Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (v. 1) (1879 12 02)
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eeeeeee ee ere eeee e@epaeweeevesee eo eee fi Rick | aN i a CRY / aia " Ch T Tr se $2.50 a year. Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., as Second Class Mail Matter. Copyrighted in 1879 by BEADLE AND ADAMS. December 2, 1879.. No. 3. VoL. L PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST, N. Y. PRICE, 5 CENTS TILLIE FELL FORWARD UPON THE NEW GRAVE, AND WEPT AS SHE HAD NEVER WEPT BEFORE, i : ’ The sails of the clusters of ships huddled below Canal street were ba The Girl Wife : or The Te an the Falca drenched, and shook dismally, and dripped steadily, in a dreary woes & ’ ’ hy until the shadows of night brought a calm, and hid thein from view. a tea get cee Then the lights—red and green—twinkled from the smoke-stacks of the BY BARTLEY T. CAMPBELL, aie and glared through the fog and rain from the high decks of Author of ‘Di : Bi ocean crafts. ; f Did He Love Her,” 9 Without Mercy,” ete. pts an ugly ted on me Ae at noLwiteeaa nae were: plent: open boats afloat, from Carrollton to the grim-looking, but. CHAPTER I. now deserted, Mint. ‘i ¥ MAN AND WIFE. n one of these boats sat a young man, dressed in deep black—his: ae wh a oie October night, a little raw and exceedingly disagree- | handsome face more than half pobanned by a reg ain slouched. wae that rain had been falling in a vexatious drizzle all day, and the | hat, which may have been worn partly for the purpose of concealment: wreath Oorie up from the east, a little before sunset, drove it in | and partly to guard his face from the storm. I see ra 0 Argo: spray from the great rolling river over the low- He pushed out from the foot of Natchez street boldly into the stream, ying Crescent City, and with far-reaching strokes, pulled down the river, heading his tiny’
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BREE Gores EW Weree aoe ‘vessel for the vest REN Kank. Dot aeons oeae ot | fw bank. Down pat the rows of steamers and stacks of freight eee high upon the levec; down past the fringe of gas-lights winking through the fog; down past Algiers, half-hid under the bank; nothing to be heard this time, save the rain on the river and the rattle of the oars. Finally the man en ge rowing and glanced to- ward the right bank. He was within fifty feet of the levee, and could see the shore distinctly. “That's it. I thought it could not be far from here,” he said, backing water with his right oar and pulling with the other. A black Bremen steamship was anchored between the skiff and the land, and seemed to raise its big bulk up out of the water to bar the frailer craft’s wa The young man looked at the huge monster, and then exclaiming—‘‘ Drat the Dutch rule! Tl have 20 below her,’ suffered the skiff to drop down ‘th the current. When he could see the light on her stern he plied the oars lustily, andin a few moments had landed. Leaping ashore, he dragged the skiff up on the sand, and, taking the oars upon his shoulders, stalked away toward a cabin that stood about a hundred yards from the river. It was a humble-looking abode, standing Ln the center of a huge cane-field, and on the night of ‘which we write looked very lonely indeed, isolated ‘as it was, and shabby, too. A light was gleaming from the window that looked “out upon the river, and when the young man saw this, he muttered: S Watching for me as usual, eh? Ah! I wish I hadn't this matter on hand. It’s an unpleasant job, but fortune has been fickle with aa and has ruined my constancy, and conscience, too en he reached the cabin, he looked in through ‘the window, and beheld a young girl seated by a bright fire of drift. She was a, beautiful girly there could be no mistake abont that. Eyes ra fe dewy, and blue as summer skies; skin w! moon- beams; and a lithe, graceful, athe figure, that looked dainty and pretty even & the faded alpaca which she wore. “ Pretty as ever,” ir the ici sa and then he ob of the door, “ Oh, Mark, dear, is that you?” She was upon her feet in an instant, her face beaming with a new ht, and her scarlet mouth all smiles and dimples. e put his arm around her in a familiar, lover- py way, and kissed her. ‘‘What have you been oing?’ ks Meera for you, darling.” “ That “* Yes, that’s all I’ve done since dark.” “You > Fe t have been better employed, then. Looking and waiting for a miserable creature like me is not very profitable work.” A shade of doubt and fear passed over the girl's face as she looked up into that of her companion. “Oh, Mark, what do you mean! What’s happened? You hten me!” “T almost frighten myself when I stop to think. Ym ruined d—that’sall! Ain’t it enough?” “Disgraced! How? Tell me.’’ She put up her arms about his neck, coaxi ngly. ‘**Well,.the long and short of it is is this: I have been betting against the bank in a Gravier street gambling-hell, off and on, for a week back. My winnings were large at first, but since Thursday liek has been against me, and I’ve lost a round ten thousand. You see, Tillie, I’ve ‘been going it, and now, on this blessed Saturday night, I’m five thou- sand worse than nothing.” “ But you can borrow—” ‘No, no,” waving his hand. worse—a good deal worse.”’ **Worse, Mark Blanchard! ‘committed a theft?” “Not exactly. I’m too much of a entleman for that, you aie, ‘but P’ve forged m ncle big “ray name for five thousand dollars. Don’t stare, : B to have the money, and I could not get it in other way.’ “the girl was deathly pale now, and trembled as if with ague as she said: “And, Mark, what—what do you propose to do?” ao Well, to tell you frankly, ’'ve made up my mind to try a ‘forei = climate for a while. I'm going to Mexico to-night.” “T’ve done that, and Surely you have not “To-night? Oh, Mark! you are not poing without me, are you? You won't leave me behind? I'd die without you, dearest, I know I would.’’ She wound oe arms tighter about him, and looked appeal- , caught both her hands in his, and looked an instant into her face, saying, at len th: “You must have sense now, Tillie. This is no time for sentiment, with only that river there be- tween Captain Cain ’and his hungry police and I, and x gloomy State prison in the background. I don’t fancy Baton Rouge much as a place of residence. Yhat I may escape that, Ive determined to go to Mexico this very night.” “Then I #9 with you to-night, Mark... We shall never be separated. Iam your wife, and noth- ing should part man and wife.” ‘Neither shall any thing part us, darling. But, remember this: I have to go at once; musi make ‘my way through the swamps in order to dodge the »poliee, a I'm afraid you would not add to my ehances of escape much. “And = are going to leave me, then? Oh, Mark, darling, [can not stand that. It willklme.” | He smoothed her bright hair back until it fell in a torrent of gold over her shoulders. “The alternative is not pleasant,” he said, at Rength, “and I would co any thing—make any sacri- eee woo ie cee er a ee po: y exile. g' THE GIRL WIFE. fice—to avoid it, save my liberty. I could not live ten years ina State darling; that would kill me. you see; and I know my litt é rosebud could not ive after that. Now, which do you think best—go to Mexico and have you join me there in a few weeks, or go up the river? Lookup now. Decide.” There was a moment’s silence; broken only by the sobs of the girl, and he continued: “Go on, arling; decide; time is precious.”’ She looked up now through her tears. “I don’t know what to say; what do you pro- se?’ “Just this. I will ~ off to-night, and when I reach the other side of the Rio Grande, I will send for you. After a while uncle Gabriel will forgive ae eee we will return, and I will acknowledge you oa iny wife. You see, the case is not so desperate a opr & | y alittle tact is displayed in the management of details ** And how long will all this take?’’ asked Tillie, still weeping bitterly. “A year or two. Come, we will not think the time long once we are united in Mexico. I can make a fortune in the mines, for that matter, while in while, and, at length, he e girl over to his view of the They talked a lon succeeded in winning t' matter. When he had done so he said, all at once, ‘‘ Where is Pettis and Sallie?” “In the next room,” answered Tillie. ‘‘I guess they have gone to bed. Do you want to see Pettis?” “No; there is no necessity for that. You can give the old couple this purse,’ handing a wallet; ‘it will pay them for your board, and insure your ood treatment until I send for you.” She took the purse mechani ,and said: ‘Oh, Mark Blanchard, you don’t erat can never guess how much I love you. I have left my poor old father lonely and wretched away be there in Tennessee because I loved you better than all the world, and because I trusted you. You will be true to me; you will wig: Agee devotion by truthfulness and loyalty; you not, no matter what may come, desert me. Will you, Mark?” A shadow over Mark Blanchard’s face. This appeal had touched him; yes, heartless, sordid as he was, that petition had reached his heart. He was evidently snipes. He could not carry out his bold, bad design, which was intended to crush out all the apne of that poor girl’s life. A vision of a & bappy ome on the Cumberland, in the heart of nm mines, came up out of the glowing fire; of a wretched old pair; of an empty chair. He was fast melti ng. He aad ered the girl closer to him, and kissed her passionately. ** Good-by, Tillie! -by!” The cabin door open:d and closed again; a dark form. went off in the darkness toward the misty river, aud Tillie was lying, sobbing out her > Sp CHAPTER IL. PLOTTING AND THE PLOTTERS. WHEN Mark Blanchard left the cabin, he betook himself at once to his boat again. After he had turned from the shore, and was, perhaps, a yard or two out in the stream, he paused a moment, as in thought; then he rowed onmgain a short distance and stopped, still undecided, * Per'! gf: I had better see ‘Silas, to-night,” he Somes or while Iam in this tender mood, my brie a may ge: me, if Ido not resort to some potent stimulant. Tl go.” He spoke the last words boldly and in a loud voice; so loud in fact, that he was startled himself. What if some person had overheard? But there was little to fear from that; the rain was beatin nd even tattoo wu te the river, and nothing coul seen but the distant lights of the vi city. The prow of the boat was turned quartering down the SenSarth and the young man bent steadily to the oar. He was perfectly soaked with the falling rain when he stepped re, at last, and looked around. ** Ah, to be sure! there’s the old Port Market, and there, right across in that old ruin, my friend and igs eee resides. A nice place for a man’s friend ve, and a nice place for a nice young man like reg Blanchard ie be prowling around after mid- n ” the time he was speaking he was walking away from the river, leaving the rickety old Port Market. black as a huge beetle, with its clumsy outstretehed wings and rows of legs, to his left. Opposite the market. a row of tall, grim-looking houses stood. From the first floor of one of these a ray of light struggled out upon the pavements. Blanchard stopped in front of this house and looked in at the open doorway. <A screen, on which was painted a ship in full sail, prevented him from catching a sight of the bar-rcom, but he could hear the sound of a great many voices, and occasionall the clink of glasses and snatches of songs in Peencie | # and Spase and he knew the tap-room was full of maudlin sai iors, representing almost every nation- a ‘in the universe. ing his fingers in his mouth, he gave three long, sharp whistles. e sound had scarce died away when the streen rae pushed aside, and a large, muscular man arpped briskly forward, He was dressed in a suit ck, fashionably cut and well-fitting, his shirt ccilae turning low down upon his neck, and a large neckerchief tied jauntily, but loosely, an inch or two below the upper button. His shirt bosom was a mass of ruffles, and a small emerald pin gleamed amid the snowy meshes. “Hello, my boy!’’ he exclaimed, as soon as his eyes rested upon Blanchard. ‘ What’ s the row?” “T want to see you, Silas, about that little affair across the river.” “The d—I Te do. Well, speak out. I’m ee ready to talk business, or help a friend in a scrape or out of one,”’ “T don’t like to tell you every thing here,’’ said Mark, glancing uneasily around. ‘‘Can’t we go up- stairs? “Of course we can. Follow me.’ The man who was called Silas now stepped to a dingy looking hall- door, and we out a night-key opened it. “Rather in there,” remarked Blanchard, hesitating to follow his companion. “Oh, you needn’t be afraid. Here ie me your hand. Now grip the baluster and “he d to it all the wa Darehard obeyed, and was soon mounting the creaking stairs. They stopped at the third landing and ie their way alon Aig Pat | y hall. Presently t paused before a door, through the phere of whi ch a ray of light penetrated into the darkness. Silas rapped on the door and called out: “Mangy! Mangy!” Presently the door was softly pened, and the two men walked into a brilliantly ve 4 room, Dainti- ly-flowered carpets, soft-cushioned sofas and tall ilded mirrors, ooked brighter and better after that ram through the dark, wet night and through the bare alls of that crazy ‘old bui ding. y Jove! Silas, you have things fixed nicely up here,” said Mark, as soon as he had crossed the threshold. “Why, you don’t think I'd live any way else do you—leastwise, as long as Mangy stays here?” Blanchard now, for the first time, was aware of the presence in the room of a tall, graceful girl. She was seated on a sofa beside the door when his eyes fell upon her, her hands folded idly upon her lap, and her dark luminous eyes were looking up into his, with a questioning gaze. Her complexion was of the brownish-olive, and from her low forehead drifts of purplish-black hair were rolled back into a coil, that looked very much like an ebon crown. Her shapely form was robed in the finest cash- mere, and a cluster of gems held the ends of a collar on nig lace, where her delicately rounded throat en Pat colored ey, as she met Mark’s gaze, and epee her ei shy! : ou needn’t blush, Man: DEY ” said Silas, bluntly. “ Mister Blanchard is a married man, or, leastwise, Se going to be—which, darling, is all the same, you Ow. “This lady is not Mrs. Norman then?” asked Blanchard. ** Well, I rather think not, seeing she ain’t Missus at all. That's my dau hter, Mark; and, Mangy, this Ps my old friend The young ng girl bowed | Pa recognition of the intro- duction Mark could not help noting how graceful fa was “ As the captain here has some private business a me, ” continued Silas, ‘you may go to bed, The girl Cheats and bidding the two men good: night, left them. Splendid girl,’’ exclaimed Silas. SE ala waits up for me. ould never go to bed if I would not come up here and tell her todo so. Beautiful as an angel, and docile as a lamb. Don’t often meet such girl Ss. "captain, in New Orleans.” » o, and rarely anywhere else,” answered Mark; “but I never knew you had a daughter, Norman. Where has the girl been kept?”’. “Well, up at Saint Genevieve. I’ve had her schooled up there, but I brought her home for a week or two, and I intend to send her over to Biloxi for the summer. aoe See, Cap, this is not the kind of a place for a goo: rl, and "would not have her find out how oe mean her father is for the world—no, siree! not for the world.” — There was a moment's silence. At length Mark said, rubbing his hands ecg as he spoke: “Well, Silas, I have en your advice so far; I have seen Tillie to-ni gbt, and Te hee trumped-up story served the purpose well, To tell the whole truth, though, I nearly broke down a couple of times, I'm so tender-hearted, and hate scenes so.” Silas Norman smiled derisively as he listened, and when Mark had finished, answered: “Yes, you’re very tender-hearted—all young *uns are; but, when you ’ave seen as much of the world’s cunning deceit as Z have, you'll be as tired of chicken-hearted people as I am.” “You can’t blame a fellow for feeling badly at parting with his lawful wedded wife for the last time—can you?” “Well, no,” answered Silas; ‘‘it’s a tough matter Til confess; but, you see there is a cool hundred peo itm dollars and Miss Blauche Davenant on the pposite side of thescale. Nothing like gold, to out- gh love and nonsense. But, tell me, what did you aay to-night?’ ‘‘T told her,” Mark replied, ‘that I had forged uncle Gabriel’s name for a large amount; that rs was forced to leave the city; that I had chosen Mexico for my future residence, and that, in a fortni oe I would send a man after her, and that we shoul reunited again west of the Rio Grande.” ‘* Did you tell her who the man would be?” “No. You know you was not sure Turner would do the business, and I thought it would be better not to say anything about it. It leaves us free to make other arrangements.”’ “Very cute,” and Norman winked slightly at his companion. “Ths a pity 3 your talents have not been exercised more fully. Deception seems t0 come quite natural to you. “Rather a auttious compliment, Norman, but, ¢ teats you’re right. However, when I get rid of
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a RR eS Tillie, and find myself master of old Davenant’s ducats and old Dayenant’s daughter, I'll join church and lead a model life.” _ Repent, eh?” Yes; do works meet for repentance, at least. But, have you spoke to Turner yet?” ‘ Not ve ; he’s a little flush now, made a winning at the “Polka” last night, and Turner’s one of those aa of fellows it don’t do to arrange with when he’s : High priced when flush, I suppose?” ,_ No, not that. Now, you wouldn't believe it, but it’s a fact, he gets pious, or honorable as he calls it, whenever his pocketbook is heavy.” yi But, when he’s short of funds?” Well, then, he is ready for anything. Ah, Blanchard! poverty is the worst of vices. You'll find ¢hat out if you live long enough.” It strikes me,” said Mark, after a pause, ‘that irner is not the right kind of a man for this job.” mek not?” Well, in the first place, this is one of those u- jobs that no man with a conscience, or too fine a Sense of honor, can undertake. And. if Turner Should betray us, I would have to leave New Orleans for certain, and no mistake.” it—quite right. But I know my man. I'll os on his word if he gives it once; and, besides, I ave got claims upon him that make him yay slave, and he is so genteel, and looks so honest! Any een would believe Turner on his shape. Nothing 6 a polished exterior, my boy; you know that.” lanchard assented, and then said: ‘‘ Norman, I'll gerne . thousand dollars if you manage this thing \ ee ape two men clutched hands, and Norman simply “ Good!” ‘When can J see you again, Silas?” “Well, say the night after to-morrow night. I'll meet sk vd the aor ieh A E - tt; ‘‘Good-night,”’ answered Norman. Blanchard stepped out into the dark hall, and stood in the doorway of the room in which they had sat until the visitor groped his way to the head ps RNY stairs; then, turning on his heel, he mut- “What a precious scoundrel you are, Mr. Mark hard, juire—what a precious scoundrel!” The last words were spoken slowly and aloud, and then Silas Norman threw himself wv: length, and began to think—to t that had such a terror for him. CHAPTER III. A PAGE FROM THE PAST, On the following morning Mark Blanchard arose quite early, and dressed very care . He was an orphan, and resided with his uncle Gabriel Blanchard, at the latter's splendid residence, on Charles street, almost a mile west of Tivoli Circle, where the orange and magnolia blend their fruits and blossoms from June to January, in beautiful profusion, and where the air is ee with delicious scents, Mark was fortunate in being the favorite of a bachelor uncle, who was as rich as he was irritable and who had been used so long to having undis uted Sway over the fortunes of his nephew. that he at longi regarded mio prob mines an the same light any other piece of human Wane his catate, sj ane , OL course, was very galling to a young man of Pec ty a Aiea disposition, but a a nae with 1 verty, an ark was uxuri- ous in his tastes fo ever think of giving up his bril- liant expectations. 1a was his uncle Gabriel who had taken him from , mother’s dying arms; it was his uncle Gabriel Who had paid for his tuition at. Dartmouth, and it mee his uncle Gabriel’s plan and hope that he should ed the youngest child of his old friend, Richard ‘Eaeank nche was young, beautiful and an_ heiress. Ganrial Blanchard would have doted upon a woman cede he apabh, ane it as but natural he con- e taste of his n V i same channel ephew would run in the ,Volonel Davenant resided, during the summer, on his plantation on the Bayou La Wotan but the th r months were spent at his city residence, in C) ae exclusive pat of that very exclusive nels borhood, of whic Prytania street is the center. ee Re night of the day of which we write, Pete e Davenant was to give his first party of the be mie, It was to be a select affair; only the cream st Creole city was to be honored with invitations, S very few regrets were to be expected. Joy Dony knew that Mark Blanchard had secured eiress, and those who were most intimate even nm a sofa at full nk of the past, Sw that the wedding would take : place on the fang Christmas ives therefore, the beaux €s and compliments to other shrines Men oes felt, when they looked upon the stylish just ies he was beyond the reach of speculation, Solemnized,* as if the marriage rites had been Now, it might felt proud On this morn et Mark Blanchard vine of ate to dissemble. In the glitter and : he ho of his d at he would be equal to the eserted wife, ry much doubted. He admired Pecasion he ve lanche, but he loved, as devotedly as he was cana , the r confiding chi d whom he had won’ but sj Had Six months before. haw Not his uncle set his heart on this new alliance, * - —_— . | . na , THE yGIRG; Wik had never openly disobeyed his uncle, and_ his secret eee were it to become known, he felt sure would disinherit him, : Work for his living, with his dainty white hands, he could not. He could gamble, he could lie, he could deceive; but labor was a step nearer social degradation than he cared to take; and_ so his marriage vows were forgotten, and the wife of a few months was worse than widowed. With the glad October sunshine streaming in a yellow flood about him, through the ee window. and the carols of the mocking-birds in ears, and all around him luxury and splendor, he felt a pang of regret for Tillie. “Poor Tillie,” he muttered; ‘‘I will see to it that you shall not suffer for the comforts of life. You shall share the price of the sacrifice, and I know Ill not be wholly free from the pain. Ido wonder if she'll suffer much? Norman’s pier of having me killed off is a capital idea; it will turn her thoughts in a new direction when she has nothing but the grave and eternity to look to.” There was a shuffling, shambling tread on the soft-carpeted stairs; then the door was. softly opened, and a bright mulatto girl put her head int at Cxe 4 “Mas’r Mark, the gub’nor is waitin’ breakfast. I’se sent up for you, sah.” “Tell the governor I’ll be down in a jiffy, Mattie.” “Ina what, sah?” . “Confound you, in a jiffy—in a moment, Don’t you understand?”’ “Yes, sah, ina aeye May I, please Mas’r Mark, may I help you wid it?” ‘“Help me with what? Are you taking” leave of your senses?”’ “No, sah. It’o’t I might give some sistance down- sta’rs wid dat t’ing.’ nfound it; what are you talking se thing? a 9 “De jibby. I's migh’ strong, Mas’r Mark.” The young man smiled, and said: “I guess TH manage it myself, Mattie. You can a The woolly-head disa peared, and Mark Blanchard sighed as he said: ‘‘I don’t know what’s the reason everybody likes me, even to that poor orant nigger. lL used to feel proud of this, but now I am so unworthy of love and kindness, that every attention appears to wound rather than please me.” Ye looked into the mirror on the ivory mantle- iece, cate a few strokes to his silken mustache, and en whistling an aria from ‘‘ Martha,” went down to the elegant breakfast-room where his uncle awaited him. Gabriel Blanchard was a gentleman of sixty-five, with stylish side-whiskers of a sheeny, silvery hue, and large, kindly blue eyes. His mouth, too, was e, and his chin was broad and massive, evi- dencing the strength of will which was his chief characteristic. - “Sorry to keep you waiting, uncle. I hope the old gentleman’s appetite is not impaired, however,” said Mark, as he approached the table, at which his uncle was already seated. Gabriel looked up. He did not smile, but after a pause, answered: : ‘*“No, thanks to a vigorous constitution, and the good care I had the sense to bestow upon it, my appetite is not easily destroyed. Had I indulged in as late hours as my nephew does, I, doubtless, would not have this to say at sixty-five.” The young man bit his lips, and answered hesitat- ingly: ‘I had business to transact away down in the First District last night, and that accounts for my absence to such a late hour,” “T am not Angry Mark,” said Gabriel, evidentl not pleased at the apology, and the manner of his protege; but, a young man contemplating matri- mony, should train himself to_early hours. Fast er Bag are by no means desirable husbands, and s Davenant is very particular in this re- elie You are very fortunate in securing such a wife, f “T shall endeavor to make her happy; that’sall I can do, uncle,” replied the younger man, seating himself at the’ breakfast table. ““T am glad to hear you say so. It shows a proper spirit, and I know you can make her happy, too. 0 you know, Mark, had you chosen any other girl in Louisiana, your income would have been cu ed, at least, five thousand a year? But, as you have displayed such excellent taste, and done honor to the judgment of the Blanchards, I have made up my mind to settle upon a) asnug sum. What do you say to one hundred thousand and the Plaecquemine plantation?” “Oh, my dear uncle!’ exclaimed Mark, ‘you really take away my breath. I am not deserving of this—upon my word, I—” ; “There, there, now, I have said it, and it shall be so. The young man’s face glowed with a new light and hé was about to our forth a fresh stream o: thanks, when Gabriel motioned him to remain silent, saying, in a low voice, and with an uneasy glance around the room: ee “But, there is a reservation in favor of another peqeon, or persons, and it is of this I wish now to speak to you.” ; again the old man glanced around, as if fearful of being overheard, and then added: j “Tet’s go to the library; I can not tell you here.” They arose, and passi ae a long corridor, entered a sumptuously ed apartment. The furniture was of ebony, and the walls were lined with heavily carved book-cases, filled with volumes in fine calf and expensive morocco. The old man pointed his nephew to a seat, and sinking into one himself, threw his head back and looked up at the ceiling for a moment or two, " a cas = ae oe At length he said: “T am not, or, at least, Iwas not always, a crusty old fellow, such as most people believe me to be. | have a heart somewhere which all these years of mohey-making has not made callous, and once—ib appears now @ ad many years ago—I gave all the wealth of love that heart contained to a poor orphan girlin Virginia. She did not return my passion, but gave herself to another. yay “This, of course, maddened me; and Sint gponths after she became his wife, I made her a,witéw.” Mark Blanchard started and looked frightened. Gabriel, noticing this, continued: “But, I did not murder him; we met as equals; the chances were rather against me, but I canie out victor. My bullet penetrated his left side, and while he lay dying in the arms of his friends, I fled from Roanoke to the West Indies.” “And the widow?” put in Mark. “Poor Sybil; I never had tue heart to inquire whether she lived or died.” There were tears in Gabriel Blanchard’s eyes as he continued: ‘‘ That’s twenty year's ago, and, as I have said, it appears quite forty of them. I have kept my secr Blanche did remember, but it was only faintly, for she was only a child of eight then, and the memory was only like the rhythm ofa half-forgotten poem— sweet and dreamy, like Italy itself. _ “Yes, [think Lremember Major Cecil,” she said, smiling, “though I’ve always thought of him as Captain Cecil.” \ : * Only a captain. when we were companions abro years, followed that trip.” They went off together, she leaning upon his arm ; wandering through the festive throng, she happy, and he very proud. A® they passed out of one of the open windows, through the frostwork of the lace, and into the gar- den, Major Cecil said, earnestly: “Where has my little friend spent all those years since last we met? At school. or in the nursery?” “‘T hope I’ve outgrown the last, and have a year or two, at least, between me and the first,”’ replied Blanche, banteringly. ‘‘You must know, major, heey woman now—a responsible, full-grown per- son There was something sad in his voice as he said: ie: oo Mi > * * replied Cecil; ‘‘but promotion, as well as Sas
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_* 4 ** Ah! true; it’s a great many years; I had almost forgotten that.” After a pause, he added: ‘‘ Have you thought— ever, I mean—of me in all this time?”’ “Of course, major, agreatdeal. I used to tellthe girls at school about my soldier lover. You must pardon me for this, but, you know, lover is not a very meaning word as school-girls understand it.” “Anis J,” said Ceécil, almost passionately, “have thoughi*fnore about my little tourist than I would like to tell, even to herself.”’ : This sounde ! very much like love-making, Blanche thought; and remembering her promise to become Mark Blanchard’s wife, she trembled with a new fear. Whatif she did not love Mark? She did not know, for a certainty, that she did, and now she felt, for the first time since her betrothal, how very easy it would be to love some one else! Her courtship had capeat sri tte little romance in it; it was wholly unlike what she had imagined courtships to be, and was not very unlike a business contract void of any thing like ennobling sentiment. Yet still she was a it wife; and, understanding her duty, she 8 1 en on “Major Cecil, we had better go in, I think, or I will be false to my position of hostess.’ “T hadn’t thought of that,” he replied. ‘ Yes, Mark came let’s go.” As they entered the ee ee forward, and said rather pettishly: ‘I’ve been look- ing for you, Blanche, and I couldn't think where you one.” . ‘We were only in the garden,’’ answered Blanche. “This is Major Cecil, Mark-<an old friend of the family.” ng. During Cecil paid marked attention to ‘the little hostess, but left early, promising to call in a day or two at furthest. “‘T don’t like that man,” said Mark, as soon as the major was gone. xs ?”’ asked Blanche, looking up, surprised. “* He is an old and valued friend of the family.” “Tush! Ihate old friends! There is always de- ceit and mischief in them.” He was scowling now, and Blanche thought him—for the first time in her life—exceedingly repulsive. CHAPTER V. FATHER AND DAUGHTER. Arter the departure of Mark Blanchard from Silas Norman’s room, on the night) on which our story opens, the girl who answered to the name of Mangy returned to the apartment which she had left, on Mark’s entrance. She walked directly to the sofa on which her father lay, and, folding her arms across her breast, looked sternly down upon him, “Well, Mangy! what’s up now?”’ he said, rising to a sitting posture. She didn’t answer at once, but when she did speak, it was bitterly, and her words were: “Silas Norman, can it be possible you will lend » yourself to the aid of a villain, such as that fellow - scoundrel as Mark Blanchard! wr who has just left here?” “Why, Mangy, what wre you talking about? That fellow, as you call him, isa gentleman. He’s worth his cool on, if he is worth a cent.” rae Atal “Were he as rich as Croesus, he would be nothing but a low, sneaking, contem tible villain.” “That’s rough language, Miss Magdalean Norman, to one of your father’s best friends,” replied the man, looking carelessly up at her. * No, Silas Norman; bad as you are—bad as we both are—we are not on a level with that fellow. We need money, but not his—we are not so low as that The’ man’s face was wing scarlet as he an- swered: “It is an ugly fob, Mangy, but, you know we can’t be always particular. For that matter, the fellow can’t help himself very well. His precious old uncle is forcing him to do it.” “Forcing him to leave his poor wife—an unfortu- mate wretch, whose only crime is loving such a What do you think will become of this poor woman when she wakes up in a foreign land to the realization of her true /po- sition—the deserted wife of a mean, low creature, who has nee the heart pod ng? etrate : at gy = angy, you e a stage-player, bu nytt oak Veneers a care that you do not act. You taust not attempt to dictate to me.” He said this sternly, and looked hard at her. She didn’t tremble, however, nor shrink, but glared back at him, saying: “*T have made up my mind what to do.” “* And what is that?” “You'll see.” “TJ will—will 1?” “Yes, you will.” He closed one of his eyes, and lifting the index finger of his right hand, he said, slowly, as if meas- eng the importance of every word: “Now, my lady, I’m getting tired of this hifalutin business, andI want you to understand this distinct- ly, that, if you interfere in this affair, in op’ - rey to NA plans, 'll kill you! Do you understan “Yes, ITunderstand; but, I don’t care if you kill ine now.”’ “You don’t, eh?” i “No, I don’t! What, in Heaven’s name, have I to live for? The child of, God knows whom; the asso- ciate of gamblers and thieves; with just enough education to understand the social depths that I have reached; my days spent in idleness, my nights in remorse; with such an existence, I don’t think it would be hard to part, at any time.” THE GIRL WIFE. her by the arm tightly, tohis feet, and catchi stared into her eyes as if he would read what la, beyond their beauty. Although he said: ‘“ What do you mean by this bravado?” **T mean to find out, from some source, where this unfortunate wife is, and, having done this, Pll tell her everything about this POPES P . The man was startled. In all his experience, he had never been openly defied by her before. He knew she had a will that was hard to defeat, but he now determined to break that imperious will at whatever cost. ‘‘ Tf you do this—if you make even an attempt to do this, I'll strangle you!” z His fingers were working as if eager to bu selves in her throat, but, Magdalean Norman not, as she dog; edly replied: “T don’t care!” “Don’t say that again!” heavily now. “T will!” “Don’t do it, Isay!”’ ‘Why don’t you kill me?” “Have a care, or I may.” “T wish you would.” “VYoudo? Then I'll kill you, or I'll takethe stub- bornness out of you.” He clutched her by the throat, frantic with rage. “Do you give in?’ She could not speak, . Her breath only came faint- ly; his fingers were sinking eo and deeper into her soft, round throat, but she had power to shake her head negatively, and she did so. “Curse you. I'll conquer you,” he hissed, and them- ched He was breathing then pressed his fingers tighter. Her form began to. stiffen; her ling fell upon his arm, and, letting go his hold upon her, she sunk in a heap to the floor. ““My God! I’ve killed her!” he exclaimed, terrified. ‘“ What is to become of me?”’ _ It don’t make much difference what becomes of a brute like you,”’ said a voice close at his side, and, lifting his eyes, he stood face to face with a young man, fashionably, if not neatly, attired, who anes to sparkle with flashy clothing and cheap ewelry. “Ts that E fae Turner?” asked Silas, excitedly. “‘T should say it was, and just in time to make a rum old witness for the Commonwealth, Oh, won’t you shave a good time before Martamat, in the morn- ? Bilas dro on his knees and stared into Man- gy’s face. ere was a flush in it yet, and her heart was still béati ‘“She’s not dead!” exclaimed Silas, exultantly. ‘*She’s not dead!” “ But senor, eh?’ put in Turner, lifting her head upon his knee, and smoothing, with a gentle touch, her dark hair back from her forehead. “What did you do this for, Norman?” “Well, she wouldn’t mind me, and threatened to blow upon a friend of mine,” ““Was that all?” ** All—was it not enough?”’ “Well, look here, my pious friend,” said Turner, determinedly; “it’s well for you that gal ain’t dead, or skin me if I would’t make daylight shine through ou.”’ As he spoke he touched significantly the andle of a revolver that peeped out of the breast pocket of his coat, and ground his teeth together as if he would make powder of them. “Are you crazy, too?’ ejaculated Norman. ‘Can not a father correct his own child?” ** Bosh |” “What do you mean by that?” “Well, now, look here, old Missouri; you can’t come the parental dodge on me. I’m se-ve-ral years too aged for that.” Silas quailed at the mention of Missouri, and said, very meekly: ‘There, er, we won’t quarrel. Why should you want to interfere with me?” ; “Tdon’t. ButI love that gal there—that is if I know the meaning of the word—and I am going to stand by her.” ‘“* Oh, Brad Turner! Save me! save me!” cried Mangy, opening her eyes and recognizing the face above her. ’ “Yes, Magdalean; I'll stand by you,” replied er, “ You'll forgive me, Mangy; I was crazy—I’m so sorry—I’ll be better to you. Tll—” “You won’t get a chance,” put inTurner. ‘‘ Mag- dalean Norman is under my care now, seeing as she asked me to save her, and I’m going to do it.” Silas Norman’s face grew livid, and he clenched his fist and advanced threateningly. “Don’t have me to shed blood, Silas ” said Turner, utting his hand again on the revolver. ‘Come, angy, I'll get you a better—at least a kinder home than this.” ‘ The girl arose and clung to Turner’s arm, Not- withstanding her defiant conduct, she was afraid of the man whom she had learned to call father, al- though she had always entertained great doubts as to this relationship. ** Let’s go, Brad! Oh, do let us go.” er said: ‘‘ Silas, when you learn to treat the gal better I’ll bring her back.” ““Mangy, are you going to leave your father in this way?” F eaded Norman. } ; She did not reply, only clung closer to Turner, and thus they passed out of the open door into the dark hall, down the creaking stairs, and out into the in- clement night. CHAPTER VI. FIGHTING THE TIGER. Sr. CHartzs street was glowing with lights; the He eyed her an instant in silence; then he arose two theaters were brilliant with gas jets; at the * z. Sse eee corner of Commercial Place a curious crowd. were bien ag & man with a huge telescope leveled at Mars; the flags of all nations, and many unknown countries, fluttered in front of the museum; here and there poor mendicant Italian children sung out discordant songs, accompanying themselves on h and yiolin. Above all could be heard the round, full voice of a man calling out, in stentorian accents “ Keno!” The voice came from the third story of that notorious gambling-hell which, during the reign of licensed gambling, was designated as the ‘“‘ Polka.” All the windows were out, for, notwithstanding the season, the night was very warm. The clock in the Presbyterian church, in Lafay- ette Square was pointing to eleven, when Mark Blanchard leaped out of a street car, on Carondelet street and hurrying along Perdido, turned down St. Charles street. As he approached the ‘‘ Polka,” he glanced around as if to see if any of his respectable friends were in sight. Satisfying himself that he was unobserved, eB back the swinging green-baize door, and entered. On either side of the long room tables were ranged, around which were collected knots of men, some bett a picayune on “ chuck-a-luck,”’ and others nw or a shining eagle or crisp greenback on ndo.’ Mark did not stop here; but pushing his way through the throng, he ascended to the second floor, where a bland, oily gentleman named Cypher was dealing faro. $6 Sea a) did you see Norman to-night?” whisper- ed Mark. ‘No; but he left this note for you.” . Mark took the note offered him. It was enveloped in a buff piece of paper. On opening it he found The following, scribbled in an unsteady hand: ‘Will meet you at midnight in front of the Jack- son Statue, in Jackson Square, “Faithfully, Norman,”’ “He did not say why he could not meet me here did he?” asked Mark, after reading. E “ yt but I su ead he sate ue Lea guess so,”” Mark replied, and then turning, he walked down the stairs bud into the street. ae At the Custom-House he took a street car, just starting for the Barracks. e gt was very dark, and the vehicle had reached the French Market before he discovered that he had passed the place of rendezvous. Leaping from the car he began to walk briskly to- ward the square, when, all at once, he thought he oe footsteps behind ‘him which seemed to be dog- ging him. He paused and looked behind him. Nothing was to be seen, however, but the shipping on the one hand, and the low, dingy old market on the other, On he went again; once more he thought he de- tected footsteps behind him. ' This time he stepped into the dark doorway of a tall house, and waited. He had just done so, when a dark-hooded woman came creeping along, as if she was searching for somebody. Mark could not see her face, but he felt sure, judg- ing from her awkward gait and stooped shoulders, that she was an old woman.”’ If she saw him she gave ho sign, but hurried on, turning, at length, into a dark alleyway, a short dis- tance ahead. “Tf she is wate me,” said Mark, to himself, “T have thrown her off the scent.” - In a few moments more he had entered the Square from the levee, avd found Silas Norman seated on a rustic seat immediately in front of the great bronze nents that you, Blanchard?” asked Silas at you, Blancha: e ering u through the darkness. J Sorry bread “Yes, of course; but what, in the name of old Jackson, brought you here? Why did you not meet me at the Polka?” “Well, it’s a long story,” answered Silas. “I have had a devil of a time with Turner, since, and Man a an me, and I’m afraid these two mean chief. “I’m afraid you’ve made a great bungle of this matter,” said Mark, yan “What's the nature of this trouble? I trust you have had sense enough not to let Turner into our secrets until you had first sat- isfied yourself of his loyalty?” ‘*Well, now, Mister Blanchard, you need not at- tempt the bluif game with such a slim hand,” replied Silas, rising. ‘“I don’t relish sauce, sir. I would have you remember that, too!” ““T did not give you any sauce,”’ answered Mark, humbly. ‘I only asked you a simple question in a civil ay, : “Well, then, I'll answer you civilly,” returned Norman. ‘They suspect, but they don’t know noth- in “lah! & And our plans are sure?’ asked Mark, eagerly. “ As fate.” “Good. Have away?” “ ” “ When?” “To-night, if you wish.” “Well, then, let’s go at once. Ifeel very uneas you found a man to take Lillie -while she is here. I think the sooner she is taken o the better. To tell you the truth, Silas, I’m fright- ened lest this thing should leak out.” — “T guess there’s no danger; but come, Pedro may escape us.”’ ‘*Who is Pedro?” . ‘‘ The young man I spoke of,” “He is a Spaniard, is he not?” said Mark, as he tah his companion. es,” gee { ¥* wT i...
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————- ** Oan he be trusted, do you think?”’ “Unto death. You need not fear Pedro Mento.”’ The worthies left the square by the gate in front of the Cathedral of St. Louis, and, as they did so, a dark figure glided from behind the statue and disap- peared in the direction of the market-place. It was just one’ o’clock when Silas Norman and Maik Blanchard stopped in fromt of a low, dingy, one-story dwelling on Spain street. It was one of those structures which must have been erected in the previous century, for the one large front-window had diamond-shaped panes, and the sloping roof of tiles was slimy with'c inging moss. Norman stepped briskly up to the door, and’ rap- ped twice; then, after a moment’s pause, called out: “Pedro Mento! I say, Pedro?” : The window swung back, and a frowzy-looking head was pushed into the street. “Ts that you, Silas?” “Yes,” replied Norman. zr Te head disa’ peared in a twinklimg, and the next ifistant the door was opéned, and the two men entered. The apartment in which Mark found himself, was scantily furnished, but, whatever articles it did con- tain, were antique and of Spanish manufacture. A heavy bronze chandelier stood on a black table in the center of the room, and shed a feeble light ‘up- on the trio as they seated themselves around the board. “This, Pedro, is the gentleman who wishes to em- loy you. He has come here to give you instrue- ions as to your mission,” said Norman, by way of introduction. **T’m glad to meet ntti senor,” said Pedro, ris- ing and extending his yellow hand familiarly to Mark. | The latter did not take the proffered hand, but simply said: ‘Pedro, if you do this job nicely, you shall have a thousand dollars... That’s worth work- ing for. a Yos, better than smuggling at the Passes. When do you want me to sail?” “The gentleman thinks you had better start at once—say to-morrow evening,” replied Norman, speaking as if the query had been propounded to im. “Yes, I think you can start to-morrow. I origi- nally stipulated a fortnight between taking my leave and sending for her, but things have been falling out so, that the sooner we get her out of Louisiana the safer for all concerned,” chimed in Mark. Pedro quite agreed with him. “And you_had better fix member, look and act like a man. “Trust Pedro Mento for that,” replied the § - ard. ‘“ But, now, for orders: what am I to do?’ “Take this letter,” and heré Mark took a letter from the breast-pocket of his coat and gave it to Pedro, “and give it to Tillie, whom you will find in the third house east of Algiers, ‘and directly in front of that great Bremen steamship, a little back from the river, in the canefield.”’ “Yes,” Pedro said, and nodded his head. + You are to tell her that you left me at Galveston, and that I will wait for you at Vera Cruz. This let- ter will explain the rest.” * And when I reach Vera Cruz, what am I to do then?”’ asked Pedro. “You are to secure for her comfortable quar- ters,” replied Mark, ‘‘and then inform her that I have been killed in a duel.” ‘Will she believe me?” “Of course she will,” said Norman. “If she doubts, you can have a tombstone put up in the aveyard of San Jacinto, sacred to the memory of k Blanchard.” ** 4 capital idea!” exclaimed Mark; “do that by all means.” All three smiled approvingly, and the plot satis- fied the plotters. _ “Have you a wife, Pedro?” asked Mark, after a pause. ourself up; and, re- exican,’’ added Nor- ” “Who keeps house for you?” “Mamma Guy, an old woman, who mends nets for a living. I’m only a lodger.” “ Where is she now?”’ ** Asleep.” - ees a $a bug. é “Well, eee Pedro, I expect you to start to-mor- row evening; and here is your traveling expenses.”’ Mark counted out two hun ae which Pedro rolled up into a wad and pocketed with some Satisfaction. ny Rig oe “Tf ever you want to write to me, said Mark, “direct your letters to our friend Silas, here. : “ All right,”’ returned Pedro. . The three men then arose, and, after bidding the Spaniard adieu, Norman and Mark a4 pe into the night, and bent their steps toward Canal street. CHAPTER VIL. THE COUNTERPLOT. We will now follow the dark figure which we have seen escape from Jackson Square. As it passes in front of the gas lamp there we catch a spee of a shriveled face, that might have been al- abaster in its youth, but certainly more resembles parchment now; it was the face of a woman of sixty —a crafty, cunning face, but not unkind or repulsive by any means. : : Despite her. years she walked rapidly and soon reached a tall, fine-looking dwelling on Dauphin street, Without piri to rap, she pushed open the door and ascended to the second floor. Here she tap- s “ee THE GIRL WIFE, ped softly at a door, from under which a strong ray of light erept into the darkness of the corridor. The door was instantly unlocked from the inside, and Mangy stood on the threshold. **Come in, Martha, good soul, come in!’’ were her first words, as Soon as she recognized her visitor. “Ts that Martha?’ cried a voice from the inside, which clearly was that of Bradley Turner. ‘Yes, my child; it’s old Martha,” replied the old woman, hobbling into the room. She looked around at the comfortable crimson carpet; at the soft, luxurious chairs and sofa; at the heavily-framed pictures on the wall, and then over eee where he sat shuffling a pack of cards at a table. “Hum, hum, but you’re comfortable here, Miss been VE Nicer is it sitting here than tramping over this big city in the fog and night air,” she remarked, = — dropped into a chair and threw off her big ood. “Yes,” replied Maney, coming forward, and lay- ing her hand on Martha’s shoulder, “‘ we are very comfortable, and I know you are very tired.” ~~ ‘* Yes, indeed! and that Iam; and all for nothing, or next to nothing.” “You don’t mean to say that you’ve been gali- vanting on the scent all night, and have found noth- ing at the end of the trail—does you?” asked Tur- aa dropping the cards and looking into Martha’s ace. “Well, did you ever!’’ exclaimed the old woman. ‘“‘ There’s my thanks for helping you two to do a no- ble action. Well, did you ever!” é “ Now, just listen to that Bat Abe old woman. Whose’ noble action is it, I'd like to know? Is it mine? I guess not!’’ and having said this, in an in: jured tone, and with a show of indignation, Turner threw himself back on his chair and fell to a con- templation of the ceiling. ‘There, there now; don’t quarrel over who is re- sponsible for a good Christian act,’ said Mangy, soothin ly “Tm sure you both have Bin Pag be roud oF he aid you have given me in my Weak en- deavor to save a poor, wronged wife from despair, and perhaps death.” - ; “ But he is so eneppleh put in Martha. ‘Bless me | if I can live in the same house with him, hard- “Never mind, Brad,” replied Mangy. ‘What have you discovered?” “Well,” and as the old woman es ar she folded her hands in her lap in a self-satisfied way, ‘I’ve found out that Silas Norman is plaguy afraid of you two betraying him. He said as much to the youns an when he met him in the Square.” Well,” said Mangy, eagerly, ‘what then?” “He told him that he had a man on Spain street to do what he had first cut out for Turner, here, to “Did you hear the name of the individnal?” asked ner. ““Yes, but not very plain: You see I had that big block of stone, on which Jackson’s horse stands, between me and them, and I had some trouble in catching their words.’ ‘What was the name?” asked Mangy. “Well, it sounded—mind, I don’t say it is the name, but I say it sounded like Pedro Melto.” “ Bully!” broke in Turner, ‘‘ Now matters are get- ting interesting. Do you know, Mangy, that this thing of doing a disinterested Christian act is pleas- ant now and then, by way of variety? It wouldn’t do to follow as a regular business, you know.”’ “ And why not?” asked , her eyes sparkling as she witnessed the enthusiasm of her friend. “Why not?” ejaculated Turner. ‘‘ Would you have us starve to death?” , “No, not a bit of it, and I’m almost ashamed to hear you say so, Brad Turner. There is such a thing as working for an honest living, is there not?” “Working for a living?” repeated Brad, as if stunned by the thought. “You wouldn’t; now come, Maney, you wouldn’t have a fellow come down to ain that? “Yes, I do, and nothing else, although I can’t see | that work would make a nigger of you. Work is not ignoble if the laborer is not aded already.” Bradley Turner gazed at the speaker in an mouthed wonder, and when she finished, he said, rather thoughtfully: “Mangy Norman ea ‘are just as far above me and that rascally old umbug, Norman, as the sun is above the earth, and you’re just about that much brighter and better than either of us.” “"No, no, Brad; you are mistaken, Ihave known of the perpetration of robberies and have kept my silence, thereby making myself as guilty as those who actually did the stealing. My father—” “Your bogus father, you mean,” interrupted Brad. “Well, it don’t matter. He’s the only father I ever knew, and while I know that he is not my real parent, still he has been kind to me often, and, as I was about to remark, I would like better than all an s else to save him from this terrible life he is en et? e “Can't never do it,’ put in Martha, who had been an attentive listener. “Silas Norman is bad from the bone out, and it’s no use for any person talking or trying to tell me any thing else.” ‘*Guess no person will worry themselves trying to convince you,” said Turner, with sly sarcasm. Martha was warming up for a fresh onslaught, but Maney, seeing this, turned the conversation ‘adroit- ly by saying: ¥ hs do you propose to do now, Brad, about this Blanchard affair?” 1 DGD “Do? Why, Tl find out Mister Pedro Melto, of Spain street, to-morrow night, and then I'll dog him hard work like a nigger? You can’t mean | “came in out of held out 4 delica ish eagerness. . of | * “ . # si 5 to the home of Mark Blanchard’s cast-off toy, and biog ne are Mrs. Mark for a grand tableau, minus e red fire.’ good-night,”’ He shook hands with both, and a moment after he was up in his own chamber near the roof, and Mar- tha and Mangy were still discussing the events of the night. CHAPTER VIII. HO! FOR MEXICO! Tue evening sun was bathing the beautiful South- ern landscape in a eis glory; the sinuous Missis- sippi rolled silently between its artificial banks to- ward the Gulf, its waters catching faintly the radi- ance.from the sky. Tillie Blanchard sat in the west window of Sam Pettis’s humble cabin, and watched the sun, change from gold to crimson, and finally, like a great round world on fire, drop into the distant lake and disap- pear, ; That sun was like her life, which she felt was going down into gloom and darkness, perhaps never to rise again. al Since her husband’sdeparture she had had time to think. “But her thoughts were not ministering angels; they were hideous realities, whispering into her unwilling ear the story of her woe and degrada- tion. _The wife of a man who had been too proud or timid to openly acknowledge the. relationship; the companion of a criminal, who, even. now, was a fu- gitive from justice; the future was indeed dark and loomy. Had she not loved Mark Blanchard tender- y, truly, with all the devotion of an ardent woman’s nature, she would not so easily have forgiven the crime for which he had to flee. But her love, even with this stain upon her idol, was idolatry still, It was that love which had silenced her remon- strance against a secret marriage; it was that love which had given her courage to leave her poor old father and mother without a, word .of Re without a farewell even—-to meet the world, side by side with him she loved. . nas She thought now, as she sadly gazed at the sun- set, of her old deserted home in Tennessee; of her kind, good father; of her fair and fond mother. Would bg aig herlong? Did they still think of her? Did they believe her pure and_ good, or. base and wicked? She would so like to write them a long letter, assuring them that she was Mark Blanchard’s wife; that_she would soon go back, and see them again; and that Mark and she loved each other very much indeed.” But no, she could not, dared not write now. bay? could not forgive Mark as easily as she haddone. Abel Maynard would hang his head in disgrace were he to know that his daughter—his pet, his own Tillie—was, the wife of a forger. Ah! these thoughts, this knowledge, were very bitter. to this poor half-crazed creature, and, not knowing well what else to do, she laid her head upon the window-sill and wept hot tears, like a vexed child. A tap at the door aroused her, and turning, she beheld Sam Pettis—big, burly, rough Sam Pettis— standing in. the pagediten C biting his nether lip, and RS ae much puzzled: : “Well, Sam, what is it?” she asked, wiping her eyes. ‘The truth is, Mistress Tillie,” he began, “I didnt mean to find you crying—I didn’t, indeed.” , - **Oh, it doesn’t make any difference, Sam. I’m only a foolish girl, and I’m not worth minding.” “Well, as_to that, Mistress Tillie, I can’t agree with you. You're too good and sweet to ery much, and I don’t. want to be bold, or any thi ike that, ou know, but if there is anything Sam Pettis can do or you tokeep you from crying and to make you happy, you can count on him—that’s aH.” e rough fellow’s face was aglow with the ten- derest compassion as he said these words, and Tillie felt as if she could almost Mehdi him. His kind- ness overcame her, however, and, instead of answer- ing him, she burst into a fresh flood of tears. Sam Pettis looked at her helplessly, and seating himself — on a stool just by the door, he put up his hands to his face, and cried too. ' This was the Sete of affairs when Sallie Pettis he cornfield, a few minutes later— her hands full of fresh-laid eet looking from one to the other, she éxclaimed: “ What on ‘arth is the matter with you two?” “Oh, Sallie! I felt so lonesome, and I was ort ; and Sam there—poor Sam—he pitied me,” sai 1- lie, looking up through her tears. ay ss ‘Well, Ido say!’ exclaimed Sallie; ‘that’s the Rare time as I ever see’d Sam Pettis cry in his natur- al life.” “rn saying this, Sallie sat Gown, and began to sob “Ts this where Samuel Pettis lives?” The voice was low and insinuating, tinged with a slight foreign accent, and on the weeping trio look- ing stiddenly up, they saw the form of Pedro Mento in the open doorway. : “ Yes, sir, Llive here,” replied Sam, rising, and a trifle embarrassed. a “Does Mrs. Blanchard live here, too?” asked edro. af fe ; “Yes,” answered Tillie, before any other person could speak. : : “T have a letter from your husband to you.” He white missive, and, witha feéver- ess, eran forward and clutched it. ° ‘ <=
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ge 6 3 f Kissing it .paasionately, she broke the seal and read it half aloud. It was very brief, and ran thus: ““Galveston, Oct. —, 18—. “ DEAR WIFE: “The bearer of this is my best friend, Pedro Mar- chia. You can trust him fully to conduct you to Vera Cruz, where I hope to meet yousoon. Lose no time, but start at once. ‘Your devoted husband, M. B.” “Yes, I will go at once,’ she said, as she finished reading. ‘I would go to the end of the world forhis sake. Wh m do we start?” This to Pedro. “Tf madame is ready,”’ replied ,the Spaniard, def- erentially, ‘‘ we will go now.’ “Now! Why, she can’t go now. She is not ready,” exclaimed Sallie. ‘ ve I do say, the very idea of @ person running off in this way!” Pili ie smiled. ‘‘ I’m quite ready, Sallie. My ward- robe is not so extensive. And you, sir,” she said, addressing herself to Pedro; ‘‘ you promise to take good care of me until we see Mark?’ “‘T do, madame,” was the reply. pry San oy AR Pan a re with a few articles o e’s wearing apparel, an in bid poor, simple-hearted Sam, an kind, pa- tient ie, good-by, and then the two travelers were off on their long journey. They took the train to Brashear City; thence by steamer to Galveston, and there they were com- emer to wait for three days for the sailing of a brig und for Mazatlan. hey et rare potent eset er pied days warm and pleasant, the moonlit. ° Notwithstanding the delights incident to a sea voyage at such a season, Tillie thought the days very long, and the nights inexpressibly dreary. ‘or the first two days after leavin rt she kept her state-room religiously: but, a little after sunset, on the third day, at the solicitation of Pedro and the captain of the vessel, she ventured on deck. the east the moon was soaring, lifting itself up out of the water, which, like a liquid wilderness, stretched eve where, ust ruffled into ripples by a slight breeze, that filled the bellied sails and drove thie little craft southward. ‘It’s a purty night, missus,’’ said Captain Black, jeaning over the taffrail and addressing Tillie. “Yes, sir; a very beautiful night,’’ was the reply. “Do you like moonlight nights on the sea?” asked the old sailor. ‘This is the first time I ever saw the sea by night, and I think I never saw any thing half so lovely. “ And you never saw it at night before, eh? Well well, but that sounds queer, marm—mighty ueer, I ean tell you—’specialiy to an old. sea-dog like me, as was rocked in the cradle of the deep, as the song a valise says.” ‘There was a pause for a minute or the captain added: ‘‘ Born inland, eh? “ Yes. ” “Far from the ocean?” “On the Cumberland river.”’ ‘*In Kentucky?” ‘“No; in Tennessee, close to Clarksville.” “So, sol Way up there? Seems to me it would pe ay to get one’s breath, away up there among e hills.” She laughed at this odd idea, and Pedro, who had ‘been silently watching the sea all the time, laughed as well, After that night, the captain took quite a fancy to Tillie’s society, and many a tedious hour she escaped in listening to the yarns Captain Black was very fond of spinning. At last, Mazatlan was reached, and here another vessel was found, which, in due season, carried our travelers to the stone-girt harbor of Vera Cruz. CHAPTER IX. - “‘TORD HAVE MERCY ON US.” As the vessel touched the quay, Tillie strained her eyes shoreward to see if she could not somewhere detect the form of her husband on the crowded land- two, and then ing. But no; he was not. there, and the people all | about her were beri # in a fierce, foreign tongue, that made her feel—oh, so keenly-—-how much of a stranger she was, _. ‘**Where is Mark?” she asked, turning to Pedro, as they left the vessel. “At the ‘Hotel La Plata,’ madame,” was the re- i ‘That is where he told me to meet him.” ey picked their way carefully among the bar- rels and bales that lined the shore, and soon they found themselves in an open square. ‘That is the ‘Hotel La Plata’ over there,”’ said the Spaniard, eg to a large stone house, witha colonnade in front, and all its windows protected from the the sun by small scolloped awnings. _ Tillie followed the direction pointed out, and was pleased to find that the hotel exteriorly gave indica- tions of refinement. A walk of a few minutes and the hotel was reach- . Pedro conducted Tillie into the parlor, and went in quest of the clerk. _ e came back peony: and introduced her to the Eacpricioy of the house. i of me wishes a good room, with every accom- modation,”’ said Pedro. “We will try to please the senorita,” answered the Boalisée, bowie profoundly. Then the two men exchanged a few words in Spanish, and, with another bow, the landlord withdrew. ‘‘Where is Mark?” questioned Tillie, as soon as she and Pedro were me again. “Why don’t he come?” “ He is out of to madame,” was the respo *‘ and will not reach the city until‘midnight,” sisi ie = THE GIRL: WIFE. Tillie looked searenniay up into the man’s face, and his eyes fell and his face colored crimson, ‘You are deceiving me, Pedro,” she said, decided- ly. ‘I know you are deceiving me.” “T am not, madame.” “You said but now Mark was here at the hotel; now you claim that he isoutof town. Tell me, now, Pedro, the truth.” The Spaniard gs his eyes and remained si- lent. This frightened Tillie. She thought she dis- covered a disposition to withhold from her the real whereabouts of her husband, and she was all atrem- ble when she said: ‘*Oh, Pedro, for Heaven’s sake, if not for mine, do not—do not keep me in this terrible suspense. Tell me—tell me, where is my husband?”’ The Spaniard looked into the beautiful face Pope site, so full of agony and entreaty, and while a shade of counterfeited sadness passed over his face, he answered: “Tf Madame Blanchard could only bear a little trouble—” Tillie was upon her feet in an instant. Her eyes were fixed, with a starry, alg atee J gaze, upon Pe- dro’s dusky face; her hands worked nervously, and her form quivered with excitement, ‘What do you mean, Pedro?” The Spaniard hung his head and was silent still. “Pedro Mento, do you wish to stand there dumb until I go raving mad? Speak out! Where is k Blanchard, my husband?’ ‘* Will madame be patient while I speak?”’ “As Job; goon!” “Then, Senor Blanchard is very ill.” “Sick, Pedro? Do you mean to say that he is Fy sik “Very sick.” “Where?”’ ‘“ At San Madeline.” “Where is San Madeline?” “Two miles off.” “Then let us go to him at once,” exclaimed Til- co amma see him. My eyes are aching for the ‘Not now, madame. We can not go now.” “And why not?” “You are tired and need rest. We will go to- morrow.” She shook off the hand that he laid Spee. her arm. “No, [am not tired; and, were my feet blistered and bleeding, I would manage to crawl upon my hands and knees to see my husband. Oh, Pedro, you can not understand the depth of my love for Mark. can hardly realize it myself.” - This strong, unselfish love was a new revelation to Pedro Mento, and he began to feel how difficult it would be to control such a nature. He determined a ie anend to this scene at once; and so he said: ‘Madame would not find him at San Madeline if she did go.” ; C aot at San Madeline?” ‘ 0. ” “And why not?’’ ‘* Because Senor Blanchard is not there.” Tillie’s face assumed an ashen hue, and she felt a heavy weight, as of lead, crushing her heart. “ Between her teeth she managed to ask: ‘‘ What do you mean?” ‘ “You will take comfort, eye madame, but IT have very bad news for you. e landlord has just So me Senor Blanc fought a duel on Tuesday “Well, well! Goon! exclaimed Tillie, clutching at Pedro’s arm. “Did he kill the man?” ‘*No, madame. Poor Senor Mark was killed!” The young wife let go her hold of the man’s arm, and, with a moan, sunk helpless to the floor. At first, Pedro thought she was dead, so limp and colorless was she; but, when he picked her up and placed her upon a sofa near an open window, the low came faintly back into her cheeks, and present- she opened her eyes and stared about her. Then the terrible reality of her position came flashing across her mind, corroding it with its fear- ful fire, and causing her to ery out: ; “Oh! my God! I’m going mad—mad—mad!”’ Her beautiful brown hair fell in a shower about her shoulders; her eyes blazed as if they would burn their lashes, and Pedro, forithe nonce, thought she was really crazed. He sat opposite to her, on the sofa, his own eyes filled with , for the wretch was a capital actor, andin vain did he try to comfort her. She looked at him sel, and was about to utter a stinging rebuke, but, no faa his tears, she fell to weeping herself, crying out at intervals. “Oh, God, have Bit , have pity!’ When the first outburst had subsi she ed to Pedro calmly of her situation; at least, as calmly as a frantic wo- man could, and he finally prevailed upon her to go to her chamber and take a few hours of rest. “Tn the ts Faas he said, ‘‘ we will go out to the cemetery of San Madeline, and see his grave,” She wanted to go then, but the Spaniard said it was too late to think of such a thing, and that in the morning she would be better and more able to walk. Yes, she agreed with him; she was not able to walk now, and in the morning they would go. It was a night full of pain and heartache to poor Tillie. Thousands of miles from home, friendless and alone in the first hours of a great bereavement. She tried to ing 3 but it was impossible. Her feel- ings were too bitter to be quieted with anything short of death itself. As the cathedral bell of San Louis tolled the mid- night hour, she area back the drapery that con- ps her chamber window and looked out inte the } moon was shining brightly, gilding the spires and domes of the old Aztec city with floods of liquid old. The soft, doleful music of; a choir, pealing orth a requiem for a departed soul, came upon the wing of the night wind'to her ear, and the hymn of midnight from a Benedictine Monastery welled up from the sleeping squares below, until her whole be- ing was thrilled with the mystery of the music. ‘ Kyrie Eleison”’? was the burden of the refrain, and falling upon her knees by the open window, she echoed it in plainest English: ‘‘Lord have mercy upon us!” ; en the morning came at last it found her asleep, just where she had knelt. Dressing herself, she went down to the drawing-room and encountered. Pedro. He spoke to her pga hs and gave hera purse of five hundred Mexican dollars, which, he said, Mark had left in the landlord’s care for her. Then they canvassed the situation, and Tillie de- cided that she would remain in Vera Cruz, close to Mark’s grave, until death would place her by his side. Pedro advised a return to New Orleans at once, but he did not urge it strongly, and soon gave in to | her plan, and the matter was considered settled. Two miles east. of Vera Cruz, on a sloping hillside, overloo: the bay, lies the cemetery of San Made- line, It is an antique old Necropolis, and holds tombs bearing date two centuries back. Some of its stones are sound and re yet, but many have been eaten into by the teeth of a thousand tempests, and some are shattered and covered with clinging vines and velvet moss. About noon, on the day following her arrival in Vera Cruz, Tillie and Pedro made their way through the silent city of the dead, and fin paused before anew-made grave. There was a plain slab of brown stone at its head, and with streaming eyes and breaking heart Tillie managed to trace out the in- scription, which ran thus: “*Sacred to the Memory oF MARK BLANCHARD. Requiescat in Pace.” She fell forward upon the new grave, and wept as she had never wept before. CHAPTHR X. _ .DID SHE LOVE HIM? Ir was a bright, cheery morning, early in Febru- ary. The leaves were coming out fresh and beautiful again, and the grass was strewn with those which had just fallen from the branches. , Blanche Davenant was seated in her chamber, reading carefully a letter she had just received from Major Cecil, It was full of interest to her, as it would have been to any woman similarly circum- stanced. It contained an avowal of love for her, and was written with that delicacy which, to the cultivated gentleman, is so natural and becoming. He told her frankly that he was fully aware of her engagement to Mark Blanchard; that he had no hope of winning a place in her heart, and that, knowing this, he felt, oh, so lonely, and had quite made up his mind to leave New Orleans forever. , ah be with my before noon to-day, to say good-by and God bless you.” This was the concluding sentence, and when Blanche had read it through she pressed the missive to her heart and fell to weeping. In those two months in which she had known Graham Cecil, she had learned to prize him very highly. He was sc kind, so considerate, so attentive, and so wholly un- like Mark Blanchard, that she was not quite sure she did not more than esteem him. Her affianced hus- band had not secured her heart. She felt sure of this now, although she had not the courage to tell him. so. And, after all, what should she do when com gs Cecil would go away and leave her to her ate This was the query that she put to her heart on that bright February morning, and finding how empty was her life—how void of promise her future ag ge could do nothing bnt weep bitter, bitter ears. She was lying upon a sofa, her face buried in the cushions, and her cheeks all wet and tear-stained, when her father entered the room. _ Colonel Davenant was greatly surprised. He had never before seen his child so grief-stricken, and it was with a tender hand he stroked her hair back, and ttn her head up, kissed her fondly. “What is the matter, ‘Blanche darling?” he asked. “What has on jessy 4 She could not speak at first; her tears were falling now heavier than ever. At length she managed to reply: Oh, father, I am afraid I do not love Mark as I should. - And—and I — do not know what to do. I’m so unhappy—so wretched.” “Why, my daughter,” answered the old man, “I am shocked at this. T was under the impression that this union was acceptable to you. Had I ever had a ee even to the contrary, be sure I would not have permitted matters to have gone so ar.” Colonel Davenant spoke solemnly, even sadly, and a was evident this revelation of his daughter caused m pain. ** Are you quite sure, Blanche, that this is not a whim; that, in short, you understand your heart?” “T don’t know,” was the reply; “maybe it is only a notion. But, whatever it is, whether a whim or a reality, I know it has made me very wretched.” © Again she bowed her head and wept. Colonel Davenant did not speak at once; he waited for her grief to spend its force, and then said, very calmly: “My child, this is a very serious matter, and one that should not be treated lightly. Your happiness, se a Po. SS — so — Se
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| | oo e————EEEE and that of anotner is involved, and we should be very careful how we tread on dangerous ground. Remember, you have given your word—the sacred moae of a lady, to marry this young man. He deeply loves you, and you should be very careful that you do not do him a grave injury.” Bianche looked her father straight in the eyes as he said this, and then replied: “Yes, you are right.. I have acted foolishly, and I will try to do better.” “But, understand this, my child,” added the colonel: “Ido not advise you to wed this man un- less you think you can love him, and be to him a 00d and confiding wife.” ‘ She huny her head and answered in alow voice: “T will try to do my duty.” ; He took the sweet young face between his hands, and, looking into the depths of her soul lit eyes, Said: “IT know you will, my darling.” ba He kissed ber still wet cheek, and, after Heir tad to be home soon, started off to see an old banker | friend on Carondelet street. Saka An hour later Blanche met Graham Cecil in the drawing-room. She was very calm and reserved, for she had nerved herself for this scene. After talking a few moments about common- Place matters, Blanche ventured to remark: “ And so, major, ae are going away?” “Yes, Blanche; 1 am going away—forever!”’ She bit her lips; her eyes fell; that word_forever ran through her brain with a pitiful sound. Neither. Spoke for an instant. The silence was becoming embarrassing, when Graham said: _‘* Blanche, you understand why I am goin You know the secret that I have so carefully con- cealed from every eye, and you also know how hope- less that passion is. I have only come to say good- by. To say any thing else now would be worse than vain. I can only regret that, before I had oppor" tunity to convince you of my affection, you were already the promised wife of another. Such mis- takes occur in life quite often, I suppose, and I will | have to bear my disappointment as others have borne theirs. It will do you no harm, I hope, to | know that, whatever may come to me in the future, no other person will ever have the place in my heart, now held by you.” She never uttered a word—not even when he had finished. Her heart was too full of love and pity for that man, whose voice trembled as he spoke, to admit of language just then. Her head, with all its wealth of beautiful hair, dropped down low, and lower, and, at last, the tears flooded her eyes, dimming their luster. _ He looked down upon the bowed form, not know- ing how to interpret her silence, until he caught sight of her tears, dropping like purest pearls upon the carpet. “ Blanche, your sorrow at my departure is more than I had a right to expect, and I thank you for it.” He reached out his hand, and she took it with- | out looking up. ‘“Good-by, my little friend; God bless you!’ : He was turning away. He dare not stay longer; his voice was growing husky; his wild, earnest passion was struggling for speech; he was for- getting that Blanche Davenant was the espoused of another, + “Graham!” It was Blanche who spoke, and, in an instant, he was by her side. She was now looking up calmly into his face. away. Wwomanly sense of duty and dignity came back to | her, and she felt _— again in the knowledge that She had a path marked out for her feet which duty and honor compelled her to tread. Graham Cecil, you have witnessed my weak- ness,’ she began; ‘you know now that you are very dear to me. But here it must all end. We can aE to be any thing to each other more than | “You do not love Mark Blanchard then?” asked Major Ocell, eagerly, his face lightin up with hope. | Oe not know. I respect Mark lanchard, and myself, enough to keep my vow, I trust. Had I a RPS ee 1 Possibly would have loved him ask m nice fme.® ©” "nat 4s right. No one can ‘Your decision does you credit, Blanche, I ld most as soon lose you as have y S falaoee lighted troth. N ow, however. T Soe ar Sch hing ever comes between our wowratenl’ fon ifll- S its fulfill- ment that you will let me know. Do you promise Be incr AREER se iche an haaeae © hand he held in his to his lips and “And now, Blanche Davenant—only woman that ee ed Fer are lost to me, Farewell, darling € was gone! The bright sunlight lay in a golden patch on the velvet car instant since, and Blanchoe where he stood but an pot Seed she awe: by her aching gaze, to Nr ticking so loudly that ‘it i seemed eonger each second. Save this, andthe peatiie G ~ poor girl’s heart, there was nothing to fall upon . rm . fe that splendid apartment, rare Ee me luxurious appointments, with all its a Pg hments, it now appeared vacant and Made i That man who hed ust gone out for- cn hate ht we ls a ean ee? ned, rolled i ripp on her face. Her hair, un- L beauty where late Gra- ham penis footprints were, and her lips murmured: ioe orever—never, never to come back again to ee eae ” | the very curbs. | des street. ; and he sai | touched at this. IN THE STREETS! Ir was a datk night. The rain fell in a thin mist; the streets were glistening under the gas-lights, and the gutters of New Orleans were filled with water to The swamp which stretched be- tween the city and the lake was overflowed, and refused to take what the city gutters offered, while a stiff eastern breeze drove Pontchartrain’s waters over the banks in all directions. It was a very cheer- | less night, and so thought Bradley Turner, as he step ed briskly along Perdido and turned into Drya- 3 His course lay toward Canal street, through those dens of infamy where women abound, but where virtue and innocence, alas! have no habitation. Just as he passed the corner of Union, an old man came out of a house to the right, and fell forward upon the pavement. His head struck the bricks | with such force that Turner thought his skull had been broken. “Dead drunk, poor wretch!’’ was Brad’s exclama- — as he stooped down and lifted up the old man’s e “No, not drunk—only crazy,” stranger; ‘only crazy.” The fall had injured him seriously; the blood was —- in a warm, scarlet current from a wound behind his left ear, and one side of his head was much bruised. He was not drunk; Bradley saw that now, and, touched with compassion, he asked: ‘* What made you fall?’ “Tam exhausted,” was the pose k “T could not keep my feet nae Oh, sir, I wish I was dead—I wish that fall had killed me outright.”’ “And Iam precious glad it didn’t,” replied Tur- ner. ‘‘Now, give me your hand. Tha ‘sit. Now you are on your feet again.”” The stranger was upon his feet, but his whole frame was quivering, and his eyes were burning, as if the fire of madness had taken possession of the sockets. He’ seemed scarcely to understand his position at first, but gradually his wandering senses returned, , grasping Turner’s hand: “God bless you, ay friend; you have done mea valuable service, and I wish I was able to repay you in something better than words.” “Seeing as I don’t expect any pay,”’ replied Tur- ner, ‘‘you needn’t give yourself much trouble on that score. What brought you into that house? Seems to me, if you'll pardon the boldness, that that ain’t just the kind of a place for a respectable man to be found at this hour of the night.” “Misfortune brought me here, sir,’? was the an- swer; “but, it’s a long story.” “Tf it is,” put in Turner, “you had better not stop here to tell it. Where do you live?” ““Where do I live?” “Yes, in what part of the city?” “LT have no home here. I live in Tennessee, but I answered the | have been here for five days, wandering the streets | in search of a lost child, without eating, without sleeping, and, worse than all, without success.” Bradley Turner, with all his rough experience, was The hopeless dejection of the old man, his faltering voice, so full of exquisite sadness had awakened a tender chord in his own heart, and when the stranger reached out his hand and said, | ‘*Good-by,” Turner promptly exclaimed: Remembering what, she was to Mark Blanchard, her i a: a8 s ae ““No, old man, you must come with me. Brad Turner is not rich, but he can give you a home for a saat , and, maybe, he can help you to find your The two men clasped each others’ hand and looked | nto each others’ faces. This was a new 70le to poor, wayward, and some- times, wicked Brad Turner, this turning philanthro- / pist; and so he felt awkward, and a trifle shy, too, as e took the stranger’s arm and led him away. The two men bent their steps toward the house on Dauphin street, where we parted with Mangy and the old crone, on the night prior to Tillie’s departure for Mexico. d , Mangy was sitting in her little sitting-room, trying to me | a French fiction. The-rose-leaves in the car- et were glowing brightly, and the woolen vine- fonves were trailing their emerald beauty every- where. She had changed very much in those two months since we last saw her. Her whole demeanor was more subdued, and she no longer answered to the hideous abbreviation of her abies name, to which Silas had accustomed her. en Brad Turner had mastered his passion for short names, and managed to call her X rnin Norman, with an ease that shed himself. 4 asthe story she was reading told of a girl who had fallen among evil gpg aro and had been almost lost, but, through a heroic determination to lead a pure life, had saved herself from ruin, and finally married an honorable man, and lived all her future days in a qe emi surrounded by the barriers of an honest devotion. “Pl be such a girl!” exclaimed Magdalean, closing the book. “TI will place a wide gap between my past and my future life. Thank d, I have not sinned too deeply for repentance. Just as she uttered these words, the door of the room was pushed open and Bradley Turner entered. He took of his hat, and said respectfully: ‘Miss Magdalean, there is a poor old man down- stairs, whom I picked up in the streets, and I'd like to bring him up-stairs to my room. He is quiet and won’t make any fuss, I think.” “ Bradley, this is your house, and not mine, so you can, of course, bring those you like here. it, I hope this protege of yours is a respectable person— one that neither of us should be ashamed to recog- nize asa friend.” radley Turner looked down into ‘the upturned face of the girl, and, after a pause, said, ‘‘ Magda- lean, don’t you know I’ve gotten a heap of respect for you? Don’t you know I have treated you just like a sister since you left that old bogus father who was leading you to the bad? There, you needn’t color up. know you never were bad; _but,, then; you don’t suppose you could have lived long with Silas Norman without getting soiled some, do you?” “No, I am very much afraid my surroundings were none of the best; but, as € be say, I have come out of the fire unscathed, and in all my future life I mean to remain so. But, who is this man, Bradley ?”’ “Well, to tell you candidly, Magdalean, I found him in-Dryades street.” “In Dryades street?” * Now, don’t go starting in that way. The poor old fellow was not guilty of wrong. He is in search of a lost daughter, who, he fears, gone to wreck in this big city.” dalean started, as if shocked by an electric flash. ‘‘ Where is he from?” she asked, “Tennessee,” he said. ae Sa T have an idea!” “ Ind !” “Yes, indeed! Mark Blanchard took his wife from Tennessee. Don’t you remember?” “T think I do,”’ was the slow response. “Perhaps this man’s daughter and the gr, Tillie pe a are one and the same person? Don’t you see?” “Yes, I see,” replied Bradley, stroking his chin eee vet “but, seems to me you jump at con- dde clusions suddenly like,” ‘““What do you mean?” “Well, I simply mean that many a man might have a daughter in Tennessee as well as my new friend, ey. a@ man’s daughter might wander down the Mi pi to New Orleans as well as my friend Blanchard’s wife. Don’t you think so now?” Yes, she thought so, but the cool, doubtful man- ner of Bradley was very annoying to a young. impetuous girl, who had just satisfied herse that she had made an interesting discovery. Seeing this, Turner said: ‘‘Now perhaps you are right, after all; and if you are, I'll bag my head, that’s all.” Saying this, he started off and soon returned, ae n the old man. Magdalean placed a large chair for him, close to the center-table, and dropped into a seat immediate- ly opposite. “You are hurt,” she exclaimed, in alarm, noticing the blood upon his clothing. Yes, miss, but not bad,” replied the man. “My heart is much sorer than my h “But you must have your head dressed. Here, Bradley do you and, while [ hold the basin, you can bathe the wound,”’ “But I don’t want to trouble you, miss,” said the oldman. ‘I’m not worth minding. Indeed, I’m not!" Magdalean no heed to his remonstrance, but busied herself about the apartment, and ordered Bradley, until the stranger’s head was neatly band- ed and his clothing carefully brushed. en all this had been accomplished, she sat down again, a while her face beamed with expectation, she said: “Tm goin to ask you a very important question, and Iam ju dying to hear your answer.” The old man stared into the prett; face, and said: sew 1 go on; Pll answer you any thing,’ é at is your name?” She was leaning over the table now, eagerly await- ing his ng, 4 el was the reply. our daughter’s name was—” lie = da. ety pn oie my her Tillie.” Magdalean lea er feet and caught Bredle Turner by the collar of his coat. f ““What did I tell you, eh? What a silly, shallow set you men are, rall! Now, Brad Turner, what have you to say for yourself?” Poor Bradley looked very guilty, indeed, and answered, with a crestfallen air, really pitiable: “Well, you see, Magdalean, ar ee But, lad that that old man has turned u ust neen handed the largest prize in ard’s lottery. Iam, upon my soul!” as if I arley How- “T know you are, you great big, good-hearted fel- low! But then, sw know you ought to have more faith in bers 7 re vox Sie: ef This was a_bantering, Hagens Bal 3 and then she turned to Robert Maynard, who = Ae re- garding both her and Turner with a look of surprise. , ‘Now, don’t you get excited,” she began, “ ut I think I know where your daughter is!” “Oh, my God!” he exclaimed, the tears welling up into his eyes; “at last! at last!” “There, old man, now keep cool, will you?” said Turner. ‘‘No person can tell you any t as you carry on in this style.” Well, then, your daughter has been in New Orleans,” said Magdalean, wiping the moisture from her eyes, ‘‘and she is now in Mexico,” “In Mexico!” he ejaculated; “in Mexico! My poor child in Mexieo! Oh, surely you are Ine, miss. You really don’t mean that my poor Tillie is so far away?* “Yes, she is,” replied Magdalean; “ at least that’s where they tobk ber, months ago.” i old entle- t that towel on the rack there, . was never much on © can tell you one thing, I am as__ - as long tte rs
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: ¥ * ae ; ; ——_" + = * = oe ly we notice there is somet bis face, and now, when he lifts u wand : 6 . ee e ws S ‘Who took her?’ His eyes were wide open now, sand there was a fierce, hard look in them. ‘‘Who mok my child away? Who dared to take her?” “*Ts it possible that you have not suspicioned some person of taking her away?’’ questioned Turn _r. “You don’t think the girl would leave her home and weome "way down here if there was not a man in the asase?”’ “A man. Do you mean to say that she was ‘idnapped—that she was forced away from her home?’ “*No,” replied Turner, “‘she wasn’t, but she was woaxed away.” “Coaxed away?’’ repeated Maynard. Then he «wlosed his eyes an instant and appeared lost in *hought: and, finally, starting violently, exclaimed: “Do you mean ayoung man named Mark Blanchard, who visited our village a few months since?”’ ““T guess you are on the right track at last, my €riend,” replied er... “* And he it was who ruined her?”’ “Yes, and no.” “* What do you. mean?” “J mean,” returned Turner, ‘‘ that he ruined her Wy ono or g her, but that she is not lost, as you suppose her, but simply a deceived wife.” ‘he old man grasped Bradley by the hand, and while his voice per husky, and the tears streamed aiown his wrinkled face, said: ““Thank God, she is not a thing of shame. I can hear any thing now—any thing but that. Oh, God, What’s what was killing me and her poor, poor smnother !”’ : ; _ He covered his face with his hands and wept; and «80 did Turner and Magdalean, too. When he recovered from his first great joy, they ‘told him everything the reader already knows, of ark Blanchard’s plot to rid himself of his lawful “wife, and to form an alliance with the rich Blanche JDavenant, As he listened, his eyes dilated with wonder, and this hands worked nervously as the story was #inished. He would like to go at once and throttle tthe knave; he would like to expose him, and visit @apon him the full weight of a father’s vengeance ‘before the coming sunrise; but, Magdalean stopped Jaim, by saying: . “You rag have more COE, 4 yee MG Ser ay “our plans. Suppose you go to-night and publicly pr moet this villain, what will your laudable efforts ‘amount to? Simply nothing! He will have you zarrested for a lunatic; May will have no evidence to rove either your ty or your charges, and a “amad-house pg afford «opportunity. 0. ding your c : = aainitted the force of her reasoning, and she wwenton to say, that she would furnish him with the omecessary funds to go to Mexico in search of his daughter, and that, in the mean time, she would have a close watch a upon Mark Blanchard’s movements, and preven’ him, if possible, from com- wmitting bigamy.’ » “And if L find her, what then?’’ ’ “«Then,” answered Magdalean, a gleam of triumph itn her beauteous face, “‘ we will unmask this wrete nd show Miss Blanche Davenant the kind of clay of «which her idol is made.” After ing the matter over and over, it was @ettled that Robert Maynard should start on his Gong journey early on the following day. CHAPTER. XII. IN A DISTANT LAND, THREE months have elapsed since the occurrence ef the incidents recorded in our previous chapter. Awarm May day is drawing to a close. During the early morning hours the rain fell in great cool drops mpon the parched roofs and in the dusty streets of era Cruz, but, about noon, the clouds rolled away ‘to the eastward, and the sun blazed out again, turn- ng the whitish mud of the narrow streets into dust, cand causing the pedestrians to seek the shady sides of the streets to avoid its fierce beams. ‘. Now, however, the heat is less onprcestye, and the ‘shadows of the houses are growing ong and reach- ing far. At one end of along Plaza stands an old aman, dressed in the garb of a citizen of the United States. He is weary and travel-stained, and his long hite hair falls upon his neck, and struggles in tan- led skeins over his sho As we look at him familiar about is palm-leaf hat shades his eyes as he gazes toward the setting sun, we patel a better pew of pe Hiss ahlvleny fea- dures, and recognize, at once, ynard. He’ has searched all over Tampico; has haunted he most sacred precincts of the capital of Mexico; thas walked miles upon miles by day and by night, «intil now he is full of disappointment and despair. His funds are low. He can not follow the almost Andistinct trail much further. He is growing anx- dous about his home and the poor, half-cr. wife, who, away off by the green shore of the Cumber- land, awaits, in pain and tears, his coming. *“T can’t go further,” he exclaimed. ‘My heart ‘and feet both fail me, and, but for my poor, lovin By bil, I could lay down in this sti e land an the dream of death and forgetfulness. Oh! 3 4 could but forget—if I could refuse to think, even or an hour—what a relief it would be; what joy it gwould give me!” é The tears were creeping into the corners of his eep-blue eyes; but, dashing them ower he looked mpward and repeated: ‘‘ My trust is in hee, oh, my od; you will not forsake a miserable wretch like ime in my sorest need!” ; ' Having said this, he bent his steps toward a hurch,, which stood upon an elevation close by, in- «tending to go in and join the worshipers. As he took the path leading up to the house of ou a very excellent ee ——— a ee ee ee ees Se ee ee ee THE GIRL WIFE. ¥ ? ” prayer, his eye caught ment of a girlish form but a short distance ahead. e had surely seen that form before! His heart almost stopped beating. It looked wonderfully like the form of his lost darling! The face was concealed by the thick folds of a dark vail, and he could do nothing but follow her patiently and await the moment when she would throw aside | the meshes of her vail and reveal the hidden face. She peated the church, and followed the long, white, dusty road which led to the cemetery of San Madeline. He never lost sight of her, however, and when she entered the silent city, where only the dead dwell, he was close behind. She seemed to be familiar with the place, for she picked her way among the graves with a directness that showed she had some special object in her visit. Presently, she stopped before a grave, almost hid in flowers, and falling upon her knees, she burst into tears, exclaiming between her sobs: “Oh, my poor, dead husband, wh ey to me—why don’t you speak onely ?” He recognized the voice at once; it was music to his eager ears, and, unable to repress his speech longer, he opened his arms wide, and cried, in a fal- tering voice: “Tillie Ma; nard, my child! my darling! have I found you at last?’ She threw back her vail and looked up; then screaming and fainting, she tottered forward, and fell into the outstretched arms. “Oh, Tillie, my child! my child! is this really you?” he cried, smoothing back her hair from her pure brow, and kissing her flushed cheek again and again. . She did not answer; she could not speak; her new joy was too great; but she crept closer to his warm reast and nestled her head there, where it had often lain before in the old days, which now appear- ed so very, very far away indeed. After a few moments she managed to ask where he had come from, and what had brought him to Vera Cruz. “Tecame after you,my child. All these months, since you left us, [have searched for you. I have walked the streets of Nashville, of Louisville, of St. Louis, by night and by day, until, at last, despairing, I reached New Orleans. There I learned of your whereabouts and of the great misfortune that had overtaken you.”’ ‘* You heard, then, of Mark’s death?” “Of his death?” iy get the old man, bitterly. “No, I wish to Heaven I had! Oh, Tillie, Tillie, how could = leave your poor father and mother, who thought the world of you, for such a wretch as Blanchard?” Tillie Maynard slipped out of his arms, and, while her face took on an ashen hue, she said, very sol- don’t you me, I’m so emnly: ‘*Father, I know I have done very wrong, and that he was too proud to ask your consent, but he was my husband, and that, if not this grave, should pro- tect his memory from insult.” ; She looked strangely beautiful as she stood there, in the glare of the yellow sunset, her hair rippling over her shoulders with the sunbeams glinting through the meshes, and her face wearing a majes- tic loveliness impossible to paint. The old man hesitated to speak. He knew now how deep his revelation must sink into a tender wo- manly heart; he realized how ardent was the love a villain had awoke in the impressionable heart of his child, and he knew how bitter the words he was forced to utter would sound on her ears. ‘Tillie,’ he began, in a kindly, compassionate way, ‘that grave is hollow; your husband is living.” “My husband living,” she repeated. ‘‘ You are surely crazed, father. You are not rational, or else you have been cruelly deceived.” ' “Not at all, my poor child,’ he said. ‘Tis you who have been deceived, basely deceived, for, at this very moment Mark Blanchard is in New Or- leans, preparing for his marriage with a young lady named Davenant.”’ If her face had deen ashen before, now it assumed a deathly or; her eyes stared with a parched gaze into the speaker’s face; she placed her hands over her ears to shut out this monstrous story, and, without knowing exactly what she said, she asked in ajhoarse whisper; : ‘* Who told you this?” He told her the whole story then, word by word, as he had heard it from Magdalean’s lips, and she listened patient, silently, all the while growing numb with a pain she had never felt before. When he had finished, she gazed down upon the flower- strewn mound an instant, and then exclaimed: ‘‘ Oh, Father in Heaven! I wish he was buried there, and I with him. But this—this desertion, this being cast off, this is, oh! so horrible! I feel it is breaking my poor heart at last.” With a wail that sounded dismal in that old ehurchyard, and which rung out along the hill-tops like unearthly music, she fell forward upon her face. Robert Maynard stooped down and picked her up hastily; but when she spoke again it was incoher- ently; the poor young wife was a raving maniac. CHAPTER XiI. A MEETING. ’ Wuen Robert Maynard discovered the condition of his daughter he was overwhelmed with a name- less grief—a grief so deep, so_terrible, as to almost unseat his own reason. But, he had now a mission to perform which must take precedence over every other consideration; he must take a tender caye of r Tillie, aad he must also have vengeance on the ead of her betrayer. It was late—long after dark—when f{gther and / daughter wandered into the great hotelof San Sal- vador in Vera Cruz. He had only a few dollars, but this was ample to procure a bed and breakfast for the twain; after that, Providence would have to be relied upon. Robert Maynard led his daughter into the large parlor of the hotel. Seating her there he whigpered: “Sit there, Tillie, dearest, until I go and find the landlord. Don’t move now.’ There was little need to add this admonition, for she heard him not; but sat gazing at the flowers in the carpet with a sad and wistful gaze. A young. man sat on the opposite side of the apart- ment reading a book of travels, but he paid no at- tention to either Tillie or her father until the former said, slowly and solemnly: ‘These are the roses planted en Mark Blanch- ard’s grave—poor Mark!”’ As the name a ed from her lips the young man started, and turned his eyes upon Pillie. With the light streaming f upon his handsome avd hes ec in him an old acquaintance—Ma- jor Cecil. He was a trifle paler, and a little more sedate than « when we last saw him, and his general appearance ave token that he yet was suffering keenly from is hag disappointment. ‘“My young lady, are you a friend of Mark Blanch- ard?” he asked, sferontially She looked up quickly, and after scanning Cecil's face, she replied: “Oh, yes; he was mine—he was my own Mark. But that was before he died,’ she added, her lips freeing with agony, and her eyes dimming with rs. Major Cecil thought he discovered somethin strange about her manner, but her words h awakened a curiosity within him, and he could not help asking her, even at the risk of en, deemed impertinent, where she had met Mr. Blanchard, and what led her to suppose that he was dead? “I don’t know,”’ she said, inresponse. ‘I think I met him years ago—oh, so many years ago—and then he went and died and made me so miserable.” She was cry ing again—crying in a doleful way—and rocking to and fro hopelessly and despairing. Cecil knew now that her reason was gone; that he was conversing with a maniac, and so he spoke no more until her father returned, when he said: “Your daughter is suffering, I see, from an af- fection of the brain.” “Yes,” was the answer, “butI hope, with a little rest and quiet, she will be restored.” ‘May I ask if her condition is the result of a shock, - or has this gradually grown ipon her?”’ “She has just heard a piece of bad news, and it has pact her reason for the time being.”’ “Indeed! Iam very sorry,” returned Cecil, ‘“‘ and if I can be of any service to you I hope you will command me. You are from the United States, I pereeiyes and as I hailfrom there myself, you should ave no hesitancy in accepting assistance from a countryman.” This liberal offer took pious by surprise, and before speaking, he gras: Major Cecil’s hand and wrung it tightly. ‘‘God bless you, sir!’’ he managed to stammer outat last. ‘‘I feel that you are a gen- tleman, and I accept your offer. To be candid with you, sir, I am very much in need of assistance.” The old man’s face was crimson as he made this confession, and the eye of Cecil was quick to notice how sensitive he was, and so he adroitly turned the conversation, by saying: ““Your daughter in her delirium made mention of an old acquaintance of mine, named Mark Blanch- ard, of New Orleans, Did you know him, too?” Maynard started, and asked, hurriedly: ‘“ Are you a friend of Mark Blanchard?” ahi i; Fg) not exactly a friend; only an acquaintance, said.’ “You know him, then?’’ “Very well. Do you?” ‘“‘I never met him but once or twice in my life, and that was while he was on a visit to Dover, Ten- nessee; but, I know him to be a base, black-hearted scoundrel,”’ ‘Indeed!’ exclaimed Cecil. ‘‘Pray, did he ever injure ou?” ; ‘Injure me? Great God! he has robbed my child of her reason; he child, a broken-hearted idiot; has made my life, and my poor Sybil’s life, little better than a blackened, hopeless existence.’ “You astonish me by these words,” answered Major Cecil. ‘‘ What, pray, has been the nature of the injury?’ : “Do you see that girl there? She is my only ehild.”’ “Well?” ‘“‘Dearer to me than my own life; raised as tender- ly as I knew how. sir, I’ve watched her from a child, growing up day by day, and knew that each succeeding hour she was becoming more and more. important tomy beppiness. Oh, sir! you don’t know what it is to watch, lovingl7 and fon , a child grow up into beauty and womanhood, only to see her perish at last!’ j “T think I can appreciate the feeling of a father under such,circumstances,” replied Cecil; “ but let me ask you'one thing. What as Mark Blanchard to do with all this?” ‘* What has Mark Blanchard to do with it?” “Yes, What has he done?” ‘Well, sir, he has done everything. He coaxed my child to run away with him, and, finding she was proof against his blandishments, he married ber in secret, and, finding he could make a mote advan- tageous match, he cruelly, hegrtlessly deserted her.” +g you sure of this—that he married her—quite sure?” a “ - * x has left her, while moe ae j , a | | | , | | | | !
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Pe ‘ ts t, ae ec = THE GIRL WIFE. A a “Yes; sure.” “Tell me all you know about this affair, please, and in as few words as possible. Iam very well ac- *quainted with this young lady Blanchard propones to marry, and if what you tell me proves true, there is no time to lose. I must hasten to New Orleans and save Blanche Davenant from a horrible fate.” Robert Maynard related the whole story again, from bene end, and when he had finished, Cecil said, excitedly: ““My good friend, we have no time to lose. That young lady is very dear to me, and it is of the ut- most importance that I reach her side as soon as Possible. When will you be ready to start?” “* Almost at once.” “Good! Will your daughter be able to start to- morrow ?”’ “Yes. Poor girl! it matters little to her when or where we go now.”’ _“ Then we will leave to-morrow.” “Ts there a steamer leaving so soon?” “The ‘Brazos’ leaves for Galveston at seven o'clock to-morrow evening. I have a state-room al- ready engaged, and in the morning I will see to it wat oa and your daughter are comfortably pro- vided for.” The two men clasped hands, and looked kindly into each other’s eyes, while Tillie rocked, dismally, backward and forward, and moaned: “ Dead! dead! dead !”’ CHAPTER XIV. A WEDDING-PARTY. Ir was a beautiful evening. The sun had set, round and red, throwing its last slanting beams over the waters of Lake Pontchartrain, as the full-faced moon: sailed en up from the east and looked down on the circling city of New Orleans. The tall, dark magnolias held in their arms large trumpet- Shaped flowers, so full of perfume that the luxuriant ay which i bag abound in the Crescent ity, seemed to be heavy with the rich odor, while the river wound like a belt of shimmering silver between artificial banks of darkest emerald. In front of Colonel Davenant’s house on St. Charles street a long line of glittering equipages were drawn, and from the lower to the highest story lights blazed with a brilliancy that lit up the sur- rounding grounds. From the cluster of orange trees, now white with dainty blossoms, parti-colored lanterns depended and through the avenues beneath the trees flitted gay ladies and handsome gentlemen, Seroheneing he amenities of social life, or bowing down before a peers the hy aoe eee i ‘. ng through the elogan rs, where glass windows, heavy Beodde nara, and soft velvet ets gave an air of comfort and luxury, we encounter knots of ladies and gentlemen, all dis- cussing in an animated manner the great event of the evening—the marriage of Mark Blanchard to Miss Blanche Davenant. In an upper room the bride elect sits, robed for the ceremony. She never looked more graceful, nor lovelier, than on this occasion. Her dress of sheeny white satin fitted her lithe, girlish figure to perfectiou, and from beneath its ample folds a tiny slippered foot ay out, that might have awakened the envy of a inderella, The sweet, childlike beauty of her face, however, was somewhat clouded by a shadow of unspeakable sadness, and it was ouly with the greatest effort that she restrained her late- rs. The fatal hour, when she must forever bury her love for Graham Cecil, had now arrived, and she felt how empty her future must be without it. It is a thing for a man to put away finally the passion of his life, but it is doubly terrible for a woman to do so. With a man, love is but an event at best; but, with a woman—a true woman—it is a part—a precious part—of life itself. Well, my daughter,” said Colonel Davenant, ente’ the room, “you have sent for me, I pre- Sume, to say eigen ; She looked up quickly, and then, as her eyes filled ae she rushed into his great, broad, manly “Oh, papa, I cannot leave you—I cannot leave you,” she murmured. He would not trust himself to speak at once, and So he contented himself with simply stroking her with a gentle, sympathetic touch which had grown very familiar to her in that past which she was about to quit forever. a “You do not relish this union, I fear, my child, Said Colonel Dayenant, at last; ‘but, Tam inclined to think it is only a gece hee which Mark’s as- angus care and love will dispel completely. ope so.”’ ‘‘ But, don’t you do more than hope? Do you not think so” = “T don’t know.” m “You don’t know! That’s a very strange reply. “I can’t help it, then. Strange as it is, 1 do not know whether I hate Mark Blanchard or not. ‘My daughter!’ the old gentleman started as this exclamation dropped from his lips, and he held Blanche out from him at arm’s length, “if I thought you were serious about this, if I thought it was even Possible for you to hate any person who has been so uniformly kind to you as Mark Blanchard has been, late as is the hour, Ewould not permit this ceremony to proceed. Iam both rised and shocked.’ Le ere hy: 8 a flutter of si s ahd .eeep (ong ine » ani e next momen e two y who were to act as bridemaids ftered ato the apartment. ; dean and da hter recovered s at-onee pees Bait on, and s welcom: e new- . “Miss Blanche, the: ninete is down-stairs,”’ said t *, f Miss Adele Bartmore, the tallest as well as the pret- tiest of the girls, while her companion, the proud Miss McTivesy, folded her hands demurely over her breast and awaited in silence the pleasure of the bride elect. ' ‘‘“Missah Blanche, de yourg gen’l’man is down- stairs, and I’s sent up to see as if you is ready yet.” These were Betsy, the colored servant girl’s words, and the head of the speaker was thrust in at the half-open door as she uttered them. “Tell him that I am ready, Betsy,’’ replied Blanche, and then she turned to her father and said: “Iam doing my duty, papa, as I understand it, and I leave the rest with God.” She put up her arms around the neck of her father, and clung close, very close, to him, as she heard the sound of Mark Blanchard’s steps upon the stairs. “‘Good-by, papa,’’ she whispered. He drew her to him tenderly, and kissing her re- eatedly, exclaimed: ‘‘Good-by, my little pet, and din his mercy bless and protect you.” ‘ Adele Bartmore felt very much like bag 7 She was much given to tears, but the stiff stolidity of her companion, Miss McTivesy, restrained her, and so there were many smiles instead of weeping when Mark Blanchard stepped lightly into the room. He was dressed in a suit of black, lusterless but stylish, and looked every inch a man. His face was wreathed in smiles, and in his gloved hand he held a rich bouquet of natural flowers. : These he handed, with a graceful bow, to Blanche, saying in an undertone, ‘*This is as it should be ‘sweets to the sweet.’” Then, turning to Colonel Davenant, he said: ‘‘I hope to make amends for my past idle, pleasure-seeking life, by a lifetime of con- stant devotion to the best interests of your daugh- ter. And if she is only as happy in the future as I shall try to make her, neither you nor she shall have any cause to regret this evening’s ceremony.” The two men shook hands cordially ; Fie then the musicians in the parlor struck up “ The Wedding March,” and, the next_ moment, the whole party were descending to the brilliant drawing-room where the minister and assembled guests awaited them. It was a brilliant scene. The long, splendid rooms filled with the gayety and fashion of the greatest city of the South; the sweet voice of mellow music floating everywhere, and the calm, unimpassioned minister, book in hand, standing in the center of the room ready to pronounce the words that bind to gether two persons for good or evil. The bridal pert slowly approached the center of the apartment. Blanche was leaning upon the arm of old Gabriel her father, while the eager eyes o Blanchard followed her from the remotest corner. This is what he had struggled for so long, and now his plans were about to be consummated; his nephew and heir would, in a few moments, be the husband of the only child of his most intimate friend. He arose, and leaning on his staff, tottered en until he had almost touched the elbow of his rotege. Then there was a calm—a calm so deep that the breathing of the audience could be distinctly heard. The minister lifted his eyes from the floor, and preyed the company with one sweeping glance. Then he said, ina deep voice: Ae bg anybod knows aught why this man and this woman should not be joined in holy wedlock, let them now—” R Before he could finish the sentence, the weird form of old Martha appeared in the doorway, and, shambling directly to the minister's side, and look: ing Mark Blanchard sternly in the face, she lifted her long, bony finger with an authoritative gesture, and said: “This man is the lawful husband of a living wife!” The book fell from the hands of the wonder-struck preacher; Blanche started back, and fell faintin into the arms of her father, while Mark Blancha: gazed at old Martha as if she had been an apparition conjured up by some foul spirit, from the gloomiest pre is of iy to bear Witneal i bh, CHAPTER XV. THE UNBIDDEN GUEST. Ir was a terrible moment for him; it was the crisis in his checkered career, and he felt it was ne- cessary to meet it courageously, as befitted a brave, crime-stained man. We ae . Turning upon e ° i? “Who eye that dare to invade the privacy of this house for the purpose of creating a dramatic scene, which, but for the effect it has had upon Miss Davenant here, might be turned into a ridi- culous farce?” ; “Who am I?” retorted Martha, ‘Tam eisoly an old woman who don’t like to see young men have two wives, even if one is as far away as Mexico.” Mark’s eyes flashed around upon the astonished company. He perceived at once that the old_wo- man’s speech was having a serious effect; and then, for the aoe time, he saw his way out of this dis- reeable dilemma. rawing himself up with a self-satisfied air, he said, carelessly, and smiling all the while: “She's crazy. That’s * Here, old woman, run off; that’s a good soul. i ‘ Those who had gathered around the principal actors in this drama now began to shrink away from Martha, and a few of the very young ladies indulged in screams, and Ta Re themselves finally hind their parents or 1o , Martha was astonished. This brazen piece of acting on the part of Mark Blanchard was a new phase in the proceedings for which she had not come pre’ d and so she said: “You play your cards well, youngster—very well, * Py Ld * Lad - a 9 — indeed; but I will go and bring my proof, sir. Yes, sir, I have hes enough to hang you!” Blanche ad, by this time, sufficiently recovered to grasp the arm of the old woman as the latter turned to go. It was a vise-like gripe, and Martha, turning around, said: “Good lady, don’t detain me; I am going after the proof.” “You must not go until you convince me that you have spoken the truth. Has Mark Blanchard another wife living?” These were Blanche’s words, and the ap eal that was in them touched even the heart of old Martha Sillingsby. “Before God I have told you all the truth.” was Martha’s reply, and before a hand was outstretched to detain her, she was was gone. The Rev. Jasper Osbori, who had been called upon to perform a marriage ceremony, was greatly ocked at all this, and, recovering his speech only after the old woman had disappeared, he said, in a quiet, womanish voice: ns My dear friends, let not the freaks of this poor, demented creature interfere with the consumma- tion of thisunion. Possibly the music and festivities attracted her from the street. Such things are not at all bac tg! a in large cities like this.” Blanche Davenant heard this speech, but she was werless tomove. Standing like one petrified with ear, or fright, she gazed at the window through which Martha Sillingsby had ies bare Colonel Daren laid his hand upon her shoulder, and said, ndly: “Are you willing to have the ceremony proceed, Blanche?” She started, and falling upon his breast, ex- claimed: “Oh, no, papa! Not to-night—not to-night.” She shuddered, as with ague, and he, Tighteallity his arm about her waist, answered: ‘Have courage, darling. It shall be as you say.” Then, turning to the assembled ests, he said: “My friends, this unfortunate little episode has almost. distracted Miss Blanche, and the marriage will, in consequence, be postponed.” “But, colonel—”’ interrupted Mark. “Not a word, sir. The colonel is perfectl eight, and I admire his discretion.’ These were the words Gabriel Blanchard had uttered since Martha’s appearance, and from his severe manner, and the decision that was in his voice, it was very clear that he did not feel that his nephew was altogether blameless for the interruption. “Come, my child,” whispered Colonel Davenant, in his daughter’s ear, “let us go up-stairs.”’ They were tte away, when Mark Blanchard eo the hand of his affianced, and said: ae come to-morrow and see you—may f no “Yes,”’ she faintly replied. “ Good-night!”’ ‘**Good-by,”’ she answered, and was gone. There was a great deal of ae tt clowhy ata gossi: among the fashionable throng as it slow dispersed, and all the next ie there was little else discuss in the higher circles of society in the populous Crescent City. CHAPTER XVI. A MISSING LINE. Tur Brazos was the third day out from Vera Cruz, and the weather was, and had been, mild and beauti- The sun was LM Len slowly into the distant waves to the westward, an dying day came over the waters from the <outh in fitful puifs. The whole ay was aglow with a scarlet beauty which was reflected in the clear waters of the Gulf, tipping the billows with fringes of crimson, and striking the wide-spread sails of the Lrazos with a flood of light so dazzling as to make them appear almost transparent. On the deck walked Graham Cecil and Robert Maynard, engaged in earnest conversation. At len the former said: . - “T will call Dr. Gibson, and ask him his opinion of er.’ , ““T wish you would,” answered the old man. “I am ex ingl anxious, as you may well guess. I have scarce slept a whole hour since I have been aboard. Totell you the truth,I have watched her bedside every night while she slept.” ; “This is too much. You must exercise more “The person who advanced, and acknowledged this title, was a large, heavily-built man of thirty-five, or thereabouts. face was rosy with the hue of per- fect health; his eyes were large, bright and blue, and his chin and upper lip were covered with a wealth of rippling brownish beard, which made him look positively handsome. He was an_ American pesca of means, whose home was in Mississippi, ut who had been traveling in Mexico, parti tor pleasure and partly on business. He had made the acquaintance of Major Cecil in Monterey, and they had arranged to travel in company as far as Galves- ton. When, however, G m Cecil brought Tillie Blanchard and her father aboard the Brazos, Doctor Gibson volunteered at once to take the invalid under his , feeling confident that he could soon restore «her to reason. She seemed to like him from the start, and sub- mitted to his treatment with a childlike obedience. “All she needs is rest and quiet,” he said, after the first day, and now, on the third, she was able to talk quite rationally about many things, although, when her mind rested on her husband, she grew wild, and ‘‘ wanted to die, too,” as she expressed it. Dr. Gibson knew the query that was upon Graham Cecil’s tongue, as he took the hand of the latter; ’ the warm breath of the |
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as ~ Jocks. 2 & > — and, before it could be Pa into words, the doctor said, in his light, easy way: ‘“ Anxious about my patient, eh?” “Yes, indeed; very anxious,” man, ‘Well, she ain’t going to die.” ‘*But her reason?” ‘*“ Will be as sound as yours before we reach Gal- veston.”’ “Do you really think so?’ put in Major Cecil, wringing the doctor’s hand. replied the old “Do I think so? Yes—I more than think so—I know so.” - “ But, doctor, this cure is so sudden,” said Cecil. “Well?” “ Well—of course you ought to know, but really, I was under the impression that it took a long and wearisome course of treatment to effect a cure in such cases.” ‘Tn what cases?” ‘* Well, in cases of insanity.” “That depends altogether on the nature of the disease which produced mental aberration. This has been the result of a shock—a sudden, terrible nervous shock. It is rare, in such cases, for the rea- son to be permanently disordered. It is the easiest of all cases to cure. Would you believe it?—my | pen and I have just had a long chat.” “ Are you serious, doctor?” “Never more so in my life.” “Thank God! was the fervid exclamation of Robert Maynard, as he clasped Dr. Gibson’s hand, and then, hastily dropping it, he rushed toward the companionway. “¢ ere is he ee asked the doctor. ‘““To see his daughter, I presume,” answered Ce- cil, ‘*Oh, he must not do that. He will undo all I have done, if he disturbs her now.” He called the old man back, and proceeded to in- form him of the necessity there was for quiet in the sick-chamber, and that, for a day or two-yet, it was uae that he himself should have sole charge of er. “You see, she is very weak yet, and needs a great deal of care and attention. The stewardess and I will manage this business nicely, if you will only ae us.’ Reluctantly the old gentleman consented, saying by way of apology: ““You see, gentlemen, it’s pretty hard to be sepa- rated again, even for four or five days.” After an hour upon deck, the three se ted, Ma- jor Cecil going to his state-room, the doctor to his pp while Robert Maynard continued to walk e deci. Presently he was joined by Captain Broderick, who was familiarly called “The Skipper of the Brazos. “Well, sir,” he said, ‘‘ are you prepared for a little blow?” o A blow Y dad “Yes—a regular sou’-easter.” “T can’t say that am. You surely don’t antici- pate a storm, captain?” » “Well, I can’t say I ee but that warm puff of wind smells bad, that’s all.” “Smells bad?” “Not exactly; but that’s a word of ours which serves to mean that there is something ugly in the wind. Were you never in a blow?” “Not at sea, sir,” replied Maynard, lifting his cap and permitting the warm breeze to lift ‘his gray “T have experienced considerable toug weather on the Cumberland, though.” Captain Broderic < laughed adry laugh, and said: “Tam of the a you have never seen any thing to equal a blow in the Gulf. Why, my dear sir, I have almost seen the keel of the Brazos; and the night the Creole Belle went down under my feet, I never expected to see the old Lone Star State again. Itell you, my friend, that was a nipper! But i didn’t go under. Suppose the time for passing in my chips hadn’t come yet.” ‘How did you escape?” a ae you see, after all the passengers had left the old Belle but two, and there was no person about but Gils Rye, my first mate, I took a long look and very sensible ‘around the deck. You maya t want to believe me, ut it’s true as eee ct never felt so bad in my . _as I did then. It seemed so familiar, the old baal: en sunshine and tempest together; had been in mighty tough places, too, that I began to recog- nize every plank and ratlin as an old chum, and, by tg Ay me, sir, I forgot the Belle was a-going to ‘he bottom for a minute, and might have forgotten altogether, only for an old man who stood close by, and who was one of the passengers I spoke of. Says he, ‘Captain, she’s going, and we’d better_be tryi to save ourselves, afore it’s too late.” With that, looked around, and saw that she was settling astern, awful fast! Wiping my eyes—for there was tears in *em for the poor old Belle—i ordered a small raft we had fixed up to be launched. Five minutes after we were all aboard, and in ten minutes more I saw the last spar of the Creole Belle go under.” The seaman heaved a deep sigh, as if the memo of the Creole Belle was very sad to him yet; an turning to Maynard, he continued: “You think it sorter odd to hear a fellow talk that way about a craft, don’t you?” _ “¥oegs, rather odd. But how did you come out on the raft?” : 4 Ms You mean how did we reach shore?” “Well, sir, we were three whole days a-log about there, and our provisions had all gone, an hunger and thirst was doing their worst for us. Just did, and we had pam abe? each other 80 long ; before daylight, on the third night, that old man stricken crew with some of his own courage, and | ae speedily was he obeyed. what had told me to hurry off the Belle crept up to me, and said, in a sorter whisper like: ‘ Captain, I don’t think I can hold out much longer; ’'m_ pretty much used up, but I want to tell you something be- fore I go, so that you can, if yoo get to land, do me a great service. ‘Well,’ said I, ‘spin your yarn, and if I can assist you in any way, I'll do it.’” “ Was it stormy then?” asked Maynard. ‘*No, the sea was as calm as @ opie baby. Per- haps you wouldn’t care for hearing that old fellow’s story, would you?” on ; es, if you don’t consider it too much trouble to 6.77 ‘“‘T never thinks anything a trouble.” ‘*Go on, then.” “Tt’s a good many years ago, but I remember it just as well as if it was last night.” Here the old sailor rubbed his face with his hand, looked com- | placently at his companion, and proceeded: “‘‘ Cap- , tain,’ he said, ‘ document, which is a will. I want you, when I am dead, to take that will out, and, if you ever get ashore again, I want you to go to New Orleans, and have it opened, and read, and fixed up.’”’ “ Was that all he said?” ‘Bless your eyes! no.” “Proceed, then—I am anxious to learn the se- uel. Said he, ‘My name is Gabriel Blanchard, and Maynard started violently, and, grasping Captain Broderick tightly by the arm, he said: “Did you say his name was Blanchard—Gabriel Blanchard?’ “Now, keep cool, will you? What on earth do you mean by hae se My fellow that way?” “Wor God’s sake tell me! Did he say his name was Gabriel Blanchard?” “You won't get excited?” “*No—go on! &, “Well, you see, one crazy person’s enough to have on board at one time.” ‘“But the story?” interrupted Maynard. ‘What did he say, and what became of him? Was he lost?” “One Yi at a time,if you please. No, he was not lost—we were picked up by the ‘ Henrietta,’ of Mobile, shortly after daylight. But, asI was say- ing, he told me his name was briel Blanchard, and that he had killed a man ina duel, and that man’s widow’s name was Sybil Mayning, or some such name.” “Yes, yes! Sybil Maynard, my wife!” The old captain pushed back his hat, and looked closely into Maynard’s face. *You’re sure you’re not going crazy are you?” he said, at length. “ Ag sane as ong are. My wife is Sybil Maynard, daughter of Adam Grainer, and that man of whom you are now speaking was once a lover of hers, and a bitter, bitter enemy of mine.” “7 begin to see through it now,” said the captain, drawing a long breath and whistling. ‘“ You’re the cha t en, as he said he killed?” “But you’re not dead.. How does that come?” “ Well, I fell wounded—it was thought mortally — and for five months I lay Hike between the grave and life. It was the first duel lever fought, and I tell you, re gee it was the last. But what be- came of Gabriel Blanchard?” “ As I said, we all were picked up and carried to Mobile. I’ve heard helives at New Orleans, and is rich. Inever got any hands on that will, though.” Maynard was waliclias away, with his hands to his face, trying to think what had become of Gabriel Blanchard, and what he meant by ee his will to his wife, when, all at once, a thought struck him: might not Mark Blanchard be the son of his ancient enemy? This was a terrible thought, and it is need- less to say it intensified the anguish that was tug- ging at his heart-strings. Captain Broderick was puzzled at the abstracted manner of his friend, and, after watching him a few moments, he turned away, saying to himself, as he went: ie “Well, this sounds like an old-fashioned novel!” CHAPTER XVII. A NIGHT OF DANGER. ” Tarze hours after Captain Broderick and Robert | Maynard parted, the storm which had been threat- ening so long burst forth in a fury so wild, so terri- ble, as to appall even the stoutest heart on board the Brazos. The heavens all at once became an ink black; the wind shrieked among the rigging, an wailed over the water like the voice of a spectral legion, while the waves threw their white h high in the air, and lashed themselves until the yeas foam lay thick upon the deck where Captain Bro- derick stood. Although not an inch of canvas was spread, the Brazos was groaning and creaking, as each heavy sea struck her sides, and her commander, with head bowed and teeth set firmly, cried out tothe man at the wheel: , “ Keep her before the wind, Max—keep her well before the wind!”’ ‘* Ay, ay, sir!” was the response, but it was the last ever uttered by Max Clay, for the next instant a huge wave broke over the tossing vessel, and _ the eee elmsman found a grave in the coral beds, a undred fathoms down, ; In an instant Captain Broderick stood like a figure of iron at the wheel, and, shouting out, “Bring a rope hero, and make me fas , my hearties; the old craft is good for the voyage!” he ired the terror- ou’ll find, in my breast pocket, a ; she exclaimed, ‘‘ and papa! hile this was going on above, Dr. Gibson sat in the cabin below, trying to calm Tillie, while her — and Graham Cecil stood by, pale and fright ened. Tillie was sane enough now, and understood the fearful nature of her position mgr d although she was not wholly free from the influence Dr. Gib- son had exerted over her during those days in which her reason had been absent. She regarded him with a sort of reverential hom- age, and he repaid it with the most devout tender- ness and respect. oe Ob, doctor!’ she exclaimed, “the shipis going own.”’ He did not answer immediately, but, pale as a short, he waited for an instant in terrible suspense. here was a crashing of timbers overhead; the fore- mast had snapped off close to the deck, and it yet remained a matter of uncertainty whether the Bra- zos could manage to ride the waves a moment lon- ger or not. “Cut the rigging and let her overboard!” They knew it was the voice of Captain Broderick, for no other voice could have made itself heard above the roar of the tempest. A moment more and Doctor Gibson said, in reply to Tillie: *% ae safe now. They have got rid of the broken mast,’ “ And you think we will reach shore?” “ Certainly.” “You are not deceiving me?” He looked at her keenly, and she blushed, and re- lied: “T don’t mean that. But, are you quite sure the cry is over!” “The danger is by no means over, but I_think the storm has spent its force. If you notice, the wind is not so violent as before.” “T think I do notice a change.” “Storms in this latitude rise very rapidly and are soon over,”’ put in Cecil. Tillie turned around, quickly. _‘‘ Why, Mr. Cecil,” did not see you be- fore.” Maynard came forward, hastily, and was about to grasp his daughter in his arms, when Doctor Gib- son motioned tobe quiet,and whispered: ‘Don’t excite her now. You must not speak of the past— th rahaver te trying to k iet e have been trying eep as quiet as ssi- ble,” remarked Major Cecil. ‘‘ The etary is Sioiao — without your father or I adding to the clat- rT. Robert Maynard stood silent, with all his love for his child in his eyes, and contented himself with lay- ing his hand gently—oh, so Se cd ain her head. while Doctor Gi*son and Cecil talked about tropical adventures as if there was neither storm nor danger threatening them. There could be no mistaking the fact, that the storm was rapidly subsiding. The wind only came now in fugitive blasts, and already a rift in the — Ayesha where the stars glittered in the sky on he keen eye of Doctor Gibson was quick to no- tice this Co the small cabin-window, and, tap- ping Tillie on the shoulder, he said, triumphantly: ““Don’t yousee the stars there?”’ She followed the direction of his finger. S. “Did I not tell you thestorm could not last much longer?” “ es.” “You see, now, Ihave not deceived you in any particular; therefore, when I told you awhile ago that your husband was not dead, but was waiting for you in New Orleans, you should have believed me at once. She turned around and gazed calmly into his face, and, while the tears gathered in her eyes, said: “Doctor Gibson, Iam as sane as you are! I re- alize my painful condition fully! 1 know my hus- band is a base man, and that he does not now, never did, love me as I loved him.” ‘““My poor girl,” answered the doctor, feelingly, “Tm glad to hear you utter those words. For the last few hours your brain has been sorely tried; it has now passed the crucial test, and I am glad to be able to restore you to your father as sane as you. were before this great calamity fell upon you.” “My daughter! my oak poor! child!” These were Robe aynard’s words as he clasped. Tillie to his breast, and pillowed her head there, a, much in the style he was wont to do years ore. “ Oh, you again! : “ And I’m so impatient to get home! I shaJ] never, never leave you again.” * And you will not go back to this man—your hus- band I mean?” asked Doctor Gibson. She shook her head sadly, and said: “*No; my love for him is buried in that imagina- ry ooo in Vera Cruz. I don’t want to ever see him ain. “Tam proud to hear you say so,” said Doctor Gibson, warmly. ‘‘ You would not be true to your- self were you to pursue a less independent course.” “Beg pardon,” exclaimed Captain Broderick, en- tering the cabin, and shaking the water off his over- coat, “but, I thought I might as well tell you that. we've lost every stick that would hold a yard of canvas, and that we are now at the mercy of the waves. “Do you nee this that there is danger of the vessel sinkin Ai ed Cecil, rather excitedly. “Oh, no. e masts are gone simply.’” * darling, your mother will be so glad to see _. jes Alls
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SO that thirst and hun those THE * And this will—”’ “Keep us out, God knows how long.” A “ Are we likely to suffer for any lia, captain?” asked Doctor Gibson. “ What do you mean, doctor?” “T mean, have you provisions enough to last for several days longer than the regular voyage?” “‘Well, 1 don’t exactly know; in fact, can’t tell until morning. We have plenty if the storm has not damaged our larder. But, Lord bless your soul, sir! that ’ere storm left us like a shorn sheep. The Brazos is nothing but a hulk.”’ “But, we are in the track of a good many vessels, are we not?” chimed in Maynard. ‘‘Is there not a likelihood of being picked up to-morrow?” - “Yes, we might,” replied Captain Broderick; “and then again we mightn’t. If it wasn’t for the little woman there I wouldn’t care a snap. Men are tough and can stand a good deal of inconvenience, but ladies are sort of tender, and I do hate to see women inconvenienced !”’ “You must not fear for me,” answered Tillie.. “God is above us all; he will provide for those who trust in him.” The od sailor looked at the speaker, and, doffing his old tarpaulin, stood as if in the presence of a saint. He had never before thought of trusting in God, in that way. CHAPTER” XVIIL WAITING AND WATCHING. THe sun arose round and red out of the waters of the Gulf on the following morning, and looked upon the deck of the Brazos, and over the wide expanse of ei. liquid beauty as if pleased with the reflection of its sunbeams, and surprised at the fhe tees a night had wrought in e ue. There were no tapering peas no bellied canvas; no network of rigging to catch the glow of the fresh rays; but, bald and black, the Brazos lay like an ugly blot on the face of the quivering wavelets. ere was not a breath of air, not a ripple; but, still and silent was the scene as if the pulse of ocean had been forever agen by the feverish tempest of the previous night. Captain Roderick stood amid- ships, telescope in hand, scanning the horizon, while the watch on the deck la; upon the forecastle, talking about the danger of the night, and specu- a er the chances of being picked up. “We have not even material enough to rig a jury- mast,’’ said one, ‘‘and per’aps we’ve only been saved from drowning to starve to death.” “For in sic I'd rather have went overboard with poor Max Clay, last night, than to sit here and waste away,’’ said another. ““Not a speck in sight, my boys,” said Captain Broderick. ‘‘ Not a single speck.’ “And that’s purty bad for us, cap’en,” put in an old seaman, “‘ since it’s been discovered that most of pais A in the pantry and store-room is spoiled.” “Is that so, Jamison?” asked the captain. ‘‘ Have you searched carefully?” “Yes, sir, I’ve s’arched.” “And found nothing fit to eat?” “Well, nothing wuth naming.” the appearance of “Did you find any thing?” ‘ A little salt pen 4 and a few biskits.” “Ts that all?” “Every morsel.”’ ae Sure 39 ante thd fe ‘: i ptain Broderick drew in a long brea and then glanced around at the faces that idoken ip for Soeouresatient from him. At length he said, quite e : ‘You've mostly knowed me for a long time, boys, wen’t you?” ‘Ay! ay! sir,” was the response. '. Pve always treated you kind of right, hav’n’t 1?” Yes, fair and square,” answered Jamison. ‘I can speak for the hull crew.” ., Lnever took advantage of one of you?” .. 40, sir, that you didn’t.” Never asked you to doa thing I wouldn’t have done myself?” :, Don’t think you ever did.” on, I am entitled toa favor from you, boys, now? “I think go, cap’en; goon.” “Well now, Took here,” and as Broderick spoke he glanced searchingly around at the ing faces of his dozen seamen. ‘‘I don’t want one o you boys to touch a biscuit, nor a piece of that pork, until these ere parties as are a get a show at them; especially that ere girl. I know none of it'll cross my lips. What do you say, boys? Will we stand by the oe — r now that Be hinens a mast left?” ex- Tm amison, facing the men. This allusion to the condition of the Brazos reached the heart of every man present, and a shout went up from every throat, that rung out over he waves. Captain Broderick understood that € so well that the tears started to his eyes, and he said: “Spoken like men; and boys, I tell you, now, your captain’s proud of you.” + long day wore toward itsclose. The heat dt Water had \ER'Snaca fea Gurng the to ms ; length stand hi er added not a little to the of the slow- hours. Bat now the sun was sinking in the west and me 00l breeze which usually accompanies sunset the pees deck and e, W ti : latitudes was fannin O sat at the stern the white brow of to Dr. Gibson. marked, after a pause. “Yes,” was the response, ‘we can now fairly appreciate those lines of Coleridge: ‘A painted ship upon a painted ocean;’ but I have a presentiment that this will not last long.” “Indeed! You are not a fatalist, are you?” ‘‘Well, I can’t say as to that. There was a time when I thought men made their own destiny, but within the last few days I think fate has a great deal more to do with our lives than we are willing to confess, at all times.”’ She looked out over the still water at the sinking sun a moment, and then said: “Fate weaves the mottled web of life, and hence we get good and evil together.” “Yes, and in some lives, fate cruelly weaves more of the latter than the former,” answered the doctor. “Jn all, I think,” replied Lillie. ‘‘My life has known more of sorrow than joy. One great calamity is sufficient to eclipse the preuure of years.” “Yes; but, we recover from the test shocks very rapidly,” said Doctor Gibson. ‘‘ Were it other- isting e would be both unprofitable and unbear- able. They talked thus for hours, and hours, and it was not until the moon began to light up the eastern sky with its soft radiance that they joined Robert May- nard and Major Cecil in the little cabin, “Well, there is no sign of sail yet,” said the doc- tor, addressing . ecil. “Fate is against us, suppose. Were I less anxi- ous to reach New Orleans, we would doubtless be more fortunate.” Doctor Gibson and Lillie exchanged glances, and Robert Maynard said: “Let us hope that to-morrow will bring relief.” The next day the crew of the Brazos suffered keenly. The of hunger are at all times terrible, but to be athirst in mid-ocean is at once tantalizing and fearful. 4 wee water everywhere, and not a drop to Ti - , A small glass of water was divided between the passengers, but, on the motion of tor Gibson, warmly seconded by Cecil, it was reserved for Lillie. She was wholly unaware of this, and when she was told tobe careful of the liquid, as there was yoy. little more, she had no idea that the last drop had already been reached. There was no sign of discontent among that ot starving crew, however; but, hopeful and patien they walked the deck, straining their eyes in all directions for a sail. On the elite’ of the third day Bill Joyce, an old sailor, came to Captain Broderick and said: “Cap'n, I'd like to say a good-by to you.”’ » et Bill! Why, what on earth do you mean?’ Ye Well, cap’n, I mean as howI can’t stand this any Yr, « lo: 5 ‘“And what do you propose?” “Well, you see,” and here he dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper, “I’m goin’ overboard.” “Going overboard?” ““Yes, sir. Into the sea.” “What, you ain’t going to commit suicide?” ex- claimed Captain Broderick, a look of incredulity upon his face. “That’s the rough name for it, cap’n. But, you see, it ain’t that in this ere case, by a good ’eal. Now, what’s the use in me suffering along here for a day or two more, and then die at last? Better put an end to it now, and save trouble. ‘Sides, I have as 8 much to care for me now.” “Bill Joyce, you mustn’t think of such a thing. Ive eat nothing for twenty-four hours, but I can hold out for some time yet.’ “But, what’s the use?” 1 ““Why, man, we may be taken up at cd time!” “A saill A’ sail!” exclaimed Doctor Gibson, who stood at the stern with Lillie and her father. ‘““Where? Where?’ exclaimed a chorus of voices. > “To the south-west,” answered the doctor. Captain Broderick leaped high in the air, and exclaimed: — “Thank God, boys! No, no, not a cheer! Thank God, every man, in his own heart.” And every man did thank God in his heart, and many a lip moved in prayer. Nearer and nearer came the sail, until, finally, a boat put off from the approaching ship and came directly toward the Brazos. “Hello! what barque is that?” came from a man _in the boat. é : “The Brazos, of Galveston,” shouted Broderick. ‘* What vessel is that?” “The Peri, of New Orleans, bound for that port,” was the ye Oe - Zz An hour r the entire erew and passengers =e transferred to the Peri, and the Brazos was lashed tightly alongside. CHAPTER XIX. AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE, Smas Norman was seated in the parlor of the old St. Louis hotel. He was very grave, and even solemn-looking. He had heard bad news and was very much troubled. There were a great many ec sons in the apartment; some reading; others chat- ting and laughing, while, through the open doors of the ladies’ parlor, came the soft voice of the viola mingled with the round, ripe music of a woman’s voice. It was an old refrain; full of pathos and melody, and touched the heart of Silas Norman, sitting there in the gloomiest corner, beating a tattoo ‘“‘How very calm and silent the sea is,” she we | upon the table at his elbow, and all the while mut- tering to himself: “Ay; home is a sweet place, sure enough, but how few ever knew the delights of such a place! I did, though; but, God bless me! that’s so many ears ago that I can hardly remember it. Poor titia! I made her miserable, too. Ah! if Ihadn’t done that one — I would have little to regret now. Humph! andl expected that girl to love me as if I was her own real father. But it wasn’t ac- cording to nature, I suppose. I was such a fool, though, to go and tell Bradley Turner that she wasn’t my child, and about that little Missouri affair, too. Pshaw! I could pound myself forit now. But what's the use? B ey’s on the pious now, and Mangy is as good a girl as I tried to make her. If there’s any thing I am glad of now, it is that I didn’t carry out my first intention and make her a real b: ae roe these ir oor pimarncs AT ‘ oe e got up, yawned, swu is heavy cane and forwart a few times, sa then walked slowly down the great, broad stairway and into the bar- room. Arrived there, he glanced into a gilded mir- ror behind the bar, readjusted his colored necktie, and sauntered toward the street door. As he passed the row of fluted columns, he noticed an odd looking man leaning against one of them. He was a small, — gentleman, dressed in a ae "tai suit, and wearing a broad-brimmed at. Silas thought he had seen the face before. There wrs something peculiar about the deep-set, gray eyes and retreating chin, that reminded him of a personage whom he had met years before. He did not stop, however, to scan the features clo_ely, and was about to step into the street when the strange-looking little man tapped him on the shoulder, and said: ‘* Good-evening, sir!” If Silas had been stung by an adder, he could not have brag sty babs ys and turning, fiercely, upon the stranger. replied: ‘Well! What do you want?” “T didn’t ask any thing, did I?” “Why did you stop me, then?” “T said se Rabie 3 oes nobody ever stop you who don’t want any thing, eh?” “How dare you wpenk to me, sir?’ Silas was becoming furious. oe are 9 ° “Yes, sir—dare.” “ That’s rough talk.” "Yes, a make it rough work, too, if you are not Re “Tt would not be the first ota work you have pe A ag The little man looked up at Silas and ed ‘ “What do you mean?” Silas was a little cowed now. - “T mean Missouri !”” answered the stranger, and no sooner had he the words out of his mouth than he was clutched by the throat by Silas and violently thrown to the ground. : The latter then tried to run away, but, ere he could move, two men leaped out of the darkness, — oa a trice Silas Norman was securely hand- e ; , The little man scrambled to his feet at once, and exclaimed, triumphantly: “You didn’t make it, eh?” ““Who are a the prisoner, “Only Adam Pomfret, of Jefferson City, Missouri. You ought to remember me well enough, John Ramsey. I am the fellow who arrested you once, for forgery, and had My cooped. If you hadn’t taken nch leave in the way you did, and stayed in your cell for fifteen years, instead of b up the furniture the State gave you and running off to Louisiana, I wouldn’t have come down here. You see, you have twelve years to serve yet. Of course you remember.” This was said in a serio-comic way, that was ex- tremely tantalizing to the prisoner, and, in his rage, he wrung the manacles almost asunder. “You needn’t try that game, Jack,” put in the little detective. ‘‘We had them made on purpose for you. Now, wasn’t it kind of us?” “Curse you! I wish my hands were loose; I’d spi] your brains on this pavement,” said he whom we have hitherto as Silas Norman, but whom y his proper cognom “Su pose you w and I feel much ob you; I do, upon my conscience. You see, T can afford to swear by my conscience. I have plenty, which I'm sorry I can’t say for you, Jack.” : By this time’ the station-house was reached, and, after the usual formalities had been gone through with, John Ramsey found himself behind the bars of a prison once more. : On the following evening he was to be taken up to his old quarters in Missouri, there to remain twelve long, dreary years. It was a bitter ee he spent on the cold alone with his thoughts, and only disturbed now an then by the maudlin reper Mog a parcel of unfor- tunate creatures in the next ce His whole past life came back to him, and he saw each successive event as plainly as if his memory had the power of the photographer. He saw a eee eg girl whom he once loved, standing by the e of a tall, brave youth who was very dear to her. There was a long, grassy lane, with a pretty little church at the end, and the air was full of the music He dashed the tears from his eyes, and saw again a wedding; heard the jingle of wed -belis; the Spe congratulations, and felt the old heart pang on eine on that night now linked with the ong ago. * al of Sabbath bells.
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' ' | interrup ted Magdalean; “let us see him, please.” ee ee CO ihe " It was near morning when he rattled his cell-door, and cried out: i “ Ho, jailer! Ho, there!” af Well, ” answered the drowsy turnkey, moping in. “T want you to send to Dauphine street, in the morning, for a man named Bradley Turner. "I have a confession I want to make to him.’ * Allright. What hourdo ye want him?” “About eight o’clock. You'll find him easily about that hour.” ‘All right.” The door closed with a bang, and the turnkey resumed his chair in the front room, while the prisoner stretched himself upon the flags and tried in vain to sleep. ts CHAPTER ».0.¢ A REVELATION. fogsy morning, and a few persons stree Ir was a mist; “: ts when Magdalean orman were abroad in the and Bradley Turner left the house. in. Dauphine street, and started for the Second District Police Station. It was quite a long walk, but Magdalean felt so anxious to learn ne her “ sometime ™ fa- ther had to say to her, and, withal, was so distressed at his misfortune, that she ‘did not feel the fatigue at all, and was rather surprised when Bradley stopped before the dingy prison and said: ‘“Well, here we are.’ “Ts this the police station?” asked the girl. ‘Yes, this is the iacoptaas Just step in, please, and we'll see what ilas has got to say. It was an ugly, 7, rOUgD place, sure enough; and to Magdalean Norman it brought a keen fecling of gloom and heartache. She had a very tender heart es now discovered for the first time; and, whatever her feelings: toward Silas formerly. were, she ex- perienced nothing but the keenest pity for him now. “Gan we see the prisoner, Silas Norman?” asked radley. “Don’t think vou can see any Silas Norman,”’ an- swered the turnkey. ‘Why not?” “Well, for a good and sufficient reason.” “What reason?” ‘There ain’t no such man here “Has he been liberated, rate Bradley asked, excitedly. “ We that no person has gotten out yet. “Was there not a man arrested last night for ane Se $ done in Missouri?”’ putin Magdalean. “We that’s the man, you blockhead,”’ blurted out Bradley, d a with what he considered the mee of the turnkey. ell, I guess that ain’t the man, by a jugful,” retorted ‘the turnkey. ‘‘The man as done that for- gery, and is in that cell there, might have called him- self Silas Norman, but is real name is nothing but plain Jack Ramsey “Tt don’t atten particularly what his name is,” no,” with a yawn, “I guess not, seeing ‘ Yoo: ma’am, I will,” replied the turnke » With an admiring glance at the stately beauty of t' é girl. He unlocked the door at once, and ushered the see into a small corridor that ran in front of the rows of cells. if Oba ! was the exclamation that burst from the girl’s li lips, as she ca’ ugi sight of John Ramsey’s woe-begone features, an then she began to cry. The girl’s emotion touched the prisoner to the quick, and for a moment he could not speak. The he only managed = Ake in aqrhegns very little louder than a whis “Don’t pity me, vi don’t pity me. I’m not pores a fy 3 from. moe I've ee you too deeply ‘or you togive me any sympath Neither spoke for a while, and the silence was be- coming awkward, when Bradley said: ** Si, old boy, I’m sorry for you,’ He reached out his hand, and the prisoner clutched it through the bars and never spoke a word. Final- ly the prisoner said, with an effort: “T sent for you, ‘Mangy to t you a secret.” nggue Be] girl fear ton, and re as ‘Well, then, to be b “ T had Tony ago gusped bed dalean; ‘‘bu tell me, who is? ie Douglas doughton, a rich New York merchant, who, when I heard from him last, had retired from business and was living in a ae house on the Hudson.” ** And my mother?” “Was Lucy Wren be yn ak rinarviage oth Doug. Houghton. She, too, is still li ou were the first born of that marriage, and I, jealous of your fa- ther’s success in winning Luey, abducted you when you were but three years old. It was a terrible re- = , but lam sorry for it now, and have been for a mt your poe at | that,” answered Mag- 37 many years.’ eerhis revelation, coming so suddenly, and being in its nature so terrible, almost overcame Magdalean, and iy et rere becoming weak, she said turn- aS i ey very ack I’m afraid I’m going to faint.” She tottered, ‘and would have fallen had not. Turner caught her in his arms. A half an hour after, she was at her home, in Dauphine street, and was so far recovered as to be able to realize the fullimport of that strange story she had just listened to. “ And so, Magdalean, you are a grand lady,” said Bradley, after a long pause, and ate a Hage "of sad- ness in his voice. = \ THE GIRL WIFE. ——————————————————— She looked across the table at him, and, with a woman’s quick wit, divined at once his feelings. _|.. “You are not sorry, Bradley, surely?” “No; but—” “But what?” “Well, to tell you the truth, Magdalean, it appears to: me Ti pathen have you just as you were.’ tae “Well, ne ou see, a grand reef a good piece out of Bradle ner’s line; and, while I’m glad, for your porary os eepick days have come to you, 1 know it t best for me.”’ a Do you mean that a bit of good fortune could make me forget you?” He did not answer. ‘““Why, Bradley Turner, I didn’t think I ever did any thing to make you think meanly of me,’’ she added, after a little while. ee aa neyer did,” he replied, with an emphasis on the last wo “Then, why do you think I will now forget you— you, who picked me up out of the streets—you, who provided me with a good home—you, who gee my ee position in the World: of taught m your nob: e example, that there, is more good fick evil in every heart? Bradley Turner, Tl vnever, never cease to think of you kindly, tender: ere were tears in his eyes as S e concltr led, and, without uttering a syllable, he Ma ut out his arms, and for the first time in her lite, agdalean Houghton pillowed her head upona man ’s bosom. ‘God bless you, alean,” was all he could say. CHAPTER XXt. THE OLD LOVE AGAIN. JuNE roses were blushing red, and summer breezes | were softly blowing when Blanche Davenant met Mark Blanchard to make arrangements for a speedy | and quiet marriage. There was to be no display on this occa: on afew friends were to be invited, | and it w ed that, immediately after the mar- riage cere y, the nuptial party were to leave for Europe. They were go to make an extensive tour of the eonitinenst wer rere going to spend a season at Naples, a few months at Florence, a winter at Rome, and finally an indefinite period at gay and fashionable Paris. #, At the instigation of Blanche the utmost exer- tions had been made to discover the whereabouts of the old hag who had so rudely interrupted the for- mer marriage ceremony but without success. Of course everybody, including Blanche and her father, believed her story a disagreeable hoax; and, while the former regretted that it was untrue, she felt it to be her-duty to keep the promise she had so solemnly made toMark. .- But now, with all the sweet. delicious balm of this cy June day about her, she could not help wish- that her wedding-day was a decade, instead of a eck distant. ** You will never find the days long,’ said Mark, hen we are once married and ot for Europe. Yea say you liked Baden and Venice when you were | but a mere child; but, ‘if these delightful spots were pleasant to you then, what will they be now, whe you have the judgment of womanhood to appre- ciate and gener ie them?” She w: a blush rose to atoms and gazed abstractedly ot out of the open window. She only sighed in answer. He bit bis p with vexation and said: ‘ ‘ Blanche, you seem moody and out of spirits to-day.”’ “Yes,” she answered, ‘I have been thinking.” “ About what?” » 2 Oh, nothing: bend girl’s dream no only a girl’s “Tt strikes mé you are much sien b dreaming of “T was always addicted to ‘But, may Lask you the oat of your dream?” “ Certainly not.” hn His eyes ver sparkling now, and e his face grew scarist, he said, very munily: “May I guess?” “TP you vill,” was the careless reply. S Geaham Cecil!” ne arose to her feet, and, with an offended air, rR NO, sir! I wish you a very good-morning.”’ he looked like an ed queen as she pointed with her index finge the open doorway and awaited her visitor’s departure. “But, Blanche—” he stammered out. “Don't compel me to ask you to go,” she inter- rupted. ‘I am not so low, sir, that i will will permit you to insult me.” “T’ll come to-morrow and explain,”’ he said, as he moved off. “Suit yourself, sir,’ was her answer. The ee instant she heard the gate open and close again, and knowing herself S be alone she hurried up to her chamber." There, casting herself down by the bedside, she cried, aloud: “Oh! Cecil! Cecil pe will never, never know how dear you are to When she had wept ah her head throbbed with mee she sat down and wrote a long letter to Mark toa Hees se g that she had never loved him, but did not know until to-day that he was positively hateful to her. ue concluded by saying: “No matter what so- eae may say; no niatter what my friends may of my present course, I am going to be true to oe own heart. Aftersaying this much, it is need- een I suppose, to add that 1 never wish to see you | again.’ | ant, She folded up the letter carefully, and placing it in an guyelopes dispatched it by a servant at once to € ost-office. en, casting herself down on her knees, she prayed, oh, so fervently, for God to bring Graham ecil back to her, to pardon her for the error she had committed in permitting him to depart; and, finally, to make Mark Blanchard happy and content- ed with a woman more wor thy of him. ony can not sacrifice myself,” she burst. out. “I am not good and strong enough to do 50, and, what- ever evil may grow out of this step, 0) h, Father in Heaven, visit it on no head but mine 19 She bowed her head until her long hair trailed up- on the carpet, and moaned aloud in agony: “Blanche, my child.” It was Colone Davenant who spoke, as, full of pain and surprise, he lifted his daughter to her feet. ‘‘ What has happened?’ he vers “to cause you such grief? Tell me, dar- ms Don't be afraid.” e did tell him every thing then, never conceal- ing a word. When she had finished speaking, he sail “And so Ret love Major Cecil, and he has con- rene that 1e loves you?” “When did he tell you this!” “Last winter, before he left the city.” “Did he ask you to break your engagement with Mark Blanchard ?”” s ae sir; he never did. He was too noble for a ’ He panned f and looked down a moment, as if. in deep thought “Why was T not informed of this before?’’ “Because I had mad Soa mind to obey you, and therefore I did not think it necessary.’ There was another long pause. Then he said: “You have done well, my child, and I’m very, very sorry, indeed, for urging this union. I have now a piece of news for you, Gabriel Blanchard died an hour ago, leaving t ebulk of his fortune to an old sweetheart, once named Sybil Grainer, but who is now Mrs. Maynard. Mark, of course, is lib- erally provided for, I just left the house of ‘mourn- een saw the will in the hands of an attorney. CHAPTER XXIL A WILD CAREER. Mark BiancuarD stood beside the dead body of his uncle and ground his teeth with rage as he looked down into that upturned face. The features | of the dead were sharp and Spe and there was a pur lish hue about the half-parted | ibe. 0! exclaimed Mark; ‘* this i is the end of all my expectations? A few palt ‘ thousands—enough to keep me off the ticel | Oh! Ieould find it in my heart to bury these knuckles in your old clayey face!’ He Bhool his clenched fist in the face of the dead man, and perhaps would have carried out his threat had not Lemanuel, an old and faithful serv- asped him at that moment. hy, He’b’en bless me, M’r’s’r Mark, you amn’t gwine to strike de ole man, is ye?” The young man turned around fiercely. ‘“* What do you mean, you a villain you ce your hand on me?’ nows I’se brack, but I’se too white to stan’ by an’ see dat good, kind ‘ole man striked in de face.” “You dare tell me this?” “Dar! I dar’ any ting for pocr ma’s’r’s sake!” “Then take that for your pains.” And, as Mark How dare Blanche said this, he struck Lemanuel a heavy blow in the temple with the butv-end of a revolver, and the poor, faithful negro, fell back, dead. The murderer didn’t stop to see the result of that blow, but, hastily y patting ¢ the revolver back in his ‘ket, he turned on his heel and fled from the ouse. An hour after, he was standing in one of the noted ambling hells of St. Charles street, betting reck- Fenty on faro. The dealer, who knew him well, was surprised at his bad luck; while a knot of lookers-on stood aghast at ihe huge’ sums Mark staked and lost in quick succession. ‘Blanchard, you are not in luck to-day, d the banker, shuffling the cards. “No, I aKoate say not; but, I’m going to burst this bank or myself efore I leave this house.” “All right, my he ” was the smiling rep] “You bet ont the’ acs eh?’ P : “ce Yes. ” ‘And copper, too?” “Yes,” pper, 7 *, Dexterously the suave dealer handled the little silver box, and then threw out the card. “You’ye lost ae said the dealer, raking in bad money, while the spectators drew a long breath raate wonder at the on ed gambler. ane never spoke a word, but, taking out a huge roll of bills, laid them down befcre him, “* What do you bet?” asked the dealer, cool and calm. “Three thousand dollars.” Even the banker now grew pale, and his fingers trembled nervously as he dealt the cards. There was not the slightest sound to be heard; even the man who stood at the roulette table stopped whirling his ivory ball and came over to Blanchard’s side. ce ou lose!” came at last from the banker’s li and the pile of bank-notes were raked over to his side of the table. ‘““What will you give me for this?” asked Mark, excitedly, taking from the bosom of his aes a huge diamon pin. — | |
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: ‘Well, Blanchard, I’d rather not go any further.” “But, you must give a fellow a chance for his money.” 4 Well, yes, of course. But, luck’s been against you, so [ don’t think you ought to play more just now.” “Tf I’m willing to play that’s none of your busi- ne was the response. ‘“‘ Here, what will you give for this?’ : He held up the jewel between his fingers, and its fire flashed as bright as Mark Blanchard’s eyes. j ie eg dollars.” : en go on!” There ax another deal, and this time Blanchard won five hundred dollars. f “Do you wish me to deal again?’ asked the banker. “Certainly.” _ ‘Very well, sir.”’ The cards came out slowly, and Mark Blanchard lost one thousand dollars | Just as Mark Blanchard’s last dollar eae? a mancame running in from the street, and plucking Mark by the sleeve, he whispered: : “The police are after you for killing your nigger, Lemanuel. Come with me.” The poor wretch trembled and turned pale; he a, saw his end approaching, but he had not € co lowed the new-comer as fast as he could. _ The crowd who had witnessed Mark’s losses, gazed in wonder'as they saw the two men run out of the back-door and disappear in a dark alley. .“ This way,” said the stranger, whom Mark recog- hized as an old friend; ‘‘ this wer They crawled through a long, dark hall, and finally lunged through a small paint-shop and out to ommercial Place. ‘Which way now?” asked Mark. ‘Up Camp street.” The two men walked rapidly to the corner of Poydras, where Mark stopped and said: ‘It won’t do to pass Lafayette Square. Policemen are there.” “You are right,” replied his friend. ‘Stand here & moment, in the shadow ot the Moresque puildipe: and I will get a cab.” . He was off in a jiffy, and in a moment more, * on gaa rolled around the corner of St. Charles reet. “‘Get in now, Blanchard, and let him drive you to the swamps. Once there, you can make your esca to By take. and obtain something to carry you off. Blanch was in the vehicle and rolling away before his friend had finished speaking. CHAPTER XXIII. HUNTED DOWN. On rattled the carriage, over the flinty pavements; past Lafayette Square, where a half-dozen police- men dozed in the warm sunlight; t Tivoli Circle, where happy children laughed and shouted in glee- ful innocence; past long rows of balconied resi- | dences; until, at last, the driver put his face down against the front window, and asked: ‘ How much further do you want to go?” “What street is this?” inquired Mark, his heart ag wildly. _‘ This is Austerlitz street. We are outside of the city naw. _ This is Jefferson, and if I take you fur- ther, I'll have to ask five dollars more.” “7 haven't five dollars, but here, take this.”’ It was a costly amethyst ring that he shoved up to the greedy driver. “Take me a few squares further, and you can go.” the fiery graye brea “. The driver cracked his whip; sprung forward, and Mark Blanchard held his in terror. He wes an abject coward, after all. “Marengo street,” said the driver, opening the door politely. Mark leaped out and gazed around him. Off to the left he could see the turbid waters of the Missis- sippi, rolling onward to the sea; to the waved an oc of emerald over leagues of y Swamp- lands. Mark turned toward the river. hag Of, , oe feos noon but the crowing of a 2 Mark turned his steps from .the river and walked rapi wa e swamps. ¥ x “Tt ouldt't do to trent that fellow,” Oe vel = rita a fo ee dike discretion, where 1 ques tion of life and death.”’ ‘ With perid strides he made for the tall waving i d, in willows which grew up out of the s soil, and, less than ten the iy he was screen bee Pigalle Crouching down in the darkness, his mersed in the pasty black mud, from which a green- ish current oozed Crary WhErS, he tried to colnet » thoughts and endeavored to form some Pp escape. . The bells of the distant city came to wr penta yoice of the past, and the stillness and damp urage to meet it, and so he turned and fol-. about him were suggestive of the grave to which he had just sent poor Lemanuel. i Having rested himself, he deliberately stripped off his coat and vest, for they caught in the briers as he passed, and, still stooping, he pushed onward. It was.a difficult route; the brambles scratched his face, and the thorns buried their points in his quivering flesh. Now he ip gs waist-deep in a pool of stagnant water, and anon he started back as some foul carrion-bird fluttered up from the reeds, and screaming, flew away. | Even the cries of those birds frightened him now, and whenever he came across them he paused with bated breath and tried to leave them undisturbed. Sometimes he was successful, but at.others the ugly things would detect the intruder, and, filling his ears with hideous screams, dart off. ‘ “Curse the black devils!” he would exclaim, ob tog d his teeth with rage; “‘ they will give the arm. “Finally, the twilight that ever reigns in the depths of the swamps, became darker and heavier, 4 crept slowly down upon the wretched Uy; ve. e did not stop, however; he could not think of passing a night in that fearful place; and, although weak and fatigued, he pressed on. The fire-flies blazed their transient gleams in his face; and then the darkness grew blacker than be- fore. His mouth was parched and feverish, but there was not a drop of water fit to drink anywhere; his head ached terribly; his eyes were burning up. taauhe sithdgeie lienda.ena: ying ebieae abs ¢ ing his b! y hands, an ok at the calm, Star-lit sky above. Again he staggered forward, and, falling over the root of a dwarfed tree, he lay there for fully half an hour. A light—a strong light flashed through the rank undergrowth. Hestarted in terror and shrunk back. Nearer and nearer it came. He held his breath. He now heard the voices of men. He shrunk back into the slime.. A moment passed; it seemed like an age, and then he dis ed that the light and the speakers were u on the deck of a sloop sailing down the canal to the b at the foot of Julia street. f The vessel with its flapping sail went by, and Mark Blanchard struggled to feet and started desper- ately forward. Two hours of toil, and he stood upon the bank of Lake Pontchartrain, not a great tance from the URPEE landing. ’ e was a frightful spectacle, blood-stained, grimy, feeble from over-exertion. — A steamboat was lying at the landing with steam up. She would leave for Mobile in a few hours. _ ‘I will go aboard and hide myself,’’ said the fugi- tive, after a moment’s thought. He drew a long breath, and then slipped into the water, and being an expert swimmer he soon reached the steamer. Grasping the guards he rested himself awhile, and then dragged himself onto the deck. As he did so, a policeman leaped from the engine-room and seized him by the throat. r “Let go your hold,” gasped Mark. “‘Surrender,”’ cried the policeman, leveling a pistol at the head of his prisoner. “Never!” hissed Blanchard, and, summoning all his strength for one final effort, he wrenched him- self free and darted back into the deck-room. The policeman was in hot pursuit. He could hear his footsteps close behind. The boat was heavily laden with cotton; an oil lamp stood on a pile of boxes. Mark’s eye took in this at a are He lifted the lamp and hurled it into a broken and half-open bale. an instant a wall of fire leapes up between him and his pursuer. Ding-dong! ing-dong! clanged the bell. ‘¥Fire!” ‘‘ Fire!” ‘“‘ Fire!’ shouted the crew, and all.was confusion and excitement. Higher and higher leaped the flames, casting a lurid glare far out upon the waters and the crew wy Smee rs rushed out upon the long pier. en the smoke-stacks already fallen in, and the Daisy Dean r bled nothing so much as a glowing cinder, Ma outer edge of the fan-tail. lanchard appeared upon the The policeman saw him, and, in a twinkling, two bullets had pierced the head of the poor wretch. His eyes glared an instant, and then he fell forward and was lost forever in the waters of the Lake. . = CHAPTER XXIV. AT LAST. One week after the death of Mark Blanchard, Blanche Davenant sat in her little rose-colored bou- doir, thinking of we ree and wondering if Graham ecil would come to her. “Missa, dar is a gen’leman in de parlo’ as wants ear: yeti ? Did he not send up } entleman e not send u ecard?” asked Blanche, M amied. - . NS “No, missa; he sed as how you'd knows it wa’ ot an’ dat he’s jest gotten home, an’ has no cards.” Blanche got up, glanced in her mirror; shook out the folds of her rich robe, and descended. the stairs, Her heart was thumping wildly; she half suspected who the stranger was: and when she pushed open the drawing-room door, and stood face to face with Graham Cecil, she did not faint or exclaim, but sim- ply reached out her hands and managed to say, very ow and softly: “‘ Cecil!” ; They were very, very happy now; and it was not THE GIRL WIFE. © Sia ee a J 7 13 until nightfall that Graham Cecil joined Dr. Gibson, Tillie and her father at the St. James Hotel. Two weeks after Graham Cecil claimed Blanche Davenant for his own. CHAPTER XXvV. LIGHT ON THE PATH. Ir was a beautiful October evening: the stars twin- kled in the soft blue of an autumn sky; the forest was all aflame with the glories of the dying year; and the smooth, unruffled current of. the mber- land crept toward the broad Ohio through a land- scape so lovely, that it would be difficult to describe. ose to the water’s edge walked Tillie Blanchard and Dr. Gibson. She looked very sweet and woman- ly in the rich glow of the twilight, and more mature, possibly, than when we saw her last, for five lo years have rolled away since then, but more digni- fied, and I think a trifle handsomer, too. The twain were — earnestly as they went, and finally the doctor said: “ Tillie, I have refrained from telling you what has been in my heart these many years, ause—well, because I thought perhaps you could not se (oe my feelings; and, although not naturally a diffident man, I feared @ refusal.’ Tillie did not speak at once, but continued to pluck to —— the flower she held in her hand, scattering its bright leaves behind her as she walked on. He expected a reply, however, and her silence ae him some. At length he stopped, and turn- g quickly upon his heel, looked his companion full in the face. “Tillie, have you no answer for me—have I waited all these years in vain?” She dropped the flower and gazed earnestly into amoment. Then the tears came creeping into the corners of her pretty eyes, one by one, un- til, in very coyness, she dropped the long fringe-like lashes down and wept. He could not understand this, and he said, coldly: “Do not weep,Tillie. There is no occasion for tears, I can assure you. I was foolish to mas fe pe you to love one whom you have only seen a half-dozen times in five years. I will try to forget this.” She laid her hand upon his arm and exclaimed: **Don’t! Oh, Bert Gibson, don’t go on in that way. You are killing me with your words.” “IT do not mean to reproach you, Tillie. Believe me when I say that lam only sorry that you can not — ot love I gr at 4 Pre e spoke very solemnly now, an asped the hand she extended to him. They ines their steps in the direction of Tillie’s house now, and when they _ — a short distance, she stopped suddenly, and said: “Bert Gibson, I have something to say to you— something I thought I never should be ‘able % say ain to any man.” e was about to speak but she warned him into ~ silence. “When I gave my hand to Mark Blanchard I loved him as few men have ever been loved—with a love that did not perish until there was nothing left for it to cling to. You know this, You know how wild, how passionate was my affection for that man. You, too, know how it allended. You came to me in my darkest hour; when despair had crazed my brain; when I had lost all faith in mankind, You have been good, and kind and noble to me.” “Tillie, ’m sure—” ‘““No, don’t interrupt me. As I have said, you have taught me that all men are not bad, and, during these many yonrs, I have worshipped you as my good angel. en you wrote to me that you were coming to Tennessee, on important business, I counted the days and the hours until you came; and, when, last night, you told me you were going away, I cried through the whole night.” She burst into tears again, and Doctor Gibson fold- ed her closely in his arms and whispered: “‘ After the storm cometh the calm, darling. There are fo ie days in store for thee yet,”’ “And, do you think, Bert, you can love me, know- sfortunes?” e not of your own making, tracting from your virtues, ade you, in my eyes at least, ing all you know of my mi * Your misfort darling, and inste: in any way, they h “And we n?’ Ca : am you do not wish to go there, most certainly in I never eke she ares I want tdhtive here ennessee where days w am ‘* Then so you shall,” howarwivet, illo The snow lay deep on the ground and the branches of the trees were heavy with a wealth of crisp flakes, when Tillie Maynard stood by Bert Gibson's side, and took upon herself the vows of wifehood. It was a pleasant wedding-party, with plenty of Pend and feasting, and, on the following day, ew years’ tour. sp all ne\ er Shortly after Bradley Turner left New Orleanshe ~ eatered into a real-estate business, from which he realized “sp Seg and one year after he married pretty Magdalean Houghton, and is now a prosper- ous business man in New York city. Poor, unfortunate Silas Norman, or, as we have learned to call him, Jack Ramsey, died in the Mis souri State prison only a few days ago. THE END. go back to New Orleans. ded couple started for Europe on a three-&
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