young People’s Series. BraDie’s Dine Hanp-Booxs ror Youre PEOPLE cover a wide r:nge of subjects, and are especially adapted cheapest and most useful works yet put into the market for popular circulation, Ladies’ Letter-Writer. Book of Games. - Gents’ Letter-Writer. Fortune-Teller, , Book of Etiquette, Lovers’ Casket. Book of Verses. . Ballroom Companion. . Book of Dreams. Book of Beauty. Hand-Books of Games: ... BEADLE’s Dime Hanp-Booxs oF GAMES AND Rech sn HAnb-Books cover a variety of subjects, and ‘are’ es-- pecially adapted to their end, book of Croqammmete a) TS ting ot Romig of Croque ‘achting and cae Chess Thstruston Riding and: Dr Ps. 4 Cricket and Football. Book of Pei Guide to Swimming.’ Ball Player. Handbook of Winter Sports. : Manuals for Housewives. nied EADLE’S Diwe Famriy is.aims class of text-books and, Tmanuale{ tted fo the unlearned. They are of conceded value... 1 Cook Book» amily stl pe hilerati 4 . Dre _ Mil-- 8, Housekeeper’s Guide. |. linery, ; ee ea 5 Lives of Great Americans Are ted lete and ntie ‘biognaphi of than? oF thé ‘ten who have added hiner ap ae: eepes ¢ by their lives and deeds. .The series em- races: cae te I.—George Washington. | VIT.—David Crockett. 1 —John Paul ares ng VIIL —Israel Sant T1l.—Mad AnthonyWayne| 1X,.—Kit Carson. TV.—Ethan Allen. »9 .—Tecumseh, . Yoav de Lafay- PS ae el Lineoin,. 4 é .—Pontiae, V1.—Daniel Boone. | XII Ulysses 8. Grant, ‘ ligt 2 ai ate ncn for sale yh ei 5; sent, ~ on receipt» of: , by BEADLE € ADAMS, 8 Witus SiN yn © % 4 to their end, They constitute at once the? \ Rro4 “ reese every per- son’s use—the old and, the young, the leamnpa and.
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By Corinne Cusbman... 10¢ a aol a be be By Waeane Bloke “oh ite 79 Corat anp Rusy. By Mre. Jennie D. Burton, 10¢ # A Wox An's) He ress By Mrs. M V ieee. 2) 100 80 gat ae Nor Drvipep. By A Parson’s { HE DAD LETTER. y Seeley Regester. .. Seve) a ee Ra Pen Re f 45 Lorp Liste’s DAucurrr. By 0. M. Braeme., 10c $1 ey i bene eh gga My BO By 10c 46 A Woman’s Hanp. Author of “Dead Letter.” 47 Vrats or WratH. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.. 1 A new issue every two weeks. 48 A Witp Giri. By Corinne Cushman..... . . 10¢ 49 Tas Mappest Marriage Ever Was. Burton. 10c For sale by all newsdealers, or sent, postage pais, @ 50 Love 1vAa Mazz. By Mrs. E. F. Hllet.......... 10e on receipt of twelve cents. BEADLE AND AD 8, » 6&1 Caruontna. By Dr. J. H. Robinson....... ... 10¢ Publishers, 98 William street, N. Y. Each Issue Complete. a Library of First-Class Copyright Novels Published. Price, b, ¢ Waverley Library | “\. . 45 Her Hidden Foe; or, Lovz at Att Opps. By Arabella Southworth. 46 The Little Heiress; or, Unper a Creep. Ween . A. Denison. 47 Because She Loved Him; or, How War, ir Eno. By Alice Fleming. 48 In Spite of Herself} or, Jevnarts'’s Evr- 1 The Masked Bride 23 Cree Year} or, Wy Sur Proposep. By Sara axton, 24 Hier Face Was Her Fortune, By Eleanor aine. 25 Only a Schoolmistress; or, Hxr UnToup Srcret, By Arabella Southworth. or, Wi. Sas Marry Him. By Mrs, Mary Crowell. 2 Was It Love? or, CoLLeGraAns AND SWEET- HEARTS. By Wm. Mason Turner, M. D. ‘3 Fhe Girl Wife; or, Tu TRUn AND THE Vautse. By Bartley T. Campbell. inns -' ss » enrie a 12 His Lawful ‘a ‘4 A Brave Heart; or, Startiivery STranGr. By Arabella Southworth. 5 Bessie Raynor, the Work Girl. By Wm. m Turner, M. D. 6 The Secret Marriage; or, A DucHEss in Serre or Herssur. By Sara Claxton. 7 A Daughter of Eve; or, Buiypep Br Love, By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. ‘8 Heart to Heart; or, Farr Paryuus’ Love. By Arabella Southworth. ‘9 Alone in the World} or, Taz Youna Man’s Warp, By the author of “Clifton.” 0A Pair of Gray Eyes; or, Tas Emmratp keray. Wife; or, Myra, Tax CHILD or 26 Without a Heart: or, WALKING ON THE Brink. By Prentiss Ingraham. 27 Was Shea Coquette ? or, A STRANGE CourT- sHIp. By Henrietta Thackeray. 28 Sybil Chase: or, THe GamptEer’s Wire. By Mrs. Ann §, Stephens. 29 For gt Dear Sake: or, Savep From Hin- SELF. ara Claxton. 30 The Bongner, Girl: or, A Mrmurton or ONEY. * ie Penne. 31 A Med Marriage: or, Ten Iron Witt. By Mrs. Mary A. Dennison. 32 Miriana, the Prima Donna: or, Roszs 34 A Warriage of Convenience: or, Was ARATION. By §. R. Sherwood, 49 His Heart’s Mistress 5 or, Lovn av Fmsr Sicut. By Arabella Southworth. 50 The Cuban Heiress; or, Tre Prisoner or LaVintresse. By Mrs. Mary A. Denison. 51 Two Young Girls; or, Tae Brips or sn Earu, By Alice Fleming, 52 The Winged weeerngen 4.00 Risgrne 411 For a Heart. By Mrs. Mary ed Crewell, 53 Agnes Hope, the Actress; cr, Tus Ro- MANCE OF A Rusy Rixa@. By W. M. Turner, M. B. 54 One Woman’s Heart; or, Savin Frou vHe STREET. By George 8. Kaime. _. Neoxtace. By Rose Kennedy. anp Linirs. By A. Southworth. IL Entangled; or, A Dancerovs Game. 83 The Three Sisters: or, THE Mystery or | 55 She Did Not Love Him; or, Steorine re ! a dicors ie Lorp Cuatront, By Alice Fleming. Conquer. By Arabella Southworth. 56 Love-Mad 3 ae BerrorHep, MArrmp, Br- AvoptTion. By Mrs. Ann 8. Stephens. Hr A Count? By Sara Claxton. R AND —. W. M. Tu % 13 Madcap, the Little Quakeress. By | 35 Sinned Against: or, THE WinrHrop Pre. ae Girl ees Corinne Cushman. By Clara Augusta. 57 A mrnve rl; or, Sunsmins aT Lase, By a4 Why I Married Him: or, Taz Woman mw | 86 Sir Archer’s Bride: or, THe Quren or His Alice Fleming, Gray. By Sara Claxton. 415 A Fair Face ee Our mv THE WortD. By Heart. By Arabella Southworth. ° 87 Whe Country Cousin; or, At 1s Nor Gorp 58 The Ebon Mask; or, Tur Stranen Gwanpe an. By Mrs. Mary Reed browell. . Bartley T. Cam Tuat Gurters. By Rose Kennedy. A Widow’s Wiles; or, A Brrrmr Berar 16 Trust scp ot; or, Tax Tro Kyicut. By | 38 His Own Again; or, Trust Her Nor. By 59 ancr. By Rachel Bernhardt, Margaret Leicester. Arabella Southworth. 60 Cecil’s Deceit; or, TH Diamonp Leeacr, ee 17 A Loyal Lover; or, Tan Last or THE Grusprtus. By Arahella Southworth. 48 His idol; or, Tae Int-Srarrup MarRuacE. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell, _,, 19 The Broken Betrothal; or, Love versus By Mary ‘Grace Halpine. 39 Flirtation; or, A Youna G@iru’s Goop Name. = Ralph Royal. 40 Pledged to Marry} or, IN Love’s Bonps. ey Sara Claxton, 41 Blind Devotion; or, Love AGAINST THE Worwtp. By Alice Fleming. By Mrs, Jennie Davis ‘Burton. 61 A Wicked Heart; or, Toe Farsr ane Toe Trur. By Sara Claxton. Ready January Iith, 62 Whe Maniac Bride}; or, Tux Dmap Sxorer or Hottow AsH. By Margaret Blount. Jan. 18, 20 Orphan Nell, the Orange Girl; or, Tut | 42 Beatrice, the Beautiful; or, His Srconp a ineid. abate apeak PF Witcues or New Yors. Agile Penne. Love. By A. Southworth. oon ¥ : 24 Now and Forever; or, W Marry | 43 Whe Barovret’s Secret: or, THE RIVAL THe WAVERLEY Liprary is for sale by all News Bhs ee or Thackeraye 89 rs te Haur-Sister. By Sara Claxton. dealers, five cents per copy, or sent by mail om 92_The Bride of an Actor. By th author | 44 ‘The Only Daughter: or, Broruer acarnat | receipt of six cents each. BEADLE AND ADAMA, 4. Of “ Alone in the World,” ete., etc, < Lover, By Fleming. Publishers, 98 William street, New York.