Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 71) (1881 03 22)
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The Only Young Ladies’ Library of First-Class Copyri ght Nov tp aay ° 5 : Shs ° els Published! Price, but 5 cents each. > “4 ny mye 7 - mT m rr it ideal a Hg ig ee ee ee ea tRL awe } Rad March 22, 1881. LE AND “ADAMS. No.71. VoL Ill, PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM St, N.Y. PRICE, 6 CENTS 7 = z = I think I was a fool to marry her. But I couldn’t give her up nhow—no, never} M Youn Wits. How miserable I should be without her! I shudder as I look back upon my lonely years of bachelorhood; I could not endure them again. mS How will it end? BY MY ON te be HUSBAND. We seem to be drifting further and further apart each day. _We have been bor tpa, only six months, and it has come to be cause for sighs and reflections aud: CHAPTER L y. ine vows what BEN ESS ASD ot. Was ever a man so troubled as I am? ” 2 : First and foremost, my wife—my dear, little, bright-eyed Ettie; then that Wise ntite. Chose words. ward “a mine, so 2 pba yan 2 and se arcane ve here — boys—men, I ep x pose they are, but they seem to me like boys, as their father was my equal in They should Anhthey On.tch ay otpeaeee years. Dear old friend! what a pity he should die so suddenly, and leave those I am fifty-two; my hair is streaked with grey; the crows have left the marks | 502s of his without one restraining influence, save an uncle away off. in of their feet in the corners of my eyes, and I am sedate and reserved. India, “ . Perhaps that will explain why I sigh when I write those words, ‘‘ my young How will it end, I—. Ah! there’s Ettie now, out on the veranda, ‘ wife.”’ r av Iam sitting in my Aree, i my gest. is pieced between the two windows that I sigh, yet.a thrill ses over me as I think of her, and know that sheis mine. | open upon the veranda, so can see her p y. Ware Yeon a fool? What a beauty she is. She is standing in the full light of the October after- Task myself that noon sun; it shines uestion forty upon her uncover- mes a day. ed head, and lights Was I a fool to her hair of red- dream of happiness dish-brown,; that at my time of life a think a a oung, artless, un a in the world’s harsh dis- cipline, could as- similate with a world-w. man like myself remember her as she was when I her in her country home—a gay, laughing sprite,—a sunbeam in the household— the delight of. her parents’ hearts, waves and curls: so bewitchingly, clus- tering about her high, white fore- head, and about her ivory néck. What a face she has; pale, to be sure, but so lovely; and her éyes—well, they are the’ love- liest ' hazel’ eyes that’ ever woman owned. Her form is perfect, round and full, and ex- uisitely moulded, 1 in all, she is a I think of her as } beauty—a fascinat- she is now — vari- woman. able, petulant, now, he displays re- unnaturally gay, N _Igarkable taste in now moody—never d i Beobeson bation ¢ for in har eo try e not happy ‘or r coun What a foolish home art attire question to ask! was the plainest. How can she be Just see that dress happy when bound of dark-blue silk— to one so unlike could anything be herself? And yet more becoming? we well OW it sweeps enough during our about her, gies | short courtship. to her hight an How she used to make my heart beat high ‘with When we w out ofan evening, and she’ clu stateliness and how it brings out her white complexion by contrast. , Ah, yes, silks and jewels sit very well . on; Ettie, little ed so Baainoty ahs rustic ive =. D my F tie no longer! into my face! rus’ itis not strange Contact with socie- that 1 dreamed of ty has changed her M f very--very quickly. “nL age hig 2 at! She rais- ually dispelled it. es ner hand be her Whose fault is it, ead in a tired sort of.a way. I won- der. if. anything ails her? y do T not go to her and ask? Why is it that I. cannot, over- come this feeling I wonder—hers, or mine? Ah! Isuppose we are both to blame. Perhaps I should more patient with her; she is as @ child in compari- oF itm nae son ged Ha sa tween us ot late? j Sang - beak She looks. sad, to condor ture; the and I pity her; I do fact remains; she is more—I love her; I long to take her to my arms as f used to, do; but in my wife, my yo wife—and Wedont agree
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we MY YOUNG WIFE, stead, I sit here like a statue, and look at her. She | that you wanted your wife to be an automaton—to is leaning her head against the column. Oh, some- | sit like a statue, speak only when spoken to, to eat, thingis troubling her! I will go to ig PR co I will! | dress, sleep by rule? Why didn’t you tell me that? ' Thaven’t gone. All I did was to rise and view my- | and I would have taken laudanum, opium, anything, self in the glass; [saw my tall, straight, slim form, my | rather than have accepted you, and then I would igrave face, rather stern, piercing grey eyes, mus-| have been spared this ——” tache and hair all streaked with silver; it made me “This misery,” I supplied, as she hesitated. think of the disparity in our ages, and how rightly she “Yes, this misery,’* but her tones sounded forced could call me “Old Sobersides,” and say that I made} and unnatural. “ Lammiserable—wretched—unhap- myself ridiculous»when-I tried to be lovang and ten- | py. It’s nothing but quarrel—quarrel—quarrel, till I der. So Lseated myself again, and here fam fae sf ave come to dread to be with you. { deserve this, I and then looking at her as she leans‘against the col- | suppose; it is my punishment for marrying a man And I stood gazing after her in a stupefied way, realizing thatI had widened the breach between us immeasurably. ; f CHAPTER 1. CLOUDS APPEAR. WE met again at table. I entered the room with a light, cheerful remark trembling on my lips;it was stayed there as I saw my wife’s sulky face, and the condemnatory ex on upon my ward's. umn. Vn, ; old enough to be my father, because—because——”’ The meal sed offin silence, I made one endeavor She starts! Why? She looks around quickly—al- “Because he was rich,” I sneered. ‘ to break it; I said tomy ward, pleasantly: ” ef most guiltily, it seems to me;she looks toward my win- ‘* Anything, youplease,’’ she returned, wearily. “If}| ‘‘ What a perfect day this has been, Beatrice!” — . dow, and I see that there is a blush’ upon her face; | Ishould contradict that, you would not believe me. It| “Do you think so?” she asked, looking at me rather she turns away, and then starts off. doesn’t make any difference what you think of me.” - What can this mean? Is there sométhing thatshe}| ‘Of course not,” > desires to conceal from me? Shecertainly looked in I know my smile just then would have aggravated this cca as if at wished to pam n if 9 had | @ saint, seen her. resume my writing, and now | «Oh—oh!” she cried out, passionately. “This is un- | Iwill relate what followed that hasty’departure of | pearable. If you’d only petaneey, oe it ead he “my young wife.) 2 ‘ ‘ eaKé eft the veranda; 1 arose. and went to the wine ee ene ame and Sn ag nee window; itisin the side of the house, but being a para adow it. commands a view of the front and ote: with her large blue eyes. ‘ “Yes; there has not been a cloud in the sky——” ‘Except the domestic sky,”’ she interrupted. Discomfited, I retreated beneath “my shell, and spoke no more, woes I kept my eyes fixed steadily upon my plate, feeling both humiliated and angry. that Ettie should have mace any one a confidant of our disagreements. As I arose, I looked af her—I glared, I know, though it was more from pain than anger, but of course, she could not know that, and 8hé met my glance most defiantly. , ’ , im passing through the hall I met the porter, and [ cried, She looked really grand asshe started from the_| 8aid to him, loud i, Pale for Ettie to hear: window, and pean to pace the room, her face flush- ed, her ay aa nee ing, her hands clasped before her: “You will not understand me, Allan, or, you cannot understand me. It was all a mistake; it was more than foolish to think that we could live inipeace to- gether—” he looks with eyes of love upon my Ettie. because she “T am ping out, Peter; if any one calls for me say that I will not be home till late.” T longed to look back to see if my words had had any effect on her; but pride kept me from it. I took my hat, and opening the front door, I step- ped out upon the wide veranda that surrounded my arge and stately suburban home. I stood there for a moment, absently looking up at the starry sky; ther I descended to the garden, and strolled aimlessly about. : I had nodesire togo anywhere; and after a short se I returned to the house, entering by the back porch. ry : lof Waris | I met no one on my way to the library. Feeling too dispirited to remand my order to ‘Peter, I ‘threw my hat upon the desk, and sank into a’chair before the glowing grate fire that alone lighted the room. Lhad scarcely settled myself when I heard: “You miust not misjudge me, too, Beatrice. I have enough to endure from Allan. Let me feel that I have one friend in the house, at least.” | It was my wife’s»voice; it came from the evening | room, that was directly in front of my library. It was ‘such a relief to hear other tones than petulant, defiant | ones from her, that I concluded’to indulgéinthe lux- {ary of listening. 1 I wish I could tell you all,’ she went om ~© ‘‘I do not refrain for want of faith in you, believe me, Bea- trice; but because it would be hurtful to another's interests—to one who is very dear to me, whose wel- fare I would guard with my life.” Ha! I sat bolt upright, and Iam sure my eyes were half out of their sockets, What was this? _ “ One whois very dear to me, whose welfare I would guard with my life,” — : Who. could it be? Oliver Waldon? Oh, if I guly knew, I would start out this very moment and: find Of fig give eae choice of leaving the country n or ating me cian § forward, waiting eagerlyto hear more, 6 ca ‘There is no use trying to agree, Allan,” she added. ae te ‘Ave wih have'to endiire endura zou can send me to my pare feared that she would I | But 1 | on the worl —anything; I’m sure:bdon’s care what,’ : ** Now, don’t talk nonsense; Ettie.” ‘ , her taunting title of ‘*Old Sob » Way to avert that is to assume an air er hand is 08 the door, and I am as __ tere, as a king a with you, my love.” ' “ “ , . ” If was once @ country girl, T can tell the differ- « aed ae Done » ie engg beeen snaeiy 400 BOGE a smn | Li (Ova “Now, my dear Ettie,”’ and I wen - a BA ‘ id ri feconciliation, “don't use such harsh You speak in riddles, Allan,” ed “ But you can solve them, Ettie,” 1 retorted words, You do not hate me altogether, I am sure; : » duttie, . Gant you beat'a Bittle with me?” ’ ; She did not reply. She looked at me for a mément, oh: s+ y/| half anxiously, half scornfully; then she turned and he looked at me quickly, queerly. Iknow that I u raw : “4 tears in’ mer hey as, oat aight quivering of her walked proudlyto the door. tr Then I made an unfortunate ch, andthe} ‘There she faced me, saying, coldly: shance for reconciliation was gone. I said: “You are in a strange mood to-day, Allan Ingram, “Now, if you'd only try to control ror temper, | I realize how useless it would be to say anything to live 10t fly off at a ta upon the least provoca-| you. I wish to dosomething to alleviate the misery | Hush! what is Beatrice saying? one re =f you genera ooh erithout “any arota, of others. hoping thus to forget my own unhappiness; | “I will help you all I can, Ettie. If guardy has for- tion at all—ive would get along’so much better than | it was my intention to try to gain your co-operation, | bidden him the house there are ways and means of we do.” but now | wili not trouble you. I will work alone, seein him elsewhere.” - ha! 60 she was joining in aconspiracy against burs grily then: Se ie oe tat me. That settles her fate. She must marry, and go ‘Why didn’t you tell me before you. married’ me and do what Lcan, Good asternoap sir,”’ and bowing grandly,she opened the door, an 1 s eft the room,
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toahome of her own; she would stir up mutiny here, and thers would soon be a tempest in the household. I must have Ettie all to myself if I would regain her love. “Yes, Beatrice must marry Leonard Waldon—a man so unliké his brother, that while I detest the one Ladmire the other. It is coyness, I suppose, that causes her to parry the ch oy every time I broach it, but now it must be settled." $ T arose, with the intention to send for her, and have an interview at once. Just then I heard the door- bell, and-a moment after a visitor was announced; it was Leonard Waldon, my ward’s suitor, and brother to the man I suspected and detested. Forgetting that I was supposed to be out, I went at once to the evening room. I entered, smiling blandly, and was considerably taken aback at being received by my wife with astart, anda faint cry of dismay, and_by my ward with a cold look of astonishment, - “You, Allan?” gasped Ettie. , ‘“‘T believe so,” I ceturned, sardonically, feeling that I understood her confusion, ‘‘Am I not right, Leonard?” ; “T think you are,” he replied. “Thope I am,’ I said. ‘“‘When one’s wife is in doubt, as Eutie pust now appeared to be,it rather dis- turbs one’s faith in one’s own identity.” . “We thought you were out,” said Beatrice, in a en that plainly indicated that I had no business to é in. “Yes, I know you did.”’ [had my revenge by fair- ly chuckling that reply. ‘*\ How di you know?” asked Ettie, hotly. “* My dear,’ I answered, meaningly ; “I have been Sitting in the library for some time.” ; I saw my wife bite her lips then, and turn aside. Leonard’s presence saved me a bitter retort. I seat- ed myself beside him, and endeavored to divert his attention from this unpleasantness. He wasa handsome man, Leonard Waldon. In physique, he was very dark; eves, hair, complexion, all dark; in nature, he was quietand meditative. He said very little, but that little wasalways to the point, So unlike his brother he was—his handsome, dashing scamp of a brother! I considered him a splendid parti for Beatrice, and I had for years been deter- mined that sheshould marry him. Beatrice was a regal creature—and I may add a strange creature. Though of the purest blonde type— her hair amber, her eyes blue, her skin lily-white— she had not the disposition generally accredited to blondes—gay, light, frivolous; she was as serious, as strong of will as ever brunette was, Her hair was rarely beautiful, and the faultless. precision of its arrangement could serve as an indication of her character—not a curl, nota wave, but the smooth, silky braids forming a coronet high up on her head. My wife had used» the proper, word—severe; Bea- trice was severe, though only twenty, an heiress, and with never a thing to trouble her. I saw Leonard looking at her. “Do not despair,” Lsaidtohim, “I shall use all my arguments in your favor, and theyfmust.prevail.” “I hope they will, [love her so,”’ _“T know of no man more worthy of her than you and I shall exercise my right as her guardian an insist on her acceptance of you, She is coy, not in- different —-” A look from Leonard caused me to glance toward Beatrice. I caught her eyé, and I felt that she had overheard me, here was a slight flush on her cheek—whether of confusion or anger, I could not determine. ‘It’s too bad about Oliver, isit not?’’ he said, as if desirous to change the subject. That name roused all my interest at.once. I for- got that Ettie and Beatrice were in the room, | I “Have you seen Miss Stewart lately?” broke in oo 3 ou ardon, Mr. Waldon, I have ee te . , called , and I’m sure “J thought as 1 much-—Marian Stewart is his ‘au- the source.’ ’ only @ rumor, you say,’’ I said, to bring him back to the subject. , ‘“ Well, what is it now?” “This time his predilection for gambling has ——” of state ant rg fieatene other end of the room interr da him. 2 Looking up, I saw my wife standing by her chair, Pale, tremolt ig, directing a most pitebud glance at nard. §! tdid you say?’’ she gasped. wy bc aoea he ° Oliver. Of course, I don’t hesi- tate to tell of it here, knowing you all so well; then, too, I wish you to hear it from me, so that you may hear the truth, and not a tale augmented by the: re- “eu Well well what is it?” Ettie asked, impatiently. ith rage. : Lent, quivering wit Fetch ogitation as thist I glared at her, but she did not notice my presence in the least. sas ; , “He bie custaised heavy losses at the gaming-ta- ble—there is some shade of dishonor attached to it. ‘Others are implicated, I hear; and unless the matter isspeedily settled by the paymentof a large sum, there'll be acase for the courts. It became known MY YOUNG WIFE. through some parties who were present at the time. They are trying to hush it up, hoping to settle it.” Ettie sank into her chair, with along-drawn, tremu- lous sigh. $ She was still very much agitated. Beatrice sat as stern and severe as any Roman ma- tron—she was notone to havesympathy with vice. Ettie looked toward me at last. She seemed to comprehend how ill-timed was her interest in Oliver, for a flush spread over her face, and she said, confusedly: “T should be so sorry to hear that Oliver had met with any disgrace.”’ “Tf aman does that which incurs disgrace, does he not deserve to have it come upon him?’ I asked. ‘“No,”’ she retorted, hotly; ‘‘ not always. There may be circumstances that you do not understand ** But that you do!” L interrupted. She looked at me for a moment in alarm; then | she said, scornfully: “Tam likely to know—am I not? Am Ta frequent- er of gambling halls?” “Not that—but are you not a partisan of frequent- ers of gambling halls?” The alarm deepened on her face. My wrath increased till I could not control myself. I arose, saying, sternly: “TI do not wish to hear Oliver Waldon’s name mentioned in my presence; and [shall consider that re Banke and my ward sully their lips if they mention it between themselves. say this right before his brother, who knows the man asI do. He is nosaint, enduring martyrdom for another's sake——” My wife started there, as if she would speak. oe I oe for her, but as she remained silent, I con- inued: » “If disgrace has attached itself to his name, be sure that he has merited it.”’ ‘““How fortunate are you who are sostrong that you can steer clear of all temptation!” said Ettie, ris- ingand smiling. ‘Of course, with strength you can- not have charity, nor Pity for the weak and erring. Youadmire the strong, but crush the weak! Im- maculate beings, I bid you good-night!”’ Her smile did not take the sting from her words. She swept proudly from the room, and an uncom- fortable silence fell upon the trio she left behind. I was glad when at last I was alone. . I Shad to my library, and there paced back and orth. Why was Isounhappy? What had happened? Nothing definite. Thad allowed myself to harbor suspicion and jeal- ousy—on what grounds? I meditated for half an hour, and came to the con- plnog that I was imposing needless torture upon myself, : determined to go at once to Ettie, and to bring about a complete reconciliation. ‘Tt is me? fault that wedisa .”’ I said. “I will lay aside m ianity. and be asI was during our court- ship. ar little Ettie!—how she has changed.” at thought made me sad. Sighing wearily, I went to the window, and looked out. It wasa glorious night. The grounds were bathed in the silver radi- ance of the stars and the moon. Longing for a breath of fresh air, I opened the win- dow, an gel Hei out, The October wind came to me bearing with it whisperings of the desolation that was slowly, silently approaching, then it came to me bearing with it the sound of a human voice—and that voice was my wife’s, it I te: about, but could not see her; but her words, borne on the night-wind, came distinctly to ears: ON He can be dust, but not merciful, He aitbects something now, I believe. I can endure uld not endure that ne should ko gm the truth. ; will rd the secret with life, if need be. An ou shail ot er, Wok—Samar bee a how e tremb was known!” ' Then I heard some ebb in a masculine voice, I was overcome with horror; I could not move. 3d there like one in a dream, till Ettie’s voice again ell on my ear: “ig tes “You must go now. It was not prudent for you to come here—but it will not happen again.”’ Then that muttering, and then she cried, if passion- ate tones: “Oh, that I could go with you! This life is break- ing my heart. Oh! how I long for the old days—how Ilong to go back tothem! But, since I cannot, I would that I could start out in a new line of life.” I still stood spell-bound, overcome with horror, racked with pain. My Ettie—my Ettie! was she so apsions te be freed from me? Oh, the misery of those moments! “Till to-merrow night, good-by.” Those words broke the stillness, Then I heard the rustle of a silken robe, and presently my wife’s form “*She * mlked slowly, with bo ~ h e walke owly, Ww ead and clasped hands, toward the back porch. ed I looked after her till she disappeared from my pe a then I turned angrily. nescely in the direction of the retreating tread that i could hear distinctly. T peered out between the trees, and by the light of the moon I saw my enemy. He was standing in the walk. I could see his tall, cloaked form, and the hat drawn over his eyes. As I looked, he removed his hat, and raised his hand to his brow with a gesture of agony. I caught a glimpse of his face—it was pale, and very bbe it ee ae x e turned and walked on, and I lea over the ver- anda, and hastened after him, nes - to-night, fearing to hear that I was determined to learn who my enemy was, and to—it was impossible to think what the result of the meeting would be. CHAPTER II. THE TEMPEST BEGINS. Morninc. I was seated in the. breakfast-room, glancing over the columns of the newspaper. I was in a peaceable frame of mind. The occur- rences of the previous evening seemed to me now like some hideous nightmare. I had resolved to for- get them, if posssible—at least, I would ignore them; mc I would meet my wife as if nothing had bappen- ed. I sat, longing for her coming, hoping to havea few moments alone with her before the breakfast-bell rang. The door opened gently. I turned eagerly, gladly; but it was not Ettie—it was Beatrice. That disappointed me sorely. I acknowledged her greeting, and then I took up my paper, sighing wear- ily, and wondering why everything went wrong with me, It suddenly occurred to me that this was.a good op- portunity for speaking to my ward about her mar- riage. 3 _ IT looked up, Beatrice was standing by the mantel in a thoughtful attitude, her head resti on her hand. She seemed more severe than ever this morn- ing; perhaps it was because of her black robe, and the jet bands on her amber hair, that formed so striking @ contrast."* y et I said, interrogatively. ee es. ” sf Upon a pleasant subject, I hope, Beatrice?” ‘*Do my looks indicate that, guardy?”” “Not exactly; but then you never appear very Ss No; for lam not RADOYs/ “Not happy, Beatrice? Iam sorry.” a N 0» Iam not happy. I feel dissatisfied, undecid- Just the chance I wanted. Linterrupted: ‘‘ With all your strong points, Beatrice, you lack the happy faculty of being able to make up your mind; it is that that keeps you in this restless, dissatisfied state. Now, I’m older than you, am I not?” ‘* Considerably,’’ she replied, tartly. Icoughed. I have been sensitive on that point ever since Ettie became mine. I ignored her little thrust, and went on: ** And I have authority over you, have I not?” “Tn a measure.”’ 7) How?”’ That sounded like defiance from her. “In a measure, guardy. I will obey you so long as you are reasonable; but when you are not, then I shall feel justified in disobeying you.” ‘** Liable to kick,” Imuttered to myself. ‘‘Not at all tractable, Very self-willed and high-strung— “Yes,” I said, aloud. ‘It seems to me, Béatrice, that a mistake was made; you certainly ought to have been guardian, and I the ward——”’ .- “I feel positive that such an arrangement would have insured a happier state of things,’ she inter- rupted. I Pelt asif I were a boy then, as she looked at me, and laughed at my discomfiture. Realizing that it was useless to try to lead up tothe subject, | determined to broach it at once... “ Beatrice, I want to see you settled in life.” “Are you going to die?” she asked, in a tone of mock alarm. ‘e—- - “ With a slight variation, you have expressed that sentiment already, guardy.’ at I uttered an impatient exclamation.. in the way I knew so well, she knelt. down beside me, placed her hand on my shoulder, and asked to be for given for her impudence. ; . “You love your guardian, Beatrice?’’.I said, gently. Of course I do; you have been very kind and good me. is “And you would try to please me?” ‘* Yes—in anything reasonable.”’ pth as I was saying, I desire to see you settled ife. 2 “Variation No. 2. Oh, guardy, is that all you have to say?’ and she laughed merrily. Irritated, I plunged boldly into the sub: ‘Beatrice onard Waildon has asked for your pees it is my desire—my intention, to see you is wife.’ She raised her head quickly, defiantly. ‘* Well, Beatrice?” “IT do not love him,” “ Pshaw!”” “Of course, you have no faith in that sentiment,’’ ey And experience will spoil your faith, too, Bea- ce,” Why did I say that? Ettie would hear, of it, of course, and it would confirm her idea that I did not love her. ‘* What is your answer, Beatrice?” “T will not become bis wife!” “wor no other reason than the one youjust gave me?” “T have no better reason now, guardy; perhaps in Este. J can give one that even you will consider T looked at her sharply. Was there some hidder meaning to her words? “J will never consent to your marriage with any one else, Beatrice. He is to come for his answer to- night, and ——”
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‘“Tell him, ‘no,’ quay ‘“*‘ Now, Beatrice, consider.” The door opened, my wife entered, and I stopped. How all my amicable intentions had been frustrat- ed! This interview with Beatrice had dispelled my peace of mind. I met Ettie’s cold greeting with equal coldness; and breakfast passed over, and still we were estranged. An hour’s moody reverie in my library, and then I arose, feeling that I could not endure this longer. I ned my door, and there in the hall stood Ettie and trice, talking earnestly together. Ettie was in street attire—that roused my wrath, So she was going out without one word tome! Her indifference stung me to the quick. I heard the words: ‘* You will never regret this step, I know, Beatrice. It was a noble resolve; Iadmire you for it, and I act _ as youremissary with great: pleasure. Adieu, for a while. We'll outwit the old ——”’ She saw me'then, and she stopped short. And how she changed! She had been smiling, and ‘talking in her old'gay way; now she turned pale, and look first sad, then angry. “You are pursuing your lately-adopted vocation, I see,”’ she said, her hip curling. “‘Lhope the acoustic properties of the hall are such that you have been able'to hear ail.’’ ; ‘thank you for the imputation, Mrs. Ingram,”’ I replied. | ‘*Could request you to step this way fora moment?’’ “You can, sir.” But she did not move. ‘“Will you kindly come, madame?’ I asked, after a pause. “* Certainly. quest.” I retreated into the library. She entered, her watch in‘herhand. 4 T looked at it in surprise. oe merry, mischievous look was in her eyes, as she I was waiting for you to make the re- “One moment, you said. I would not wish to tres- pass on your valuable time longer.”’ - be company is so disagreeable, I suppose,’’ I re- ‘* Not at all; you are very—very agreeable.”’ ‘Don’t sneer, Ettie; it is not becoming.” ‘Ditto. If you sneered less, you would be a deal more_ good looking. The momentisup. Iamin a bend 4 . i. 7 _ are you going, Ettie?’’ r ”» “T have the right to know.” “T acknowledge that right, but I do not choose to pander to inquisitiveness. I will not tell you.” *“You have some motive for that,” I cried. ‘*Have I?” *$ Yous! ** What is it?” » “You would notlike to hear me tell.” “I don’t like your insinuations, Allan Ingram,” she cried, “‘and I will not listen tothem! You are deter- : ; “ How beautiful she is! Mine, and yet not mine.” ‘The thought broughtsuch agony with it that I could have groaned al But my dignity must be pre- served,’ Fool that I was to consider my dignity. : I stood there, suffering with hidden pain, outwardly as. calna as a summer sea, {LO A’sudden st ion darted into my mind. ““Where’s Beatrice?” I asked, ae i Ettie started, and her hands grasped each other convulsively. he stole a look at the ormolu clock on the mantel, eré she answered, falteringly : “Tn her room, I suppose.” : “IT will send for her,” and I turned to leave the room. nce i “No—no!” Ettie ered, 3h era: then as I look- ed back in surprise, she added, with forced calmness: ““T will go for her. Let me go, Allan.” : “As you please,” I said, smiling grimly at her agita- tion, feeling sure that my suspicion was correct; that it was Beatrice who had entered the carriage. Ettie returned almost immediately, and with a tri- umphant air, ushered in my ward. My smile faded, and I felt, tosay the least, uncomfortable, “You wished to see me, guardy?” Beatrice asked. ‘““Yes, that is—or rather, I don’t ‘know—I mean, I er | ”ITsaw smiles on both faces, and I added, was th “TL believe I did, but I do not now.” could not humiliate her by subjecting her to such childish catechising as: ‘Have you been out?” — Had I considered that before I had spoken to my wife, it would have been well. Wearied and heartsick from these misunderstand- ings, I turned away abruptly, and descended to my library. On the way Dlearned from Peter that Leon- ard Waldon had departed immediately after my un- ceremouious exit; that Ettie had entered the hot about five minutes after, and that Beatrice had not been seen to go out at all, Fool—fool, that I had - . t 7 - . ee eee ¥
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< been! Such was the burden of my refiections as I ‘paced my librar floor. Could Mf ic tiave seen me, walking back and forth, er bowed upon my desk, she would have known that not hate, but jealous love, was in my heart for her. In the grey October dawn I stood before the glass and looked at my face, so haggard from this night’s I started, as I also saw the reflection of the win- dow, the grounds beyond, and a dark-robed figure moving through them. All my ungenerous suspicions returned like a flash. There was some secret in the house, I felt; this might be an opportunity for discovering it. Without a mo- ment’s hesitation, I opened the window, leaped over the veranda, and hastened on toward that agile ure; it was Ettie—I knew her form and step so well. house as a suburban resi- dence; it is situated in the suburbs of Boston, occupy- ing a charming site on the Charles river. The back faces the water, and the lawn there slopes down to the water's edge. Atthe left of the grounds is that lane of which mention has been made; on the right there is no boundary, so to speak-—that is, the neigh- bering house stands a gvodly distance off, anda stretch of ground intervenes, well covered with trees. In that direction Ettie was going. She had a cloak thrown over her head and shoulders—surely no pre- Geirar was indicated there—and she walked aim- q y along; even I could not think that she had any bone goat purpose in view. Yet I followed her stealth- y. She stepped in among the Sa and hemlocks, and made her way tothe river. Thetrees extended to the very edge. Against a sturdy pine she leaned, and look- ed sadly out over the water. She had pushed her cloak back, and I could see her face, pale and sad, ‘and her eyes swollen as if with weeping. I stood apart, waiting for the rest. Why had she come here? Wasit caprice—a desire for solitude— or, was this part of the secret that—— y cogitations were ne ce by a low, terrified shriek from Ettie. What had happened? Why was she Jeaning over and looking down into the water so intently? Why was her face so white and set, her eyes so wide and wild? Another shriek, and then she fell on her knees on the damp, dank earth, and commenced pulling—pull- ing at something. What was it? I peered forward have mentioned m sneculys saa I made out a dark object in the water just within her reach. A feeling of horror, an instinct of what was com- ing, kept me rooted to the spot. I stood stock still, staring at her delicate hands as they tugged and tug- ged ati’. At last I saw what I had expected—the face of one dead—then I saw more than I had expected— the dead was “ my aes _ I fairly quaked as I made that discovery. capnose it were known that he was my enemy, and that I had met him on the previous night? h, horror! what new misfortune was about to overtake me? I forgot my own fears, however, as I looked at Ettie. She was sitting there like a figure cut from marble, her wild, Mien eyes fixed Hpor that face that she had su ed in lifting up from the water. In alarm I was about to start forward and go to her, when her head drooped, and a oe heart- rending moan burst from her lips; then fo lowed a WwW, piteous wail: _. “My brother—oh, my brother!” My God, her brother! I recoiled asif a hand had struck me. I now, for the first time, remembered the existence of such a being as her brother; I had heard him mentioned during a4 courtship as Herbert, the sailor lad, but I had not thought of him since. Oh, how unjust I had been, and how ungenerous. She had lost her hold on the gh dead, and when Tlooked again it was out of sight. She remained on the ground bowed with her grief, and moaning at in- tervals: “My brother—oh, my brother!" Suddenly she wertac to her feet. What a change had come over her. Not pale nov, but flushed; not the calmness of despair, but the fury of passion, - * Dead!” she cried; “my brother, for whom Ihave ked so much}, Who bennage this?—and why? The w shall find that out. I-—— Why did she stop and tremble so? Why did she bury oo face in her hands, and groan aloud? Isoon learned, for she raised her face, so full of pain, and wailed: : } “Oh, why did Allan tell me that he had met him! Why should this terrible suspicion come to me? Oh, no—no, he could not have done this !—and yet, did he not say that he knew I would not meet Herbert? Oh, now the law must not ern md aniets ten, ‘ iy must w for it may reflect on him. itr as pray saat down into the water. “Gone, thank God! lt had become fastened here and I have re- leased it, and now the current will bear it far—far away. Thank God for that! Oh, my husband—my husband!” she sree i enh ta anaes Would od I had not liv: see this day ao heartily I echoed her words. Thatshe should Suspect me was agony; and even should I stoutly deny the deed would not suspicion still lurk in her mind? “Isitright or wrong?” I heard her moan, as she drew her cloak about her with a shivering gesture, and moved away from the river. “Jt was.a aby Soa between my duty to my brother, dead, and my hus- nd, living. I will aia py oe ee Oh, G: give stren bear oO mt ength to me guilty; I think I hated ny wife just then. If it had been to save my life and hers I would not have uttered a word of denial. “T will never deny it—never!”’ Icried, in my heart. “She may believe me guilty always, unless chance Proves me innocent!" 4 fy ~~ a MY YOUNG WIFE. pen her to pass on, and I stood and watched CHAPTER V. A CONFUSION OF IDENTITIES. My wife and I met at breakfast, and the usual calm, ceremonious demeanor was preserved between us. Ilooked at her and wondered—could this be the wo- man I had seen down by the river? There was nota trace left of the anguish I had witnessed; I could not realize that it had been an actual occurrence—it Seemed more as if it had been some hideous phantasy. Idid really decide that I had been the victim of a nightmare, as Ettiesaid: “Allan, do you intend to lend your presence to Marian Stewart’s ba/ masque?”’ Could she think of festivities if she had seen her brother dead that morning? “*T don’t know, my love,”’ I replied. “You are very definite. Thank Pint for nothing.” “Welcome, my dear—welcome, Why did you ask?” “T thought I would like to know, so that——”’ ‘In case I were going, you could send in your re- grets,” 1 interrupted. ‘““Now, you want me to dispute with you; but I shall not doit. Could you not allow me to coniplete my own sentence?” i I thought I would save you the trouble, my dear “You mean, you saw a chance for saying some- thing spiteftl, and you were determined to improve “As you please, my love, Now you want me to dis- pute with you ; but I shall not do it.” : re arose, in her passionate, angry way, saying, notly: wp have asked you a simple question; since you will not answer it, I shall find out what I wish to knew. It will be good practice for me, for I intend to do a little detective business, shortly.” That made me think that the morning's occurrence had not been a phantasy. So I was to be placed under surveillance!—pleasant, that, truly. Isaid nothing, for I knew that one word would bon features a piquant expression that was really irresist- ible; eyes and hair were of a dull, ‘ead brown, and complexion not of the clearest. ‘Still she was much admired; there was a sprightliness—a charm in her serigy D that made one forget the faultiness of fea- ure. ray We separated, and mingled with the motley throng, and I soon lost sight of ‘La Fille,” whom I be- lieved was my wife. “*T know you,” said a voice at my elbow. I turned, and saw our hostess. , “T would know you among a thousand, Allan In- m,’’ shé went on. ‘“ And, of course, I ‘know now ow to find your wife and your ward. Ah! théré’s Et- tie now,” as she caught sight of ‘*La Fille” passing along. ‘She was on your left, so, of course, that is Bitie, “Tl go and speak to her. ‘Oh! but ish’t that sad about Oliver Waldon?” : = ‘**What now? Hasthat rumor been confirmed?” ‘Worse than that! He’s had to leave thé country!" ‘* Indeed?’ I said it gladly. . Na BAT Do! “Oh, yes! I have it from first pit BT So Harry Bostwick, in fact—my very particular friend. ouknow. He saw Oliver off. It’s too bad, isn't it? ut I must go and tell your wife; she'll be sorry to hear it, of course.” That ‘‘of course” stirred my wrath. ~ ‘ Why should Ettie be sorry? Would she be sorry? I was reasonable gnoush. te ask myself that. “T will know,” I said; and I drew near to the spot where Marian and Ettie were standing. * What did you say?” The tones were faint and tremulous. I hed my teeth with rage. . “T said that Oliver Waldon has had to leave the country.” “ Are you sure?” “Positive. Harry Bostwick—my friend, you kniow— saw him off.” “When?” “Last evening, I believe, or the evening before, or perhaps it was the evening before that.” ‘*Where—where has he gone?” “TG Europe.” " “T cannot credit what you tell me!"’ ; My wife was actually swa; ing—she was faint! Thenews of Oliver Waldon’s departure had over- lead to another, and I was determined not to speak | powered her. in_my own defence. Imagine my feelings. The bal masque was to take place on the comin “Oh, yes, itis so, I knew you would be sorry, Et- Friday night, It was now Wednesday. I learned | tie.” from Beatrice that Ettie was going, and she evidently |} At that she made an effort to copiaees herself, learned from the same source that I was going. Iwas quite taken aback on that evening, when Peter came to my door and said that the ladies desired me to wait upon them in the sitting-room. I finished the arrangement of my lace necktie, took a survey of myself in my elaborate court costume of crimson satin and white velvet, and then descended. Two masked figures, like statues, stood before me, asl opened the doer. One—tall, grand, estic— in the long, full skirt of flowered silk, the jeweled stomacher, ruff, and high head-gear, composed the court costume of the time of Elizabeth; the other— charming and piquant—in the red silk skirt, tinseled cuir: and natty hat, that designated her asthe “Daughter of the Regiment." I stood confused. hich was Ettie?—which Bea- trive?, The attire of one added to, and the other’s detracted from, her hight. My confusion deepened as they walked across the room, for the one that I had decided was Ettie walked in the stately way that characterized Beatrice, At length, I hazarded a guess. 4 “ Ettie,”’ I said, staying my lady of the Elizabethan ime, A. double peal of hter ted my ears, both ladies unmasked, and I found that 1 nad meatal @ mis- take—that was Beatrice, and ‘La Fille,” who had deceived me with her stately steps, was my wife. ‘I did not think we would succeed so well,” said Et- tie, gleefully. I could not understand her mirth. Again I doubted the reality of the other morning's occurrence, ‘Nor I,” returned Beatrice. ‘‘Do you believe you will know us now, guardy ?”’ a would be strange if I did not—would it not, e . That was an overture to peace. “Not at all,” accompanying her words with a meaning smile. ‘Is that a thrust at my stupidity, or is it that you wish to disagree as usual?” ‘“*‘ Anything you please.”’ Peter put an end to this unpleasantness by an-. nouncing the arrival of the earriage. We rode in silence tothe scene of the night’s fes- tivities, a distance of two miles, In due course of time, we entered the brilliantly- lighted parlors; we—that is, myself, Ettie on my left, Beatrice on my right—or rather, ** La Fille” on my left, and “‘my lady ”’ on my right, will state here a fact of which I was not cognizant atthe time: Ettie and eatrice, satisfied that they could deceive me as to their identities, had ex costumes ere descending to the parlors, so that_** Fille’ was now Beatrice, and ‘‘ my lady’ was Ettie, while I believed it to be vice versa. We paid our silent devoirs to our hostess (who was unmasked, of course.) ; et here I will take the opportunity to say a few words regarding her. it Marian Stewart was a lady whose chief characteris- tic was loquaciousness. In common parlance ‘she might be designated as a news-monger, or @ gossip; but her position in society, her silks and satins, save her from that. She was of medium bight, plump and round in form, so plain of face that she would have been called homely but for her re¢rousse nose, that gave to her ‘ wae — 4 et realizing, probably, how unguarded she p “ Tell me this,” she said, a tone forcedly calm, “ did he leave any word for his—his friends?” i “Not any. I believe he said that he had no friends. That was a little unkind, I think, for you are his friend, and I'm sureI am. You know, I’ve had more toleration with his gay, insouciant ways than most people, and he has, in turn, regarded me with t riendliness. He always spoken very highly of you, Ettie; but I can’t say as much for Beatrice. How often I have twitted him about marrying her, and he has answered—now, I can rely upon you not to repeat it—has answered: ‘ Never!—not I’m in an un- commonly embarrassed financial condition, and see no other way of extricating myself.’ A characteris- tic reply, was it not?”’ Isaw ‘La Fille” put out her hand in an uncer- tain way, as if she were groping about for support, ‘Are you ill?” asked atas _ “No; alittle faint, that is all. I will goto the dress- ° ing-room.”’ “Let me attend you.” ““No—no! I prefer to go alone,” was the rather sharp reply. ‘ I was so enr: , that if she had fallen before my eyes, I believe I would not have stirred a step to assist her. She flesppeared, and Marian Stewart moved on, to retail this delectable morsel about my wife's “meg upon hearing of the departure of Oliver aldon. I went over to one of the windows with the inten- tion to step out. and vent my anger beneath the stars. Judge of my astonishment when I saw Oliver Waldon standing there!—he had raised his mask to wipe his heated face, and thus I knew him, ; I believe I would have spoken to him from sheer gee if just then the window had not opened, a masked figure entered from i pene 3 he enter- ed, looked up at Oliver's face, and started a cry indicative of dismay and fear. * "Oliver cg gael pos ligh “The same,” was the reply, ina merry tone Lndw hated” kn T thine Y rocdeniod tae tien Bostwick’s voice, Is’t thou, my noble —— But you seem agitated! Your hand trembles! Is it at seeing me? Have you told that story so often about iny departure fer Europe that you have come to believe it yourself? You could not be more shock- ed if 1 had acisen from the dead, and appeared before *“No—fact—I could not. I say, old fellow,” he added, trying to speak carelessly, ‘where were you on—let me see—on Monday nig the night otter that on which you told me to circulate about going to Europe?” ““T can’t say, friend. Why do you ask?” “ Because I was sure that I met yeu coming out of Ingram’s place.” ‘Not I—it must have been my wraith. I hope you Pere chitenns mae tk r 6 evidently saw me standing by then. for he put He An SaRaen Oliver’s, andiel fils off ere he mad 4 e any reply. saw that I had not been the onl tator of this scene; not three feet from me btood my or 7 Beatrice, as I believed. Her hands were Clasp to- seep pat bosom heaved, and her breath came quick and hara, e@ report
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Xe: ve _ geem strange, ‘“There’s con ion in the air,’ I said to myself, + and the malady SORRHAR; I looked at Beatrice; she started on, passing me by, and I heard her murmur: ‘That diverts my suspicions. It seems like aclew.” I could not.understand her words then. .Of what was Beatrice suspicious? “ What next?” I thought. I had not long to wait. “So it was all a hoax,’’ I heard. I knew my hestess’ voice.) ._ | Teg but no one must. know it but you.” It was Oliver who replied. f 1 bid you not run a risk then in coming here to- ni ” eattron ; ns sure, but I could not resist the desire to come and hear how my vaunted departure was re- garded,”’... = of fe is one here who regards it ina way that shoul tter you.” ‘ “ nd that rs) is-—’? Ated. teenth, She almost fainted when I told her,””. ““Indeed! Pray do. not.contradict your statement. Now, tell me how I may know her, so that I can avoid her, and the rest of her family.” “ There—there’s Ettie, now!” and she nodded over toward me, ‘ : , Nes, there was ‘‘ La Fille,” standing near me, yet apparently unconscious of my proximity, She moved on ae then, brushed by me in a twinkling—yet even so I heard a stifled sob beneath her mask. Out through the window she went; and as soon as I re- saverpa dram my er, I followed., I walked the en- tire length of the balcony, but could not see her, I leaned ee the railing, and looked dewn into the garden made out. two moving: figures there, and I eard Oliver Waldon’s voice: ‘Mrs. Ingram, where is Beatrice?”’ The reply, was. too faint to reach my ears. tes arling!” then.said Oliver, “I came here.to- night——”’ E Stop!" It did not sound like Ettie’s voice to me; but then it was ran mied and indistinct—that made it “T will listen to no falsities.” ‘‘Falsities! What do you mean?” “T mean that I believe you to be a nenperieg I know now that which I have always feared.”’ r Tals from you?” ‘Yes, from me. I have heard that to-night which makes us strangers henceforth. When you confide ae any one aga n, choose another than rian Stew- a : “T can explain all that you have heard.” course you can. Your hypocrite always can “Of e you h ite al explain, I wish never to see you again, Oliver Wal- don, I can love, and I can hate; you have gained that latter by being false with me. Never—never will I acknowledge you!” e ©“ Oh, this is hard. Will you not let me speak?” ‘“Not to me, sir; Iwill not listen to a word, Now, on, go! and never try to see me again.” tween my wife and Oliver Waldon? i isch in silent wrath for some time; then I turned to i the parlors, and I came face to face with Cay ree hue create recoiled, uttering a ery of dismay. ** We will go at once, Ettie,”’ I said, sternly. © Bhe merely, bowed. , “At once, if you please,” I repeated. Without a word, she left me, , wrath was so great that I scarcely realized any- ot hoticé that “La Fille” was still masked as ucted her to the carriage; I did not once think at. oe cdo ce ' We rode home in silence. swe entered paid house, I remembered my ward, : plaining to Ettie in as few. words as possible, I , aid was driven rapidly back, lage ca h to my chagrin, Tlearned that Beatrice had gained other escort, and was probably at home by this ick again I went, and ascended hastily to Ettie’s roo ‘deter mitied 16 have a full explanation of the _ evening's incidents. © ae wee This time I didnot open the door quietly and reyer- ently, but quickly; passionate]. : T PT d Been trandiiced with ait zement before upon finding that Ettie was there; how can I describe my feelings now upon finding that Ettie was not there? wee me, on a chair, was the costume of “La Amp ee AsI entered, I saw on the table a sheet of paper that contained the following: — “I have gone from you, Allan. If we meet again there will be much to explain; if we do not, you will never know why [have taken this step. Do not try to find me. For your own sake, heed these Teauee Me . ’ “Errig, CHAPTER. VI. THUNDERBOLTS, I wit say nothing of my grief. I tried to learn how Ettie had gone, but could not. Beatrice knew nothing of it, and Peter solemnly assured me that no one had left the house between the time of my coming with Ettie and my second re- turn, Surel ea had seen her home—seen her enter the $e; ‘she had not left it, she must be in it. : ter and I searched from cellar to garret, but in A MY YOUNG WIFE. vain; Ettie was gone. How, and where?—that was the mystery. I sat in my library, on the following morning, brood- | ing over the sad state of affairs in the household. here had Ettie gone?—that was my ue I decided, after varied aud painful thought, that she must have gone tv her home in the country—-gone, to axolA the explanation that she knew I would de- mand, I determined to go there during the day, and see er. Ipictured our interview to myself, rehearsing. what I would say, and how I would demean myself. 1 would be gentle and tender, and try to win her back to my heart and home, The imaginary interview ended in complete recon- ciliation, of course, When I arrived at that point lL actually smiled with satisfaction, So earnest was 1 in. my fancies, that it seemed al- mat oh if that blessed result had really been brought about. Peter entered with the morning mail. There were very few letters this morning—two or joo ding business letters for myself, and. one for Bea- rice. The hot blood rushed to my face as I recognized the hand that had traced her name—Oliver Waldon’s; I knew it well, Then I made another discovery. It had been post- ed after midnight—after that interview with my wife had taken place. It probably contained some word in reference to that. There was a secret in the house, I knew; and the coming of this letter at this juncture, addressed to Beatrice, from.him, plainly proved to me that she was one of the conspirators, “She must marry Leonard Waldon!” [ cried, in my wrath, I sent for her immediately, She entered, more severe than I had ever seen her yet, it seemed to me, She was deathly pale ; her amber hair seemed smoother and. silkier than ever, and her black dress more startling in contrast. If my mind had not.been so engrossed with my wife, I should have thought that my ward had met with some heavy sorrow since the previous night. I Lassa the letter to her, and watched her closely. I smiled grimly as I saw her start and clutch the mis- sive convulsively; then crushing it in her hand, and looking the very incarnation of hate, she turned as if to go." Boatrive,” I said, firmly, ‘you will read it here.”’ She faced me depen Before she had time to say a word, I Peat stil sige 3 firmly: “You will read it here. In this instance you must Weare my authority. That letter is from Oliver Waldon——’ She started again. ' “ Yes, I know his writing well. Strange things have happened here of late; youmay, or you may not un- derstand what I mean; that causes me to insist? upon your reading it here, and after that you will allow me to read it,” She looked at me, her eyes glittering, her lips set in a thin, hard line, ; ; “Very intractable,” I murmured, She surprised me by obeying; she opened the let- ter, and stood sare me as read it. or the benefit of the reacer I will'give its contents here, as I learned them at a later date. ‘* BEATRICE, My Wir: I cannot accept the harsh de- eree you uttered last night, You are not cruel—why will you allow your mind to be swayed by whatyou hear? You know my nature—light, frivolous, thought- less at times—and how 'l often speak without mean- ing’ in one thing only have [ been earnest, and that is in my love for you; of that 1 have been so jealous that I have resorted to every artifice to keep it from the knowledge of the gossips. Do you not know that Marian Stewart isi¢aderof that band? “You became my wife the cther evening, I willing- | ly bend totiie peculiar ‘restrictions you have placed upon me in regard to that event, realizing their feasibility under existing circumstances, but I cannot lose you altogether, Oh, take back your harsh words, Believe me before others. I love you—you are my witewe cannot be strangers. Write to me, Beatrice or consent to see me. For the love of Heaven, heed my prayer. ‘ . “Your husband, OLIVER. id She looked up as she finished, and met my gaze. Her eyes still glittereda, her lips were still set in that thin, hard line; not the quiver of a muscle told of any emotion. put,out my hand for the letter. She reared her head defiantly, and with utmost deliberation tore the shevt into bits. I was speechless with rage.» She quietly walked to the fireplace, threw the bits into the grate, stood there till the flames had consumed them, and then, without a word, left the room, It was some time* before I recovered from my wrath; then I bounded to my feet, crying: “She shall marry Leonar Waldon, andat once. I cannot have one here who will thus aid and abet my | wife.” It was afternoon ere I was sufficiently composed to think of what I would do next. I would go to Ettie’s country.home. It was now four o’clock; I would start at once, and so reach my destination be- fore six. ’ My complacency returned as I thought of the re- conciliation Ihad pictured, andI started to make my exit from the house with a smile upon my lips. ‘“There’s all my worldly belongings in that ere bag, and these city doors ain’t no way safe: just take it right along up stairs, and tell your missus I’m here.” 4 co th they ly N é $ "~" are “ete! Those words, uttered in a high, cracked voice, fell on my ear, and I saw, standing by the door, an. an- tiauated-looking female, flourishing a blue cotton umbrella, and issuing her orders to Peter, who, to say the least, looked dismayed. .... How can I describe my feelings? _ I took one survey of the small, bent figure, arrayed in a scant skirt of black silk, a light green shawl with palm-leaf border | & chocolate-colored bonnet, a figured lace veil, an brown cotton gloves, Then I retreated to my library, and exclaimed in my despair: “Good God, her aunt! What shall I do now?” T realized that there was no time for delay. I must out at once. Her coming just now told me that Ettie had not gone to her home. “ Where—where?"’ I wailed. But I could not dwell on that painful query; I must out, and so speak to this unwelcome aunt, that she would gain no suspicion of the unpleasant state of affairsin the household. I would not acknowledge to any one that Ettie and I were unhappy, and I loved my wif6é so well that I would stoop to any subterfuge to serve her. With asickly smile upon my face, I hastened out . into the hall, greeted my guest, led her into the sit- rata and placed her before the glowing grate e, She was a perfect specimen of a country spinster, Not all her intercourse with Ettie’s mother (who was a cultivated woman, and had been in her youth,a city belle), and with her brother, Ettie’s father, (who was an educated nan, and a gentleman farmer) had had any effect upon her old-fashioned ways. “*T cannot allow her from my sight for a moment!” UB ii ines, inwardly, while with a bland smile, I said, aloud: “You're very welcome, Aunt Phosbe. T hope you’ve come to stay.” “Oh, ia, yes. I’ve come to make quite a distended visit,’’ she piped, as she untied her bonnet strings. “ But where’s Et—ain’t she to hum?” I thought Thad prepared inyself for this question, but when it came, and felt I the lite woman's keen, bead-like eyes upon me, 1 grew confused, and won- dered if it would be safe for me to tell the falsity I had determined upon. ‘ “Ettie—Etiie,” Istammered. “You mean Ettie——” “Yes, Ettie—she’s gtd wife, ain't she? Leastways, you married her. ealkerlated that you'd know something about her.” Spinster-like, she was bitter regarding the marriage relation. ““Of course—of course,’ I bastened to ‘say, really put out by her'sarcastic tone. “The fact is, hem— ii 8, She—that is, Ettie has gone away on a. visit.’ : “T want to know—has she?” “Yes, I miss her very much,” : “Do you, poor soul? Hasshe been gone long?” “A few days.” “Is that so? When does she calkerlate to come back?” : a : ‘“‘ Not for some time. I’m afraid.” _ Hanae “Do tell? That's too bad! I ain’t sot eyes on her sence you took her off from our village. I reckon she’s happy ” . ; q “Oh, yes; we get along Shareuinaty together.” “Do you? I didn’t think you would. I used to sa to Ettie—says 1: ‘Et, he’s too old for you——’” : Lcoughed. The little woman, not at all disconcert- ed, went on: c “*He’s too old for you, Ettie. He'll. forget that. you're young, and you'll never agree.’ Ain’t had n quarrels, eh?” “ Oh, no,”’ : ‘ ‘* Now, ain't that beautiful? Only Phe to think of it! I hope it'll last. peau does—seldom does,” an she smoothed out the folds in Ber igrecn shawl in sad sort of away. “Well,” she added, brightening up, ‘‘I’mhere,and I'd justas lief stay a month as not, though I hope she'll come homie before that. I've riz wp for the first time in my life; P ain't never had no hankering to see the world before; but*now I’m here, and [I'm goiug to be took around by you. I'vé been teas of myself up,” as she complacently stroked her glossy silk skirt, ‘and I’m ready to go anywhere.” . will pass over the few days of torture that follow- ed. What with my fear, that Aunt Phoebe should learn the truth, my grief and my anxiety at my wife’s continued absence, and my endeavors to keep. up appearances, I was at:my wits’ end, — Beatrice added to my distress by cee igs meet we had invitations to a dinner at Bostwick's, I had entirely forgotten that. lt was to take place on the following evening. ‘The invitations had come before the masquerade; to send in our regrets at this late date would not. only be a breach of etiquette, but it would be the signal for surmise and conjecture to commence, “Better act boldly,” I thought, ‘‘or the gossips will begin to sift for facts.” | We decided to go, and we went. As [ entered the parlor my heart sank; each girest looked up at me wonderingly. . “Your wife- where is she?” was the query that sounded on every side. : ' “ Away on a visit,” was my invariable reply, I tried hard to preserve a semblance of cheerful- ness; I felt that was succeeding poorly. I fancied that it could be read upon my face, that I was ill at. ease, and unhappy. Jnl Mrs, Bostwick was an invalid; a cheerful woman, however, very fond of company, though unable to leave her room. These dinner reunions were of fre- quent occurrence in her house; she could not mingle with the guests, of course, but she always sat in state in her room and received them, 1 one I thought of her, and decided to kill the time that
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MY YOUNG WIFE. 7 was hanging so heavily on my hands by paying my devoirs to her. oe er on Her reception-room, as it Was called, was beyond the conservatory that opened from the parlors. In passing through that I saw that Mrs. Bostwick was en- gaged with a t; upon looking again, 'l saw that the guest was Marian Stewart; and thenI saw more, & young woman, Mrs. Bostwick's nurse, evidently, for she stood bya small table, holding in her hands a tray containing a light repast, and was lost in listen- ing to the conve ion that was being carried on. fell to wondering why her face seemed so familiar to me; then my attention was attracted by what Marian Stewart was saying. “Have you heard about Mrs. Ingram?” ‘‘No,. What about her?” “She has left her husband!” “No! You don’t say so!” “Tdo. It’s a fact. He is here, this evening, and is trying hardto keepup appearances. But you see, I know more than people give me credit for. I under- stand it all a, well.” “*Well, what is it?” “Of course, you know that she married old Ingram for his money--everybody knows that; and, as is per- fectly natural, she turns for sympathy to one who is more her equal in years. aven’t you heard that that one is Oliver Waldon?”’ ON. Tia = Oh, cee indeed, it is so. I wasn’t quite positive about it till the other night. She was at our dal masque, ou know—she came as ‘La Fille du Regi- ment.’ ell, I told her about. Oliver Waldon’s de- arture for Europe —and you should have seen her! he all but fainted, she was so overcome! Just think ofit! Of course, that.is why they have separated.” “ And Oliver Waldon is away, you say?” “Yes,” hesitatingly. ‘* That is the report.” “ Both away—that looks significant. Eh, Marian?’ Crash!—went the tray, and the articles tliereon; and the nurse stood looking half-dismayed, half-angry, at the invalid and her guest. I saw that. she was trembling—I caught the flash of her eye, and a suspicion darted into my mind. She turned from the questioning looks leveled upon her, a proud, bitter smile upon her lips, and started to the door that Jed out to the garden. Like a flash she disappeared. I stepped out of the conservatory window, and eae down to the gronnd,. In the dim moonlight I could make out a fleeing figure. I fol- lowed in hot haste, and overtook her. I heard a sob & moan; I placed my hand upon her shoulder, and d softly: aa “Bttie.” My suspicion had been correct. With a low, sharp ery she faced me—it was my wife. CHAPTER Vi. FALSE, OR TRUE. THe moon, now on the wane, gave but little light. I could, just see Ettie’s eyes, glowing like two balls of fire as they met mine. : Westood beneath a large tree, through which the October wind moaned fitfully, sending down a show- er of leaves that fell about us in a stealthy, ghost- like way... It was allso weird, so soft, and low and mysteriouk seeming like a-premonition of evil; and that,,.combined with the strange conduct of my wife, ortlved né till I was fairly beside myself. . “ Ettie,”’ I had said, and she had turned on me with asharp cry, .. Thus we stood in silence for several moments. “Allan, you here!’ she exclaimed, in what seemed to be a re chful tone, é ‘Yes. Why? I asked, coldly. |’ ee Sid not think you'd come—alone,” : “You thought I would sit and mope for the rest of my da, B because rou were gone; I suppose,” aes 2 did,” she said, wearily. i suppose you could expect that after ké. range that y isa he in atch an unaccountable way.” “T know it,is.”’ , Yer humility exasperated me more than defiance could have done, for it seemed like a confession of her wrong-doing. i said, hotly: “Did you think your thraldom over me was so great—thatI was so abject a slave, that however slightingly I was treated—however litle respect was id me, I would stillmourn and grieve for OS ke “Then you did not are, absence was nothing maf”? r voice was full o nD, Wate eautd it be? Afterall chat has ig ghe “What—what has happened!” she asked, sharply, ““You ask me what?” { cried, angrily. ““When you left your home so secretly that no one knew of hl exit, to avoid the explanation you knew I woul de- mand! You can stand there and ask me then— what has happened?’ Do you not know that I both saw and heard as Marian Stewart told you of Oliver Wal- don’s departure for Europe? _Do you not lynow that I both saw and heard as you met that miscreant in the garden? Why did you etcene me with your disguise? Had I not known that, I might now feel less assured of my wife’s falsity, One so skilled in duplicity—so practiced a hypocrite as you-—" Ps Allan Ingram!” she interrupted. ‘You ¢ nd ‘more than enough, Oh, how keenly you will regret those words some day! at this vd dust——” “You are getting to be both theatrical and non- sensical,’’ I sneered. ‘' Do you think I am a fool, ‘madame.”’ ** Yes—I do!’ she snapped. “What!” Oh, it seemed as if I could not. contain myself at that! I fairly danced with my rage. ‘I tell you+you ave a fool! Would you like to know why? Because you doubt your wife.” ‘Great Heavens!’ I cried. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses?» Doubt my wife! How can Idoelse? Can I dispute the evidence of my own eyes and ears? Did I not see and: hear for myself! And have not your own actions added conviction to it all? Ob—oh! how inscrutable are the ways of women— indeed—indeed, they are past all finding out! Are you mad, Ettie? ould to God. you were—rather that, than unfaithful.” “Tam neither one nor the other,” she replied, proudly. Sy ‘Neither mad nor unfaithful, “The fond belief you have in your innocence is al- most amusing, madame—it would be were it in another but my wife.” : “And the persistency with which you believe me false and unfaithful is almost amusing, sir—it would be were it-in another but. my husband,’ “Heavens, Ettie, you’ll drive me mad!” ‘“Would to God I could!” she cried, mockingly. “Rather that than suspicious.” _ “Have Inot good cause?—tell me that, If there is any way in which you can prove that I do you in- justice, in Heaven’s name, prove it at once!” 1 believe I screamed these words, so full of agony and anger was I. ‘*There is a way, Allan——” “Then at once—at once! Prove it at once!” 1] cannot.” “ Cannot—cannot! and why?” _— of a solemn, promise—a vow I have made,”’ “To whom?” “That Iam not at liberty to tell.” ‘*Oh, this is nonsense! rubbish! You cannot ex- pect me to believe it, Ettie.” : “Of course not. You are too unreasonable; too stubborn; too fond of your own opinions; too old and set in pone ways, to believe anybody but your- self. But li to you, as if 1 were before my Maker, Lam innocent of all wrong; I am true to you in thought and deed. Will you believe me?” ““Give me the proof, Ettie,”’ I said, sternly. Oh, 1 wanted to believe her; but my eyes and ears, could I doubt them? ‘“T cannot,”’ she moaned. “Give me the proof!’ I cried, fiercely, taking her by the arm. ‘No + it no vow can hold in such a case as this, It is your duty to clear yourself in the eyes of your husband, Ihave good grounds for ‘my suspicions; you must prove that I am in the wrong, or——”’ fecvin *T cannot,” she interrupted, firmly. I pushed her from me; yes, I pushed her from me rudely, muttering: Oh, how Lhave been deceived ‘*** As false as fair.’ in you.” he stood apart, her head bowed... Suddenly. she looked back at me, her hands claspedias if in agony; one moment thus, then she started asif to flee from me, But I stayed her; I placed my hand upon her shoulder, saying: “What now?” : ) “Twish to go away,” she said, passionately. 1 wish never to see you again, I cannot endure this longer; it is killing me—killing me. Let me go, Allan, and 7 will never trouble you more.”’ | “You will do nothing of the kind, Mrs. Ingram; hee will return with me at once, You are my wife, 1 ileve,”” > ; ** Yes,”* in, oh, such a sad tone! “And Iam your husband, I believe,” “ Yes.” “Please let that creer be remembered. It gives me authority over you; I shall exercise it now by conducting you at once to your home. Ide not choose that my wife shall so deport herself as to make me a laughing-stock among all my friends, That brings me to the question I had intended to ask first of all: What does this masquerading mean? Why are you here in ise? Does Mrs. Bostwiek know who ay is that is acting as her nurse?”’ ay ‘0. .% oe as S any one know ?” Oo. ” ‘“Why have you done it ?” **T will not tell you.” * What !”” **T will not tell you.” ‘* May I presume to ask why this reticence ?” i You. may presume to ask, sir, but I refuse to answer. ‘ “I command you to tell me why ! “You are not at all polite, Mr. Ingram,” she said, coldly, vistors d herself from my grasp. “If for no other reason, I would refuse to answer to a com- mand, I can be led, but not driven. Understand me now, if you please: I will not tell you why I am here in disguise. Consideration for you makes me thus determined. After what has just occurred— you saw and heard, I suppose; you have the happy aculty of being on hand at times to see and hear—I must resign my position as nurse to Mrs. Bostwick. It would interfere with the purpose I had in view to have it known that I have bedn enacting a role in this house, so I will give them no opporunity of discovering it. t will accompany you at once,” “You have decided to come sneered. “Yes. Ican, do nothing else just now. Oh, spare me a little, Allan,”’ she wailed, “I am very misera- home then,” I sten, Allan Ingram: I stand here and say. all; pense. - ~The door opened, and Ettie appe ; |‘ ped-short as she saw Beatrice, find ek han _land. TI heard her w > ble—very unhappy. Have a little mercy on me} Yes, I will go home, and perhaps—”’ There was a world of hope in her tone as she went on: we ‘PerhapsI can give you the proof that you re- quire.” : : ‘ i Bho.had neared me, and. as she spoke she aced er hand upon my arm, and ss, into, y face. All my Roart went out in lorie fg cd er ana her” love. For one moment I put aside: my doubts, and I drew. her to me, and bent my head to hers. It came in contact with the muslin, fanchon that covered her wig of jet black hair—that broke the 4, spell. That reminded me. of my_ wife’s falsity, of which I felt so firmly convinced that only actual proof | ‘ that there was © much.in her life that she persisted in concealing from * would satisfy me—it reminded. me me; it broke the spell, and I put her from me quickly, saying: , { We will gonow. Of,course you cannotenter that house again as you are; you will wait here while I make my adieux, and secure Leonard’s escort for Beatrice; then, hatless and in this disguise, you will come with me.” I left her, speaking thus coldly, though in my heart ‘there was aed rejoicing because my wife was found. r Even if strife and dissension, suspicion and doubt, were to be the order of the day, my house would be home, and I would be content, while she was with me, ' ry ve I made my adieux, informed Miss Stewart bam ph antly that my wife had returned from her visit, told Beatrice that Leonard Waldon would wait upon her, and then I joined Ettie, and we. hastily entered the carriage and were driven home, I informed Ettie of her aunt’s arrival, and she, to ~ my great relief, was as desirous.of hiding our unhap- . piness from the little woman as I had been. We succeeded in entering the house unseen Aunt Phoebe, thanks to retired, Ettie hurried to her room to, ch tire, after beeing of me to wait in the even for the return of rice. ' I we lang — musing, Eb Ms pleasantly, for above a strange. reserve ir Inanner Thad detected, or fenced that Thad detect- ed, the joy, to home and loved ones, . 6 4g if oe y Had she come to me then and repeated her solenin . assurance of innocence, which I in,m ion had ° refused to believe, without pret, I would have takin her to my heart, and promised to forgive and forg: t but, as, usual, my. good. intentions were all’ Shonater ialiagmes time by the coming of Beatrice aud_ eonara, they - t a looked up, impatiently, How very severe Bea- ce appeare * What less devoted admirer than Leonard, would be dis- 1g room cour by. one glance at her... Hea; s pleased; I nope he has.improved this opportu nig? HH raat ete Ettie will be down presently,” I said, cheerfully. I noticed, that the hard, severe loo deepened on’ Beatrice's face at) the mention gory e's poe also noticed that she made no comment on thé su of her return, I don’t know what] thought;, l believe I’ rould greet each other, ubts shunned the pase semblance of wrong; if, she were cold towards. Ettie row, 1—- well, ped it would not be so, for it Would turn the balance to’ each other convulsively. h, how’ beaut ful she looked! She had. fastened some white ad block h bd relieved by .a profusion of soft white lace at t throat. That was all, but it suited her pale, rathe’ sad face, as.well. [ Sergi | A? i My heart sank as I witnessed the greeting. Bttie ste forward eager, And, erpsped.. Beatrice sper: A igoke ou.alone can, help me. Oh, Wavy brown hair; her dress was of dead ‘Lam. in. trouble, will your” ; , Beatrice looked at her, her.face set and rigid, her lips thin and compressed, and Answered no : Oh,the contrast between the two! one pleading imploring—the other standing as stern as justice, her very attitude seeming to say: ‘ With justice there is no mercy.” * She doubts Ettie,” I wailed in*my heart. “She has aided her hitherto; but for some reason, she now turns from her.”’ r Ettie turned to me despairingly, saying: “Allan, tell Beatrice what you have heard this pei a “Idid. When I had finished, Ettie turned again to Beatrice, saying SEDI OISENY:. , ; ° wal Ou tet Khis go 08 hae I suffer——”, couldnot up ® low, icy interru that I heard: ps ei hia *‘ Iwill never acknowledge it! neyer! “To clear you I must confess all—and that I can not, will not do, for I hate him! Break your ponies our vow, you .choose; clear yourself if you will—but L will oie ge you with a word! 1 would sooner lose my e ” “And I must endure this?’ Ettie moaned, She was very pale, and her hands were pressed over her heart, as ifshe would still its tumultuous beating. ** Beatrice, I beg of you,” she went.on. “Be just. to him, be merciful tome, and speak! Think what the gladness that one féels upon a return her primitive habits, bad | e her at-_ i must confess,” Ettie’s | d. ldga wlarvee tl nt has happened to her?” Lasked myself. ‘A.’
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a 8 ee er ln SLA aA OIE ROO hee Lie: , your silence poo a upon us both! and for the love ey chair, of heaven, spes “Not one word.” ° ; = Oh, how can.you be so cruel! I plead not only for myself, but also for him.” So. e loved him so well—the miscreant—that she wished to shield him. My jealousy was not assuaged by what I heard; instead, it raged more fiercely than ever. “ Beatrice—Beatrice!” pleaded Ettie. “Tt is useless—utterly useless! I will never speak! 1 can, if you will break your vow; but I never w | ey : With these words she turned coldly ona. - Ettie stood for a moment, her uplifted ‘face full of agony; then, with her hands ‘still pressed over her heart, she faced meé, moaning: “TI cannot give you the proof, Allan. believe me false—always.” She looked wistfully at me—I did not move, nor With a_low, wailing cry, she sank into a buried her face in-her hands. You must CHAPTER VIL HAPS AND MISHAPS. AnornEeR day dawned—a ‘gloriots October day. I stood and looked out upon the beauties of nature, so calm, so peaceful, beneath the rays of the morning sun—so great a contrast to the tumult within me. It was & relief when I was attracted from’ the contem- lation -of the scene by catching sight of Aunt Phosbe's diminutive form outin the grounds. She was walking about as briskly as if she had a certain distance to accomplish in a certain time; and she was bobbing her head, and gesticulating as earnestly as if she were haranguing an andience. An energetic little body she was, quick-witted and keen, though she did make mistakes in the use of her words, as when she. told our servants that ‘she - wouldn’t give her clothes outto any of them found- es to be washed. ; Vague misgivings entered my niind as I watched her now; why, I do not know, unless it was because her actions hmted some of plotting. y “She may have her own opinion about Ettié’s visit and sndden return,’’ I thought, “‘and she will go to work to find out all the whys and wherefores in her own way—and that will be an unique way, Ill wager.’ Enter Ettie, looking pale and sweet in her morning- robe of black and ) (s oP) We - ‘ ke abruptly: _ “ Will you kindly endeavor tosmile? Your pensive air will. surely publish the fact of our unhappiness. Asmile, however wooden, may deceive your respect- ed relative.” ‘“Tam glad to know that you have left ever so little shame, as to wish to conceal your unkindness toward me.”’. “Could vou not as readily have said somethi pleasant, Ettie? Is it necessary to be so caustic al- ae oT t by example, you see.” t “Now, have L said one word this morning?” ? ki ¥ <8; you found fault with me immediately that I enteféed your nce.” *T only ventured to advise you a little.” “Tt was not eagroe aae Iam as anxious as you can be to hide the te 8 mistake I made in marry- ’ ing you.’ Tou are frank, madame,” I said, between my teeth. Lhéard the door creak, faintly. I looked out; Aunt Phoebe was no longer on the grounds. “It is she,” I thought. The door opened slowly, Icaught a glimpse of her brown stuff gown, and I said to Ettie, in the gen- if ri ta th love? . Ap! ‘ou have the paper, my love?”’ . She Boker at me in Rinashinone! ‘I noddéd ‘toward thedoor, She seemed to understand, for she answer- sweetly: re Oh, no, dear! I couldn’t think of depriving you of ‘ 7 But Iam quite through with it, my love; indeed, am.’ a = Now, lam sure you're making a sacrifice for me, ear. ; es “Notat all) There, take this chair; no, fake this one, then the sun will not shine in your eyes. I can’t haye the sun shining in your eyes, you know, my love, yt you have a footstool? or, do you prefer the ender? “The fender, by all means, dear; the footstool is too soft. [ hate set ree soft!” and she darted a byes at me that pointed her words at me beyond a oubt, “Thank youl’? I muttered, fiercely; then I added, aloud: “I'm afraid the light is too strong for your eyes, my love; shall I draw the blinds?” Enter Aunt Phoebe, all smiles; even the little cork- screw curls that hung about her face seemed full of glee, for they bobbed and bobbed, asshe advanced wards us, saying: . “Oh, how beautiful ! My skirt got ketched in the door, and I heard you both. How very happy you are, tobe sure.” + “ Oh, yes!”’ we said, simultaneously. * Never have no quarrels,’ and she put her head on one side, and loo! at-us keenly.” en **Oh, no!” we chimed. a, “Do tell. ‘Sow glad Iam, to be sure! And it’s lik this always? ° tes | “ Always, we repeated. ; **How you talk! I shall be bey resiieey § of you, I ul sight. It WIFE. MY YOUNG does my old eyes good. I’m'glad I'come—I'm glad I come!” I didn’t like the little woman’s exuberance; it made me feel uncomfortable, for it seemed almost asif she wore speaking mockingly. ** Could she have learned the truth in any way?” I asked myself. ‘She tripped around the room, admiring) this and that, keeping up a constant chirping in her hig! shrill voice; yet I felt that she was taking note o —— word aud action that passed between Ettie and 1. I stood by the mantel, chafing inwardly at thisnew discomfort, and the restraint it imposed upon me. Ettie dropped the paper. Leagerly seized the oppor- tunity it offered me. I stooped to pick it up, rustling it considerably to drown my voice as I said: * Pleasant, this—is it not? I could wish your aunt “Hospitablo, wpon-my word!"’ snapped Ettie, a lit- tle too loud. ‘‘ It’s the first time any of my people have intruded here, and it shall be the last.” “In Heaven’s name, hush!” I muttered, rustlin the paper frantically, and looking anxiously towa Aunt Phoebe, who seemed to be engrossed with a hanging basket. “ Her ears are as long, and her eyes as keen as——”’ * As yours,”’ she interrupted, in a biting whisper. Isaw Aunt Phoebe turn, and with a warning look at Ettie, I said, gently: “Tean't tind it, my love. I’m afraid we'll have to give up the search.’ “Yes, dear, don’t trouble-yourself any further.” ‘“My sakes!” cried Aunt Phosbe, contemplating us admiringly. I had not yetarisen from my stooping posture. ‘“‘ That is beautiful! You are just as happy as you can be now, ain’t you? Ain’t a bit stiff in the joints. be you, Allan? Most men at your age can’t get down in such platitudes as that.”’ How I do dislike any reference to my age! Fortun- ately, the breakfast-bell sounded out just then, or I should have shown Aunt Phoebe that all was not as perfect as she supposed, or saw fit to suppose. Upon entering the house in the afternoon of that same day, I happened togo to the drawing-rcom, and there I found my wife, my ward, and Marian Stewart seated insolemn conclave. I was drawn into the cir- cle by Miss Stewart's exclamation: “Oh, have you heard the news!” Of course I had not. ‘You left just one moment too soon last evening,” she went on, ‘or you would have known. all about it. It’s the strangest thing.” I looked at. Ettie and she looked at me. She seemed annoyed—in fact, agitated. { pre to listen, with eagerness, for 1 ted to hear the solution to one fm fowces Stag Ettie had assumed the disguise in which I had found her. * beg you must know, Mrs. Bostwick e ed a& nurse a few days since. She came and asked for the place. saging tt t she had heard of Mrs. Bostwick’s condition. er looks were pleasing, so she was _en- gaged atonce. All went onsmoothly enough till last night. We were talking, Mrs. Bostwick and I, on dif- ferent subjects——” f Ettie’s gaze met mine just then; her eyes were flashing ominously. f “Let me see; we were talking about Oliver Wal- don, L believe, Ali of a sudden we heard a crash; it was the nurse—I mean that it wasa tray she had dropped, We looked at her, and she looked at us most savagely; then like a flash, she darted from the room. Strange, wasu’tit?”’ appealing to me. rs Very.”’ “But the strangest part is yet to be told, Mrs. Rostwick- sent for herson and told him what had occurred, He seemed very much disturbed; I was surprised at that, Search was commenced at once, but she was not to be found. A few articles of clothing were in her room,” She looked keenly at Ettie for a moment, then slowly extricating # handkerchief from her pocket, in ‘she added, deliberately : ‘Among them was this,’’ holding it up to view. I saw that Ettie was trembling; she fairly quailed as Mavian looked at her again, saying abruptly: “Tt is yours, Mrs, Ingram; it has your name in the corner.’ Ettie reached out her hand helplessly for it. She did not say a word. “*Strange—is it not?”’ said Miss Stewart, lookin around upon us all, and smilingin a way that seem to tell that she had her opinion about it. “Very,” Iremarked again. '** Harry Bostwick, as you all know, is a very par- ticular friend to Oliver Waldon. If ever Z should wish to learn anything about Oliver Waldon, Z should apply to Harry twick, too.” t was impossible to mistake the drift of her in- sinuation; it was as palpable as if she had said right out that she believed that Ettie had entered that house for the purpose of pursuing inquiries about Oliver Waldon, I.saw Ettie look toward Beatrice imploringly, as she had, done on the previous night; L saw that preoe face was. as stern and set asit had been en: Marian Stewart, smilingly unconscious, went on: “But you should have seen how agitated Harry Bostwick became, when he found that mysterious handkerchief !—he actually grew livid.” A trae te light leaped to Ettie’s eyes at those words. ** And what do you suppose he asked me?”’ Ettie, to whom thie was addressed, shook her head helplessly. ‘te asked me if I geougne it could have been you. Of e urse, Lscouted the idea. Now, all this is very stre ge. Why did the nurse leave so suddenly? How ae ‘quence of the did your handkerchief get there! . Why should Harry Bostwick be so disturbed at the occurrence?” I thought of the meeting I had witnessed. at the masquerade between Harry ck and Oliver Waldon. I called to mind the words I had heard “ my lacy, of the Elizabethan time,”’ utter—but then that had been Beatrice. Perhaps Ettie had been by also, and had heard Bostwick say that he had met some one coming out of Ingram’s place on that Mon- day night; if that were so, then I could understand why she had assumed her wre dish er suspicions had been diverted from me, and she had sought to find another guilty, in order to prove me innocent. discovery lessened my sense of injury, and softened my heart toward Ettie. I waited impatient- ly for Miss Stewart's departure, longing to have a word with my wife alone. I thought she would never go, but she did, at last. Isighed with relief as she and trice left the room. “*Ettie, come here,” I said, softly. She obeyed, wonderingly, and I thought, gladly. I i ae my arf about her, and drew her tome, asT said: A <d Se you have been playing detective, Ettie.” “Yes.” ‘* And you think you understand Harry Bostwick’s agitation?” She looked up at me in amazement. “T think I do,” she said, at length, slowly. ‘Do you believe him guilty, Ettie? What could his motive have been?” She started from mewith asharpecry. What had I done? _Did it her like this, to” be reminded of her brother’s death? Her livid lips moved conyulsively; at length, she whispered, hoarsely: hat do you know of—how do you know—” She could get no further. She stood before me, her face pale, her eyes blazing with despair, the very impersonation of agony. I stepped to her with extended hands, saying: “* E.tie—Ettie, what does this mean?” She started back, warding me off wildly, and before Iecould realize what she was about, she had darted from the room, “Well!” Iexclaimed. ‘‘ What now?” It burst upon me like a sudden flash of light—Et- tie’s icions were again directed to me, How stupidly [had stumbled into an acknowl ent of the deed. Of course she believed me now. How was she to know that I had followed her this morning? My knowledge of the deed seemed like positive proof of my guilt. And this was the conse- ood intention that had been mine when I had called Ettie to me. I became resentful in a moment, “Why should she spurn me on suspicion? Was she so immaculate that it was contamination for her toapproach me? Again I vowed that if she could believe me guilty of so hein- ous & 2a I would never clear myself in her eyes— never I paced up and down the floor as fiercely as am lion ever paced his narrow. cage. A sharp, hig voice sta me. “Such exercise is good for to keep off the rheu- matiz.” ’ I turned quickly, and saw Aunt Phoebe’s smiling face peering in through the half-open door. “Tm loo for Et,”’ she add “She said she'd fix my cap while I took my nap. I calkerlated she’d be with you,” It was with great effort thatI gave a mild reply. She withdrew, andI began my pacing again, thinking her er of my wife who was not true to me, who had the audacity to suspect me of a crime. Exhausted at last, I leaned upon the mantel. The room was quite dark, for evening was at hand; but I was too much disturbed to think of _ The door opened, and again Aunt Ph peered In, ** All alone?” she said. I thought her voice did not sound so high and sharp as usual, “T hope I don’t obtrude,” she added, as she entered and came over to the mantel, and stood beside me. I could barely make out her figure in the deepening darkness, and her face was averted from me, A deep sigh, and then she said: “I feel low-spirited to-night. You see, I’ve been a ete had of Herbert. Of course you know who Her- rt is.’ M4 Oh, yes, Ettie’s brother,”’ ‘‘ He’s away to sea, you know—leastways, he went to sea two years ago. We were expecting of him home just about now, and he ain’t come. His ma and pa is dreadful worrited for fear something's hap- pened to him,” . ‘* What could happen to him?”’ ‘Much; he might have been murdered.” Istarted violently. Had she any inkling of the truth? How could that be possible? ‘‘What are you starting for?’’ she cried, fiercely, facing me, ‘Something ka happened to him, and you know?of it!” I endeavored to expostulate. “IT won’t. disten to you!’’ she cried, in bigine’f her hands wor nervously, her little curls bobbin wildly about her head. “I’ve always been afrai that something would heppon to him, and it has! I’ve been a dreaming of him! I saw him inthe water— dead—drowned! It’s true, « know itis, and you know it, too!” “Great Heaven!’ I cried, conypletely astounded. “You dreamed that?” * Yes; and it’s true; tell me, is it not? He is dead.- drowned!”’ : “Yes.” The word fell involuntarily. from my i ps. “And you know who aid it?” Amazement made me speechless. 4. ex te wanes, 0-79 y*
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paren Fw r ——_—__ I stood looking. at her apres ‘“ You do—you do!”’ she cried, wringing her hands. “You know all about it!” One deep groan, and then she caught my arm, and whispered, erin “Not a word of this—do you hear? Not to Ettie— You and ITalone know of it. Oh, not to any one, é God—oh, God, what misery!” In another moment I was standing alone in the room, as bewildered asit is possible for a man to be. Was it not incredible that she should have dreamed of that which had actually transpired? ' s I was still lost in the maze into which this episode had plunged me, when dinner was announced. __ I repaired to the dining-room, scarcely realizing where I was going. There I was aroused from my bewilderment by beholding Aunt Phoebe, smiling and chirping as usual. I stopped short, and stared at her. She looked at me with not the least consciousness in her face, I passed my hand over my eyes, and stared again. «Ves, it’s me,’ she said, merrily. ‘‘ Eyesight fail- ing,eh? You ought to be a-taking of a nap every day, Allan, same as I do; it’llset you right up, and make you as chipper asacricket. Now, I’ve been asleep ever sence I asked you about Ettie——” “What!” I eried. “Eh?” looking at me sharply. “Did you not come in again——?”’ ‘“* Aunt Phoebe walks in her sleep,” broke in Ettie. “La, now; have I been a-doing of that?” laughed the little woman. ‘Do tell!” ** Did she sg Pes to you, Allan?’ asked Ettie. *“Yes—yes, I suppose so,” I muttered, iocking in a dazed way at my wife’s very pale face. A doubt was in my mind—a vague suspicion was mat for expression.. My query was: “ Had Aunt Phoebe appeared to me?”’ CHAPTER IX. A TEMPORARY LULL. THE more I pondered over this last mysterious oc- currence, the more bewildered did I become. I could not understand it, and conjecture only dis-~ turbed me. I tried to force it from my mind, but in vain. Oh! how would it all end? = Affairs seemed to be at a climax next? It was scarcely possible that the tempest that was raging in the household could increase in fury; it was certainly atits fiercest now. Icould not hope thatit would abate. Wasit possible that it could continue as it was? ; I passed an hour of keenest torture, seeing before me the pale face of Aunt Phoebe, like a figure in a nightmare; then I felt that I could endure it no longer—this endeavor to preserve a semblance of peace and concord, while the passions were running riot within me. ’ I unceremoniously left the trio, called for my horse and light wagon, and was soon driving at a break-neck rate along the road, with no purpose in view save that of forgetting my misery for a time. One mile, two miles, three miles—still no thought of turning back—still no thought of how my absence would be regarded by those at home; reckless even of Aunt Phoebe’s opirion. On—on I drove, faster and faster, along the dark and lonely road. The sky was overcast, and I had neither starlight nor moonlight to guide me. I was cognizant of nothing but my own thoughts. now. What 1 neither ree nor heard anything, but urged my horse recklessly on—on. : At last, I believe I heard a voice shouting ahead me, and saw the sudden flashing of a light. ba felt as if I were falling, and I made an effort to keep myself up—then came a naa ned my eyes upon a peaceful scene; a room toot with BS cabdaed light that came in through the blue silk curtains at the windows, elegant bits of furniture, with heavy walnut frames and blue silk stuffing, were disposed tastefully about. In the long mirror opposite, 1 saw myself lying upon a bed, trom which the silken drapery was partially drawn, and seated by a table in the center of the room I saw my wife, who was apparently engrossed with the book in her hand. I soon re d where I was—at home; then I tried to think syn all meant—but in vain. My thoughts became confused, darkness seemed to settle around me, and there seemed to be an upheaval of all my faculties; out of the chaos only one thing arose dis- tinctly, and that was the form of Ettie. I could see her sweet face, and her lovely eyes, both full of tenderness; and I could feel her hand uponmy brow, I did not know then whether it were a dream or reality; I only realized a.delicious sense of peace and rest, and felt a mig never to awaken if that would break the spell. : é L suppose I slept, fox when I opeved my eyes again the room was shrouded in the gloom of the coming night. By the red light of the fire burning low inthe rrate, I saw Ettie still seated by the table, her head owed upon her hand. d not try to_think this time; I sought at once to prove if what I saw were reality. = ce imidly. I one ME ey ‘hat 7 Dalf-feared that at a word the visi Id vanish. She eine up quickly, and came to me, No, ithad not been a dream. I saw the sweet face, and the love- ly eyes, both full of tenderness, and I felt again the gentle touch of her hand. She whispered softly: is ** Allan, do you know me? al : : ny "a xt | MY YOUNG WIFE. I felt a tear fall upon my face; then she pressed her lips to mine, and murmured again: * Thank God!” In those blissful moments I remembered nothing of what had been. LIonly realized that my wife was near me, loving and tender as I had wished her to be. It was a time of unalloyed joy, for my heart’s long- ings were satisfied. “You have been very—very ill, Allan, for nearly two weeks. We did not think you would recover.” Her voice broke there, and she knelt down beside the bed, and clung to me as if she feared that I would leave her even yet. ; ‘““And you would have cared, Ettie?” I asked, eager- y. ““Cared!” she sobbed. ‘Oh, Allan, I didn’t know how I loved you till there was danger of losing you! ued be you had died, my darling, how could I have ived?” “That problem need not be solved now,’ I said, gladly. “1 am thankful that I have been near death’s door, since it has given me your love again. My dar- ling! my Ettie!’’ and I stroked her head fondly. “How did it happen, dear?” “A collision; you were driving very fast, and the result was an accident. You were brought home— oh, I shall never forget it! We thought you were dead then. In that moment I realized how dear you were tome! Ihave not left you since, Allan, Oh, I have felt as if I could not do enough to atone for all the sorrow I have caused! Ilove you so dearly, and I will cling to you in spite of everything. Father, mother, brother, are nothing to me in comparison with ney. husband! You are first with me, Allan—in spite of everything!” Those last words of hers, uttered so emphatically, grated harshly on my ears even then; and they brought to mind all the discomfort from which I had escaped only by losing consciousness, Still lL was happy—very happy; with Ettie’s hand in mine, and her voice falling gently on my ear, I felt that I could not ask for more. I gained rapidly, and my period of convalescence’ promised to be short. I almost regretted that, for it was such a peaceful, blissful time. Ettie’s tender- ness was unremitting; everything unseemly was for- gotten as I looked into her eyes, and read the love ex- pressed there, Nota word passed between us about the.past; we both shunned the subject, knowing that it would create discord again. Oh, if this could have endured always! But the serpent will enter every Eden; if driven out, he will come again, and again, so long as we lend a willing ear to his subtleties. The fifth day of my convalesence I had walked about the room for the first time, and I was quite ex- hausted; I was now seated before the fire in a large arm-chair. Ettie had propped me up with pil- lows, bathed my head, fluttered about me minister- ing to my wants, talking the while so tenderly; and I was content. at must leave you fora moment, Allan,’ she then said. She knew how jealous I was of her absence—I could not bear to have her out of my sight; but instead ef wearying her, it seemed to please her. “Only for a moment,’’ she added, kissing me light- ly; then she hurried to the adjoining room—her sit- ting-room—leaving the door ajar. [leaned my head back upon the pillow, and com- menced to think of the blissful change that had come to our lives. The scratchof a ren from the other room attracted my attention. at a jealous wretch Iwas! Just that slight sound turned the current of in | thoughts entirely. é o whom was she writing? She had no eaten ents, to my knowledge; she wrote occasionally to her parents—but such a letter would engross more than a moment of time. Of course, she. might be writing a note to some friend; but if so, would she not have said so? It was the old story: ‘“‘ Trifles light as air, are, to the jealous, Confirmation strong as proofs of holy writ.” My peace was gone—just at the scratch of a pen! ** Kutie,”’ I called. * Well, dear?” ““What are you doing?’ A pause—the noise of the pen ceased; [ fancied she was taken aback, for her voice was changed, as she replied: Lam writing.” To whom?” ae i'm afraid your illness has made you inquisitive, an. : That was the first approach to irritation that I had during my illness; .t seemed like the dawn of a re- vival of the quarrels. : ix ‘You used to give me credit for that before, Et- e. “Oh, Allan, don't begin again! We've been so hap- py—don’t marit now. Do try and keep your tem- Yr. 7 “Don’t be unreasonable, Ettie; it is you, not I, who are provoking this discussion. If you had answered my question at once, without attempting to parry it, these few words might have been saved.” “Well, then,” she said, impatiently, ‘‘I am writing toa friend,” ‘Very definite. Thankyou. You have your rea- sons for not telling me, I suppose.” Theard a sigh, then the sound of the pen passing rapidly over the paper. L[listened angrily. I next heard Ettie arise, and walk quickly from the room out into the hall. As she closed the door behind her, | arose, weak as I was, and tottered into her room, over.to h escritoire. I don’t know what I expected to find; I felt as if I might learn something by going there. Ettie was not the most methodical person in the world, and as was characteristic, she had left paper.. envelopes, pens, etc., scattered about, My eyes felb upon a piece of blotting-paper; it was quite clean with the exception of the marks of what seemed to: be an address. I took it up quickly, held it to the light, and read just what my jealousy had suggested —the name and address of Oliver Waldon. I flung it down violently—it fell upon the fioor, ‘** Let her find it there!” I cried, in my wrath, “She will know that some one has touched it, and she will. surmise that it wasI, Hypocrite! dissembier! fawn- ing about me, whispering in love-tones to me, caress- ing me, wheedling me into the belief that she loves. me! Bah! what a fool’s paradise have I been in! It serves her purpose to be tender now. And I have: been reposing in the fond belief that it was from her: heart! Oh, fool—fool that I have becn! She is false: —false! ‘as false as fair!’ ” 1 tottered back to my chair, all peace, all comfort gone. I heard her footfall, and quickly i resolved to: say nothing, but to wait and watch. | he came in to me from the adjoining room. Isaw how anxiously, how wistfully she regarded me, and I. knew that she understood how the piece of blotting- paper ha become displaced; she said nothing, only regarded me in that anxious, wistful way. She ministered to my wants as tenderly as before—s bore my coldness and impatience without a murmur; it had no effect upon me, however, for I rated it alt as duplicity. So we were drifting back to the old estranged state! I maintained my self-imposed silence till tne: following day; then as Ettie hung over me, gen! stroking my foreheadj'and talking softly to me, broke out suddenly, passionately: “You act well, Ettie. It must be a great tax on your powers of endurance—why do you not spare: yourself a little?” ' She looked at me, a world of reproach in her love- ly eyes. s * “Oh, Allan,” she began, then drawing her - kerchief from her pocket, she turned aside to hide ler tears. “ I should have been amazed at such an unusual ex-- hibition of emotion had not my attention been at-.- weacies by serap of paper that had fallen from her> pocket. I was determined to become possessed of it. Isent, her on some trivial, unnecessary errand, and then hk picked it up. It bl aa! of anote. Iknew the hand-. paline--0 iver Waldon’s—and the date showed that it had been written that same day; it Was an answer to her note of yesterday, I conjectured at once, For the reader’s benefit I will give it in full; the portion in italics is that which I read, “Nov. 10th, #8—. “DEAR Mrs. INGRAM: Y Cais ” * ‘ . * Your note has given me new life. For the past weeks I have been most wretched ; but whose aid I have relied, I could not have é that has so unexpectedly fallen tome. J will meet you as Beatrice has requested. Why will she not see me alone? shall be on hand eheae aa Prete the right of your grounds. scarcely dare to hope that she will put her trust in me; yet my prayer is that we may meet to-night to part no mor’—for your sake as onde well as mine. Yours bruly,. ON, eas CHAPTER X. CRUEL AS THE GRAVE, _ tthe I crusHeED that bit of paper inm hand as fiercely asif it had been the object. on which I to — wreak my vengeance. There it was.in black and | white—and how doubly false it proved my eto bel | —false to me, and false toherown word! |. Had she not said to me, in all solemnity: ‘I am true to youin thought and in deed.” 4ad what an undeniable contradiction was this! ; ‘* Oh, inisery—misery !”’ I moaned in my anguish, Then anger gained sway, and I cried out: “Why should I grieve? I know now that my idolis. marred—let me accept the bitter truth bravely, and bear it manfully. I have been wilfully blind thus far; but now, that. my eyes have been forced open, I cannot refuse 10 see and believe. So ends m + ay of happiness! I have at last awakened to the pain- ful, unlovely er, A bowed my head upon my hand, and read over that bit again. ‘I will meet you,’ it says. When, | wonder? To- night, I suppose—but Ettie will settle that for me. ‘Of your grounds,’ this bit says. At the right or the left, i wonder? But that will not be difficult to as- certain; and I will ascertain!—when Ettie goes to ey Oliver Waldon, her husband will not be far be- n ” a . pondered over that bit for hours. it seemed like staring my misery right in the face; I wished to become accustomed to it, so that it could have no power to overcome me, and eause me to be- v4 zit at any time. or the first time since my illness Ettie remained away from me; it was a great relief, for in her pre- sence I should have felt restrained while trying to conceal ny cognizance of this last, best bebad of her falsity. Ihad no fearthat the meeting would take place till evening, since, as is was to be held in my grounds, they would wait for darkness, of course, Evening came, and so did Ettie. : . each The friendly dusk hid our faces from and neither knew how they contradicted the suave, bland tones in which we spoke. Chie
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nig _-Ettie is determined that I shall 16 Ue I was all expectation, waiting to hear her say that ‘she must leave me. I almost chuckled with satisfaction when she did say, timidly: : ‘T will send Aunt Phosbe to you for a while, Allan. You do not care for my company, and you cannot ‘wish to be alone all the evening.” 2 “Do you intend to remain away ail the evening?”’ ITasked, meaningly. “* Away!’ she exclaimed, in alarm. anything about going away.” : “No, I know you did not, my dear; but { imagined that you were, you know.’ She looked at me anxiously. \ x Uta her gaze calmly, saying, with an icy smile: “Go, my love, go; I can spare you. And don’t pid eed yourself about Aunt Phosbe; I prefer to be alone,” : She stood, hesitating, for a moment—turned as if to go, then turned back to me, saying, timidly, as she half-extended her hands: “Oh, Allan, why are youso strange? What has amade you change? I have been so happy, and now —oh, i am so miserable! Must it be like this always?" “T’m afraid so, my love,’'I said, with freezing cold- mess, I felt my stern resolutions giving away as I saw her so lovely—so sad—and heard her pleading; but I fortified myself by whispering, “duplicity,’’ and I was as frigid as an iceberg. “ Oh, Allan,”’ she cried, piteously and tremulously, “do you not love me?” With the remembrance of that bit of paper in my mind, that question seemed like the hight of all hy- “T did not say risy. ‘‘Censummate actress!’’ I muttered. om She heard it. I saw the vivid red leap up into her face, and the flame of indignation flash from her eyes; turning from me, she cried angrilf, scornfully: ‘What a fool I am to stand here and plead to you! Pi ae ~ What a fool Iam to expect that you should have any feeling! You cau be kind and tender—but it’s a great __, effort, I suppose, for it never lasted. It is natural for . to to be ugly, and ill-tempered—yes, and cruel! I ave tried to bear with your whims and your oddities, but I shall try no longer.” “Tecan forgive you for your words, my love,” I said, mildly, ** when I think of your youth. I ought to picy you, poor child; you know no better, be ng inexperienced, unused to the world, and so young. “And I can forgive you for your words,”’ she re- torted, “when I think of your age. I ought to pity you, poor man, you cannot act differently, being crabbed, tired of the world, and so old.” “Thank you. It is quite refreshing to have one’s qualities recapitulated like that.” “IT havesaid very little of what is in my heart,” she returned, meaningly, and looking keenly at me. “When love is there, I can—I force myself to forget the rest; but, as now, when you are so unjust, so un- kind that love vanished, then I think of it ail, and I— Ishudder as I near you! I fone to go away, and never—never see youagain! Did you say you felt better this evening, Allan?”’ At first I did not comprehend: but a look toward the door warned me of the approach of Aunt Phoebe. Hyen now, bitter as I was, I still desired to hide the knowledge of our unhappiness from every one, “Yes, my love, I feel quite strong; in fact, quite able to walk.” Face you must not, dear; you must be very—very stl think, however, my love, that I wi// walk a little—just a little, my dear—a turn about the grounds, say.” . What! Oh, that would be very imprudent, y ‘Ichuckledinwardly as I saw her evident dismay. Oh, Aunt Phoebe,” she continued, as that per sonage tripped into the room, “Allan talks of going out, and he must not. Will you not remain with him for a while?’ “IT should admire to, Et—but my tooth. I've gota tooth—a toothache, J mean, and I’ve just been a-get- ting of some stuff for it, andI’m a-going te be a-tak- ing of it, and seeif Ican’tsleep. Ain’t had nonap pea and I feel streaked, and weakly like. I should admii to, Allan, but a tooth’sa tooth, you know eel “ Yes, Iknow, Aunt Phoebe; and it is just as well. not go, and I termined that I shall go into thé grounds for a little n, ; * Do tell! So you’ve beena-having of a lectlg quar- rel, eh?’ she said, stiyly. “ Just a very little one,” we echoed. “Tn a sort of a playful way, you know,” I added. “IT want to know! Just like two kittens, eh? How ve ranolod th tshe laughed ‘ane at she laug mockingly as she trip from the room. : * ie _ The sunlight of her presence gone, we became ee eee. ped Lit tly: ‘‘Thope you'll enjoy your walk, Al- jan,” Ettie turned to fears: is ‘ “IT thank you. Why don’t you add that you hope Til meet no one in my perambulations?” Again she looked dismayed; but, without a word, she hurried from the room. “Now is the time,’ I said, rising and testing my strength. “Yes, I can walk; not very briskly, but still +e can walk. a wo pest peas is it? shes vember--yes; well, need a hat, I suppose. is dressing-gown is not just the thiug for # promenade, but it will have to do with the addition of a shawl, or ‘something.’ I fear I presented rather an odd appearance as I sallied forth; slippered feet, long dressing-gown of 3s t a am de- MY YOUNG WIFE, black cashmere with scarlet facings, a heavy grey shawl about my shoulders, and a large slouched hat upon my head. I passed along the hall till I came to the room oc- cupied 4) Aunt Phebe. The door was ajar, and the gas was burning. Isaw Ettie’s charming relative re- clining upon her bed. Something in her appearance seemed to me peculiar; I looked, and looked again, and then I discovered what it was: she was shorn of her cap and curls, and her few grey hairs were scarcely perceptible. Instantly, a suspicion darted into my mind; it was one similar to that which had come to me on that day of my accident. I had not credited then the ex- planation Ettie had given about Aunt Phosbe’s som- nambulisin; I believed that Ettiejherself had appeared to me, and I believed now that she could account for the missing cap and curls. “ Aunt Phoebe’s toothache has served her well,” I muttered. ‘‘She thinks to deceive me again should Lhappen to meet her inthe grounds. But she should have closed this door; knowing that Aunt Phoebe lies here asleep, I cannot expect to meet her elsewhere. You will not sueceed this time, er Ettie.” I was rather elated with my. discovery. I walked briskly on, forgetting my weakness. I made my exit from the house, descended to the grounds, and hurried over to the left, along which side the lane ex- tended. I walked the entire length, but the ren- dezvous wasnot there ‘* At the other side, I suppose,” I said, sighing, for I was beginning tofeel quite exhausted. [had now to force myself along, and 1 despaired of reaching the spot in time. While Iwas slowly making my way across the grounds, the interview between Oliver, Beatrice, and Ettie, was transpiring. I will recount it here, so that the reader may understand what followed. Of course, my knowledge of the meeting was gained at a later date. In the shadow of the pinesand hemlocks Oliver Waldon stood, a tall, dark figure in the dim moon- light, his gleaming eyes just visible beneath his broad-brimmed hat. The sound of hurried footsteps fell upon his ear, and he started forward with alow, glad exclamation. Eagerness was expressed in his attitude as he paused upon beholding the two approaching forms—Bea- trice and Ettie, the latter without Aunt Phoebe’s cap and curls. ‘‘ Beatrice,” began Oliver, extending his hands. “Stand back, sir,’’ was the cold interruption. ““My God,” he moaned, raising his hand to his head. ‘‘Unrelenting still! And Ihave hoped so that this meeting would end in reconciliation.” 8 Never! there can never be reconciliation between ‘And you still persist in believing rumor, the in- ventions of gossips, the——”’ ** We will not discuss that, Oliver Waldon. I sent for you that we might fully understand each other. I have enough to endure without being troubled by ey importunities for a return to my favor. I have Id you that I wished neither to see you, nor hear — you; still you have written tome again and again. ‘*‘ Not aword,’’ as he essayed to interrupt. ‘Let me k, or will leave at once. You think me cruel—unnatural; and I am neither. But I am proud—very proud—and I abhor wrong. To love, 1 must re: t. Fora long time I have shunned you, though Iloved you; I felt that you were not true; that-what report whispered of you was so. Inan evil hour [ listened to the dictates of my heart, and slighted the warning of reason. You were in trouble —it involved some one dear to Ettie—money was needed to extricate you both; I saw Ettie suffering; I thought of you as suffering; I could give the needed relief, and I sent Ettie to offer it to you. I did more}; so foolish was I—so did the love in my heart eonquer every_consideration—that I not. only be- lieved all that Ettie had to say of your goodness, but linvested you with every virtue; I felt that you would not accept money from a woman who was nothing to you, so I alsu sent you an answer to your oft-repeated pro 1 of marriage. I became your wife—I gave myself to you; but even then my doubts would not entirely leave me. I bound you both to secrecy, so that case my fears proved true, my folly would not be published to the world. My fears have come to pass. I will not release you from your vows, for Lhold aoe two responsible for the wretched fate that has befallen me. “Am Teruel? If you suffer, do I not suffer more? is not my life wrecked? It is; but the world shall never know it! I could not live if it did! Break your vows, and you will be answerable for a life! I could pierce my own heart, and face an outraged God, rather than face the world made merry over my folly! I shall make any and every sacrifice to hide my misery! The world shall not even have the op- portant to surmise that I am unhappy. And now, re by alcon, listen closely; I am not legally your fe “ Again I beg of you, do not interrupt. Isay Iam not legally your wife. I am not of age, and the ceremony was performed without the consent of my ardian, Such a union can be annulled, and it must “ Beatrice!” Only that one word, but it told of the man’s agony. be grit 4 she went on: “It can be annulled as secretly as it was made. Then I shall be free to give my hand and fortune to another and I can live alie successfully before the world. This must be done at once; it will foree me to see you again, and that is for the last time. That is all, Come, Ettie, we will go.” ‘el ag this your unalterable decision, Beatrice?” ”“ t 13.97 He bowed proudly; he would plead no more. A long, weary sigh came from Ettie’s lips, Beatrice said, harstily, quickly: in eannot pity you, Ettie. I have pity only for my- self.’ They departed hurriedly, as they had come, and Oliver stood alone in the shadow of the pines and the hemlocks. : “If I could only hate her!” he moaned. ‘ But I cannot! How can she be so severe—so cruel? I came here full of hope; I depart broken-hearted,” He turned to go, but a hand was placed upon his arm. He looked around quickly, and met the gaze of a pair of glittering eyes. The owner threw back the shawl that covered her head, and then he made out a small, wrinkled face, about which hung short, cork- screw curls. Before he could say a word, a shrill voice piped: ‘* Have you ever heard of Aunt Phoebe?” CHAPTER XI. IN THE DARKNESS, ms JustasI had feared—I did not reach the spot in ime, It had been my idea to confront them while to- gether; I had contemplated Ettie’s dismay with a savage sort of satisfaction, andI had rehearsed the burning, ee gin words I longed to hurl at Oliver Waldon, butI did not reach the spotin time, As [reached the place of rendezvous, I could just make out the outlines of two figures in the dim moon- light; I saw her hand upon his arm, her face lifted to his. Then they parted; he walked quickly away, and she turned toward the house. A loud exclamation escaped me asIsaw that my suspicion was correct—Ettie was in disguise. I could see the cap and curls which usually adorned Aunt Phoebe’s head, and I made out the primitive attire so different from Ettie’s long, flowing robes. Ah! she had feared that I would meet her, and thus she hoped toevademe. But, no—no, not this time, my Ettie! once before you succeeded, but never again. She evidently heard my ejaculation, for she paused, looked weeny: around, and drew her shawl well over her head and face, As she started on againTI step- ped forward, and placed my hand upon her shoul- er. With a low. frightened cry she looked up at me. I could just see two glittering eyes peering out from the folds of the shawl. Then she averted her face and tried to release herself from my grasp, as she said—and her imitation of Aunt Phoebe's voice was so good that for a moment I was staggered: “Oh, it’s you, Allan, be it? My sakes! if I wasn’t rencd for Just about a second. What be you here or?’ “It won't do, Ettie,” I said, sternly. ‘*You have deceived me once, but you cannot succeed again. You might just as well cease trying to screen your- self under cover of reset most respected relative; I know you, in spite of your disguise.” ““My sakes! hear the man! Allan, you’re worse. You feel queer about the head, don’t you? You ain’t quite sure of what you are a-doing, be you.” “On the contrary, Iam so sure of what I am about that, with all your perfect imitation, I am not to be befooled. For heaven’s sake, Ettie, don’t anger me more! How can you persist in continuing the role of Aunt Phoebe, when you know that Ihave pen- etrated your disguise?” “You ain’t done nothing of the sort! ain’t been a-drinking, now, have you?” Had I not been so inflamed with anger, I should certainly have ive dere at the deep solemnity of her tone as she asked that question; as it was, I gave vent to a loud, impatient exclamation, She hastened to add: “You are acting very queer, Allan, a-coming out here in the night a-looking like a figger in a show, a-prowling around and a-meeting of your wife’s own aunt, and a-telling of her that she ain’t herself at all. Look ye here, if you ain’t drunk, I'd like you to tell me a Sy straighttorward: If lain’t Aunt Phosbe, who am ) \ i “Heavens, woman, you'll driveme mad, I tell you you cannot—with all your clever acting—you cannot deceive me, I know you, Ettie. Aunt Phosbe lies asleep on her bed, shorn of the cap and curls that are now wpon your head. Is she BETO OUR, If she is there, how can she be here? And is Aunt Phosbe one to hold clandestine meetings with a young man? With my own eyes I saw you part from Oliver Wal- don scarcely five minutes since. No—no, Ettie; you have failed this time—utterly.”’ “Then I ain’t Aunt Phoebe?” “Nol! I tell you, no! Why—why will you harp on that?” “ But I'm Ettie?” ‘*Yes—you know you are.” “No, I didn’t know it. Thank ye for a-telling of it toine. Well, I’m Ettie—Aunt Phosbe is asleep on her bed; now, what comes next?” ““Woman—woman!” I thundered. ‘‘ Have you no sense of shame in you? How can youtreat this mat- ter so lizhtly? Do you not care that I know you to be false? Is it nothing to yon that I have gained positive proof of that which I have suspected, and you have denied?” She did start at that. I heard a smothered excla- mation beneath the shawl, which she still kept over her face; she placed one hand upon my arm, as she said, gravely: “Allan, what have you been a-saying?”’ In the fury into which I had lashed myself T no- ticed nothing; the hand that was upon my arm L 7 44g + 4 : Si A Allan, you
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should have known was not Ettie’s had I looked at it; but so convinced was I that my wife stood before me that never a doubt entered my mind. Agony and anger blinded me, and spurred me on. shook off her hand roughly, as I sneered: “Am I to be treated to another of your solemn de- nials? Is your intention to tell me now that what I have seen was an illusion? It would not astonish me to hear you say that you have not seen Oliver Wal- somes you had no intention of seeing him, in act-— “And neither had I-——” “ What—what—what/ You deny that your meet- ing with him was pre-arranged? lt was an accident, I su se, ou happened to ne out here rrr eo ng on a dark November night—a ver likely thing, indeed; he happened to be strolling, also, in the grounds of a house he has been requested not to enter; you happened to meet! All accident, eh! was it not?” I was gnashing my teeth by this time. “My sakes; what a bear!" “You are trying to evade the answer to my ques- tion,’ I cried. ‘‘But evasion or denial will not help ou now. I know you have seen Oliver Waldon, ‘or I saw you part from him, andI know that the meeting was pre-arranged, for here is proof,” andI fumbled about till I succeeded in extricating that bit of paper from my vest pocket. ‘‘ Here is proof!’’ and I flaunted it in her face. ‘ ‘“That—what’s that?’ she asked, eagerly; and I fancied, anxiously. ““That—what’s that?” I echoed, tauntingly. ‘It is part of the note you received, in answer to one you wrote yesterday. And it is this that gave me a desire to take a turn in the grounds this evening! With this before you, can you still deny?” ‘“*What’s in it? what can there bein a bit like that to ba you so?” “What isin it? Every word tells, madame—every word—every single word!”’ ** Well, now, what do they tell?” *“ Ah, you hope to escape me yet, madame! You think that you can explain away the very significant words here written! But you cannot—you cannot, madame! Jhold the trump-card now, right here in my hand, though you think to convince me that it is only a seven-spot. This bit—this little bit—tells all that I have suspected.” “Do tell! I want to know!”’ ** Oh, was there ever such an aggravating woman! Ettie—Ettie, have you lost all regard for yourself— all regard forme? Can you not, at least, treat this matter with becoming sobriety? 1t is like death to me; is it nothing to you!”’ ‘Now, Allan, look ye here. (There mayn’t be as much in that bitas you think for, and there mayn’t be as much in that meeting as you think for,”’ “Then explain it—explain it. But you cannot. You cannot give me a good reason for meeting Oli- ver Waldon here; neither can you explain this note, over which I have pored till the words seem to be seared into my brain. They tell me all—from ac- knowledging the reception of the note you wrote yes- terday, to the mention of a time when you shall *partno more,’ ‘Trust in me,’he says. Ay, trust in him—the miscreant—and + will find that you have been leaning on areed! There, take it, and read for yourself what I have seen,” She fairly snatched it from me, I fancied I heard a smothered sob. When she spoke again, her voice was husky and tremulous: - ; “How is it a-going to end, Allan?” “God only knows! Llove you, Ettie, and I can for- give all but this continued rw ot I can bear much, but this—this is too much!” “ Why dou't you try to find out the truth, Allan? There is something hero that you dont under- stand.” “Then, in Heaven’s name, explain it! You have said that you can; then why are you silent? On, it is misery—misery! living at odds all the time, trying to keep up appearances before your charming aunt, idee could not have chosen a more inopportune time or her visit, and whom I heartily wish was on Mt. Pisgah, or some other lofty hight, so that I were safe from her keen eyes, and her mocking cackle) loving you, yet hating you for your duplicity; and, too, knowing that you—my wife—the woman for whom Iam enduring all these tortures, believes me uilty of acrime!” WIT eamak start, and an eager exclamation of: ‘CWhat—a crime?’ - I cid not stop to think that I was speaking of that which I had vowed never to mention to Ettie; the flame of indignation burning within me spurred me on to proclaim all my grievances. “Yes: and the most hideous of crimes—murder!’ A stifled shriek from the woman before me, “It is a dread word—few can hear it unmoved. My knowledge of the deed has seemed to you like picot of my guilt, because you were too willing to elieve I met him, as I told you—met him, and spoke to him, and threatened him, too; he did not declare himself, but he assured me that he would not meet ou. {did not know that it was your brother Her- ert, till the next morning. _ I followed you as you went down to the river, and I saw and heard all. Your brother’s dead face, as you lifted it out of the water ” A succession of short, terrified shrieks had inter- larded my words; at that last one, one loud, long ery Yang out on the stillness; throwing her arms up with a gesture of agony, she turned and fled from me, so suddenly that AER not have stayed her had I been 80 inclined. I stood, wondering what this meant. Did it startle her rrp hem ene: es made of her brother’s death? MY YOUNG WIFE. She had borne it so quietly hitherto, that this unex- pected outbreak quite amazed me. “Does she believe me?’ I asked myself. ‘ Will she still think me guilty?” A sudden remembrance of my wrongs flashed over nie then, and I added, angrily ; will. I have, at last, openly accused her of falsity; now I will wait upon Oliver Waldon, and demand satisfaction of him.” Fired with this determination, I strode fiercely to- ward the house. As I stepped into the hall, I saw Ettie just about to ascend the staircase-. Ettie, in her own attire, and devoid of the cap and curls that so transfigured her, I looked, asI felt, astonished. How had she suc- ceeded in effecting this change in so short a time? She looked at me, and—laughed—actually laughed! Think of it! After the interview we had just had— after I had accused her of falsity—after the cry of ‘agony with which she had left me, she stood before me, in the full glare of the gaslight, without a sign of conscious shame upon her face, and laughed! Oh, how my ire was aroused! She saw that, and she laughed the louder. ** Will you stop!’ I cried, at last, in a tone choked with rage. “Yes, certainly, ite an unique costume, Allan, and very becoming; it is one that you don when tak- inga turn in the grounds on a November night, I suppose. Did you enjoy your walk, dear?” could not understand the satisfaction so apparent in her tone, “You were disappointed, I fear,” she added. I understood the drift of her words. How, how could she speak like that when I had parted from her only ten minutes since? Was she now about to tell me that she had not met me? Wasshe about to deny that, too? I could not speak; if I had, it would have been an explosion of wrath—I remembered Aunt Phoebe, and was silent. I cast one glance at Ettie—a glance that was meant to be withering—as I passed her on the staircase, In going through the hall, [ again halted at Aunt Phoebe’s door; this time, I was attracted by the sound of moaning and groaning from within, CHAPTER XII. AN OVERWHELMING DISCOVERY, Erriz, who had followed me, also halted at Aunt Phoebe’s roomas she heard the moaning and groan- ing; then knocking, she opened the door, and en- tered. Isaw her charming relative pacing wildly up and down the floor, now wringing her hands, now raising them to her head, on which were the cap and curls which my wife had borrowed. “Ettie returned them in time,’ Imuttered, then my attention was attracted by the rather incoherent explanation Aunt Phoebe was giving as to the cause of her distress: “Oh, it’s ny Herbert—I mean, my tooth! It’s killed!—no—no, I mean, it’s a-aching so that it’s ‘most a-killing of me! oh, yes—yes, l've been asleep, andI’ve been a-dreaming of my tooth—I mean in Herbert. I thought he was a-achiing—no—no; mean, L thought it was killed! Oh—oh—oli! dear— dear--dear! It’s awful! dreadful! What would your ma say if she knew that my tooth was—that iny Herbert, L mcan, was a-aching so? And you knew it, Et—you knew that m Herbert—no—no, my tooth, was kided! Oh—oh,I don’t know whati’m a saying! D've been a dreaming of my tooth, and a- suifering with my Herbert—no—no, that ain’t the way atall! Ive got it allso mixed up that I don’t know which ismy Herbert, and which.is my tooth!” I saw that Ettie’s face was white and full of dread, as she turned to pacify her excited aunt; then 1 hur- ried away, filled with doubts—terrible doubts. I went to that arm-chair before the fire, heartily wishing that I had not left it for a turn in the rounds; I seated myself, and tried to reason my oubts away. Had Aunt Phasbe been dreaming of Herbert? If so, did it nut give credence to Ettie’s explanation of her aunt’s somnambulistic propensities? If it had not been Ettie, but Aunc Phosbe, who had appeared to me that day in the drawing-room, ht it wot have been Aunt Phoebe to-night, instead of Ettie? ‘“‘Pshaw!" I cried, impatiently. ‘‘ That is nonsense —siieer nonsense! Of course it was Ettie, Would Aunt Phoebe go to meet Oliver Waldon? No, certainly not. Of course it was Ettie.” 1 exprenes myself thus positively on that_point, still I felt very uneasy—very uncomfortable, I could not sit still; 1 arose and paced restlessly from room to room. Happening to glance at Ettie’s escritoire, that piece of pibaeweyer caught my eye. “Ah, yes—Oliver’s address! I shall wait upon him to-morrow, if this day's episodes have not exhausted me entirely.” I took up the paper, and held it to the light; then I hear: Ettie’s voice beside me: “Why are you looking at that?’ * Do you know whose address is here to be found?” T asked. La I do.” ; “Well, to speak plainly, I intend to call upon that gentleman at my first Oppose er ry “Oh, Allan!” and her face was full of fear, “Oh, Ettie!’’ I mocked. “Do not go,”’ she pleaded. ‘““And why not, my love?” ‘*Oh, there will be trouble if you do! you are so headstrong, and he cannot explain.’ 13 = t bet am sorry to grieve you, my dear, but I intend “Well, go then!" she shaphst “There is no use in trying to restrain you. , and let it end as it will, Perhaps it will be for the best,’”’ I heard her murmur, as she turned away from mie. “Has the aunt subsided?’ asked. - “ Yes,” ‘She has strange dreams,” IJ said, pg sae Ettie kept her face averted; I saw her hands flutter: nervously, and her voice was husky and hurried as she made answer: ‘* Yes—yes, very strange. Oh, I hope—I hope she does not know the truth!’ “How could she?” “To be sure, how could she? Good-night, Allan~ good-night!” And without looking at me she hastened away, her parting words ringing through the room like a ery of agony. Another day came to hand, and I started out to wait upon Oliver Walon. All my doubts of the previous evening hal been: dispelled, for Aunt Phoebe had appeared at break- fast as bright and smiling as ever, and had met my gaze with perfect equanimity; so I went along satis- fied that all was as clear as the day. On one Roe I was slightly troubled; why had I ac- uainted Ettie with my intention of waiting upon liver Waldon? She would, in all probability, send. to warn him, and he would endeavor to avoid me. I determined to outwit them. I left the house in the forenoon, and I would not go tu his office till dusk; if he had been absent all through the day, he would probably return toward evening, when, owing to my recent illness, it would not be expected that L would be abroad. Toward evening I made my wa to his office—he pretended ta, be a lawyer; I thin his first client had yet to come, I reached the building, and ascended to rooms 12% and 13, going over in my mind, for the last time, the scathing sentences 1 had gar pe I would open the door and enter; he would start up, and upon seeing me, would sink crestfallen into his chair; tha 1 would hurl upen him the torrent of my wrath, be- neath which h : Il had roused myself to such an enthusiastic pitch. with my programme, that I was burning with impa- tience ty begin, I reached the door of room No, 12, and opened it. Yes, there by the table, he swas seat- ed—at least, a man was seated there; in my eager- ness, I did not step to look again. I stepped into the- room, and in a loud voice, cried: “ Oliver Waldon—villain !—hy pocrite !—turn and see. the man you have wronged.” He did turn, quickly; but I, not he. sank crest- fallen into a chair, for—it was not Oliver Waldon! What had I done? Acquainted a stranger with the secret that I would hice from the world if at the cost. of my life. It was some time before I could muster up suffi- - cient courage to enable me to look at this person again; when I did, I found him staring at me. “Surely, his face is familiar,’ I thought. I strained my eyes in the dusk, and stared at him;, and the flash of recognition came simultaneously, ‘*My friend Ingram)!”’ MS Geonse Waldon, by all that's surprising |” a“ e ? Then we shook hands heartily, and again vented our ae by exclaiming: “Welll’? ‘Rather a surpri-e, eh, Ingram?” “Rather,” I assented, in a tone full of chagrin. ** Well, you see, I have just arrived. No one knows: of ii; I dian’t tell the boys, tag te red 90 ) I’m an old bachelor, and I suppose I'm odd, and thought I'd like to come unannounced—see? I found. Oliver’s address—he was always my favorite, you know--and I came here. Doors were both joened, SO Ll applied to the janitor, and he admitted me—see? Weil, ve been waiting here since—since noon, and — the scamp hasn’t appeared yet. I bope he’ll come soon.” : Those words a ened me to a sense of my posi~ tion. If he sho come now, what would I do? I certainly would not attack him before a third party; and I felt that we could not meet without betraying — that which I would keep secret. Of course, I must leave at once; and muttering something to that ef- fect, I arose. “Now, that’s shabby, Ingram—positivel Th, ee e would writhe and groan, Tg ‘ } Woes : shabby, _ « to leave me alone on the first day of my return, An ‘ 3 besides,” his fine face became clouded as he added: “I want to talk to you about Oliver, You're likely to know—the words that you uttered just now tell me that you can give me some information—see? I’ve heard from the boys now and then—Leonard’s were all saintly epistles, Oliver’s dashing and scampish— — but you can’t judge from letters, you know. IT don’t. want to think that Oliver is—— But, see here, friend. Ingram; I found this upon the table—is it any indica- tion of my nephew’s character?” I Nee the sheet of paper he passed to me, and read? “Uncie Isaacs:—Thé diamonds will have to go. I’ve clung to them long and well—family relics, you know; but if I cling longer, I’m lost! Tim in an un- commonly embarrassed position—the worst strait ’ve been in yet; if money is not fortheoming, at once, L shall be so_ bitterly humiliated, that life will be un- bearable. You have helped me before, pray, help me again. Callas soon as possible, and oblige, Yours, etc., O.. WwW.” ou think of that?” aldon, and tell you that your nephew's character, He ‘* Well, Ingram, what do “Tl be frank with you, this is an indication of - — =
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b ‘ f Ne ‘ é 2 is as a ay iggy as mp a = — 4 respectable. ave given m up altogether; have, in fact, forbidden bani my house.”’ * And has he no good qualities that offset the bad?” *“Not one, No one speaks well of him—society condemns him; it is only that irresistible, fascinat- ing way of his that prevented him from being shunned altogether.” ni You have some special grudge against him, I im- agine.”’ *No—that is, yes. He has—that is, Ihave. in fact, I’m in a great hurry, and Imust go. Oliver will be here presently, and here is my card. Ishall be very -happy to see you at any time.”* “Thank you. By the way, I have to congratulate ‘you, Ingram—have I not? it seems to me the boys Wrote that you had taken a wife—a young wife. Al- dJow me——” And I hstened to his profuse pleasantries most im- patiently. : Again i started for the door. A moan from the adjoining room—No. 13—brought me to a stand-still. ** Did you hear that, Ingram?” enicicn?” “Shall we reconnoiter? I fancied I heard some one enter that room after I came,” We quietly approached the door that connected the two rooms, and opened it. I looked in, and— reat Heavens! over by the window sat some one in the unmistakable attire of Aunt Phoebe! Some one —who? Ettie. of course. She had come to warn ‘Oliver, and had donned this disguise to screen herself from the gaze of the curious, and from me, if pos- ible. I comprehended the situation at a gintee: she had heard my voice, and it had alarmed her so that sshe was ready to faint. Oh, what a dilemma was this! Here was Oliver's uncle—he had heard rity words yee entering; if he discovered that that was Ettie, he would know the » whole sad pur No—no, that must not be! I closed _ ithe door, quickly, sharply, searcely knowing what I was pode : “It’s only an old man. We had better not disturb im ” _ “But he is ill. There, he is moaning again. Really, it is not right to——” He had opened the door again, and he started back, adding: s y, it’s a woman—not a man.” ““Yes—yes—that’s what I said, at least, it’s what I meant, wouldn’t disturb her,” as 1 tried to keep him back. ‘‘You see, she’s old, and odd, and she mniglit take offense.”’ “Yes. but she’s faint. Jady suffer, would you?” *“ Yes, I would—I mean in this instance. Better let her suffer than to deprive Oliver of a client—his onl client, probably. © looks like one of these ol miserly creatures who keep their money stowed . @way in their stockings, and, you_ know, they take ambrage even at kindness. Indeed—indeed—I wouldn’t disturb her.” , He looked at me in amazement. I kuew that my manner must seem to him very siranés, but it could not be helped. If I had to my | Ktti You wouldn’t let an old m back by main strength, he should not approac e. _.“*She’s gasping for breath,”’ he said. Prin she was, and clutching feebly at her bonnet- strings. Oh, could she not hear me, and try to help me in my endeavor to save her from this disclosure? Had she no regard for the situation in which she would be placed? nele Waldon (as I shall call him) started forward, i caught his arm, whispering: **Let me attend to her.” But he did not heed me. The body in the chair ‘was swaying to and fro, He sprang to it, and caught it in his arms. __ Isaw him unfasten the bonnet-strings; Isaw that yy his awkward handling, the cap and curls would displaced when the bonnet was removed; I had not the courage to wait and see more. I fled precipi- tately. caring not how my strange conduct would pene a only hoping that Ettie would not declare But there was little consolation in that hope. Ol- fiver would return, and that would expose all; or, if mot that, Uncle Waldon, seeing her now, would recog- Mize her, when I would have to present him to my - jon) wife, : _ Oh, misery—misery, why had I ever thought of go- er rege opens | A ; _ Ing there! Blinded with m eo. 7 f£ I had not, all this would have been avoided, I vowed then that never again would I take a step toward bettering the condition of things in my iicusehold; for every time that I had interfered, | had only succeeded in making matters worse, I tried to stem the storm; but my attempts only added to its ereeniyey and the thunderboits all fell upon my head. But this— was the worst of all! Oh, the torture { endured as I made my way to my home, and thought of the scene from which I had fled! Surely now Kttie would feel disgraced. I imagined her as awaking from her swoon, and finding herself in a stranger’s arms; and what might she not tell in those first few moments? misery, I fairly rushed into my house, and started headlong for the library, where I could be alone, and could -groan over this wretched state of affairs to my heart’s content. I was asif involved in darkness—there seemed to be a rushing, roaring torrent within andabout ine. I saw nothing as I started down the hall; I realized nothing till I heard a mild voice, saying: Pe: you please, Allan, have a regard for conse- ces..””. Those gentle tones caused me to recoil full three’ den a, gs ae oe Or HY YOUNG WIFE. + F d feet. I stood therc, horror-stricken, as I beheld— my wife! “You!” Icried. *‘ And Aunt Phoebe—where is she?” ** Out,’’ was the laconic reply. I bowed my head, and aned—not because my wife was now before me, but because I knew that I had left Aunt Phoebe behind me. And oh! with what a rush of torturing doubts did that knowledge over- whelm me! Without a word of axplensiton to Ettie, I hurried on to the library; and there, in solitude, I tried to org the full measure of my bitter—bitter humili- ation, CHAPTER XIII. ““PHEY SAY.”’ “ FRIEND INGRAM: “Kindly refrain from mentioning that I have returned from India. For certain reasons connected with my nephew, I desire to remain incog. fora time. ‘The boys have not seen me for over twenty years— no one knows of my arrival but you; so, if you will do as I have requested, I can acccomplish my pur- pose readily. Should you meet me in the presence of any one, pray don’t recognize me. ‘** Yours truly, ‘*GroRGE WALDON,”’ That note was brought to me in the midst of m painful cogitations. It lifted part of theload from o my mind. [should bespared the embarrassment that an explanation of my strange behavior would cause. Very weeny I granted his request, and then I turn- ed my thoughts from Aunt Phoebe, He had evidently not declared himself to her, as he said in his note: ‘*No one knows of my arrival but you,” * It was not likely that she would have an opportun- ity of meeting him again, for of course he would not now come to my house, so no disclosure could come about in that way. It all depended upon the little woman herself. I confess that when I thought of facing her my heart sank. First I resolved to go to her, and explain all; but I put that quickly from my mind. Never— never would I open my lips to any one in accusation of my wife! Then I resolved to brave it all as best I could, to let circuinstances decide my future actions, and to deport myself as if all these mistakes had not occurred. I dared not think of that meeting in the grounds, I hugged desperately the hope that it had been Ettie; l argued the matter over and over, concluding each time that it must have been Ettie. Several times I was on the point of sending for her and asking her, but my courage failed; I could better endure uncer- tainty than the confirmation of my fears. I endured an hour of agonizing reflection, and then, nerving myself as if going to meet some dreaded fate, I repaired to the dining-room. I halted without the door, I opened it timidly, Ientered with a sinking heart; like a whipped schoolboy, I nade my obeisance to the ladies, and took immediate refuge behind the evening oe Never before had I been so interested; I read fierce- ly—that is the only way in which I can express it. I felt like one doomed to death seated in the shadow of the gallows; I felt that whenI looked up from those columns, I might hear from Aunt Phcebe, and what then—what then? “ Allan, my dear, we are waiting for you.” Ettie’s calm voice aroused me, Ilaid down the pa- er with a sigh, feeling asif 1 were parting with a riend, and took my place at the table. Never before had I been so engrossed with the viands upon my plate; I ate asif 1 were never to eat again, looking up not once till dinner was over. Aunt Phoebe’s silence augured ill to me; it seemed as if she were nursing her wrath that the outburst would be the more furious, I glanced at her quickly, fearfully, as 1 arose from the table, to see what in- dications there were upon her face; I glanced at her and met her and I could have fallen right down and worshipped her, for not a sign was there that anything out of the ordinary had occurred—not the least consciousness was there in her gaze. Oh, what a relief—what an unexpected relief! Perhaps she had not heard a word of what Lhad said; being faint, how could she? Or, what seemed more likely to me, perhaps it had not been she at all; in the dusk that had prevaded the room, how easily I could have made a mistake; it might really have been some old. odd client of Oliver's, after all. 1 expanded into good humor at once; the gratitude in my heart obliterated allbitterness, all anger, and foratime peace and pleasantness reigned in the household, ~ Ettie looked at me m surprise as I talked and laughed, and igre hi upon the guitar, (an accomplish- ment in which I was proficient); perhaps she thought I was not quite rational—that undue exertion after my illness had unsettled my mind. But as my good- humor promised to last well through the oak the surprise vanished, and a glad look came instead. When Aunt Phoebe tripped away to bed, and Bea- trice left in her staid, stately way, Ettie seated her- self by me, slipped her hand into inine, and whisper- ed: “ Oh, Allan; you are like yourself to-night, and it makes me very—very happy.” Now that jealousy and distrust were set aside, I could realize how wellI loved my wife. I stooped and kissed her, murmuring fondly: * My darling.” | : She nestled closer to me; after a short, blissful silence. Itookup my guitar, and to a low, soft ac- companiment, sang one of the songs that had been her delight m the days of our courtship. It brought back that happy time to our minds; and when I had ! senees " = - z BSS EEE Lavidfe 2 asin finished, we talked it ail over. finding much joy ia calling up happy scenes, and Lappy motuents, It was an hour of sweet comu:nion, a bright— bright spot in our clouded lives, Wilh the hope that it might last so earnest in my heart tliat T could not express it, I said: We'll let bygones be bygones, darling: we'll be- gin anew, and try to be happy always.” To my surprise, as well as to my sorrow, Ettie re- leased herself from my embrace, and arose, sighing wearily. A breath of the old irritation passed over my heart, ruffling the happiness that was there. “What now?” I asked, trying hard tospeak gently. ‘““Why could you not have allowed this to last a \ittie longer? I’m foolish enough to_be happy when you are kind and tender; but you always dispel it.” “I! What have 7done? Itis you. 't seems to me.”* “Oh, it is not, Allan—it is you / Was I not sitting by you as contented as possible ——” “Yes; and didn’t you, suddenly and without cause, get up and sigh as if you were the most injured of women?’ . “And asIam! Iam continually subjected to your insinuations—your ungenerous suspicions ——”’ **Now—now, Ettie; my love, pause+pause and re- flect. Don’t call up needless discussion. Do try to have a little control over yourtemper. I’m willing to forget everything, and ——”’ “That’s just it, Allan Ingram, I will not endure your tolerance. How magnanimous you are! * Wil- ling to forget everything,’ indeed! What is there for you to ee You talk as if you were some saint, willing to bear with me and my sins. With the con- sciousness of innocence in my heart, it galls—it hu- miliates—it angers me to hear insinuations. And we can never be happy—never, till you cease uttering them!” I arose then, also sighing wearily. “You judge yourself too leniently, my love,” I said, ‘“‘What yon would consider grave faults in others, you regard as nothing in yourself. Itis really amazing that you can face me and complain because I doubt you——”’ “And itis more than amazing that you can face me and insinuate as you do, when you yourself are not above reproach.” : I understood that she referred to Herbert. That made my blood boil. I caught her arm, saying: “Then you don’t believe——” ‘““Why should I believe what you say ip your de- fense, when you will not believe that which I say in mine?’ ‘*Bah!” I cried, angrily, dropping her arm quickly. ‘““A wife who will suspect Nevewe Pe Ap re : ‘Is no worse than a husband who will suspect his own wife!” she interrupted. ‘* But you have no proof, Ettie.”” ‘* Neither have you any proof.” ‘And you wrong me so.” ‘“Do you everthink how you wrong me?” ‘““ What I’ve seen I must believe.”’ *“ And what I’ve heard I must believe.”’ “Answer me this, Ettie,” I said, sternly: *‘* Do you believe me guilty?” “Oh, no—no, Allan. If I did, how could I remain — Oh, I don’t believe—i only suspect—and ear.” “That you should even suspect is doing me foul in- justice——”’ ** And what of your suspicions of me?” **Oh, can you not comprehend that there is a wide difference in our cases. You are the most unreason- able of your sex.” ‘And you are the most jealous, suspicious, disa- greeable of yours. There, you have my opinion of you, so good _— 43! She turnedin her a petulant way, and left me to my gloomy thoughts. They were interrupted as I caught sight of an in- vitation lying opened upon the table—another dinner at Bostwick’s, and of course we would have to go, for while our presence might not be noted, our absence surely would, Again Ishould have to wear the mask of a smiling face, while my heart was full of bitter- ness and grief. Oh, this endeavor to keep up appear- ances was the hardest part of all to bear! I broached the matter to Ettie on the followin day, and was surprised to meet with no opposition. had expected that she would refuse to go to the Bost- wick’s; on the regia she seemed eager to go. This time Aunt Phoebe was iucluded in the invita- tion. I will confess that in secret I hoped she would not accompany us; but when she announced her in- tention of going, Il smiled and looked as pleased as was possible. Ettie, attired in a robe of chocolate-colored silk, elaborately trimmed with bands of brown embossed velvet, artificial acorns adorniig her wavy hair; Beatrice, stately and severe in her heavy black silk, jet bands on her amber hair; Aunt Plioebe in her glossy silk gown, her white lace cap and corkscrew curls, entered Mrs. Bostwick’s parlors with me. One, or some, or all of us, created quite a sensation amon the assembled company, there was a stir, a buzz, an all eyes were directéd toward us, I felt that “the world”? had been busy grin, red j He ve i absence—it will be remembered that Ettie and [had not been “out” together since the mas- querade at Marian Stewart’s. A very pretty picture those parlors made, tastily, luxuriously furnished, and filled with elega; uy attired guests, There was the glitter of lights, the sparkle of bright eyes, “po faces and merry laughter; a pretty picture, yet beneath the surface what hideous depths of ‘hatred, euvy, malice, and all uncharitableness ’’ was there. Dinner was over, andI had retired tothe solitude of the conservatory to muse over several things that Thad noticed; first, there was the meeting oan
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Ritie end our host's sou—Harry Bosiwiek. (A weak, | uous ove man,to'rated in society only for liz parent's Sake) Mitie usa been unusually calm an. puie, while 1c ..uu ween flushed and agitated; then there was the meeting between Beatrice and Leonard Wal- don; she had been uncommonly gracious, and he ap- Femi well pleased; then there was the meeting tween Leonard and Harry Bostwick; the former had been curt and impatient, it seemed to me, while the latter had been sullen and moody, And around ‘about them.all the figure of Aunt Phoebe had hover- ed. ‘*Indulging her curiosity,” I thought, to myself. was aroused from my reverie by hearing th> swish of silks, and the murmur of soft voices in close proximity to me. ‘*“Oh, you have heard, I suppose.” Tknew Marian Stewart’s voice. I looked out be- tween the large leaves of the plant behind which I was seated, and saw a group of ladies and gentlemen, all eagerly eying the central figure—Marian. **Abost Mrs. Ingram? Oh, yes,” chorused several voices. Mess if was really she who came here in dis- guise.” “Oh, yes. What a shameful proceeding! Just look at her now—what an innocent face she wears! T wonder if she doesn’t know that we know of her coming here?”’ “Undoubtedly. You should have seen her as I gave her her handkerchief; it was found here, you know.” “Tt’s the strangest piece of business, to be sure! ‘What could have been her object?” ‘Oh, that’s plain enough; husband, rich and rather old; wife, young and gay and—well, you can’t exact- ly call her a rustic, but she was a country girl you know, and wasnot asclever as she might be in carry- ing on her @mours.” ‘Then you believe she’s in love with Harry Bost- wick?” **Oh, T know that she is——” “You’re inthe wrong, I assure Marian’s legato voice. ‘It’s not is Oliver Waldon.” * But [ haveit from “And I have it from “{ heard my story from our cvok, who is first cousin to the cook at Miss Elwood’s, who is sister to the chambermaid here; and she saw Mrs. Ingram, in her disguise, of course, talking to Harry Bostwick time and again.”’ *“AndI heard mine from our coachman, who is brother-in-law to the sister of Peter, Mr. Ingram’s rter. He says that Oliver Waldon has been forbid- Ben the house, and he ought to know, for he’s right there. But have you heard the latest?” ** About the quarrel in Oliver Waldon’s office? Oh, yes; [heard that last night from Miss Elwood.” “ And Miss Elwood heard it from me. She prom- ised not to repeat it.” : ** Oh, well, I promised her that I wouldn’t mention it to any one. It is a shame to repeat it, for a duel now-a-days is a serious affair.” “A duel—a duel!” “Yes; when I say duel I mean a quarrel, politely mentioned, You wouldn’t think it of him—now would ou?” mt Of him?—whom do you mean?” : “Why, Mr. Ingram, of course. That's why he is ‘here to-night. He hasn’t been out forsome time, you know—they’ve said that he was ill, but that may be 30, and it may not; he has come here to-night for appearance’ sake.” ’ ‘* But the duel—the duel! What of it? When did atoceur?” “Two days ago.” “ + dae “In Oliver Waldon's office.” “ How did you hear of it?” ; “J didn’t hear of it; I was aneye witness——” **Tothe duel?” - “Oh, no—mercy no, but to the rest. “You met Mr. Ingram rushing like a madman ‘from the office—so Miss Elwood told me.” * Yes, I met him; or rather, he me by, al- wmost knocking me over in his ma haste. ** And then you saw her-——— " Rone soma f course! and in the most % ngram, of co etitramecuee ad . se.’ Poor thing, she had fainted with fright, Isuppose. She was led down to the car- riage by a gentleman—one of the seconds, I pre- sume.” “She had gone there to prevent the duel, I sup- se?” ou,” interrupted arry Bostwick; it ‘ood authority——"” etter.” “Undoubtedly.” : Ss * But how did you know it was she?” | “Oh, I knew rd ; besides, our porter is brother to one of the drivers in Brown’s livery stable, and he drove her home that day—right to the door, “What a disgraceful affair! Poor Mr. Ingram— how I pity him.” : Poor liver, say. Imethimon the street to- apy, and he looked so pale and sad.” os Vi borate you think?” ‘“ Undoubtedly. , * Did he tell you anything about it?” . : “No; and of course I wouldn’t ask. I’m not in- isitive, know.’ wear | thought Oliver Waldon had gone to Eu- a ruse. ‘ He cae to — : certain party—he told me so in confidence. ow i ‘ou’ll prostiat never to repeat it, I'll tell you who it * and Marian Stewart looked earnestly around on the hg faces je po eh ‘ —never “Welle is Mrs. Ingram. Hetold me that at our — She evidently would not be avoided, rope.”” R Oh, that was onl * I MY YOUNG WIFE. i as this duel proves. Poor fellow! I hope his wound is not danyerons,” Her voice was drowned there by a rustling on the opposite side of the plant that screened me. hen I heard Aunt: Phoebe speaking, in subdued tones: ““Curus flower this, eh? I’ve been a-studying of the leaves—but that takes only my eyes; my ears has been a-hearing of the talk that’s going on. It’s about a young man, who’s been a-wounding himself, dan- Rous, they say. Too bad, ain’t it? There, hark ye! hey’re a saying of some more.” > Marian’s voice sounded out distinctly. ““He looked to me just like an animated corpse— hollow-eyed, his face white and drawn, his lips per- fectly colorless. He could well be taken for the ghost of handsome Oliver Waldon. It’s the wound, of course, I shouldn’t be a bit surprised to hear of his death at any time.”’ Her last words were followed by a heavy thud, as He a “Is Oliver Waldon dead yet? Can I be accused of his death while he still lives? How foolish you are! Be good enough to cease this childish talk, and make yourself ready to go home.” “Tf you were not so old and disagreeable you wo appreciate my anxiety for you,”’ she snapped, as e. hurried from me. I stood, gnashing my teeth with my rage., How could I endure this longer? ‘“*T cannot, and I will not!’ I cried to myself. “I will go away, and she shall never see me again!” The idea, now that it had entered my mind, soon gained ground. Ithought it over and over, and came to the determination of putting it into effect as soon as possible. f course it would not do to depart suddenly and quietly, and leave Ettie to the mercy of the go! I concluded that the best way to insure her welfare would be to give an entertainment,so that we could appear before the world together, and so that I could promulgate the fact of my intended departure. I would go as if on a business tour, and no one but _— and myself would know that we were estrang- ed. , Me I settled all this the following day, and then I sent word to Ettie, requesting her to come to my library. And so perverse was my nature, that while I contem=- plated my resolution with satisfaction, feeling relief at the idea of getting away from this atmosphere of suspicion, and fairly gloating over the idea of pun- ishing Ettie for her doubts of me, I still hoped that she would make opposition to my plan, and even ac- knowledged that one little word, “‘stay,"* would make me the happiest of men. As I heard her footfall—a sound to which I had lis tened so often, and which even now thrilled every fiber of my being, my determination wavered. I felt that 1 could not leave her—my wife, who, in othe cntered, lookiag: Gi, por tows in hae th e en , oh, so lov in 3 te) dress of dark n_ cashmere, bordered with silk of a lighter shade. I gazed upon her, then around — about the room; here was beauty, elegance, luxury, — and my love, but all clouded by picion —that was my life now. I looked out through the window; there was ¢ lation, decay, dreariness—that was the lifeI propos- ed to enter. There were no shadows there—tho bright sunlight flooded all, still I turned from it, and 0; rather misery with her thana . ? ’ looked within again, saying in my heart: “No, I cannot life of longing wit She had been standing before me while I had been making these mental observations. i “You sent for me, Allan,” she said. “Yes; and oh, Ettie,’’ 1 began, going to her with extended hands. She stepped back just a little, but even that little was apparent to me. ; { stopped short, indignant. Was my touch contamination? “Do not trouble yourself,”’ I said, hotly, re over to the window, thus placing the length of the room between us. ‘I shall relieve you of oe presence altogether shortly. I sent for you to' you that I am going away.’ She started as if she were coming to me. Oh, if even then she had said * Stay,” I could nave forgiven her. But she said nothing; she stood still, looking stead- ily into the grate fire. “Well, Ettie, have you nothing to say?” a voice was a trifle husky, I know. ** Nothing,” she replied, clearly and coldly. “Do you not think it a wise course to pursue, un- der the circumstances?’ “Are you not old enough to think and decide yourself?” ; ting: e shadows of sus- — out her.” , + a
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“T believe I am; I thought that I would like to your opinion on the matter——” ‘You do me too much honor.” “But if you have none to give, why, of course——” “Certainly, to be sure,” she interrupted, sharply. “It was not my opinion you wanted, Allan Ingram; you expected me to fall down upon my Knees—to ery, and wring my hands, and plead with you not to go. You are disappointed, are you not?” And quickly she turned, and darted from the room, but not so quickly that I could not see the tears that had welled to her eyes, “She does care,” I said, exultantly, *‘ but she will not acknowledge it. I will continue my preparations, and at the last moment she will bid me stay.” Buoyed up with that hope, I commenced my ar- rangement for departure cheerfully. _I issued invita- tions to our ‘dear five hundred friends,”’ and’ passed the intervening two weeks quite pleasantly, for Ettie’s pale, sad face seemed to augur well for the consum- mation of my longing, that she would bid me stay. Tt was the morning of the day on which our soiree was to take pla I descended to the breakfast-room, humming lightly a Fay, tune, as I thought that on the morrow, the day I had fixed for my departure, the hope that I had lived on for the past weeks, would reap fruition. Still humming lightly, I opened the door; the gay ne died on my lips as my eyes fell upon my ward; ihe was seated by the window as white and as rigid as a statue, her eyes closed, her lips compressed, the morning paper held in one hand with vise-like grip. I sprang to her, calling: “Boat ce—Beatrice!”’ She shivered visibly, there was a mt ie twitching of, and eyelids, then wearily and with great effort she looked up at me. 24 You are aint,’ Isaid. ‘‘Let me call some one “No, guardy, no. I will go to my room.” _ “Whatis it, Beatrice? Has anything happened?” I looked toward the paper in her hand as I spoke. “* Nothing.” How dry and hard her voice was. She passed me the paper, arose and started to go. q I glanced at it hurriedly; a familiar name caught my eye—Oliver Waldon. I, looked again—yes, it was _. Oliver Waldon, and the paragraph in which it. oc . Pe was headed: “Found Drowned.” ; On the impulse of the moment, I cried: * Beatrice, did you see this?” She turned her ghastly face to me, saying, huskily: “ What?” “This about Oliver Waldeon——” She fairly staggered from the room; still it never occured to me that she was suffering else than phy- sically. ; -\I turned to the paper again, and read: **Founp DROWNED. “The body of aman was found in the bay near Deer Island, on Tuesday. Itwas conveyed to the morgue. His linen was wwarked with the name Oliver ; on. No pope were to be found on his person “e identify him further.” f MJ 4 CHAPTER XV. — "ig artasig A DELIGHTFUL (?) EVENING. ; "So r fellow, he is gone!” L exclaimed. = W: Many? No. Neither was I glad. i ne I felt ' t that he had come Bo so untimely an end, andI determined to do what little I could for m now, I forgot that he was ry enemy, and ought of him as the son of my old frie nd, now dead one. the paragraph over again, and sighed: “Poor fellow! What could haye driven him to so an act? Remorse, J suppose.”’ rd my wife appro . he must not see this now,” Isaid, hurriedly. ** It d spoil her, evening’s pleasure. Time enough er to hear it. to-morrow.” the mo trouble yourself, my dear.” ,’ and in a twinkling she was . “g = out BS Ww 2 ¥ “Peter—Peter! Alw: ) j “Ettie, don’t trouble yourself,”* I said, impatient- y. ; ‘‘Tt’s no trouble, Isay. Peter, your master wishes ” y 1 to—— wee attic,” 1 interrupted, still more wr poate “did you fear me? Do.not trouble yourself.” at it’s no—— i “T tell you, I don’t want a morning paper!” “Then "why did you notsay so at first,” she snap- ak Pa peta Sips ng the door. ‘‘I thought I would do you a ‘ ndness——— a. You mean, you saw a chance to aggravate aut vee “Please allow me the privilege of knowing what I mean. But why should that aggravate you?” - eee A BO mood to explain just at present.” i SOU mean that you are in too disagreeable a “Would you kindly allow me the privilege of know- ing what I mean?” ; A entrance of Aunt Phoebe put a stop to our wo tite vos Immediately after breakfast I ordered my horse and buggy, and started to do what I could for the un- ; ‘ aa ot td son of my dead friend. j owt 9 I not enter into detail right here, I will simply & . ce—a bright, crisp November morning. | MY YOUNG WIFE. say that, upon arriving at the morgue, I found Leo- nard there, and together we looked upon the corpse of his brother; his brother, of course, as we both agreed, bales 25 there was nothing to prove it save the name on his linen, for his face was bloated and disfigured beyond all recognition. “No one has seen or heard anything of him for more than two weeks,” said Leonard, He has evi- dently been in the water for that length of time.” I left Leonard to superintend the removal and burial of the body, and I started for my home, hav- res, just sufficient time to get there, and to make my toilet, before the guests would begin to come. I drove quickly along, thinking of Oliver’s death with a feeling of relief, Then it occurred to me how imprudent I had been in keeping the knowledge of itfrom Ettie. Of course, I was not the only one who read the morning papers; others would have seen it as well as I, and the matter would, in all gweee Ss be discussed at the soiree. Ettie would hear of it suddenly, and, of course, she would display emotion before them all. “*T must tell her the instant I reach home,” I said, laying the whip on my horse. ‘‘ What a dolt lam, to be sure! Why didn’t I think of that this morning?” I drove along in the early darkness of the Novem- ber wiyices, wisbing now that I had given less time to the dead. It seemed as if my horse only crept along—it seem- ed as if I would never reach home. ee and fumed, and stormed and raved to my- self. In the midst of my irritation there came a crashing and cracking. For amoment I seemed to be swaying in mid-air, and enveloped in deepest darkness, My next realization was to find myself seated upon the ground, and to see lanterns flashing about me. “* Break-down, mister?’ I heard. “Yes, I see,’ I replied, absently peering at the wreck of the buggy. Then I remembered what cause there was for me to be at home, and I started up like a rocket. What cowd I do? There was a distance of three miles before me, and it was impossible to get a conveyance in the vicinity in which I was, “Tl have to walk, of course,’ I said. Hastily negotiating with the men who had found me about the charge of my horse, I started on, heed- less of everything in my desire to reach home in time, and soundly berating myself for having ventured out in the buggy without having ascertained if the dam- age it had received at the last encounter had been fully repaired. It was some time before I noticed that the moon, now full, was rising. ‘Great heavens!” I exclaimed. ‘Then it is late! I must have been stunned, and I have lost. uscon- sciousness.” My watch confirmed that fear—it was nine o’clock. Nine o’clock—a, walk of two miles and half before me—and my wife waiting for me to assist her in the ete of our guests! “What will she think? What will. she say?’ I groaned, as I half ran along. ‘It will be after ten by the time I reach home, and many of the guests will have come.” Oh, why—wiy, did everything go wrong with me? I ran on and on, and at last I reached the en- trance-gate to my estate. Panting, breathless, exhausted, I paused for a mo- ment to rest, and to wipe the perspiration from my face. I looked up at the house: Baa gleamed from celler to garret, strains of music floated out on the night air, blended with the sound of gay voices, and merry Jaughter. The soiree was in full force, and my wife was without her husband! ep—deep, was my humiliation! How couldI face those hundreds of wondering guests? But it had to be done.. I mustered up courage at length, and started on. Of course, I could not enter by ae front door, so I hurried around toward the The path at the side of the house was in partial shadow; but even if the moonlight had been streaim- ing full upon it, I should not have seen anything, for all my, faculties were engrossed with what was tran- spiring within. e Oh nd “ Oh she Those two exclamations sounded out simultan- eously, and [ became aware that I had collided with somebody. “IT beg your pardon,” I began, looking up to see who this party, was. But he had already commenced a retreat. I made out a tall, cloaked form, surmounted with a wide- brimmed hat; then I caught a ae pse of his face as he turned away. That one glimpse caused me to shiver from head to foot, for the face was Oliver Waldon’s! Amazement and fear blinded me for a moment; when I looked again, the face and form were gone. I peered about, but in vain; I could see uo one. I rubbed my eyes, wondering if I had been the vic- tim of a delusion. “Tt was rather solid for a ghost,”’ I muttered, as I walked on, “ButI cannot stop to investigate now, Who can it be, that resembles Oliver so closely?” l reached the back porch, and I forgot this episode as | contemplated my meeting with Ettie. Oh, if I could only effect an entrance unseen! Had I been a thief, [could not have ascended the steps more cautiously. I paused at the door to listen. Icould hear the buzz of voices in the hall, but no one seemed to be in the vicinity of this door. After considerable hesita- tion, I ventured to open it; I opened it just a little, and peered in, i ‘Thank God!” I ejaculated, for Ettie was standing by the rear staircase, alone. Icould slip in, say a word of explanation to Ettie, and then hasten to my toilet. I did slip iv. I ecalled softly: ** Ettie.”’ ; She turned, looked at me, started as if with horror, and opened her movth as if she would scream. Gesticulating frantically, I whispered: ‘“*Hush—hush! Come this way.” And I retreated behind the staircase. She approached, and I saw that she was pale and tremulous with anger. Between her set teeth, she said: “J thank you for your consideration forme, You ey have spared me this Jast humiliation, at east, “Why, Ettie, I thought it better to come late than not at all,’? I returned, tag's * But your condition,” she half-sobbed. ‘‘Oh, Al- lan—Allan—I never thought to see you like this! Please—please don’t stay here, for you will be seen.” “Why, what’s the matter with me?” “Don’t you know?’’ she sneered. ‘ Look at your- self in that glass fon and you'll see.” I did look, and I ree¢oiled with horror, Surely, I could not blame Ettie for her suspicion. One glance at myself in the glass satisfied me as to what it was, She thought I was in liquor. I were. My clothes were bedaubed with mud (we had had heavy rains recently)--my coat was_torn—I was hat- less—and my face—oh, horror—my face! It had re- ceived its share of mud, and, as the reader will re- member, I had wiped the perspiration from it. Im- agine the consequence! In my anxious haste, I had not given a thought to my appearance. * Ettie, I can forgive you,” I whispered. ‘‘I surely look as if I were—were—in fact, drunk. Where— where canI go? For Heaven’s sake, let no one see me! Isitsafe—do you think, my dear one, that it is safe for me to go up this staircase? Perhaps I had better go out and remain in the grounds till the guests have gone.” *“No! Don’t be a fool, Allan! to the parlors, for 1 have been makin lame excuses for your absence. Oh, I such humiliation!” “IT am very—very sorry, my dear.” = Weil, don’t stand there mumbling any longer Truly, I looked as if You must come in- all sorts of ave endured “No, I won't,” I said, meekly. After casting one despairing glance up the stair- case, and wondering whom I should encounter on the way, I began the ascent. Ne Allan Ingram ascending the back staircase, and Allan Ingram descending the front staircase, were widely dissimilar, Thad regained my self-possession by the time my toilet was completed, and I entered the parlors, and made my excuses for my late appearance without experiencing any of the humiliation that I had an- ticipated. ‘Thank God that is over!’ I said to myself, ‘‘ Now to play the agreeable host, and to insure my friends. a delightful evening.” I looked around upon the goodly company—the elite of the place. : There were many beautiful ones present, but no one, to my eyes, could compete with my wife. How very lovely she was to-night! In her wavy brown hair were entwined the pearls that had been one of my wedding gifts to her, and her neck and arms were adorned with the same milk- white jewels, Her dress was of silk of the faintest rose tint, elab- orately trimmed with white lace. She seemed to me to be the queen of the assem- blage, and my heart swelled with pride, I put away all discomfort—all sad thoughts—and determined to enjoy the evening to the full. “It promises well,” I said, complacently, as my wife passed me, and gave me a tender, grateful look, ‘‘She is thankful, TOAD RORS: that her fear was groundless, and that her humiliation is over. Darling er How beautiful she is, and how I love er!’ : Ilooked around again, and my eyes rested upon Beatrice. She seemed to have recovered from her indisposition of the morning. She was dressed in black tulle, tastily adorned with knots of purple pan- sies; and a bunch of the flowers was fastened in her uate pened} h hink of tl hi appened just then to think of the paragra n the paper, and that I had not told Ettie of Oliver's fate as Lhad intended, But Beatrice’s curiosity must. have been awakened by what I had said, and most likely she had procured a paper and read for herself; and, of course, Ettie would have heard that. I started to go to my ward, to question her about this. She was standing by a window; I saw her look out, then start back as if trightened; then she looked out again, long and intently, I thought of the person I had encountered, and 1 wondered if she were looking at him. Suddenly, she turned away from the window. I saw her face, as white as death, her eyes dilated and full of dread. My heart sank. ‘We are to have a scene, I suppose,” I muttered, impatiently. I hastened to her as I saw her swaying to and fro, and groping about for support; but ere lcould reach her she had fatlen unconscious to the floor, _ She was carried from the parlors, and while Ettie attended to her, I put forth my best endeavors te bridge over this awkward break in the evening's. pleasure, : I was determined to learn who it was that was
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ee eh eee ee ee ee a prowling about inthe grounds; and when the general i composure was restored, and I gained an opportunity for escaping unseen, I slipped out. The bright moonlight flooded all, rendering objects distinctly visible. Ilooked quickly around, andI saw, or fancied that I saw, two forms at. a distance from me. I concluded that it had been fanzy, for as I started forward I could see but one, and he was staggering asif drunk with wine, As I neared him, he fell prostrate, his face to the ground. I stooped over him to ascertain who he was, and what was the cause of his strange conduct. 1 had taken off his hat, and was preparing to turn his face toward me, when, moved by some unexplainable im- pues Ilooked up toward the house; and I sawa right-robed figure emerge from the conservatory window, and hasten down the veranda toward the back porch. It was my wife! Again jealousy gained sway, and suggested that she was coming to meet this fallen hero. An idea darted into my mind, and ina twinkling I put it into execution. “J will learn who he is, by-and-by,” I muttered, as I fairly tore the iong cloak from him, and wapped it about myself, and donned his wide-brimmed hat, drawing it down over my face. Then I stepped forward to meet my wife. CHAPTER XVI. A DELIGHTFUL (?) EVENING—CONTINUED, Ertiz hurried towards me. ITknew that she saw me, for she raised one hand warningly, as if to bid me to be cautious, Iwithdrew into theshadow of a large evergreen, and then I waited for her. Even though my heart was filled with jealous rage, esa not but admire her as I saw her approach- ng. How radiant she looked in the silver light that flooded all! Her face, soexquisitely fair, peeped out from the fleecy folds of the white wrap that envelop- ed her head and shoulders; ana the diamonds on her hand gleamed and sparkied, shedding their irides- cent light over silken robe, and falls of filmy lace. “Oh, howl hoped as she stood there that her words would prove tome that she was true—that they would give mean inkling of that which she had said she could, but would not explain. I fairly held my breath in my anxious eagerness. She reached me at length. After one hurried glance back towards the house, she placed her hand upor my arm, and looking up at me, whispered in quick, anxious tones: “Beatrice said that she saw you here, I felt that I must come to you, and tell you to hope. All may yet be well for us. Do not grieve, but wait patiently ; and ere long you will—I know, I feel you will receive urreward. Icannot stay to saymore now. Al- lauy you know, isso jealous, so unreasonable, and if he should miss me from the parlors I should have to endure another of his angry spasms. But he is go- ing away—then I can see you without fear, and per- haps—perhapsI shall have ecstatic news for you; that your sorrow isatanend. Cheer up—the clouds are breaking, Lfeel sure, and we shall emerge from this darkness into the light of perfect day. cannot give you time to say a word, forIfearso that Allan will miss me. Good-night—good-night!” She turned qui¢kly away. I stood still, groaning in spirit. How sadly hed. my hopes been dashed! What did my wife's words prove? ‘To me they proved afaisity. And my absence would beso welcome—and Beatrice was in league with her, after all. Oh, bitter was the knowledge I had gained. She was hurrying toward the house, and I was look- ing after her, too wretched to move—really stunned th my misery. 7 Sudden! ashe turned and darted back, and in the same quick, anxious tones, whispered: “Come again to-morrow evening, and if all trans- pires as I hope, either Beatrice or will see you.’ As she turned from me again, [caught her arm and the one word burst from my lips: “ False!” Icould not say more; anger and agony seemed to be gras? ~ sie erential j may ca : re ciered Dee nt wide-brimmed hat, and glared fiercely at her,as she clasped her trembling bands ther, and lifted her eyes, now full of despair, to mine. Allan!” she exclaimed, faintly. f “Yes, Allan!’ 1 returned, savagely. ‘I am that much-injured individual. At last—at last you stand before me self-convicted! Now, can you deny that u, yes. y “Great penvonel woman, are you mad? You deny it now, when I have heard the words from your own lips that were intended for your hero, whoever , ne Ny hero!” and she laughed mockingly. “If you ont qo know," I interrupted. ‘I am not Por in my dotage, madam, that I cannot understand what I see _ and hear.” “You don’t know,” she retorted. ‘ You are alto- our jealous surmises.”” — ieeehven ilinded ty Jet abont anxiously while speak- ty, ng for him, I suppose,” I sneered. “Hove aie ring Po ?’ she asked, timidly. “T have.” ma: ou” ws What” as she hesitated. HY YOUNG WIFE. “Did you speak to him?” was Oliver I saw, if he who lies yonder is not Oli- ; i ‘* How you tremble for his welfare!” I cried, hotly. | ver?’’ ‘“* How you fear that I have even breathed rudely upon him! Yes, [have seen bim. No, I have not spoken 2 him. Would you see him, madame? He lies yon- er.” ; ae I pointed toward the spot where that form had allen. * He lies yonder?” she faltered. “‘Oh, Allan, is he injured?’ “Is he injured?’ I shouted. ‘“* How can you, in my presence, show such regard for him?” , “For him? No, Allan, it is not regard for him, but or you.” “Forme! Ha—ha! ‘tisa queer way to show your regard for me, I vow.” “Oh, can you not understand?” *“No; I confess I cannot.”’ “Oh, do you not see, Allan, why I tremble and fear? If he lies yonder, injured, who but you-—”* “Ah, ha! Isee now! Thanks, madame, thanks! You would now credit me with another crime! ‘If he lies yonder injured who but me has done it,’ is that what you would say?” The dread, the fear in her eyes answered nie. * Then let me tell you,’ I said, between my shut teeth, “that you wrong me again. Your hero lies yonder, prostrated most likely from the effect of too many potations, taken to cheer his sinking heart while waiting for his enslaver, "Tis a November night, remember, and the winds herald the approach of the ice-king; and however fiercely love may burn within, itecannot render one insensible to the cold. That reminds me! I have his cloak and hat upon my person, and he may be suffering. I will return them to him with thanks, for they have done me good ser- vice. A manly hero you have, Ettie; manly, indeed, to come prowling about like a thief——” “Oh, Allan, have a little mercy!’ she cried, pite- ously. ‘*How can you be so bitter—so cruel? Wait but a little while, and all may be explained to you. I tell you, every unjust suspicion you have had of me— every unkind word you have spoken, will one day re- coil upon yourself with redouvled intensity! I beg of you, be merciful to me; and Oliver—oh, you wrong him so!” *“ Oliver!’’ I sneered. “‘ Why do you plead for Oliver now?” I could see her eyes dilate with fear; she extended her hands pleadingly, as she faltered: ‘* Now—plead for Oliver now? How strangely you talk, Allan, Ido not understand.” ‘Then I will explain, madame; Iask you why you pléad for Ojiver now that heis dead.” In my anger. TI had not thought that perhaps that would be news to her. At the word ‘‘ dead,’’ she gave vent to a shriek that ran EN be the grounds. ‘Hush! for Heaven’s sake, hush!” I cried, drawing her tome, and retreating further into the ‘shadow of the evergreen. ‘‘ You will have all that assemblage at our heels.”’ ** But, Allan—Allan,”’ she moaned, “what did you say? Oliver dead—dead, did you say?” Almost beside myself with rage, I answered un- feelingly: “Yes, dead.” “Oh, Allan,” she wailed, bowing her head. ** His loss is deeply felt,’’ I sneered. Oh, how jealousy racked my heart as I saw her so moved! She did not heed mywords. Fora moment she stood with bowed head; then raising it, l saw her face so full of agony that even my stubborn heart cried out for her. Slowly ged toward that spot to which I had pointed, she faltered: ‘He is dead—and you say that he lies yonder.” “Not so, my dear; Oliver is dead, but who lies yonder I do not know.” “Why, it must be Oliver! Beatrice saw him—you saw him; do you not know that it is Oliver?” ' 3 I tell you, it is not Oliver! I have seen him dead, o-day. fy hee! how could you, Allan, when he was here to- night?” **Heavens, woman, will you not even allow me to know what I see, and whatI don’t see! Oliver Wal- don is dead—he died by drowning! All the world knows it, for it was in this morning’s paper. I have seen his co -~Leonard has seen it; and by this time he is, mostly likely, in his grave. I saw that some new fear had assailed her; she was looking at me piteously, her lips were moving, but she was unable to utter a word. “What is it?” I asked, almost tenderly, for her agony could but move the hardest heart, ‘Tell me, Ettie; what is it?” With great effort she whispered, hoarsély: “ Allan, that was not Oliver you saw; it was Her- bert.” “Nonsense! How could it be Herbert? Oliver's name was on his linen; how then—— * Oh, it was cgecny oer — sige ie ; impossible, my dear, impossible,” I said, testily. ‘Tt is strange that you willadhere to pene) We with such obstinacy.” Bas “And itis stranger still that you will not acknow!l- edge that which is so reasonable. We know that Herbert was drowned——”’ ‘Is it reasonable, my dear, to suppose that Her- bert could be found with the clothes of an entire stranger upon him?” She seemed about to say something there, but she checked herself. A moment's silence, and then she said, slowly: : “ Allan, will you believe that it was Herbert you saw, if he who lies yonder is Oliver?” “Such evidence, my dear, would convince the most stupid, I frankly say, [ will believe in that case. In turn, may Il ask you if you will believe “*T will.” “Then come."’ fate we hurried to the spot, é “There!” I exclaimed, triumphantly, as we reached “Now see for yourself.” : ‘““There! where?’ she asked, peering about. ‘“ Why, there,’’ and I pointed again to the ground. * Are you blind, Allan?” ““No, my love, I think not.”’ ‘* Well, do you see anything there?” “Certainly Ido, my dear.” “*Perhaps you'll have the Boodnens to look again.” T did look, and I exclaime “* Gone, by all that’s wonderful!”’ I had been pointing at a shacow. : “It was here, Ettie,’’ I said, almost deprecatingly. ee ed itis not here now.”’ “ee o.”” ‘ a er you have his cloak and hat.”’ ‘ “ es,’ : ag ‘““And, Allan, there'll be trouble! Why—why have you done this?” ‘““Tush—tush, woman! How you exasperate me! What have I done now? siinply borrowed some one wearing apparel, and——" ; A sharp, shrill whistle interrupted me. E I peered out from behind the evergreen, andI sa a man standing on the veranda just outside of the conservatory window. Lheard the whistle again,and Iknew that it came from him, , ““We have been missed, and probably overheard,” I whispered, dismayed. “It will not do for us: to be found here. What would our guests think? See, he is hastening, down toward the back porch, Quick— uick, my dear one, and hurry to the other side of the house before he sees us.” “Oh, Allan, I tremble with fear.” “Pray postpone your trembling, my love, and has. ten. There, he has turned the corner; now is our time! We will gain entrance to the house before he has had time to return.” Like two culprits, we ran across the grounds, and around to the back porch. There Ettie whispered: ‘For Heaven’s sake, Allan, take off that cloak and hat! And do—do hide them somewhere, for I fe so that there will be trouble!” I took them off, wishing heartily I had never donned them, and made as small a bundle of them as was possible. Ettie entered by a lower door, and I ascended the porch, and for the second time that evening, sneaked into my own house, - I gained the hall. Guests were passing back and forth; I could not take time just then to secrete the bundle that was'under my arm. I hurriedly threw it by the side of the hat-stand near the door; and then, calling a smile to my face, I mingled onee more CHAPTER XVII. with my guests. A delightful evening, indeed—delight/ful / A DELIGHTFUL (?) EVENING—CONCLUDED. isp y I breathed freely again as I saw Ettie movie . among the guests, playing the agreeable hostess. looked after her—to me the bright star in all that brilliant assemblage—and I wondered if her smiles J | it. > | were as hollow as mine were. aN In the midst of my contemplation I felt a hand ~ upon my shoulder. , i I turned quickly, and saw— Uncle Waldon! I looked the astonishment I felt, 1 suppose, for said: ' aoe the last person you expected to see | e 7 4 : “To speak frankly, you are, sir. How--how dis I was as confused as a school-boy facing his s' master, asI looked at my friend with th brance of our last lena | inmy mind. | ‘How didI get here? I drove out here this after: Sean and was really disappointed to find you absent.’ ifr “But—but I thought that you desired—desired to ““Yes—yes, Iunderstand—to remain incog. Yes— yes, of course—well, sol do. You must not knowme | now, you know; atleast, not in my own identity—see? — Iam cai bec, Mh learn the worth of my nephews, you know, andit is in pursuance of that object that THave intruded here to-night—see?” “Yes,” said, absently, for I didn’t see at all. I was thinking of Oliver's death, a fact of which his unclé seemed to be ignorant. Should I tell him now? “There is no danger of his fainting, 1 suppose. mney argued to myself. - ; resolved to tell him, lest he should hear of itina harsher way. ay. < I put my arm through his, and led him off toward the conservatary, as I said: Ray you seen this morning’s paper?” oe Yo,’” “T thought not.” “Aud why?” ; . : i $ecnuee if you had you would not have been here o-night.” ; { ‘“‘T don’t exactly see your drift, my friend.” * No, of course not, aldon, my dear friend, can you bear to hear sad news?” *, sa pl He looked at me in surprise. I met his gaze sor- rowfully, and placing my hand upon his in a condol- ing sort of way, I went on: - *You haven’t seen Oliver for the past two weeks, have you?” “Well, what of it?” ‘ oe
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oe gy ER wy - 1 ey ‘* He has been found——” I thought I saw an amused twinkle in his eye. It deepened my commiseration for him, tor it told how little he suspected of that which I was about to say. “Found,” he said, jovially. ‘‘ How?” “ Drowned!” I replied, solemnly. And I averted my face, so that I would not see the grief upon his. “Found drowned!” he replied. His tone did not sound very sad, andI looked at him again; there was no sign of rief upon his face; he was as composed as ever I had seen him. * Tell me about it, Ingram,’’ he added. Itold him, He seemed very much interested, es- ially when I came tothe mention of Leonard, and the disposal of the body. *Itis sad,” I said, in conclusion, “very sad. But, of course, we cannot mourn his loss as we would if he had led a different life. I cannot but feel that it is well that he is gone, for he was a source of discom- ior to others, and he surely must have been to him- self,” “To you, did you say, Ingram?” “Ob, no—dear, no, not at all!” “I beg pardon, misunderstood you. So he is dead; then I have only one nephew to look after.”’ only one. But he will scarcely n2ed looking after; nard, to me, is a pattern.” ~~ Of what?” ““Why, of goodness, to be sure.” “Oh, yes, certainly; Ididn’t know but that you ’ were an admirer of villany.” Lwas not exactly pleased with my friend’s face- tiousness; it seemed untimely. But further thought on that subject was interrupted by the approach of ttie. Her coming was arelief to me, and without stop- ping to think, without noticing the glance of recog- nition that passed. between her and Uncle Waldon, I lastened to say: * Allow me—this is my wife, Ettie; this is my friend, Mr. iy Suddenly I remembered his desire to remain incog. I looked at him helplessly; we had not prepared for such an emergency as this. Though forty names flitted through my brain I could not decide upon one, ; “Mr.—my friend Mr.——,” I stammered, hope- lessly. He whispered something, but in my confusion I could not hear; he whispered again, but to no use. { glanced at Ettie, and seeing her look of deep sur- prise, said, desperately: ‘‘ Why, to be sure, this is my friend, Mr. Benton.” I felt a nudging at my elbow, I heard Ettie ex- claim, and I knew that I had made some sort of mis- take. Llooked appealingly from one td the other; asif beg: ing of them to tell me what I had done. i f came this afternoon, 1 told you,” said Uncle bid sotto voce, “and, of course, I met your . wife! __Dolt! why had I not thought of that? - Ettie’s surprise at last found vent in words. nton,”’ she said, looking distrustfully at both s. “1 understood, this afternoon, that it was Gor- ” es—yes,’’ returned my friend, hurriedly, ‘‘Gor- or Benton, it’s all the same. * What’s in a name?’ know; call me either, or both,”’ jie did not appear to be at all satisfied with the choice of names, so he added: * Benton, however, is m this afternoon—you see, Mrs. Ingram, I’m not used to the society of ladies, and I was quite confused when | met you, and uneonsciously I gave you the name f a friend, instead of my own.” ITsaw that he was annoyed at having been placed onso doubtful a footing, and I berated myself pundly for my stupidity. was anxiously watching for an opportunity of ve ‘ ipping away, tiiat I might try to regain my com- posure. would call me, and I saw that Be tae tee thas Saatics a toreeare to the parlor. I directed Ettie’s attention to her. o “That is your ward—is it not?” asked Uncle Wal- don, eagerly. ‘' Pray present me to her.” _ She was cominz toward us, Never had she ap- ired sO beautiful to me: perhaps it was because she seemed less severe. p ’ I was really fond of my ward, and in my delight at seeing her recovered, I forgot the unpleasant episodes that had transpired. . 3 ou down again,’’ I said, “T aim glad to see ‘ gently ; then turning to Uncie. Waldon, I added: e Allow me—this is my ward, Miss Ghent, Beatrice, this is my friend, Mr.—Mr,—— Ob, how unfortunate! Icould not remember upon which name we had decided, Gordon or Benton?— Benton or Gordon?—no, I could not remember. ‘* What was the name?” I whispered to him. Lsaw that Beatrice and Ettie were exchanging sur- prised, distrustful looks, and without waiting fora repl , Ladded, desperately: raondon—aay friend, Mr. Gordon.” Again I felt a nudging at my elbow, and again I heard Ettie exclaim: ‘* Another mistake!” Irritated beyond measure, I looked at Ettie and fairly growled: What now?” : “You forgot, my dear, that this gentleman’s name is Benton; at least, that is the name by which you jnirodueed him to me.” ‘Was it?’ I asked, helplessly appealing to Wal- don, ; _ **Gordon?—yes,” he replied, confusedly. ‘I be; -your pardon—I mean Benton. Yes, Benton,” he add- big Been: his mquth. name. In my confusion | J MY YOUNG WIFE. ed heartily, as if satisfied at having at last established his own identity. And he took the hand of the surprised Beatrice, and muttered an acknowledgement of the introduction. “What next?” I could not but ask myself that. Oh, what an even- ing this had been! Was it ible that anything more could occur? Events, thus far, had fairly been treading one another’s heels. Scarcely had I framed that question when I beheld the form of Aunt Phoebe Jooming in the distance. My heart sank. If that had been her in Oliver's office that day, would there be a recognition now? If so—but I dared not think of what might foilow. ie watched her with bated breath as slie approach- ed. Yes, she was tripping right toward us, her little curls bobbing with every step she took. As she reached us, 1 looked at Uncle Waldon. I met his gaze, and I’m sure there was an amused twinkle in his eyes, and that there wasa smile lurk- e turned aside quickly, and Ettie seized that op portunity to whisper to me, in a tone of irony: “If you intend to introduce him to Aunt Phosbe, I should advise you to learn his name first.” Thad no time to reply, for Aunt Phoebe’s shrill treble fell on my ears: ‘My sakes! How d’ye do, Mr. Waldon?” ‘““Waldon!” exclaimed Ettie. “Waldon!” exclaimed Beatrice. I stood as if petrified; it had been Aunt Phoebe then, and she not only recognized him, but also knew his name, lforgot my own dismay, however, upon beholding my friend’s, He was winking and shaking his head— a pantomine that, to me, plainly said: *Don't--I beg of you don’t recognize me.”’ « She seemed to understand, for she looked toward us, Saying: “La, now! if I haven’t been mistaking of the per- sop.” Both wife and ward seemed dissatisfied with her explanation, and I knew that it was a fabrication. An uncomfortable silence fell upon us, and each one seized the first opportunity to go. How I wished that I were alone in some vast ex- panse, that I might shout out my vexation! I stalked over to the conservatory, and there in the dim light that prevailed, I thrust my hands deep down into my pockets, and paced to and fro. But scarcely a minute had elapsed when I heard Ettie’s voice at my elbow. “Allan, who is that man?” ““My dear, don’t trouble me!” I exclaimed. have told you that he is my friend.” “It is very singular,’’ she returned, ‘‘ that both he and yourself are so undecided about his name. What isit? Benton, Gordon, or Waldon?” “Didn’t I tell you it was Benton ?”’ ; “But that doesn’t make it so. I'll tell you what I think, Allan—I think his name is Waldon; and I think morere think he is Oliver’s uncle, returned from In- la? ‘“My dear, you think too much,’ I replied, testily, “and too much thinking might make you mad, Pray, be careful, my love.” “I see you do not wish to answer me, Allan.” ‘“* Nonsense, Ettie! Don’t you suppose, if Mr. Wal- don had returned from India, that Leonard would have known it? Waldon is not an uncommon name “Then that és his name?” ‘Did I say it was?” “You implied it.” ** Well, have it as you please—take your choice, my dear—one or all, Only don’t trouble me about it just now. There—there comes the queen of the gossips! Pray, go; it isn’t aw fait, you know, for husband and feife to be whispering together like this. Go, my ove,” She obeyed, and once more I put my hands into my pockets, and prepared to give myself up to gloomy meditation. Why had Uncle Waldon taken the news of Oliver’s death so calmly? Could it be possible that Lhad seen Herbert at the morgue, and that it was Oliver whom { had encountered in the grounds? But no—no, that could not be! The name on the dead man’s linen was pcoot, and too—if Oliver were not dead—how was it that nothing had been heard of him for the past two weeks? “Oh, have you heard?’ ‘ ““Heavens!’’ I muttered, wrathfully. ‘‘Am I to be treated to another of Marian Stewart's delectable con- versaziones? Was ever a man so tortured as 1?” **About Oliver Waldon? Oh, yes! Isn't it sad?” “Sad ?— it is heart-breaking! I declare, when] read it in the paper I almost fainted.” ** Suicide, do you suppose?” ‘Undoubtedly. Ob, 1 knew that something terrible would happen when I saw him so changed!’ f “They’il try to keep the matter very quiet, 1 sup- ose?” a Undoubtedly. Publicity would reveal too much. Leonard Waldon and Mr. Ingram are good friends, which is certainly very fortunate for Mr. Ingram; for it is well known that he was jealous of Oliver, and it mueDE be thought that— that——” * What?” 2 “Oh, I_ wouldn’t say a word. I’m not inclined to talk much, you know, and I wouldn't say a word to make trouble. Of course, a jealous man will do any- thing for revenge—but I will not say a word—I won't even insinuate, I could not endure more. I started from my re- treat, wondering where I could go and be at peace. Liad not taken a half-dozen steps when I saw that Uncle Waldon had been a listener to the above as wellas myself. I stood stock stiJl as this query en- “ey ey te si tered my mind: might he not be influenced by whas: he had heard. , That was an unpleasant reflection, and I put it fromfme for thetime, and turned my attention again to my duties as host; and I’ll_ventmre to say, thata more uncomfortable, disturbed, distressed host never existed. Later in the evening, as I was passing out into the hall, Ettie met me, her face pale, her eyes full of fear and dread. “Oh, Allan,” she whispered, ‘come with me, at onee.”’ “Yet more!’ I groaned. ‘What is it now?” “Give me your arm, and walk down the hall with e. tl I obeyed, mechanically. We reached the lower end of the hall, and there Ettie stopped, Saying: “Look, I did, and saw Uncle Waldon oe by the hat- stand near the rear door, examining the cloak and hat that I had thrown there; by his side was Aunt Phoebe, who was gazing at him in an anxious, troubled way. L heard his words distinctly. ‘He came with me, and was to be in the grounds this evening. I have whistled for him, and I have searched for him, but he is not there. His cloak and his hat are here— but where is he? I fear there has been foul ps “Oh, Allan, do you hear?” whispered Ettie, in a terrified tone. ‘I’m sure he is a detective! There is. some mystery about him; his coming here to-day was something strange; and, too, this confusion Oh, I feel that he is I’m sure he is a detective! about his name seems strange. not a friend of yours! Oh, what will you do?” “Tl tell you, my love; I'll ask you to keep quiet, and not alarm the persons present. If you will oblige me in that you'willdo me an inestimable fa hen all was done, and there remained nothing ese the leave-takings, I began to feel very—very sad. I was, ina manner, expelling myself from my own home—and for what? Was I not scourging myself for another’s sin? Was I not going out into the world to wander, wretched and forlorn, when she, who wasat fault, would remain by the glowing fireside and enjoy the comforts of home? “But it is too late now to retract,’ I said, sorrow- fully. “I’ve gottogo. Yes, I actually felt obliged to leave my own home; and the sharpest sting of all is, that no one will regret my absence. ell, £1 must, I suppose I must! I'll go for a week, anyway. How manly I should feel to return in a week, having made so much talk about ; going away for- ever!’ I added, angrily—angry th myself for clinging to everything connected with home and Ettie. “I cau imagine myself entering the house
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MY YOUNG WIFE. y aes ee ee ne ee sheeepishly, and looking at Ettie pleadi as, if}. " 4 P saingty i begging of her not to laugh at me, go, I stay!’ **J£i go.”’ Why, did Lsay that? Was it possible that { still hoped that Ectie would not let me leave her? Yes, even so. A thrill of joy passed over me as I thought how gladly, at her behest, I would put down - my traveling bag, remand all my orders, undo all miy arrangements, forget all my humiliation, close my eyes to all discomfort, and remain at home with wife and love. I left my library to seek her, to hear her say “stay,” or to bid her ‘‘ good-by,”’ I met Beatrice in. the hall. “I was just coming to see you, guardy,” she said; “vou go to-day, do you not!” ot the least regret in her tone, rather relief; and it seemed as if she were anxiously waiting for my reply, P Yes,” I replied, bitterly; and I added, still more bitterly, as lsaw the anxiety vanish from her face: “You will miss me greatly, I have no doubt.” * Indeed I will, guardy.” * And Ettie will, too?” *: Oh, I’m sure she will.” ** A sad—sad household this will be.” “Tt will, indeed.” * PerhapsI had better remain at home; my depart- ure might produce too serious an effect upon you all, Lean put it off for awhile—.” “Oh, no, guardy; you must not think of such a thing! You really need the change——” “That is just exactly what you need, Beatrice, it seems to me.”’ “Wh y 2”? I could see a glimmering of agony in her eyes. ‘“ Why—tell me why you fainted last night, and then i may be able to answer you.” A spasm contracted her features for a moment; it was as if the agony she had been trying to stifle had -asserted itself at my words, When she spoke, it was ina dry, hard, unnatural tone: “I don't care to 5: of it, guardy. I wish to forget it, It’s my heart, 1 believe; the least thing startles me so, and seems to stop its beating.”’ “What startled you last anal Another Speer. How deathly white her face had ‘become. She struggled desperately to overcome her emotion, darting pained, reproachful glances at me the while, as if she would chide me for having opened ‘& wound that she had succeeded in healing. “Why, Beatrice,” I said, ‘‘I shall fear to leave you like this. Really——”’ , “Oh, no, guardy, do not think of it! It will soon over. Iwasso last night; and now as I re- call it, it makes my heart, stand still, Oh, why did you speak of it,” she w turning aside, and lean- ing her head st the baluster. “‘I have tried so hard to forget it!” “Tam sure, my dear Beatrice,I cannot see any cause for ali this emotion. Surel , your heart can- not affect you like this,” f >e course not; but if is the remembrance of— ; “Of what?” |. “OF what I saw last night." ’ “Well, what did you see?" Her face was concealed from me, as sho still lean- ed against the baluster, but her voice told of intense is: eres a her wondemere Socneipaneer a h—oh, such a hollow, ‘ul laugh. “A cs wrait éan n, guardy—the of—of Oliver Wal- n!’? “It is not possible that you are becoming supersti- tious, Beatrice!"’, F sth hope not, Still, it must have been a vision, ‘or—--" “ Nonsense, child! I met your vision in the grounds, and unless ghosts are as solid as mortals, then——” She turned swiftly to me, and caught my arm, as she interru , breathlessly: ' “You methim? Who was it? Wasit Oliver. -” “That would. have been invpossible, since I had geen Oliver lying in the morgue— A low, sharp cry from her, and she turned away again, and bowed. her head. ‘Are you interested in him, too?” I asked, insur- rise. par am not a stone,” she cried, passionately, ‘‘that Lean hear of such things unmoved! Oh, it is terri- bie!—-dead—drowned! How cruel—Do I surprise you, guardy ?” she broke off, suddenly, turning swiftly to- wy et 4 Hy ‘You do, indeed. ; “T-can surprise more, I believe,” and she daughed again that Fellow, pitiful laugh. “You can? How?" “ By telling you that when Leonard Waldon asks me again ng his wife, as I am vain enough to be- dieve that he will, Ishall accept him. Now you are Surprised, I see. : “Ves, surprised and delighted—delighted, Beatrice. It has always been my most earnest wish——” “‘T know all that by heart, guardy. Please say no more aboutit, I will accept him, and marry him, but I cannot endure to hear it talked of constantly.” “Leonard will be transported with joy at your decision, Beatrice. The poor fellow was bewailing his fate, only yesterday. Suppose he insists on a marriage? , ri Could he think of such a thing now?” she asked ~ hotly. ‘‘ Could he go from a burial to a wedding? if he i so callous that he can, Qne day, be chief mourn- er, and the next day, a bridegroom, then I will recall Birt pat Fae aa know, my dear ward, that Oliver and he, though brothers, never were friends; and you—| sl ot wy ath is nothing to you.” ry pers emp ite cried, with a vehemence that the ocoasion, to me, did not seem to require. For a moment, some violent emotion ov wered her, for she raised her hands to her head with a gesture of despair, and moaned softly. Ere I could say a.word she had controlled herself; taking my hands in hers, and kissing them, she said gently: “When you come back, guardy, whether it be in one year, or two, or more, we will talk of my mar- riage. The world may know me as Leonard Wal- don’s affianced; I am in no haste to be his bride.” I did not demur at this; in fact, I was rather pleas- ed withthe arrangement, for it would make it a necessity for me to return to my home some time. She bade me good-by, and thea left me suddenly. I stood for a while, wondering what had occurred to Cina nge my stately ward like this; then I started on to say the next ‘‘ good-by.”’ As I was ig by Aunt Phoebe'’s room, her door opened, and the little woman appea aie met my gaze with perfect equanimity, as she piped: ; : **Are you a-taking of yourself off to-day?” Here, too, was that same anxiety evident, as if it were feared that I would not go. Was ever @ man paid so little deference by ‘.is family as T? “Yes,” L replied, ‘I depart to-day,” and I extend- ed my hand to her. She took it, and looking up at me with a most lugubrious cast of countenance, said: ** Poor Ettie.”’ It seemed as if she were mocking me. Ofcourse it irritated me, and I réturned, almost sharply: “Yes—yes, poor thing!—but you'll take eare of her, Aunt Pheobe?”’ ** Oh, la, 1 And shall I be a-taking careuf them things in the hall, too? that cloak and hat. Et’s so scared of ’em that she wouldn’t touch ’ema with a forty-foot pole. What’ll [do with them?” “An ning you please,’ I sna, . “Wear them, if you like ood-by, Aunt. Pheo! good-by.”’ _AsIturned to leave her Tcould not restrain’ my ris it to give herathrust. I said, and spitefully I now: ** How is your toothache, Aunt Phosbe?’’ “ Buried,’’ she replied, solemnly. Her auswer startled me. 1] hurried away from ner without another word, wondering if it had not beeu Herbert that I had séen at the morgue, as I remem- based how she had confounded him with he tooth- ache. As I reached Ettie’s rooms, I forgot all else as I queried: Willit be “stay,” or “* pootby” “Te it is ‘stay,’ Lsaid to myself, “it will be a little awkward for me, now that I have bidden two of the Cuplly, ‘ood-by, However——” opened the door slowly, softly. I remained on the thresho a, enthralled, thrilled with both joy and sadness, asI gazed at the picture before me. The room, with its blue silk hangings, that were relieved with linings of faintest pink, its tufted chairs and tete-a-tete of pale blue, its of light grey trailed with sprays of roses and blue-bells; its bronz- es, and vases, and statuettes, and all the innumer- able bijouterve that evince taste and wealth, was filled with the zigom Of the rainy day. Even the fire in the grate glowed in a dull, dead sort of a way, eee 3 wp a flicker, now and then, lazily and feebly. Deep silence reigned, save for the ticking of the ormolu clock on the mantel, that sounded out to me with painful distinctness, as it seemed to measure off the moments that. were yet mine ere I must part with my wife, perhaps forever. ep silence reigned, and yet Ettie was there. She evidently had not heard me, for she remained bowed upon the table that stood in the recess of the oe gga 7 : pon her my eyes rested, eagerly noting every detail of the attitude in which I had found her. A long robe of silver Brey trimmed with bands of blue velvet, swept grace ully about her; frills of delicate Jace fell over her hands, as_they were clasp- ed above her head, gleaming marble-white against her levely brown hair. Above and about her the blue silk curtains hung. forming a canopy beneath which she bowe with grief—at what? Was it at Oliver's. or my bas ree ve a) Code eee oe h yo er was the r: an sonmhing sigh- ing wind—a type of the desolation to w ch t Su about to conagn myself. ® Lentered softly, my heart beating quickly, pain- gee “ ” “ W .” ould it be “ stay,”’ or ‘‘ good-by? CHAPTER XIX. OUR PARTING. é es the Soon, unptunes: love I beer felt for Ettie uring our ha) courtship was with me agai I softly suprassbad her, “ ocr I reached her, and still she had not heard me— still she sat there, bowed beneath the blue silk cur- I stood by her in silence, looking at her lovingly— longingly—hesitating to speak, for fear that words WY tecbal as her then or tke gies 09 at her, then at the gloomy scene withou and I wailed to myself: 4 “ “How can Ilive without her? Oh, that she would bid'me stay!” I placed my hand gently on her shoulder, and in my softest tone, said: ‘ Ettie.”’ She starteu as one just awakened from a. deep eep. She looked up.at me quickl I saw her face teardained. and her eyes h and swollen, y' eavy bi - sh. faa , Hope leaped exultingly, whispering: “She will not let you go.” I felt quite sure what her reply would be, so I spoke cheerfully: *T have come, my dear, to say good-by.”’ My face was lighted with smiles, I know—my eyes were full of gladness—my hands were half-extended; all this was in anticipation of the words I was eagerly waiting to hear. She looked at me in silence. Had she not heard me? I said again: ‘My dear, I have come to say good-by.”’ I saw her li uiver, and her eyes fill with tears. Ah, surely the longed-for word was coming now! I stood smiling wi expectation. At last she spoke: * Since you seem so delighted togo, I canonly say, ‘God speed you,’ and ‘good-vy.’” What! For a moment I could scarcely realize that my fond hope had met with disappointment. . stepped back, and looked at her in amazement. ‘“*What—what did you say?” I stammered. “T said good-by. There is no need of my saying more—of wishing you a pleasant time—for your looks: tell that you are repried Sen that.” How calmly—how coldly she spoke! Not one regret! only a careless good-by. And I had hoped so much! 3 a 1 ars erect with offended dignity, as I. begam, otly: ~ You are an unfeeling woman!’ Sue arched her eyebrows, as if surprisea | began again: “Yes, you are an unfeeling woman!” Starting from her chair, and ch pend herself by leaning one hand upon the table—for she was trem- bling in every limb—she interrupted me, ‘passion- ately: © Dinteeling, aml? Why? Secause I will not min- ister to your conceit—because I do not and moan, and plead with you not to gol You forget how you torture me—torture me till my heart turns against you, and hate takes the place of love! You come to me, and say, ‘good-by; you say it care- lessly—smilingly—to show me what joy you feel in a ng me; then you expect ine to weep, and plead. hy? So that you can torture me more! It is you who are unfeeling! And more than that, you are cruel—cruel——” Her passion choked her, and she was forced te we 4 in the midst of her tirade. She looked grand as she stood there by the table, eming. her eyes flashing, her face with indig- nation. I never loved her more than at that moment, but the thought that she would mot bid me'stay made me bitter. I said, in a cold, taunting tone: v “Are you through? Pray do not see. in consider- ation for me, for I quite enjoy this. You look your best when in a pet as now, and your eloquence at suc! a SoA aston hing. If you are not through, proceed, my love. I have time ”’—and I took ont watch and looked at it—“ yes, I have plenty of time. to listen to you.” 4 “It would please you, I have no doubt, if I would lash myself till 1 fell bleeding at your feet. My w only amuse you; to me, each one is as a knife-thrust, — as I thus speak of your cruelty, your——”’ “Are you studying for the tragic stage, my love?” linterrupted. “Are you not rehearsing to me some of your lines? Pray remember we are living in the nincteenth century, and your flights of imagination seem, to say the least, ridiculous. Now, if we were living inthe olden time, they——” ‘Ave will ever try to appear young,”’ she inter- rupted, mockingly, ‘If I speak in an antediluvian — strain, it is because I wish to adapt myself to chee, com) Another thrust at m always. 3 In a tone so cold that my words sounded like the clinking of ice against eerg] I said: “TI believe, madame, that 1 have now received ct n- pliments enough to last me through a lengtheued Journey angi as | propose to take, Her hands clutched each other involuntarily. ' Ah, she was moved! ‘ H “A lengthened journey?” she faltered. ‘Yes, madame, a lengthened journey,’’I replied, with apparent satisfaction. a Where—where are you going, Allan?” It has seemed a matter of so little moment. to you, that I have not thought to tell you.” Will you tell me now?” she asked. sharply. * Certainly. I think of going abroad.” She suddenly turned away froin me, and looked out eomaheth tryi saw that she was trying to suppress her emotion: Isaw her stealthily i tar ae tears. At last, her emotion overpowered her; with one great sob, she bowed her head against the window-pane. At that, all.my bitterness vanished, all my love re- turned, and I sprang to her, caught her in my arms, and held her in close embrace. She sit me, sobbing the while, Oh, surely my wife loved me! in, yet again. Hope leaped up in my heart. Though its flame had been quenched, so many—many times, it leaped up again, brighter than ever before. ‘Oh, Ettie,”’ I whispered, “let us put aside this miserable assumption of indifference, and be happy. I love you so dearly——”’ , “And I love you so dearly,” she murmured, as sne twined her arms about my neck, and raised her lipe. to mine. “The bare thought of your leaving me breaks my heart——’* 1 ‘3 & “ic ears! . Jf in all else she failed to irritate me, in that she _
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18 “And the bare thought of going breaks mine,’ I replied, as I kissed her tenderly. ‘‘Why do we so persistently abuse each other, Ettie, when if we would only allow it, we could be as happy as the heppeett - “IT knowit, Allan. Now—just now, when your arms are about me, when I hear you. speak lovingly, I am s0—so happy; but ’’—and she sighed. I sighed, too. “ But what, Ettie, dear?” ‘*Oh, there is so much unexplained between us! Till that is all made clear, we cannot be perfectly haps.’ , “To what have you reference now, my love?” “To everything that has happened of late.”’ “Let us forget it.” “Oh; thatis im ible!” “It is not, my love.”’ : ‘ “Oh, it is, Allan, itis’ Iknow. Please don’t say it . is-not, when I say that it is!” “Are you not forgetting yourself now, my love?” Forgetting: myself—how ?” “By beginning to disagree——”’ wh “Tam not disagreeing, Alan—it is you/. I say that a Suna és so, and you say that it isn’t, when you don’t know anything about it at all. Oh, please, Allan, don’t quarrel with me now, just when you are going away!’ ‘ “Going away—am I going away ?’: why, of course! Didn’t you say you were?”’ “To be sure, I did; but then, I thought that— that——”’ “What?” “That we were reconciled, my dear.” “And so we are,I hope, Allan,”’ and she elung closely. to’ me again, and rested, her head on my shoulder, “Then why should Igoaway? You do not wish me” to go—do you?” : “No-no! As I have said, it breaks my heart to think of.it-even! . But——” “Another but,’ 1 exclaimed, testily, irritated at her strange behavior. ‘What.is it now, Ettie?” **You had better go, Allan,” she sighed. “What a contradiction you are, Ettie,” I said, hold- ing her from me, and looking keenly at her. ‘‘A con- tradiction—a pucsle. FS} plainly, for Heaven's sake, so that. J, can understand you; shall I go, or Istepped from her, saying coldly: * That one word is all-sufticient, I will. go.” ‘** But oh, Allaa,” she pleaded, *“ do not go abroad,” “What di renee ean it make to. you where I go? for if I go, Lstay.” ‘ + of ‘““Oh, don’t say that, Allan! There will come atime when all will be explained, and then we can be hap- PY <htiecciey ssi 4 _. The future is uncertain, my dear, you must. re- eniber... I cannot place faith in it,” and I turned Idly away. ae : ‘Il don’t suppose you can,” she snapped, “since it likely that, for you, the future will be short. Your e-score-and-ten are almost numbered.” till another thrust at my age. Lbecanie kale i off en you cannot blamé me for wishing to enjoy the present,” I said, coldly. ; ‘No!” she cried, passionately. “‘And since going - away fron Sb itd sg tanh you, go! in Heaven’s me, ee torture me no more!” é touched me, and I determined to make one ort, ‘ Ettie,”’ I said, kindly, turning to her, .‘“you do not wish me to jeaye your” * Xo.” (ind itt yout will not bid me stay?" * ou had better go, Allan. We cannot live ‘like this—this! oh, it will be worse, much worse ‘than | sif you remain! Ob, you must go! - ‘stay,’ though my heart cries out for you! You must Boy out ome time igu will come back, and we ‘will ay : [ cannot say You will not leave me altogether, Allan? Pte, Se Rie autity, Gbtedatty: thd” aint [looked at her, co’ critically; then, s deeply, f said, slowly: B “i a “ Etuge, 1 wish knew whether you are the most suf- fering, or the most deceitful of women,” i Allan, have you not pained me enough?" she eaded, 6 . tliout heeding her, I went on: “Youare either the victim of most adverse cir- cumstances, or you are an intriguante most politic.” ' “Oh. Allan, spare me this bitterness now!’ Again. unhebet ng T continued: : fy “You naturally feel restraint in my presence, there- fore you wish me gone; still you desire to keepin my ood graces, for my name shields you, and my money——’ A flashing of her eyes warned me to stop, but I did not. : **My money procures for you the luxuries that others could not give. Your way is a path of roses; to blind me you €hdeavorto make me believe cs oe are treading a path of thorns,”’- “That is enough, Allan Ingram!” Her voice rang, clear and steady; through theroom,: “‘I shall not try todefend myseif again. There is nothing left for us to say but *Good-by.’” | : ’ “Very well, madame. I have made every arrange- xoent for your contort,” Hs looked ather asif expecting her to say some- thing. : She simply bowed. . “* Mi: lawyer will communicate with you when it is peeps se $3 : Again’) paused and looked. Again she bowed, MY YOUNG WIFE. “T leave my ward in your charge.” Another look. Another bow. . “Incase of my death, my will is in readiness,” The pantomime was repeated. I felt myself growing bitter. ‘**L should advise eon to read the papers carefully, so that if [should die you would learn of it at once, and lose none of your longed-for freedom.”’ Another bow. : ‘. “ Casualties at sea are of. frequent occurrence, you now.” Still she stood unmoved. “T especially recommend you to read all the articles eaded—Suicide.” Ageia she bowed, and my wrath exploded. ‘* Heavens, madame! have you nothing to say?” “Nothing, Allan, but good-by!” . bi understand how significant a word that is?” ‘ °.”* ‘You say then, good-by?”’ “ce I do. ” With my iene throbbing wildly, my brain reeling till everything about me seemed enveloped in dark- ness, I held out my hand to her, saying: HY Good-by!” ; ne placed her hand in mine, and murmured, aintly: ‘* Good-by!”” Oh, Heaven! were we to part so? I turned from her quickly, I dared not look back. I felt my fortitude giving way, and I hurried from the room. : As I reached the hall, I heard a moan, a wail, and then a ery of: Oh, Allan--Allan, I cannot let you go! Allan, my darling, come back to me!” Why did I not go? Why did I stand like a statue, hearing, yet. not heeding, her cry? Because pride Kept me back—pride that would not let me show to her how great was her dominion over me. T stood for a moment, my heart racked with pain ; then, with her ery ringing again in my ears, I hurrie on, dL. xnaghed the street door—then love conquered pride, Like a flash I turned, and hastened up to her room. Isaw her bowed upon the table, weeping bitterly. I sprang to her, saying: ‘Oh, Ettie, my darling—my darling! I can not——”’ She started up like a rocket, and faced me, proud- ly, scornfully, as she said; “Allan Ingram, wou have used your power over me,.till I hate you! Go, and leave me, orI shall go! A mian, sO cruel as you, is not worthy one of the heart-pangs I have endured! You have stung me to madness, and I ny i hate you!” For a moment I stood as if stunned; then I turned met without a word, ; lfelt that I deserved this—but I could not plead with her now, Slowly I left the room; slowly I passed through the, f : G4 all. : ¥ Oh, how I longed fora word from her; but none came. Slowly I'descended the stairs, and advanced.to the street door, . The “* good-byes” had all been said—there nothing to do but to go. I opened the door, still listening for a word-—a cry. Still silence reigned. ' : Il closed the door behiud me, and shut inyself out was ‘trom my wife and my love, as believed, forever. _SHAPTER XX. WHEN SHALL WE MEET AGAIN? “Tie rain descended, and the winds blew,” but the storm raging within me was fiercer still, — I drew my heavy traveling-coat closé about me, and went out into the gloom, heeding it little; for it was as nothing compared with the gloom it) my heart, “Oh, that I could fly tothe ends of the earth!’ I wailed, ‘‘Wnhere—where shall I go? Where—where can Lhopée to drown my sorrow? Where—where can TI find the Lethean draught that will deaden hn mis@ry, ‘In distant lands,’ my heart replies. Iwill go—yes, T will, and Ettie shall see me ‘no more—no, never again.” My longing, as above expressed, was to fly to the ends of the earth; instead of doing that, however, I -—walked to Boston. And though I had said, ‘* Ettie shall see me no more,’’ I found myself asking — and again, as I plodded on through rain and mud: ‘** When shall we meet again?”’ : It was evening when I reached the city—a dark, cheerless, rainy evening. Tired, travel-stained, and drenched as I was, I was content to seek the sheiter of an hotel, and deter my departure from all familiar places till I was rested and refreshed. ; The night yeied and morning came. Then T re- alized, to the full; my desolation. Alone—alone! after all ‘my dreams of bliss, to be yt alone, separated from all that was to me ‘so earliw gas “Oh, fool—fool that I am!’ I eried in my misery. “Tam os oe my own tormentor! I havea treasure —a priceless treasure; but, fool that ] am, Iam con- tinually seexing for a flaw. Oh, Ettie, my darling, my wife, I must return to you. . 1 ¢annot—oh, I can- not live alone! I will go back.” A smile came’ to my face at that determination, and I proceeded with my toilet cheerfully. i ‘Yes, I will go back,” I repeated; emphatically, as I drew on one boot. ‘ : I picked up the other, and then the recollection of Ettie’s last words, “I hate you!’’ flashed over me. Would I not feel for ever humbled if I went back and pleaded for her love now? ‘ “No, I cannot go!” I wailed, and I bowed my head upon the boot in my hana, and groaned aloud: © Oh, what a day of misery I endured. The rain stil came down in torrents, and I remained at the hotel, only too glad of an excuse to delay my depart- ure, “T will wait till to-morrow,” I thought. The morrow came, eloudy, and rainy, and dreary. There was no lightening of the gloom without, no lightening of the gloom within. . qi felt that I could not endure another day of this inaction; I must make a decided move in one direct- ion or the other—I must either return to my home, or start on my proposed journey. ( “A steamer sails to-day,” I remarked, as I looked - pyge the morning paper, ‘and I will—yes, I will go in it.” Through the rain and the sleet I fought my way till reached the registry office. : Iengaged passage, booked my name, and then hur- ried on, as I had littie time to spare, Oh, it all seemed like a dream. I was ina whirl, a. maze; 1 could not realize what I was about, There: was with me a keen sense of misery and desolation,, but that I wag leaving my wife, my home, iny coun- try—oh, that I could not realize. I went on, mechanically. Iuoticed no oné’ on my way; I took heed of nothing till 1 reached the’ pier, Then the bustle and activity aroused me; I cr yea and looked around, and then a familiar voice fell on my ear. “IT was a fool to trust you. But since I have done so, 1 warn you to keep strict cca over your actions, Remember, you have as much at stake as I, so leave your cups alone. It would be a good idea, I think, for you to enlist in the seryice of the’Russians or the Turks; such action might cure you of this despicable’ cowardice you have shown of late.” “You mean, it might rid you of ‘a troublesome. confrere,”” was the suilen reply. lturned toward the speakers, amazed)’ Such words from Leonard! such a reply from Bostwick! What did this mean? For the first time a'doubt entered my mind as to Léonard’s uprightness, I thought of Bost- wick’s words, spoken, to be sure, when in his cups— could it be possible that Leonard was a villain? Before I could frame a reply, the two had spied me, and were reid thie ibe A ; I learned that Harry Bostwick was about-to start. for Europe. I communicated my intention of going also, “* Atleast, wait over till the next: steamer,’ Leonard | persisted, till I yielded, again only too glad of an ex- cuse for delayiti my departure. We waited till Harry Bostwick had gone aboard, and then we turved our faces city-ward, By this time all my former confidenee in Leonard had returned—a confidence so deep that it would re- quire more than the words I had overheard to dispel it. I even overlooked his evident anxiety to deter me aha taking passage in the steamer with Harry Bost- wick, ‘ Perhaps I gave so little weight to bis actions because I felt relieved and gladdened that something had oc- curred to detain me from going. That Ihad engaged passage, and had aioe = my name, were facts of which I thought nothing, : ‘I I soon found goed reason for Leonard’s anxiety to detain me, as he said: ~ ‘*T have seen Beatrice.” ; “When?” ¢ ‘Last evening. As you were absent I asked for her; to my great surprise, she received me. I offered eo Bld hand and heart again, and, sir—she accepted me 09 3 Pt “Tl congratulate you, my boy.” ‘But still Lam-not content. I have waited and hoped for so long, that I wish ‘to receive ‘my reward now.” : . tit gd ‘I understand ~you. desire to marry Beatrice at. once. Don’t—takemy advice, my boy, and don’t even — the subject to her.” é v7 ww? - it ‘ . Well, Beatrice is queer, you know, and she thinks that you ought to show some respect to the memory ot your departed brother. By-the-way, Leonaré, has it ever occurred to you that that might not have been Oliver we saw at the Morgue?” ; He started violently, and his voice sounded strange and husky as he said: ‘ : ** There can be no doubt, about it, sir, If that were nét he, where is he? No one has seen him,”’ He looked at me questioningly.. I did not think it worth while to mention that appearance in my a or to go into particulars, sol replied, care- essly : “Nov. But even if we have made. a mistake—even if he is alive, it matters nothing, for it cannot concern Beatrice at all.’ “Of course not. Now, sir, in spite of your kind ad- vice, [shall urge Beatrice to marry me atonce. I may be obliged—in fact, 1 know that I shall be obliged to go abroad soon, and 1 cannot: wait for her till I return, Will you consent to a speedy mar- riage?” ** With all my heart, Leonard, But I fear—however, try, my boy, try. ‘Nothing ventured, nothing won,’ you know.’ i ‘‘ And in case I succeed?” 4 “Write to me at once,and I will return and» make all necessary arrangements,”’ : 4 4a] Bb Ispoke heartily hoping that Beatrice would conseut, for then I would be obliged to return—then I eould én- ter my house boldly, feeling that circumstances war- ranted this retraction ‘of my threat of going abroad, 7 then Ettie and I might become entirely reconcil- e vy - ¢ ‘y alte
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So, seqofcing that I had met Leonard, and favoring his suit because it might be the means of mending my broken happiness, I continued, heartily: “Tam called—let me see, Iam called to New York on important business’’—I quite forgot the fact that I had just been.on the point of starting for Europe. “ Write to me there, Leonard, if you succeed, and I will return home immediately.” The gloom within me seemed to be lightening at last; that without remained as deep and drear. Hope whispered to me again, and almost cheerful- ly I boarded the evening train for the sound steamer, : _How it rained! Isatin one corner of the dimly- lighted car, my great-coat drawn close about me and up around my ears, my large hat pulled down over my face. Now I gave heed to the din made by the rain, the wina, and the moving train; now I was lost in my reflections. : I watched the passengers in a mechanical sort of a way, as they entered or departed. e train stopped and moved on, and I felt not the least desire to. know. where we were. Again it stopped; I saw passenger after passenger leave the car, still Isat unheeding. I was not aroused till. Ldiscoyered that I was the only one left. . It did not seem possible that we had reached the boat; how- ever, I arose to go and ascertain, No, we had not reached the boat, as I learned from the crowd congregated without, We-had only accomplished one-third the distance but the engine had become disabled, and we could proceed no further till another one was procured, ‘An hour’s delay, at least,”’ said one. Many Jeft the spot to seek shelter for the night in|’ the village close at hand; others re-entered the cars to wait there till they could go on, and I was left almost alone as [ tried to decide what I would do. The rain beating furiously upon me, warned me to decide quickly. ; “Tl try.to. gain shelter hereabout,’’ I said, at length, turning in the direction of the lights that faintly glimmered through the storm and the dark- ness. At that same instant I felt a soft, gentle touch upon my arm, and I heard a low, sweet, tremulous voice’say: “Oh, sir, am obliged to appeal to some one for ail—I do not know whereI am. Can you tell me?” I turned quickly, uttering au exclamation of sur- prise as ‘I made out a female fori beside me-—a slender, delicate form, that seemed to be shrinking from the driving rain, and the violent wind. A modest, timid voice—the hand on my arm was small; und delicatély gloved—-even in the darkness I could diséern the bearing of a lady. Instantly, my heart filled with sympathy for her in her evident distress. , ‘Were you on board the train, madame,” I asked, deferentially, as I tried to see her face—but it was covered with a heavy veil, which she did net offer to raise, | “Yes. Oh, this delay is so unfortunate!” she moaned, taking the hand from my arm, and raising it | witli a gesture of agony. ‘I have an urgent errand before me—it is a case of life and death—and T can- not wait. If you will tell me where I am—perhaps ps destination ‘is not far off.” _ t was Sa, that desperation, and the urgency of her's on, forced her to speak. Her tones were almost inaudibie; Icould only just heat ber words above the roaring of the elements, —~ “You are,nn protected against this storm,madame,” I said. kindly. ‘‘ Allow me to conduct: you to some place of’ shelter, and‘then I will endeavor to ascer- tain where we are,” Woe iar ‘Oh, Ihave no time for delay!’ she moaned. ,* do not eare for the storm—I do not care for anything only too ead ot gr while I stan waiting! T mu on, at once,’” £149: poe thing,” I said to myself. «**Some one she joves isin danger of death. I cannot leave her in this:sverm) and wu ted as she is. ° “Pray, madame,” I added, aloud--how strangely my voit sounded, as it, was half-drowned by the roaring about me, and half-muffied,as it came from behind my high coat collar—“ allow me to assist, you, We are near some village I believe. 1, will make in- quiri-s for you. You, alone as you are, might meet with very little courtesy in such a place as this. I moved on, and she followed. HORAP, * Quite an adventure,” I thought, “‘ and bordering on the romantic, too. What would Ettie say if she idsee me-now ?” . aie i! “Guided vy the faintly glimmering lights, we reach- ed what proved to be a way -side inn. aie Rough, uncouth men were hanging about the door, and lounging about in the bar-room. I saw that my companion shrank back, as if afraid to proceed as ‘not fear, madame,” I said, reassuringly; “I 74 y ” 3 Bh look : up at me, as if she wished to satisfy her- hy of ber trust. : . self that I was worthy for coat and hat almost as eimy face. of karte oy noealed from her view as she was from mine, with her Jong cloak, and her heavy veil, - : e was a lady, and she evidentl PP RIE. gh a a gentleman, for she murmur ed, gratefully: a“ ‘ kind, sir. I am in deep distress, and all Sou are vary kind, do less than accept your offer of assistance.” lleft her standing on the eines ania een? T said, as I returned to her, ‘Thank God! she exclaimed. “his is my desti- nation. Perhaps I have not far to go now.” covered platform, as I our journey. tai horse.” As I took up the reins, the thoug to my mind: ‘ing more and more impatient. MY YOUNG WIFE, She turned from me, then paused asif dismayed, as she peered out into the darkness, I heard her whisper: “Oh, it is a fearful night, and if I should lose my way! But I must not think of that—I must be brave. Imust not wait longer, for he may be dying. Oh, why did I let him go from me?" She started on, but I detained her. ‘‘Madame,”’ I said. ‘allow me to attend you, It is not safe for you to go alone.. Have you far to go?” ‘**Ldo not know,” she moaned, ‘The directions I received are very indefinite, I wish to find the house of Nelson James.” . “JT will inquire again,” I returned. son, you say?” “* No—no; Nelson James.” I accosted the first lounger I met. “Can you direct me to the house of one James Nelson ?’ . ‘aie it James Nelson, or Nelson James you mean, sir z “James Nelson—is it not, madame?” ‘No; it is Nelson James,”’ ai Well, sir, Nelson James, he lives five miles beyant is, sir.’ I heard a moan from the veiled lady. I confess that my heart sank. Five miles in this storm and darkness. “Yes, sir, five mile, sir, and as bad and crooked a tive mile as you'd wish to find, sir. You start down this here road, sir, and keep on it till you come to a eross-road, ‘Turn to your left, then, sir, and keep on that till you come to another cross-road; turn to your right then, and keep on that till you come to “Yes—yes,’* Linterrupted. impatiently, “I thank you for your information, Willi you undertake this “James Nel- journey to-night, madame,” Tasked of her. ’ “Oh, I must—I must!’’ she wailed. “I dare not wait till morning, But five miles,” she added, shud- dering. ‘* How can I walk five miles on such & night as this?” * Of course, that is out of the question, madame. If you will go, I will attend you.” ae Oh, itis too much, sir. And you are a stranger ‘But a gentleman, I hope, madame; and you, be- ing alady, can fuily understand the motive that | prompts me to assist you.” She b: wed. and murmured: **] thankfully accept your offer,’” was almost an hour before we were started on . In that time I had succeeded in ob- nga dilapidated buggy, and a superannuated t returned ‘“* What would Ettie say ‘if she could see me now?” We rode on in silence. ae She offered no explanation of her errand,and of course Tt would not intrude upon her sorrow. I pitied her deeply, and yet I felt annoyed that it had fallen to my lot to be her cavalier. ; How it would’end Idared not think. I could’ not Lo to find this distant house with the directions 1 received; butI could do nothing else than trust to fate, and drive on haphazard. ! rey With every rod of the journey, I felt myself grow- he horse crept along, the rain beat in upon us, the wind blew so violently that it threatened to overturn the ricketty vehicle, and the darkness wasso deep that I could scarcely see my own hands. I thought of Ettie in her comfortable home, and contrasted it with my situation. Whose fault was it? mine, to be sure; and yet I cast lowering looks up- on the lady at my side, and anathematized her. P nied as I looked at her, I saw she was swaying asif ai , “Are you ill, madame?” I asked, not in alarm; but in irritation, “T believe I-—” ad ~ Her words were ‘choked off as the horse camé to a sudden stop, and she was thrown forward. But. for my support, she would have fallen fromthe vehic¢le. As I put my arm about her and drew her back, her head fell helplessly upon my shoulder: agile “She has fainted!’ 1 exclaimed, impatiently. + Then the thought came to me: : * What would Ettiesay, if she could see me now?” Iwas about to lift her veil, but she prevented me by starting up quickly, saying faintly: ‘I feel better.” She raised her hands to her head in a dazed way, and in doing 80, she lost her hold on something that fell to the floor of the buggy. I stooped, and picked it up, at. the same time I real- ized that the horse was standing still. I thrust the article quickly into my pocket, and sprang out to see what was the matter, Nothing but. stubbornness on the part of the animal. For full tifteen minutes I stood in the pee rain, trying to induce it to move on. At last'l succeeded, and then I re-entered the buggy drenched with the rain, benumbed with the cold, and breathing bitter invectives against the whole feminine sex. We continued the journey in silence. ‘After hours of this torture we, to my amazement, came to a house. that proved to be the one for which we were in search. , IT helped the veiled lady out, and without waiting to listen to the profuse thanks, without taking any note of the house and its surroundings, I started on the re- turn, vowing solemnly that never again would [offer myself as cavalier to any female, however distressed she might be. ey : It was long after midnight when 1 again came to the wayside inn. Aroom had been putin readiness for me, and I hastened to it at once. @ boys Hurriedly I divested myself of my dripping great be coat, and flung it upon a chair. Something fell from’ the pocket to the floor; asI heard the sound I re- membered that instead of returning the lady’s pro- perty to her, 1 pocketed it. ~ Stupidity!” Fexclaimed, as I went to pick it up. “My God!’ I exclaimed, as I held it in my hand, Could I believe my eyes? I looked, and looked again, No, there was no doubt—there was no room for a mistake; it was my wife’s pocketbook. —_— — CHAPTER XXI, ‘“Q@ONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN.”’ My wife’s pocketbook! I held it in my hand, and looked at it as at a thing: of horror. | My wife’s pocketbook! Great heavens!—then my’ evening’s adventure had been with her!—then I had put myself to all this. trouble—gone through rain, and mud, and darkness,, to enable her to join one she loved! ® I myself, her much-wronged and injured husband, had actually helped her in her unfaithfulness, : I had called myself “fool,” *dolt,’ heretofore;, there seenie:| to be no word in my vocabulary suf- ficiently strong to be used on the present occasion, for [had not only helped her, but I had gone'to such great trouble to do it. : [held the ‘pocketbook—the innocent means of this: terrible discovery—gingerly between any fingers; it was far worse than handling a scorpion, for it had une mé more deeply. ret overthrow of all my hopes, I caught a glimpse of myself in the small looking- glass that huug on the opposite wali; a more forlorn’ picture it has never been my misfortune to behold: A man seated in the most disednsolate attitude his legs stretched “out ‘before him to their fullest. length, his head bent upon his breast, his hair, damp and limp, matted upon his forehead, his face pale, his nose a'vivid red from exposure to the keen, bit- ing November wind, and his eyes full of despair, and fixed steadily upon a purse of Russia leather, the gold clasp of which: oore the naine of Ingram, I looked quickly away fromrthis unpleasing reflec- tion of myself, and sighed: then, mechaniedlly, I ge o re * i. i reated to the chair before the fire, and for ‘some time I sat there, thinking of this unexpected: opened the poeket-book. c- What I saw was so characteristic of Ettie;: bills thrust here and there without any attempt at pre- cision or order, ‘and intermingled with bits of poetry, ecards, scraps of paper. receipts, ete, Itmade me‘feel tender to see this; her little faults had been so dear to me, and in thinking of them I forgot my misery. | aS ‘ ; most reverently I took out bit.after bit. I came bag ey ‘piece of paper, soiled. and redolent of to- CCO. 2d swed dati iis¢ Surprised, I unfolded it; and my eyes résted on the follewing: \ j : ie Dean Mapame: He was. brunged putty well hurted, hez cone. fur his > isend fur you-—its the on so i s’pose your the one, well. hurted. who he is.” ; ? ; My wrath was kindlingand I arose and paced the: room angrily ‘as ‘1 continued: cite they “Armed with these proofs,’ Lhad the pocket-book in’one hand, the soile f paper in. the other— “TJ will confront them, and stagger them. Dll learn who this hero is who is so dear to Ettie that she can, for his sake, endure such a trial as last night’s ad- venture nrust have been, Ill face them both when the day breaks, and then—good-by forever, Ettie— good-by forever, hope! Tl face them, and then Tl turn utely to my barren, loveless future.” In ny pacing to and fro, and m: ticulating, the a d paper fell from my band eee fluttered into the fire. . “Tt matters not,” I muttered, as I. watched the flames consume it, ‘Every word is indelibly stamp- edon my memory. Let me see; was it James Nel- son, or Nelson James? I confused but now I remember well—it is James Nelson.” There was no sleep for me that night: I paced, and brooded, and moaned,in my misery, till the. grey dawn came, + ; I waited impatiently as the moments passed; lis- tening eagerly for the first sound of life in this way- side inn.) Orsi : At last the morning was at hand, and I descended and presented myself: before mine host. He started upon beholding me. I knew that my face was haggard, my eyes hollow. and bloodshot. _ He looked upon me anxiously, fearfully, as 1made: a peremptory request for a conveyance. ist n timid, hurried tone, he informed me_that.the dilapidated buggy and the superannuated horse that: I had had on the previous evening, were at my dis- posal again. {4 4 I was obliged to accept that offer, and I started off on my five-mile ride, feeling convinced that, as soon. asI was out of sight the landlord would muster’ the whole force of servants at the inn and searek the: the two last night,
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¥ “~ 20 room LE had occupied for the body of my victim. I | endeared to. me—the shrine in which I had placed my | ain sure he deemed me ane less than @ murder- er, judging from the anxious, fearful glances he had caxt upon me, A climax was at hand,I felt, and I endeavored to nerve myself to meet it heroically. Away all love, and mercy, and weakness! Comme, hate, and dignity, and firmness!”’ I drove along, sitting as straight as a statue, as frigid as aniceberg. here was no rain, but the sky was still lowering, and the wind moaned fitfully through the trees, seeming like the echo of the dirge that my hearS was chanting. I tes heéd to it till I came to the first cross- road, { “To the right, or to the left?"’ I queried, I could not remember in which direction I had turn- e@jdon the A ahohorp night. Thad driven hap-hazard then, and I would have to do the same now. I turned to the right.» The horse crept on and on, till I had been riding mearly two hours. Then I made inquiry, and learned ‘that 1 was on the right track, for the home of James Nelson was not far off. y Of course, I had no landmarks to guide me, as all had been shrouded in deepest darkness on the pre- vious night; and when I alighted at the door of Jaiaes Nelson’s house, I was'* tive that it was the place to which I had brought Ettie. A tumble-down, isolated abode, truly; five miles back from the railroad, and out of sight of any other dwelling. “A romantic ora I thought, as my eyes roved ever the shutterless windows, in some of which old be took the piace of window-panes. knocked upon the door, sharply. “Now, let me be calm,”’ I ‘the response, *‘ that my words may have full effect. Let me be calmand dignified—an injured man, ifot a broken-hearted lover.’ The door. was opened by a vigorous hand so quick- ly, 30 suddenly, t if was several moments before I uite comprehended the fact; then I became aware that I was confronting a female of very stout propor- tions, arrayed in a green gingham gown, that formed & marked contrast to her florid face. She loeked at me, : ar enn a dl _ looked at ker, helplessly. For whom should I ask? Of course I would not muttered, as I waited for ‘ oe mention my wife's name, and the name of her hero _ unknown tome. Ihad not thought of this be- ore, Silence for a moment, and then a loud, rasping voice broke it. i? o raps you'll call again when you know what you want," “I beg your pardon,” I made haste to say. ‘I wish to learn if—I scarcely know how to—the fact is, I~1—in a word, madame,’’ I added, desperately, as. I realized that Iwas making no headway at all, “is this James Neison?” _. “Do I look as if [ was?"’ she asked, indignantly, her rid face taking a deeper hue. "3 PP, nd I beg beer pardon, madame. I meant to ask is is che house of James Nelson?” Yes, sir,’ she replied, curtly, viewing me with t Vistrust and leasure. , I beiieve —in fact, 1 know that a—a person—a gen- is lying ill here, and——”’ “ He’ 18,” was the laconic interruption. “Gone!’’ I exclaimed. ‘‘ When—— “ About an hour ago.” si a the lady—there was a lady—she——"’ “She's gone, too.” + Gone! T exclaimed again. ‘“* When—." * About an hour a. " Did they go toget. r? “nae —do you know where?" 0.” “Then tell me! Quick—quick!’’ I cried, forgetting all my resolutions to be firm at this unexpected in- formation, ‘See here, mister,’ and Mrs. James Nelson placed her large pana on her large hips, and tossed her head angrily, ‘‘ 1 don't kuow what youcome here ask- ing such questions for, but 1 do know that I ain't a toanswer’em. i call it downright impudence, - Ido! If people can’t come and go out of my house without having strangers and busy-bodies poring around after "em, I think it's a 3 —I go. tpat's a T have to say, so mornin Fou. and door ns closed as quickly as it been opened. sighed, and turned sadly away. “tig must be so,’’ I muttered, as I re-entered the buggy. “Of course she would not remain in such a place as this. Sheis gonefrom me forever. I will think of herno more. Iwill return to the house I _ have called home; I will give my ward to Leonard, and thus settle her future; and then I will turn the yy on ali my hopes and dreams of happiness, and go af far-off lands. There shall be no more longing—no gore looking back—it shall be; on--on to my cheer- dess future.’ Wretched as I was the horse's pace just suited me; _ Zallowed him to creep along unmolested, while I sat _ brooding over my bitter sorrow. Py eres he words he ar rang in my ears _ fike the elated mocking of fiean . G@one—gone! What a world of desolation those . ~ monosyllables pictured to me! + Gone—gone! As they echoed and re-echoed they seemed like sharp-pamted barbs trying to pierce the armor of hate Thad girt about me; and to open the well springs of love and agony in my heart. I reached the wayside inn again, paid my dues to the now smiling landlord, and then started.on the re- furn to my home. i AsIcaime in its vicinity, and beheld the scenes so Z MY YOUNG WIFE. love, and at which 1 had worshiped, though is secret—my pulses quickened, my heart beat ligh, and that sweet flatterer, Hope, dared to wuisper to me again. It reminded me of a time when I had endured just such misery as wasmine now, asI had deemed my Ettie false; and how Lhad found that my fears had been unfounded. Might it not be soagain? MightI not find again that I had been the victim of some mistake? y home, that reared itself so majestically above the naked trees, might still contain my idol. With that hopein my heart, entered the house erly. “stepped into the hall, but instantly the damp of pe © Sas ena chilled me, All was quiet us the tomb, - It seemed like some deserted place; it seemed as if I had been absent years inst: ot days, and that I had returned to find all changed. No; there was one thingjust asI had leftit. As I looked dewn the long hall, [saw hanging on astand by the rear door, that cloak and hat, It bs al like some dark, weird specter, warning me e peer I turned quickly from it, and hastened to my library. : Lg I thought, a startled exclamation caused me to ook up. It had come from Beatrice, who was standing be- fore the grate fire. She met my gaze with a look of the deepest sur- prise. ‘‘A flattering welcome," I said, bitterly, as I jerked off my great coat. She made no reply, but, stood still as if trausfixed with amazement. , “ Where's Ettie?”’ I asked, abru ‘*Ettie!’’ she exclaimed. ‘ left tht finiag 2 to go to you.” T curl my lip poral at this proof of my wife’s duplicity. , She had blinded Beatrice by saying that she was going to me. “Indeed,” Isaid. ‘How did she happen to know where I was?”’ “A note came, rhs By note ep that you were lying, badly injured, at the house of ——” I curled my lip still more scornfully. She added, quickly: “TI saw the note, and read it, too, guardy. And Et- tie—oh, she was in such deep distress! She started tly. y, guardy, Ettie at once, without thinking of the severe storm, and the coming darkness. Is it not very strange?” she asked, anxiously. “No,” I replied, shortly, and I took that pocket- book from my pocket, placed it upon the table, and then looked meaningly at her. “i You ore seen her?” she asked, as her eyes rest- upon it. r ze es,” I replied, ‘‘ have seen her—and for the last me. I did not choose to go into particulars; it was suf- ficient for Beatrice to know that Ettie and I were parted. “Oh, guardy,” she began. “Pray, AE me your sympathies,’ I interrupted, coldly. . ‘It is my wish that you do not broach this subject at all—not even to me.”’ “ But, guardy, let me speak, You have been hasty. Ettie is not——” i I ied her by an imperious wave of the and, “If you please, Beatrice, be good enough to allow me to manage my own affairs. At this rebuff, she retreated, saying proudly : “Very well, sir, since you will have it so.” She left me then—left me to my gloomy thoughts. Hope's whisperings had again been idle flatteries; the wretched certainty stared me in the face—Ettie was gone. Isat by the table, picturing to myself the future that was to be mine, and trying to fortify my heart against tender recollection; but in vain. The days | si that had been would rise up to pain me by their con- trast to the dark present, I caught up a paper at hand, determined to divert my thoughts. t was the mornin column, without catching thefmeaning(of a single par- agraph, for the phantom of misery and despair would intrude and distract my attention. Then I began to read aloud: y rture of the Parthia. The Cunard steam- ship, Parthia, lett this port yesterday noon, for Liver- pool, with forty-five cabin, and one-hundred-and fifty steerage nesaenects, and a full cargo of domestic produce. The following is a list, of the cabin pas- sengers:”’ F Still I did not realize what I was reading. I went on, as if it had been a study set before me, and read the names that were appended—one after another, till I came to Harry Bostwick, and next tv that was Al- lan Ingram. There I stopped; and, strangely sponge, my thoughts wandere:! out to that cloak and hat hangin in the hall, and the evil that it had seemed to forete. assumed a more tangible form. The following query entered my mind: if I were unwilling to explain how it was that my name was on the list of passengers, bound for Europe, while I was still.in my home, making arrangements for an ac- tual departure, could not a pretty sad case be made out against me? CHAPTER XXII. AN UNEXPECTED REVELATION. Aunt Phoebe had Gepertods l uttered a hearty ‘Thank God!’ whenI heard of it. ae Herald. I read column after | pla’ Peter gave me the particulars: “*T see her sitting in the bre akfast-roum, this morn- ing, reading the paper, sir, when a!! of a sudden she jumps up, saying: ‘my sakes!’ just .sif she’d seen something that had u ther. She busdled right off up stairs, sir, and in less than five minutes sic was down again witli her bonnet and shawl on, ahd she says to me, saysshe: ‘Peter, ’m a-going. My things is packed, and I'll send for them when I get ready. Say good-by to Miss Beatrice for me, because I ain’t had no chance of seeing her this morning.’ Thenshe went off like a streak, sir.”’ I fancied that I understood the matter perfectly. Of course, Ettie had told Aunt Phoebe, as she had told Beatrice, that the note she had received referred to me; and that she was going to me. : Aunt» Phoebe had then seen my name in the paper in the list of ngers on the Parthia, and tnat had suggested to er that all was not as it had been represented, and she had set out immediately to investigate the affair for herself. , “It is well,’ I said to myself. “She will go to Cohasset, she will earn, as I did, that Ettie is gone, and I will be spared a painful explanation. I hope she’ll have the good sense to go right|to her home, and not feel itto be her duty to come and condole with me. The only relief that my exile promises is that I shall never see her sharp eyes and wizen face, nor hear her cackling again.” The dinner-bell rang. Oh, what a harsh, hollow sound 1t gave! It seemed more like the summons to a spectral feast in some deserted place, than to a weli-cooked dinner in a pri- vate house. I groaned aloud. But that was not adhering to my resolution, so I started up abruptly, and repaired to the dininz-room. Beatrice was there before me. We woked at each other, and sighed. The room was brilliantly lighted, a fire glowed and crackled in the grate, the table was covered with a es array of silver-ware and glass, but yet, ow gloomy, how dismal it all seemed! © And the absence of one form, one face, made all this differ. ence, We seated ourselves, and began the mockery of eating. The first mouthful threatened to choke me. and lL oom that Beatrice’ endeavor to eat was as vain as mine. “A little cheerful conversation,’ I thought, ‘‘may facilitate matters. I must not be selfish, and cloud a | ward’s happiness with my sorrows,”’ said aloud, trying to 2 ape ina sly, playful way. ‘My dear Beatrice, shall it be a public or a private affair? You.have accepted the man of my choice, so I shall allow you to follow your own sweet will in al} the details——”’ ‘Please don’t speak of it now, guardy,’’ she inter- rupted, in husky, tremulous tones. ilence fell upon us again. I could not eat. I cast a hurried glance over at Beatrice, to see how she was succeeding now—not at, all; she sat there toying with her fork, and looking as mournful as a picture of grief. “This will not do,’ I muttered, and I tarned over subject after subject for conversation in me NG but not one seemed calculated to promote cheerfu ness. I couldn’t eat—I couldn’t talk. Beatrice’ refiect- ions must have been like mine, for precisely at the same instant we sig: laid. down. our knives and forks, and arose from the table. We stoud facing each other in melancholy silence for a moment, then Beatrice hurried from the room, “If this is a forerunner of the days to come,’’ I said, wearily, ‘‘ the sooner the end comes, the better. Oh, Ettie—Ettie- —”’ : There! 1 was forgetting my resolutions I walked quickly out into the hall— Pe seemed filled with shadows, the ghosts of my en) they seem..d to be peering at me from every e. “I cannot endure this,’ I moaned, ‘I must go away at once.”’ . I hurried to the evening-room, hoping to find Bea- trice there, so that I id speak to her about my ns. Yes, she was there, on™ before the fire, her — resting upon the mantel, her head bowed upon em. The misery tugging at my heartstri made me rate, brondied the subject ahewptiys ** Beatrice, Iam going abru: She turned her white face to me; there was a look of — in her eyes, but she said, quietly: “ en 9 , *“Atonce. Icannot remain here now. But, before I go I must see you settled. You have accepted Leonard—why not——” She turned suddenly from me, and bowed her head upon her arms again, shuddering visibly. “Why, Beatrice, what does this mean?”’ She did not reply for several moments; then, fac- ing me, she said, carci ge Oh f coo aie vente — You Apo me to marry him at once. ery well, guardy, I will.” I had not expected such instant compliance. Ilook- ed at herin surprise. She smiled bitterly, as she added: a *‘ You will find me very meek, very obedient, now guardy. Arrange everythingto suit yourself, and i will be satisfied.”’ “Well! This is strange for Beatrice! I hope, a dear, you dou’t feel as if you were forced to this.”’ “No,” she said, ae “T should think you would know from Sxpemence that that is a thing impossible todo. Lam un appy. dissatisfied —I want a change—. want to forget, if 1 can, all the past.”
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Before I could express my astonishment at her in- comprehensible words, she had left me. % Well!” lexclaimed. ‘It must be conceded that my lot has fallen among strange women. What is wrong there, | wonder?” The coming of Leonard put an end to my queries. He was surprised to see me, of course. After a brief explanation of affairs, we settled ourselves to a discussion. of his marriage to Beatrice. It was decided that it should be a private affair, that it should take pine on the coming Wednesda evening at the church, and that we—Leonard, Beatrice, and I—would then depart at once for Europe, Leonard suggested, and I agreed. I was too un- happy to stir myself inuch about the matter. eatrice agreed to it all, also. She both surprised and pained me by her strange passiveness.. I spent the few intervening days in making prepar- ations for a lengthy stay abroad, How | lived through them I cannot now imagine! The wedding-day came to hand, at last, and I wel- comed it gladly, It wouldpart me from old scenes, and familiar plains but it would also release me from the poignant misery that was mine. It dawned bright and clear; I looked out upon the blue and cloudless .sky, upon nature in her russet garb that was now brightened by the golden sun- light, and it brought to mind the happy days of a year.ago, when Ettie and I had been lovers; and such a longing to goto the village from whence she had come, and visit the spots endeared to me from asso- ciation with her, took possession of me, that I could not combat it. I determined to indulge myself thus far on this, my last day in my native land. 1 told Beatrice that.I would returnin time to con- duct her to the ghureh, and then I started. The hours 1 spentin the vicinity of Ettie’s home -were hours of torture. By the timel turned my face homeward, I had succeeded in lacerating my heart so that I could have cried out in my agony. Ireached my home in due course of time, and I hurried up to my rooms, to prepare myself for the evening’s event, “A sorry wedding this,’ I commented, as, my toi- jet. completed, I stepped to the hall to ring for Peter. * Beatrice looks as if she were going to her execution instead of her bridal, and I feel as if I were doing her.gross injury in allowing itto go on. However——”’ and I pulled the bell fiercely. Peter came in answer to the ring. * Tell Miss Ghent that I am waiting for her in the evening-room.”. | I descended, and began to pace restlessly as I wait- ed, Peter appeared at the door, 4 ger at sight of his startled face, At | Ghent, sir, 1is—is——" hastening up statrs to her rooms. it was.as Peter had said—she was gone. We search- ed the house, but in vain. Peter peeped beneath sofas and chairs, and even looked into the vases on the several mantels. } After half an hour’s thorough searching I found myself again in the evening-room, in anything but a tranquil state of mind. ; “T thought it promised too well,”’ I muttered, im- patiently, “These women! how, very aggravating and uncertain they are!" t ‘pal Suddenly I remembered the church, the minister, and the bridegroom; and in less time than it takes to record it had donned my cloak and hat, and was hastening along the street churchward, “Yes, he’s here, anxiously waiting anc wonder- ing!” I exclaimed, as I saw a carriage before the church door, ' Lentered the ventilane from which doors opened into lobbies on either side, Atthe same moment, Leonard’s voice; harsh and unpleasant, fell.on my ear, I eer ont to you now, Mr. Josephs.”’ [looked in through the half open door of the lobb from whenee the voice came, aud I saw Leonard, flushéd and ry ae 20 Ww. perfec Se Tosephs! y that name, then, hi “ Blow. I wished that I could whisper a warning word to him, for he was certainly showing himself to a great disadvantage before his rich uncle, whose favor had been se much desired by both of the boys. I fairly trembled for him as I listened to his angry Tat : we Yau must have the instinets of a brute to come ati such a time as. this! > wait and do your duaning. ata more fitting opportu- nity; since you have not heeded me, I shall feel justi- fied in ejecting you forcibly. “ Not. so fast, my young friend, It takes two to play at that game, you know. 1’m not going to leave till you have given me some proof that you are not su dishonest as I fear youare. “T tell you I cannot, and_ will notattend to you now. To-inorrow——”’ nard knew “Then you'll be gone. I know your intentions, my | —marriage, an immediate departure, and Te oben sr the. thousands I have advanced to ou.” y “Take care, you may say too much, and even your grey hairs won’t protect you. Will you go?” oe No ’ a“ ou ghall!”’ Bontiea aiehts unexpected revelation of Leonard's nite to him was Uncle: I’ve requested you to go, and | MY YOUNG WIFE. character, I had withdrawn into a.corner of the ves- tibule where I could hear without being seen. At this juncture I heard a sound as of scuffling feet. “I’m afraid you’re not strong enough, my honest friend,” said Uncle Waldon. Breathlessly Leonard returned: “Tf I’m not I can obtain help from outside, Go you shall.”’ “Do you not know that unpleasant consequences may accrue from such a eourse as this?’ ‘‘Bah! There is no law to uphold a man for inter- fering as you are.” “ It alters the case materially when it is considered that you are an absconding debtor.” “You do not know that Iam that—it is only a devilish surmise of yours. I ask you for the last time, will youge? Here it is—whiy, bless me, it is past the hour appointed! They may arrive at any moment now! This is a nice predicament for my bride to. find me in. Heavens, man, will you go? Do you notsee that you are spoiling your only chances for recovering your money by remaining here? If she, comes, sees he and hears you, will she marry me? No!. Then how am I ever going to repay you?” “Til tell you what I'll do, young man, Ill go, if you will sit down and write—I have a paper and pen with me; I came prepared—sit down and write it out in full; that as soon as you ges control of this lady’s money, you will cancel your indebtedness to me. That was the agreement, but I want it in writing.” Imagine my horror! Could this be the Leonard whom I had trusted so implicitly? ‘*Fooll, it-ean’t be done now. I'll see you in the moRning: name any place, any time, and I'll meet you. Hush! I hear an approaching carriage. They are coming! And, ten to one, the clergy in the ves- try eat have heard every word we have said.”’ “For the lady’s sake, 1 hope they have; and also that they will refuse to marry her to such a scoun- drel as you are.”’ “By Heavens, you'll answer forthat! It's altiican do to keep my hands off you now... Go-get out of my sight, or you'll regret it!” ‘‘ Not one step——”’ “By thunder, you shall/ Ill call the police—-”’ “ And I'll call the clergy!” ‘**Out—out, I say!” and again I heard the sound of scuffling feet. ‘‘ By Heavens, I'll help you to go, and with no gentle hand, either!” More scuffling, then suddenly the door of the lobby was pushed open violently, and Uncle Waldon was forced forward by the irate,,Leonard, who. held him by the coat-collar, and administered a kick at every step or two. e thrust him out into the street, and I drew fur- ther infto the corner, hoping that he would, not see me as he returned to the lobby, He did not, and I hastily made my exit from the church, having no compunetion about leaving him to extricate himself as best he could from his embar- rassing poritiom I hurried home, and there in the solitude of my li- brary I gave free vent to my wrath and my indigna- tion, and heartily thanked’ that Beatrice had es- ca the snare of the fowler. t only [ could Jearn where she was, I felt that .I would be almost eee If only I knew— Just then I caught sight of an envelope lying upon 5 table, anda te me, : res, it was from Beatrice, It had come by mail and it was post-marked Boston. I opened it and read it eagerly: “Drar Guarpy: At the last moment my heart fails me; 1 do not love Leonard Waldon, and I can- not marry him, I feel that.I cannot faee you both and tell you this now, at this late hour, so I leave in this way. Your loving “BEATRICE.” Before I had time to comment upon these few words, Leonard was announced. / I went to receive him, my heart filled with loath- ing and contempt. 4,2 . could scarcely reconcile the smooth, sleék-lookin rson I saw before me, with the flushed, angry on had seen in the church lobby. ‘ He arose as I entered, saying, anxiously: ™ “What has happened? Is Beatrice ill?’ Telosed the door behind me, and turned ‘to pour the vials of my wrath upon his head. Before I could say a word, the door was opened again; turning, I saw Uncle Waldon standing there. eonard started, his face flushed hotly, and his eyes fairly blazed. Clenching his fists, he took a step forward, muttering fiercely: “That Josephs again!” “Pray be calm,” said Uncle Waldon, raising hie hand imperiously, “Friend Ingram, be kind enough to introduce me to this person.”’ With intense satisfaction, I complied: “Leonard, this is your uncle, George Waldon.” Every drop of blood receded from mard’s face, leaving it of a ghastly hue; his eyes seemed to be starting out of their sockets; he sank helplessly into a chair, exclaiming, in a faltering voice: “Great heavens! My uncle, and I kicked him!” CHAPTER XXIII, WHERE IS OLIVER WALDON? Uncie Wanpon stood erect and stern, and gazed upon his crestfallen nephew. Something between a sneer and a smile came to his face as he, at length, turned to me, saying: “Ingram, this is your model, I believe. I can’t say that I admire your taste.” What could Isay? I was indignant and angered at Leonard, but I was also exceedingly uneasy in the 2 presence of my usually genial but now coldly court- eous friend, for as Llooked at him,I could but think patna cloak and hat hanging on the stand in the. I cast a wrathful glance upon Leonard, and then I turned to his uncle. He intercepted my intention to speak, ““Gentlemen,’’ he began, in a cold, clear voice, speaking as gravely as if he were addressing an as- semblage, nal will not eall you frien for I cannot consider you as such under existing circumstances.) _ As I have already remarked, gentlemen——” He paused for a moment, asif to make his next words the more effective; then he added: ‘* Where is Oliver Waklon?” He looked keenly at Leonard, who fidgeted in his chair, and becamés, if possible, paler than before, _ . ‘* Where is Oliver Waldon?”’ he repeated, in a higher key, his gaze still fixed upon his nephew, who at length blustered: “Am I te brother's keeper?” ‘ “Where, I say again—where is Oliver Waldon?’’ persisted the old gentleman, in a still higher key, turning this time upon me, I confess that my uneasiness deepened beneath his. piercing gaze, and it was not in the heartiest of tones that I made reply. : “To the best of my knowledge, friend Waldon He interrupted me by a wave of the hand, — ‘‘Not friend, if you please. We are strangers, en- emies, ve will, but not friends till this mystery is xplain explai ‘You asked me about Oliver,” I said, chening down my indignation at his suspicions,of me, ‘‘ As was about to say, to the best of my knowledge, he is dead and buried.” : ‘You firmly believe that?” ; * No, I have my doubts.” “And you,’’ turning to Leomard, ‘‘do you believe that Oliver is deaa?”’ + “To be surel do. Mr. Ingram was with me at the: morgue——”’ . “That was not Oliver,” interrupted the old gentle- man, “ Who wasit, then?” blustered Leonard, “Tdo not know who it was, but F do know that it was not Oliver, for, gentlemen,” looking abarply from one to the other, ‘‘Oliver.was with me,onthat = very dayon which you flattered yourselves that you. x4 w had consigned him to his grave. Leonard started to his feet, pale and trembling. I maintained my ground, but with difficulty, “Let me go back a little,’ continued Uncle Wal- don, in hiscc’ |, clear tones. ‘‘ Let me go back tothe day of my val. You probably remember that day, Ingra.:.: ° “Pertectiy,’’ Isaid, curtly. “You left me with a fainting woman in my arms, I sueceeded in restoring her to consciousness, and mu- tual confidences followed. Of course you know who the lady was?” “ Certainly,’ IT said. 2 “She, in a way best known to herself, had covered that Oliver was in sore trouble of some kin that he was maligned by you and others, Her sy. pathies were aroused, and she had determined to all she could to help him, Her opinion of him was so widely different from yours, Ingram, that it set to thinking, the result of which was that I concluded to condemn. no one unjustly. I would not belicve Leonard a saint, and Oliver a sinner; use YOU 20 regarded them; neither would I believe that Olivor was the saint, because that was another's view; but I would learn that truth for myself. Hence my de- sire to remain tncog.”’ He looked at me. : [had nothing to say, sol simply bowed.. He looked at Leonard, who really a one who would, if he could, have snateh and run. “You,” he said, so sharply that he seemed to nail Leonard to the spot.at which his word had found him, ‘‘you made my acquaintance through Mr. lsaacs, a money-lender, whom I had called upon, and whose co-operation I had gained... He represented meas Mr. Josephs, a man of means, who would ad- vance to. you the money you requir in that way.I red have discovered that you are not the saint that Mr. Ingram believed you to be.” _ : essay ed to interrupt him to tell that my faith was shaken, at A n @ witness to that meeting in the church-lobby; but the old gentleman would give me no opportunity. He wenton: . ; , ‘In the same way | learned that Oliver, while he has his faults, is still the frank, generous, open-hearted boy I’ve always believed hun to be, You remember that note, Ingram, that J found on the table in his office? Well, IT 1oaned him the money he wanted, taking his diamonds as security—not such security you gave me, young man,”’ : Leonar’s perturbation was almost painful to hold at that juncture; he looked quiekly aboutasif s he would make his escape from the room. His faee paren and he sighed with relief, as his uncle con- tinued: “That money seemed to lift a load from Oliver's _ heart, for, as he told me, it settled his ae toa lady; still he ap’ saw that he was suffering severely, mental and physically. I tried to win his confidence, I at last succeeded in pert. He told me of a hopeless love. Poor fellow! how I pitied him.” { I felt my blood tingling. Hopelesslove!. Of course it was his love for Ettie. Uncle Waldon saw my emotion, and he said: “The jealous are always unreasonable, I fear, In- am, that your jealousy has carried you to greater engths than that, But to continue: he could not con- tof . "ts 2% aa > int . ee up ee ared to da xeay, Eauerey a7 ee oe
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“« » —- — fide in me altogether, because of a vow he had made; but he told me a part of his sorrow before he became ill—very ill, eons time he was under my care, It wasin the first days of his convalescence that { came here; the day of your soiree, Ingram—the day on which you had been to the morgue. Hecame with me for a certain purpose; he would not enter, as he had been forbidden the house, but in the even- ing he was in your grounds, I know he was there, tor | saw him and spoke to him,” cried the old gen- tleman, who was warming to his subject. “Then I met you, Ingram, and you astonished me by telling me ‘that Oliver was dead—drowned. For certain reasons, 1 did not contradict your belief. I went out again into the grounds to see him, but he was not to be found. I feared then that there had been foul play, for I knew that he would not have gone voluntarily until hehad'seen me. I was after- wards convinced that there had been foul play, for while Oliver was ‘missing, his cloak and hat were in this very house! If he had gone rarer would he have left his cloak and hat behind? I love my nephew! my love for him makes me indifferent to the feelings T have entertained for you. I can speak harshly, andI must! One orthe other of you must answer me, or I will bring the matter into a court of law. My boy's apparel is in this liouse at this sey poment, but where is he? Again Task: where e hl A moment's doe and painful silence. Could.I so humiliate myself as to explain how the cloak and hat happened to be in my house? Could I ve Ettie’s falsity words? No, I felt that I could tter—far better endure any suspicion, any disgrace to myself; not one word should pass my lips in de- triment to her, Uncle Waldon stood as stern and severe as any ad- ministrator of justice. Leonard stood visibly agitated. I stood propounding the above queries to mySelf. ‘*Gentlemen, this silence is strange. Speak—one or both of you, speak, and answer me; where is Oliver?” A loud, sharp ring of the door-bell startled us all. There was a short cessation of hostilities as we looked at one another, our glances seeming to say: “ A pleasant time, this, for a visitor.” A knock at the door I answered it. r Peter handed me a telegram. — i hope thrilled my heart—could it be from ttie With trembling, eager hands T tore open the en- velope, and read the message. My heart sank as hope died; it was not from Ettie, but from Beatrice. It read: ‘Have repented my rash step already, guardy. Please come for me at once at the Revere House. ‘‘ BEATRICE.” Of course I was ylad that Ihad heard from my ward, but still I was bitterly disappointed that’ it was not word from the wife whom Ihad vowed to think of no more. ‘ ‘It is from Beatrice,” I said, mildly, quite forget- ‘4 the question that had been under discussion, i Gentlemen, { shall have to be rude enough to leave you— 1 ‘“No!” cried Uncle Waldon, hotly. ‘Not one step do you stir till you have answered me.” “Sir!” L exc imed, aghast. ‘Do you dictate to me in my own house?’ “¥ do. I am determined to learn the fate of my nephew; I firmly believe that I can gain that know!- edge here. Neither one of you shall leave my sight till you give me some satisfaction.” “T have already answered you,” I said, coldly. eueaee did you get this cloak and hat?—tell me **T cannot.” “You cannot, or you will not?”’ “T willnot.” - . “That tells agaiust you, Ingram.” “Very well, sir.’’ “ And everything tells against you!” “Very well, sir.”’ “This affectation of indifference is unbearable!”’ cried the old gentleman, growing very rec in the face, and commencing to stam y about the room. ‘‘Unbearaple, I say! You were jealous of Oliver—who so likely to do him harm as you? Only tell me-—only let me know the fate of my beloved nephew, and [ will depart in peace. I can endure auything but this suspense—this uncertainty.” i s voice broke at his last words, and ‘I pitied m, I said, gently: “Believe, me, Waldon, I would tell you if I could; but I cannot. And really, I must go; my ward is waiting forme, You must excuse me, gentlemen.” I turned to the door, but ere Th reached it _ Uncle Waldon sprang to me, and forced me back, as a he cried, wrathfully: * Not one wee, sir!—not one step, till you have answered me!” You do know, and you must tell me where Oliver is! Speak!’ “*T have nothing to say.” **T cannot beli¢éve you, Ingram. You must know something of him.” *] fear I cantiot convince you, Waldon, You must think what you will!—you must do what you will!” I was fast | ng oy temper. ““Go—go, at once,and ery out, if you will, that Ihave murdered your rascally nephew !—or that I have aie him away! Any- thing—anything—only stand out of my way now, so that I can go to my ward! I tell you, Waldon, I am getting angry!” ’ “And I tell you, Ingram, I am angry!’’- “Step out of my way.” MY YOUNG WIFE. ‘* Not till you have answered me.”’ Just then I heard Leonard muttering something about a pressing engagement. I looked up at him, and saw him going toward the oor. The telegram which I had received was lying on the floor near where he had been standing. I had drop it unknowingly. I felt convinced that Leonard had read it, and that he was now going to look after his intended bride. That would never do. I must see Beatrice first, and tell her how IT had been deceived in the character of the man whom I had selected to be her husband, * Hold!’ I cried, springing by Uncle Waldon, and detaining Leonard. ‘* You cannot leave this house tit Tam gone!” He looked at me in surprise. Ay was too much enraged to make explanations just en. ; ** You cannot see Beatrice till I have seen her,” I added. as I forced him back into a chair. I then started toward the door myself, saying: “Pray make yourselves at home till I return, gen- tiemen. Necessity compels me to go like this. I bid you good-evening.” The words were scarcely out of my mouth, when Uncle Waldon sprang tome again, and forced me back, erying: A ““Ward or no ward, you shall not leave my sight till you have told me something of Oliver.” “*This is too much!”’ I exclaimed, exasperated be- ond measure. ‘Have a care, Waldon, how you— flere! Back—back, I say!” I broke off suddenly, as I saw that “Leonard had Fo «tel opportunity, and was again aboutto make 8 exit. I forced myself from the old gentleman’s hold, and sprang after him, crying: - ‘Back! Tam master here. You cannot leave till T have gone, and lam going now. Again, gentlemen, soos erening. This time J succeeded in reaching the door before Uncle Waldon could detain me. I flung it wide open, quickly, passionately, and was about to stamp angrily forth, when, lifting my eyes, I saw standing on the threshold—my wife! — CHAPTER XXIV, THE STORM AT ITS FIERCEST, ‘ALLAN INGRAM!"’ *Ettie, by all that’s wonderful!” These exclamations sounded out like two cannon- bursts. Then followed a deep silence, during which we faced each other, looking asif we had each met with a visitant from another sphere. Could I believe my eyes? as it really my wife, here, in this house, after I had been so well convinced that she was gone from me forever? 1 looked her over sharply. Yes, it was she, my Ettie, as lovely as ever, but, oh! so pale—so very pale, and so sad. 6 was standing now with her hands clasped, and looking at me hal rly, half-anxiously, as if she kt trying to determine whether she should remaiu or flee. ! She had on the long cloak, the dark hat and heavy veil, which I had last seen when I accompanied her on that dark night’s ride. I eg too astonished to greet her—too astonished to speak. fons — there looking, and she the same, as if spell- und, Her voice, low, timid, tremulous, finally broke the ell, i Allan, I thought—I believed that you were gone. Isaw your name in the papers———.”” That was why she had returned then, She thought that I was well out of the way, and so she had come back to the luxury and plenty that she could not obtain elsewhere. p The fiend of jealousy took possession of me again; it cast out loveand joy from my heart, and made a demon of me. I interrupted her Ronegly * Of course you thought that I was gone! It was my-intention that you should think that l.was gone. I was determined to know the truth,and at last, thank Heaven, I have learned it. You thought I was gone—of course you did! so, did everybody. But I wasn't—and Lam not now. Iam here—right here,’ madame: and to your face I tell you,I know it all— a * Allan—-Allan!”’ she pronded, whisperingly, ‘‘ we are not alone. And sure ¥, you do not know what you are saying. Wait——” ‘* Not one moment, madame. WhatI have to say —which, believe me, Ido wittingly—I willsay now. Yes, evenif it were in the presence of hundreds. I tell youl know all, for I have followed you—tracked you! Gone? Ha—ha! Why, madame, who played the-cavalier to you on that dark and rainy night? Who brought an to the house of James Nelson? Who, Lsay?. Wasit astranger to whom you appeal- ed for aid?’ “Why, Allan tered, starting ment. ‘*What do I know of that, madame? I will tell you, and lan do it in no better way than by showing you this,”” and triumphantly I catiitnied that pocket. book from my pocket, and flourished it almost under her nose. ‘* Mine!” she exclaimed, aghast. “Of course it is yours,” I cried, gleefully. ‘‘ You dropped it in the carriage—do you remember?” ‘*No; but-I missed it after-——” “ After Tleft you. Yes. it was I to whom pealed, madame! It was I who drove you what do you know of that? she fal- back, and Jooking at me in amaze- ou ap- peogh - the rain, and the darkness, to the house where your lover was lying!” “Allan, you shall not insult me so!’’ she cried, in- dignantly. ““My lover! It was to you—you, who have been, and are stillso unjust’ and cruel--that I was going,” : * Etcie,”’ I said, severely, ‘‘this will not wed you. TL know all, Iknow that you left early on the follow- ing morning in company with—— “On the following morning,” she interrupted. “No, sir! [left the house this afternoon——”’ a Ettie,” I said; commiseratingly, ‘“‘how can you 19 **Do you not believe me, sir?” “How can I, when I know to the contrary ?”’ “How did you learn?” a By inquiry, madame,” “When?” “On the oe morning on which you left.” “Of whom did you inquire?” : si na your hostess, madame—a very abrupt person, y-the-way.”’ , “Oh, you are altogether wrong, Allan! My hostess —as you are pleased to call her—was a bed-ridden or You certainly could not have inquired of er.’ ‘‘Bed-ridden! Ha—ha! Stout, strong, and saucy— is that your definition of bed-ridden?” ’ “Ttell you, she was not stout, nor strong, nor sau- cy! I less I know!” ; ‘And I tell you, she was stout, and strong, and saucy! Iguess I know!” “You don’t!” “ I do ad ‘Oh, itis useless to try to convince you,” she ex- claimed, in despair. “And it is more than useless for you to hug longer the idea that you can pacify me by your denials. I brought you myself to the house of ‘James Nel- son—— “T beg your pardon, Allan, you did not,” and a gleam ot ret leaped to her eyes. “T did not?” Ieried, ina frenzy. shown ree the proof that I did?” “Still I say you did not bring me to the house of James Nelson.” “ Ettie, are you mad?” e I think not,” and the gleam of mirth deep- ened, “Then, what do you mean by saying——” ~ ““T mean just this: you brought me to the house of Nelson James.” I looked at her for a moment blankly and then I groaned: te .nd Isought for you at the house of James Nel- son,” ‘ <4 Exactly; and you have been visiting another’s sins upon me,’ ; “Tamt sorry, Ettie,” I said, penitently. “T cannot believe you, Allan. You bave been sor- ry so many times, but it never lasts. You have such unquestioning faith in your own stupidity-———” “But this seemed so clear, Ettie. Iread the note that brought you to that lonely place—I accompanied he's there—I went again to the same house, as I be- jieved, and learned that you were gone.” “A little faith in me would have saved tide all this, Allan. Icould have endured anything that night— —yes, I could have walked to that house, through the storm and the darkness, so anxious was I to get to you, I felt so sure that the note referred to you.” **And to whom did it refer?” **To—to,’”’ she faltered, then she looked hastil around the room, her face pale again, her hands clasped together. “ Where is Beatrice?” she asked, at length. “ Let me see her first.” Just that little hesitation on her part dispelled my penitence, and I was racked with jealousy again. “Can you not answer my question, m. 67 To whom did that note refer?” ‘Can you not answer my question, Allan? Where is Beatrice?” ; ‘‘ Answer me, madame!” : “Oh, Allan, answer me first! Where is Beatrice? Send for her; or let me go to her,”’ and she turned to leave the room. } “Stay! Leried. ‘ You will not find her here.” She looked at me wa Shai oh “Not here! Where, then?” “IT ecannot explain now. Let it suffice for you to know that she is not here.” Just then I gn of Leonard. I looked around— he was gone! He had succeeded in making his exit while I had been arleying with Ettie, “The rascal!” Tcried. ‘I must see Beatrice before he does! I must go at once.” ‘Where—where, Allan?” asked Ettie, catchin by the arm as I started to go from the room. * are a going?”’ ‘First to the library to get my coat and hat; and then—— But don’t detain me, Ettie—there is need for great baste. I can’t wait evento hear you.” *‘Only one moment,” she pleaded, still clinging to my arm. ‘Or, let me get your coat and hat for you. I will go—let me go, Allan.’ “No, cannot wait. I tell you, I must hurry. Do not—— Do you hear me? do not detain me!” She clung tomy arm more tightly still. ‘Let me speak, Allan—Jet iné explain. Oh, why did I come here!” she moaned. ‘I was so sure that you were gone, I did not think——” ‘“Ah—ha! What is this?” I cried, scenting more cause for jealousy. “‘You were so sure that I was gone that you—what—what—what is it, Ettie?” “On, if you were only reasonable, Allan! or, if Beatrice were only here! But listen—oh, listen to me now! That note, it—it referred to—oh, Allan, re- member that I thought it referred to you, but i¢ was —it was——”’ **Have I not me ere
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a oF “Why do you hesitate?’’ I asked, savagely. * Because I know how unreasonable you are. But I must tell you—it was Oliver——” * Oliver!’ came in aloud, eager voice from the further end of the room. “Did you say Oliver?” Ettie looked toward the speaker. “Mr, Gordon,’ she faltered, ‘‘Or was it Benton? Oh, Allan, it’s that detective!” she whispered to me, most piteously. ; “It is neither,” I said, pompously; “it is Waldon. You see before you, Ettie, Oliver’s uncle from India, who has been holding me accountable for the strange disappearance of his nephew—who has, in fact, al- most accused me of murder.” “Oh, no—no!” cried Ettie; ‘‘ Oliver’ lives—Oliver lives! He had been injured- badly—in some way— by some one,” she faltered, looking timidly, fearfully toward me, ‘‘ and brought to this house, in this lonely, out-of-the-way place——” ‘““What place?” asked Uncle Waldon, hastily. “Pray, tell me, madame, that I may go’ to him at once.” “Heis not there now, sir. I could not leave him there alone, Allan,’ she said, daprecatinehy: ‘He was so very—yery ill, Aunt Phosbe came the next morning, and she,told me that you had gone abroad; s0 we remained with him, and took care of him; and to-day, when we left, he left, too; and—and——”’ “But where is he, now? I beg of you, madame, do not keep me in suspense. Pray, tell me, at once.’’ ** He—he is—oh, that Beatrice were here! How can I tell? Allan will not understand, and I cannot ex- plain while she is a\yay!” ‘Madame, I beg of you,” interposed Uncle Wal- on. Lstarted for the doom. I was too fearful of the con- sequences of a meeting between Leonard and Beat- rice just now to wait longer; she might renew her omise to marry him; he might induce her to have e knot tied at once. I could not wait even to hear my wife. Istarted for the door, saying: *I must goat once. Perhaps you will now allow me fromyour sight, Waldon, since your nephew is found—your rascally nephew, who has been the bane of my life! If it had not been for him I would never have had to endure all this trouble, anxiety, and misery. I have never harmed him, not éven by a word. He has well out of my way; let him see to it that he di in the future. If we should meet now, all the wrath that has been gathering for the past months would be vented upon hinr, and it would make me desperate, and heedless of consequences. ‘Through him I have lost everything, wife, home, hap- eae everything! He has been forbidden my ouse—let him take care that he never enters it, for the day when we stand face to face there will be trouble —serious trouble!” “Oh, Allan!”’ cried Ettie, still detaining me, “ wait —wait till you are caimt Stay here, and I will pet your coat and hat. Oh, do not—do not go to the lib- rary now!” 4 : ‘* And why not, may I ask?” . “T cannot tell you. Oh, heed me, Allan! Be rea- sonable—be just—be merciful! Oh—oh, if Beatrice were only here! How will this end—how will this end? No--no,” she added, exerting all her strength % keep me back. ‘ You cannot—you must mot—you not go till you are calm!’ “This is very strange,’’ I said, looking coldly at her. ** Why do you tremble so?_ Why are you so pale and terrified? What have youin the library that you fear I shall see?” “Oh, I wish I were dead!" she wailed. ‘‘Or tlt I had gone home with Aunt Phoebe So much for try- ing to help others.” _ “Why do you not answer me, Ettie?” “And, madame, why will you not tell me where Oliver is?’ : She looked at us both, despairingly, for a moment. en the light of a sudden resolve leaped to her e;;and.she turned and darted from the room, fore I could take a step, Uncle Waldon placed his hand u my arm, and said: “Qld friend, can you forget my harsh words? You understand, I am sure; deép anxiety for the fate of my nephew made me blind to everything else——”” ““T cannot wait to listen to apologies now,’’ I inter- rupted, testily. ; ‘ * But tell me this, Ingram: Surely you do not har- bor malice toward Oliver?” “ Are youin your senses when you ask me that? * Harbor malice !—can I harbor anything else than malice towards a2 man who has destroyed my happi- ness, robbed me of my dearest treasure-——” ~ “Qh, tush—tush! That’s all nonsense.” “We can’t stop to argue about it now,’ and I Sogastaee myself cay his hold, and hurried from the room, At the library door Ettie met me, my coat and hat in her hands. ‘‘ Here, Allan,” she said, anxiously. I took tivem, put them on, and turned to go. She sighed with relief, I had taken bnt a step or two, when I bethought myself of my gloves. : rn “What now?” asked Ettie, anxiously. if ‘“My gloves,” I said, . ‘** They are on the table, I be- ieve,”? ° “Oh, you do not need them to-night, Allan.” “| \liffer with you there, my love,” and I tried to assher, ; pa I will get them,” she cried, holding me back. ** Wait just one moment.” She darted in, but I followed. — anxiety had aroused my jealousy to the fullest The room was in darkness, save for the red light trom the grate fire. MY YOUNG WIFE. “On the table, Allan, did you say?’ Ettie called out. “Yes,” T replied. She started violently as my voice sounded close to er. * You can not see,” I said, mildly. “I will light the one “Oh, no—no, there isno necessity for that. Ican see.” * ButIcan not. Willyou not allow me the priv- ilege of lighting the gas in my own house?” , By that time Thad lighted it. I looked around sharply, but could see nothing that accounted for Ettie’s great anxiety. I looked at her as she hunted for my gloves; she was pale and trembling still. ‘“] cannot find them,’ she moaned. “Ah, [remember now,” I said. ‘They are on the table in that recess yonder.” Inodded toward the bay window, and then I saw that the curtains were partially drawn. - Ettie darted forward, but I sprang after her, say- gz? **T will find them myself, if you please.” She turned aside with a low moan, and buried her face in her hands. I angrily, passionately, drew the heavy curtains back, and there, sitting, or rather reclining in my large arm-chair, his face deathly pale, his eyes large and hollow, was the man-—-or, as it seemed to me at en the ghost of the man I hated, Oliver aldon CHAPTER XXY. A BURST OF LIGHT. Many times had [received proof of my wife's fals- po but this—this was the most convincing proof of I looked, for a moment, in disdain upon my rival, and then I turned to Ettie. I felt as if I were becoming petrified, and I know that [ looked as I felt—as stern; as immobile, as'rigid as a statue of stone. She raised her bowed head from her hands, and met my cold gaze most appealingly. It had no effect upon me, save to harden my heart even more toward her. Quietly, icily, I said; ‘* You will now have to throw up your cards, Ettie, and acknowledge that you have lost. You have plesved a desperate game, and you have struggled ravely to the end; but now, in the face of this,” and I pointed toward Oliver, who had arisen from the chair, and was standing in the recess, erect and dig- nified, “‘in'the face of this, ] say, you can do nothing but acknowledge yourself vanquished.’ She had thrown aside her cloak, and hat, and veil, and she stood with her long robe sweeping gracefully about her, the darkness bringing out her clear, pale face by contrast, like a cameo on a dark setting. Never/had she seemed so lovely to me. Her very attitude was a prayer; her body bent slightly forward; her hands clasped tightly together, the jewels on them sparkling not more than the tears that hung trembling on her long eyelashes; and over ull the firelight played, seeming to envelop ber ir a glow of golden glory. Never had she appeared so lovely to me, and yet I felt that I hated her, Her attitude, her eyes, her face, pleaded more elo- quently than words; but I turned coldly away, heed- ing it not, Now I would go, and forall time. Jealousy was gone, for love was gone; hate was with me instead, and | knew that regret and longing could not torture me again, I had said that when Oliver Waldon and I stood face to face there would be serious trouble; but now, when that had actually come about, hate made me ein and I could look upon him and utter not a word, I glanced coldly, seornfully on him, then on Ettie, and then I started for the door. Oh, Alan—Allan!” rang through the room in piteous tones, “ Wait! Oh,I beg of you, in God's name, wait!’’ ‘ “For what?” I asked, quietly, looking back upon er, ‘*For—for—oh, my God—my God, I cannot ex- 5 pt she wailed, as she raised her hands to her head. “TI have asked for no explanation,” I said, coldly, “The situation explains itself—you have smuggled our lover into the house which he has been for- idden to enter. I can only leave you to enjoy the happiness that my presence dispels. Good-by,” and I started on again. ‘*No—no, Allan, you cannot leave me like this.” she cried. ‘ It is eruel!—it is unjust! I will not let you go now,’ and she sprang to me and clung to my arm. ‘‘ Send for Beatrice—wait till you have heard her. I will plead with her to speak, to save me from this injustice—this foul injustice! When you have heard her we will part; I will go home, and you shall never see me again--never! But you cannot, you shall not Jeave me like this!” I pe her gently, but firmly, from me. “Your ravings are useless, Ettie. We part now, and forever.” ‘*“Oh, Allan, if you only knew. Oh, Oliver, can you not help me?—can you not say something to help me in my distress?” I turned toward him fiercely. “T will not listen toa wordtfrom him! If he is wise, he will remain silent, And you, madame, be a wo- man! Don’tthink that you ean wipe out the wrong you have done me with your tears. It can never be wiped ont! —never forgotten!’ I was losing control of myself, and my voice rang out sharp and: high. ——ee “T go now, and my last words to you both are—I hate iy ~ ““Oh, take them back, Allan!’”. Ettie cried, wildly, as she sank on her knees at my feet. ‘*See me here, pleading, praying to you!" If you knew what I have suffered—what I am suffering now, you would pity meé! Wait, till all canvbe explained... Will you not have a little faith in me? Oh, Allan—Allan,’ and she caught my hands in hers, ‘Il am your wife!—you cannot, oh, you cannot leave me like this!” “T can, and I will!” I cried, and rudely I cast her pice me—so rudely that she fell prostrate to the oor. Then I strode from the room. On the threshold I turned, and saw her bowed to the floor, her siender frame convulsed with sobs. I glanced at Oliver again; he supe forward as if i wean I raised one hand warningly, as I thurn dered? o7k Ce *Not a word to me, sir! If you value your life, don’t open your lips tome!” “Oh, Allan—Allan!”. pleaded Ettie, looking up through her tears, and extending her liands appea: ingly, : * He will comfort you,’ I said, pointing vw Oliver “And now, good-by forever.” \ Hating my wife as I believed I dic, this parting gave me no pain, I hurried from the house, putting from my mind the picture of agony and anguish that Ettie, bowed to the floor, had formed, and turning all my attention to thoughts of Beatrice. Could I hope to reach her in time? Having gaioed this unexpected insight into Leonard’s character, I now believed him to be capable of any ule It was my fear that he would go to Beatrice, and by his lausibilities persuade her to marry him at, once, He a iny consent, for I had had no chance to retract it. IT hastened down the walk to the street, and looked about for the parcieag in which Beatrice and I were to have gone to the church, It was not there, ; I whistled for Peter, and stamped fiercely about, muttering angrily at this new delay. He came running down the walk vated! ** How is it,” 1 demanded, “ that the carriage has been put up?” fir “Tt hasn’pbeen, sir,’ he replied. “The gentleman took it.” : “What gentleman?” 5 “Mr. Waldon—Mr. Leonard Waldon, sir. The car- riage he came in droveoff at once, and when he went he took yours." “The rascal! He did that to gain time by detain- ingme. Idiot! why did you not stop him?” “How did I know, sir? Besides, it was done in a sen aee sir; and I couldn't of stopped him no- ow.” “Well—well-—well!’ I exclaimed. ‘‘ This is most unfortunate! But I can’t stand upon ceremony now —I’li take this carriage, and return thanks to the owner afterwards.” ; ; “No, you don’t,” cried Uncle Waldon, close beside me. “Dll take it myself, if you please. I suppose I have the right to it, as it is mine.” “I suppose you have,” I returned. . z “My nephew, friend Ingram, istoo ill to: be magn A ” s ‘ ed just pow — “Be kind enough to refrain from mentioning that person to me,” I interrupted, frigidly. i ‘“Certainly—certainly,” and he entered his carriage and drove rapidly off. ‘Quick, Peter,” I cried, “as if your life depended upon it, go and see about bringing the buggy around. At once, and don’t lose a momen!" What I endured while waiting fer the conveyance it is impossible to tell. I stamped, and muttered, and raved most fiercely. At last, I, too, was started on the way. I drove along at a reckless rate, whirling by the, houses and trees so swiftly that they were scarcely discernible. * My heart was very heavy; Leonard had had such a ~ d start of me that 1 despaired of reaching the otelin time. I drove on, and on, and at last, thank God! Lreached the city; then I had not farto gu. I was at the Revere House in a very little while; and as soon as L had composed myself a little, T entered. Inquiring of the clerk confirmed my worst fears; Miss Ghent was gone; she hadleft « wit half an hour previous to my coming, and she huu teft in com- pany with a gentleman, Gone—gone! Half an hour! They could be married half a dozen times in half an hour! How could I find set ear How could I think where to go to seek er : It was with great effort that I repressed a groan. As Leonard’s wife, what a lifetime of misery would be hers! and I had, ina great measure, forced her to it. What could I do? Nothing—absolutely nothing, gi almost unwittingly, Lascended to the par- lors. There was a faint hope in my heart that Bea- ‘rts had not yet gone, and that 1 might find her there, a scanned the long room eagerly No, she was not there. I turned away, sighing sewn gue then T heard: “ Why, Mr. Ingram, you bere!’ ye It was Marian Stewart. 1 was thankful to meet any oue just then, and I greeted her héarbily: “Tsaw your name in the paper,” she began. ““Many have seen my name there,’ Linterrupted. — ‘But so long asit was not'in the police reports we ean let the matter rest, Have you, Miss stewart, have you seen my ward? She was here——" ‘Oh, yes; I have seen her,” and her face lit up, in- ee aor she had something to tell. “ ay iy : ‘* This very evening as lcame—I am visiting some friends here—I saw her in the parlor talking wit Leonard Waldon—--"’ t
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SSS MY YOUNG WIFE. 1s nab gy egestas a ‘Talking, oh, so earnestly, pleading, was not here. I inquired for her, and I she had left with a gentleman— , of course. I’m just curious enough to want to know what it all means—a runaway match, eh?’’ ‘That is all, Miss Stewart?” “No; there yet remains ” and she took from her pocket a letter. ‘I picked it up in the hallasT camein. It is for Beatrice—see? And it must be a m from the dead, for the hand-writing is Oliver Waldon’s.”’ I seized it eagerly. Yes, it was for Beatrice, and it was from,Oliver Waldon. Wnopened—then she had not received it; or, at least, she had not read it. Ayia h leaped into my heart—Ettie had said '“ Bearrice, my wire: I dare to call you eeeaiing for our true and much-tried friend, Ettie, has told me that through my supposed death you have awakened to a knowledge of your love forme, Iimplore you _ come to me at once; Iam too ill to come to you. t long to see PA to hold your hand in mine, to hear _ from your lips the words for which I have so long : ay Oy ‘i ‘And, too, Httie is in keen distress; she has borne much for us—she has been faithful to her vow at the e of her own happiness. So, for her sake, as well as mine, come at once, and let all be made clear. ““T send this by my uncle, whose identity I have just discovered. He will make all necessary expla- nation to you. Your husband, OLIVER.” ‘* My God! what is this?” I exclaimed. I read it over again, while tears welled to my eyes a lump arose in my throat, and my heart throbbed so that I could almost hear it. ’ Then out into the der gerd I aaa and heart and ery of: voice united in the 2 “Oh, God, I thank Thee! Light hascome at last.”’ CHAPTER XXVI. SUNSHINE AT LAST. Errtie was true—she was not a sinner, but a mar- . tyr. Could she forgive me? é And Beatrice—she was Oliver’s wife. I could now sanction that union with my heartiest poe since it proved my Kittie true. But, good God! did not Beatrice betes that her husband was dead, and —_— she not by this time be wedded to another? _ —a dolt—an idiot! I felt that I deserved only con- demnation for my want of faith in the sweetest, tru- est woman that ever drew breath. Ana mone was nothing todo but to put my fate to the —to go to Ettie, and see what there was ed. Entering the grounds as stealthily as if I had been a thief, I stepped to the veranda, clambered up, and, seated on the railing, I peered in, Rtti standing in the — of the bow ine that played fitfully over her dark dress and filled the dimly- hted room with grotesque shadows. She was alone. 4 Dared Eenter? I was willing to acknowledge that ' I had been in the wrong—but would that avail me now? Isat on the Sete and ered. On which side should I id I go out to a life of jon liss? eyes on my darling. Oh, how’! loved her! thrilled wit ws * would now be Should I tap on the window? No; that might star- tie her, and she would leave the room. I tried to open it; it was not fastened. Softly I ushed it back and step in. She evidently was na deep reverie, for she did not seem to hear me as I approached. t last ey non eneuce anrentae and I had l ken. ‘ Ettie, I have come back,” I said, trem- y: sti f see you have,”’ she returned. I ht her hands in mine, saying: “ Ettie, I know all.” “So you have told me before this eve BY) ‘But this is not the same; I now mean, all—every- thing.” “What am I to understand by that? ‘all—every- thing?’ Is it another lover?” “Oh, no—no, Ettie, not that—all that has hap- ned, all this terrible mistake! I am here, my dar- , to crave for pardon. set her teeth hard together ere she answered: ‘© You told me that you hated me. Itwasa bitter’ —bitter blow, but it has fallen; the worst is over, I believe I can endure it now.” I saw that her self-control was dese her; her hands were fluttering nervously. I drew her to me, as Iw. red: ‘‘Ettie, my darling, I know all,. I know that Bea- trice is Oliver’s wife, that you have been a martyr, and that Ihave been a fool! A note intended for Beatrice fell into my hands, and it told me all. Oh Ettie—Ettie, forgive me, and all the rest of my life i will strive to compensate for the wrong I have done you! Only say you forgive me.” She broke from me, cryiug passionately: “Oh, why did you come back? We had parted— why did you come back to renew the agony?’ ‘** Ettie, what do you mean?’’ I faltered. Again she set her teeth hard together ereshe went on. *‘ You know now that you have been a fool, but does that alter the terrible consequences of your eal: ?. L love you, Allan; but evenso I cannot orget that Ps el is dead, and that Oliver bare- ea , ly escaped ‘* What has that to do with me?” She looked at me commiserating’ seemed to say: “ wae. will eo ect innocence longer?’ Then she spoke rapidly: be pe remember Harry Bostwick’s ravings? They told me how Herbert came to his death. Oli- ver’s hat and cloak were upon after he had been struck down in the grounds without. Who was jea- lous of Oliver Waldon—who, but you?” “That will do, Ettie,” and I turned sadly away. “Tf you still doubt me we had better part. I now say as you have said: why did I come back to renew the agony of parting?” i cannot let you go!’’ she cried, vehe- mently; ‘‘and yet, it will better so,” she added. ““Go—go, Allan, quickly, so that I cannot call you ra , Leave me before I have time to say another word.’ The door opened suddenly just then, and in walked Aunt Phosbe, her large umbrella tucked under one arm, the other she was flourishing wildly about. “Oh!” she an. —a look that take hum, T’ve been a-calling on your neighbors—. | as on one of them gk we went to that in their stockings,’’ and at me, and bob her head till every corkscrew curl seemed to be performing some kind of a quick- step. Hitie seized the letter, opened it and began to read, while Aunt Phosbe and I watched her in si- lence. Her face grew rand paler as she ceeded; when she Ssdedatunet iol pened iin Ht ooeieds ks rung to h "and asI caught her in er, as r my arms, Ong ed close to me with a low, glad Read it, Allan,’ she whispered. I held her in close embrace as I read Harry Bost- wick’s confesson. I will not give it in full, but simply say that it told Leonard was the villain who ired him to do murder; that it was Leonard who had struck his brothér down in my grounds that night, and who had carried him off after I had div aro vee forgi ?’ Ettie wh ba Allan, can you forgive me?’ e whispered, as I finished its ee forgive me?” Tasked,as Ilooked down— down into the fathomless depths of her lovely eyes. ‘‘ You must answer me first. I have wronged you 80 by. doubting you.” 7 ha you more, my darling. You must answer me a ( “T must!” she cried, , gladly, asshe kissed me n “ Then I ! Twill n now to obey I Poxeta hi my heart with I believe we each shed a few tears, and then the reconciliation was ce ape *Lhope that’s beautiful enough.” We looked up as we heard these words, and we saw that Aunt Phoebe was contemplating us admir- ingly. : "hore was a suspicion of tears about her eyes, but she sought to hide it by blowing her nose most furi- porn | as she said: “Pye been a-taking of a cold in my head, and it makes my eyes kind of watery.” Then her voice changed to a husky whisper, as pointing to the letter in my hand, she asked, “That Bostwick did it—eh?” “Yes; said Ettie, sadly: ~ 4 “T thought so. You see, I heard him and Leonard a-talking together chat night of the supper-party. Poor—poor Herbert,” she sobbed, and then to hide her tears she had recourse to her pocket-handker- pecs oko Herbert,” sighed Etti “Yes, poor He ' e. bert Pag saw at the morgue, after all, ‘* But how about the name on his: linen?” I asked. “J will tell you. Herbert was wild—very wild, you “Tt was Her- of his | know. Years he ran away to sea. He returned just before our trouble commenced. I heard of his arrival from Oliver. They had become acquainted insome way. Oliver was reckless just about that time, and he and Herbert were. ‘hail fellows welb met.’ Well, they went to a gambling-hall one even- ing; they drank and they played, and soon they found themselves indebted for a amount. Oli- A new issue every week. For sale by all Newsdealers, price five cents each, | or sent, postage paid, on receipt of six cents. BEADLE AND ADAMS, Pub t 98 Willlam street, N.Y)"