Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (v. 1) (1879 12 16)
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No.5, Vou L $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 16, 1879. — PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST., N. Y. PRICE, 5 CENTS. Bessie Raynor, the Work Gist; 2%: Quicksands of Life BY WM. MASON TURNER, M. D. Author of “Was It Love?” “Mabel Vane,” ete., ete. CHAPTER I. A FACE AT THE WINDOW. “BESSIE! Bessie! : aay i. oa ; ssie!_ Isay, Bessie, my child!” and the old man’s voice, meine turned uneasily on hye lowly oa went out in a pitiful wail. Here, father; I am here,” and the frail young girl, with a wan, couch of the sufferer, At that instant the dim-lit room was ablaze with a blinding fiash of | ment. v ei * / Se Pe ». A WILD CRY BURST FROM BESSIE’S LIPS AS SHE SAW THE WICKED, SINISTER FACE OF ‘‘BLACK PHIL” AT THE OPEN WINDOW. sot lightning, which revealed every object, as if with the splendor of the noonday sun. A moment, and the crashing, jarring collapse of the air. as the bolt came down, rattled the casement and the rickety doors of old Silas Raynor’s humble house. The girl started back, as she flung her hands to her eyes to shut, out the blinding glare. Then she turned abruptly toward the open window | to let down the uplifted sash. But the old man saw her. : “Stop, Bessie,” he said. ‘‘ Let the air come in, my child. Tl notneed. it much longer. Let me have it. Do not fear the lightning or the thunder; the gust will sooft'pass over, and God, who bas watched over us heretofore so well, will not let harm befall us now. Ha!” he exclaim- ed, after a slight pause, as again the red-winged lightning flared into | the room, illuminating every nook and corner, and quickly followed by he face, suddenly aroused from the littls s!umber into which she | ad fallen, and, rising from her chair, reeled, rather than walked, to the- the sharp, pealing stroke. , ; That lurid glare, blinding and more dazzling than the first, though & was but momentary in its stay, showed a scene in the humble apart- . —s
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Jed and awwe-struck, her lo ¢ in disarray down her bac weak and exhausted, stagger- blinding stroke, her delicate, arked havds pressed over the lack-luster, ear-red eyes, was a striking figure in that scene. An old man, with gray locks scattered over his aged head, with a weather-beaten, iron-like, yet gentle face, his big gray eyes glancing quietly above and around him, lay upon the humble bed, with its overty- L appointments. Occasionally he b y raised his hand to his forehead to wipe away the cold dew. gathering there so rapidly. Bui\his right~ hand nor his right leg did he move, @nd the muscles/of the right side of his face were Contracted; the deformity thus created about the mouth and cheek was hideous. This oid man formed another figure in this im- ive scene. j 3) was Silas Raynor—‘‘ Captain Silas,’’ as he wi nown in Lawrence, and in Newburyport, ‘ali along the coast-country. And for many-a he had. been known; for on this wild, gusty nig. £ in August of the year 1859, this very day, he had reached his sixty-fifth birthday. Four days previous to this stormy summer night of lightning and thunder, when, near sunset, he was j ng lasurely over the eastern bridge and listen- ing to theloud roar of the Merrimac, as its dark wa- ters thundered over the dam, thinking of his gentle daughter, Bessie, and his crippled boy, Ross, who * were at work in the great Pemberton mill, the clack and whir of its flying shuttles and spindles even then falling on his ear; thinking, too, of his long- absent son, the sailor on the northern seas, whose brown cheek and hardy brow were facing the Arctic winds, the old man had paused and staggered_to- ward the low, red parapet. A sudden faintness had crept over him; then a sense of numbness crawled slowly, sorte, up from his feet and settled in his Fone brain. en a deadening tingling had flashed rong his limbs, and with a deep sigh he had tottered backward From ic) ia and tallen yn the boarded floor of the bridge. yhen he had recovered his consciousness, a great crowd of men and women, of boys and girls, were yathered around him. The factories had “let out,” or the day’s work wasdone. _~ Old Silas was securely grasped in the stro: of Lorin Gray, the operative, and, on either side, as he slowly reeled along, supported by the mill-man, toward s humble home in the narrow alley-way near the canal, walked Bessie Raynor and Ross, the cripple, weeping bitterly and wringing their hands, en the doctor, hastily summoned, had come, only a cursory examination was sufficient to make him shake his head and whisper in Lorin Gray’s ear that the end was not far off. Yet Silas Raynor was, bodily, the impersonation of seeming health. This, then, was the fourth night that Bessie had sat up and watched by the bedside of her father, slee ing only at intervals as he slept, always heeding his slightest cry and driving grey er tears to make him think she was braye. Besides this, she did not stop her loom in the mill, but all these four days h worked half of the time regularly and steadily. she had hurried home to attend to her father. however, cripple though he was, had not an hour from his daily toil. e Rayners could not afford to lose an hour even work, "Tis true that it had been hinted that tain could afford to take his children out | and relieve them of the constant labor to 1ey were subjected. Tt was hinted that he ‘owned the house, an humble one, truly, use, in which he lived. It was hinted, too id captain had, in rae pgone, purchased estern property in fllinois for a song; and ie the draneec hint of all, that the old ex- who sailed in his youth in foreign : joney in queer, outlandish gold. old he had buried! 4S€ et Vel Pea and those who knew the edited them, for they were well aware : 1 his children. events, Bessie and her crippled brother st ; in the manner we have stated, in the on 3) s or accident included, their pay ceased until }again for duty. The proprietor could rd to ereate a precedent of this sort! ay had come regularly to the humble iq) lire after the old man. His visits had after his work was over; he, too, could not leave the mill. arms the If they stepped for any caus On his first visit, after the acci- dent, he bad unhesitatingly offered to remain all night and let Bessie go to bed. But the girl, with a blush—though she glanced gratefully into the sad, handsome face of the young man—had declined his , With thanks, eve was a relationship existing between the two, of which both were aware, ‘which made Bessie decline Lorin Gray’s offer. He did not press it. But he came again the next night, and, as he saw her ‘worn, wan look, her dim, sleepless eye, he again of- fered his services as watcher. But again Bessie re- fused, and this time, though her tone was decided and her words admitted of no further reply, her blush was more marked. ‘As the second flash of lightning glared in the room, Bessie uttered a shriek and reeled toward a chair for support. f “Qh, father!’ she cried, ‘‘’tis daneerves | You vs in the draught! Let me close the window, or— “No no, my child,” interrupted the old_man, speaking with difficulty, anxiety in histone. I must ' @utrust to you a secret, this—” ‘# “* & secret, father!” “Ay, my child, and this night, have it! t the air come in. I dread not the light- ning-stroke; if it be the Mascer’s will that it should be thus, I care not. I am going now, fast!” 6) father! do not speak so, You will recover, and—’ **No, my child, I know better. I can read what the doctor thinks, in his eyes and manner, and Lorin Gray would not deceive me. He has not spoken a word of hope to me yet. false hopes. Before the mid-watch, old Silas Ray- nor will have slipped his cable forever!” Bessie Raynor sunk into the chair, and, burying | her face in her hands wept silent, bitter tears. I1t was strange that the fountains were not long since drained. The old father turned his head with an effort; his eyes fell upon his daughter. A shiver passed over his frame; he strove to straighten, but the strong hand of palsy held him back, . “Come, Bessie,’’ at length he resumed, speaking in a low tone, but hurriedly; ‘“‘ my sands are running out with the speeding hours. I must tell you the se- cret I referred to. Justice to you, and an eye to your future welfare and that of your brother, impel me to speak; and the time has come, Draw near, Bessie,”’ and he beckoned his daughter to him. Unhesitatingly the girl arose from her chair, wiped her eyes, and drew near the bed. ‘First, Bessie, search in the old locker at the foot of the bed, and bring me the flask you will find. It contains pure Santa Cruz rum, I need it now. though I never used it. It will build me up, until I can tell you what I have to say.” The girl did as directed. In a few moments she had found the flask, and returning to the bedside, placed it to the lips of her father. The old man drank greedily; then, leaning back on e pillow, closed his eyes. For a’ moment he lay thus; but, suddenly arousing himself, he turned to- ward the girl, motioned her to take a seat, and be- gan to speak. ! Bessie quietly slid her hand into the sweat-cold m of her father, and Jeaning her head on her el- w, waited for him to proceed, “7 did not expect death so soon, my child,” he said. ‘Four days ago I was re | and hearty, and counted on a dozen years more of life, in which to look around for my children. But death has come sooner than I thought—ay, devth, my child! Had I known it I would have provided for you better; yet there is time. Listen, sg 2 child—”’ ‘Ross, father, Ross. Had I not better call him?” interrupted the girl, half arising. ‘tHe sleeps just above, you know.” The old man hesitated; a shade of pain came to his brow and a tear dimmed his eye. : ‘*No, no, Bessie,” he said. ‘‘Poorboy! Heworks hard. Let him sleep. You can call him when— when I have told you all; for then I'll soon be gone.” Bessie seated herself again, and once more sought with her own delicate fingers the hard, horny hand of her father. The old man returned her warm pressure, and ee oe his ee began: oth ie mus , Bessie; my stren) going again. Time hor eee will wait forme. My daughter, we have been living here in our little home for years— been living happily, though surrounded, not exactly by poverty, but by scanty comforts. You and your brother have been compelled to work in the mill and toil day by. day. Well, my eg you will never lose any thing by learning to work; but, Bessie, my heart has often bled for you, and more than once have J been on the point of relieving A from your hard work—taking you from the mill.” “Relieving us, father? Taking us from the mill? What mean you, father?” Bessie leaned over and looked anxiously, curiously, at her father’s dis- torted face The old man half smiled at her eagerness, yet his smile was one of pleasure. “T mean, my dear Bessie,” he said in a low tone, yet speakin tinctly, “‘ that Tam gt to také you rom the mill, to dress you in fine clothes, and send you to the first schools in Massachusetts,’ He paused. The girl started back in amazement. ‘ ae you, rey ate Sea resin om Heo, why have you not done y have you kept us at the looms ail this e 4 “There, there, my child, do not distress me more. time is fying, and I must soon be thinking of other matters. You must. not udge me. I said I was able to take you from the mill, and I spoke the truth; but, my daughter, I have been hampered with fear. Ihave gold, but I dared not let you know it. I knew that it would be of more use to you after | I was gone than while I was living. And I feared too, that curious eyes might be fastened on the gold which my children should offer in trade. Then I knew, too, there are some unscrupulous ones in Law- rence, who would gladly clutch at any pretext for suspicion and for persecution.” e old man hesitated as he uttered the last words with significance, and his eyes rested on his daugh- ter’s face. ‘ his wo ds ana the emphasis he had made. A shud- der crept over her thin frame, and she half-cowered away. py understand you, father, and your reasons for secrecy,” she murmured; ‘“‘I fear the man; but he is married, and I’! appeal to the law to--” ‘*But he swears he is not married, and the law is very slow at working sometimes, for—” At that instant another flash lighted up the room, and the sashes rattled under the vibration of the re- verberating thunder. No, Bessie, build not up | BESSIE RAYNOR, THE WORK GIRL. Bessie and her father both involuntarily turned or never, you must their gaze toward the open window. A wild ery burst from Bessie’s lips as she saw a stunted figure, with a wieked, sinister face there. wae ee Phil!”’ she eried, and sunk forward on the CHAPTER II. GOLD AND STEEL. Two hours before the occurrences as given in the preceding chapter, on this same sultry, gusty August night, the figure of a man might have been seen hurrying along Essex street. ; Oceasionally he cast his eyes aloft and furtively scanned the threatening sky, and noted the inky darkness in which the heavens were hid. Then he would redouble his pace. Hes udiously kept to the side on which the lamps were flared by the fitful, moaning summer wind, blowing in from the west; and, though the night was black and gloomy, an though the air, despite the ee ene was hot and stifling, he drew a wide-rimmed hat over his eyes, ae fastened his coat-collar well up around his neck, That man was Arthur Ames, of the firm of Arling- ton and Ames, brokers and bankers, doing business on Essex street. A quarter of an hour before we see him striding along Essex street, Arthur Ames had received a briet note. The contents of that note amounted to asummons. He was obeying the mandate. On he hurried, seldom looking behind him, but, as. we have said, occasionally timorously glancing at the ominous cloud-bank in the sky. At last, at the intersection of a cross-street, he passed beneath a blazing lamp. The rays, which were flung wildly about in distorted flashes, fell on the old man’s face and revealed it, pale, anxious and threatening. Fiftcen minutes from the time we first saw him, he passed before a low, solid, orey JoOking two- story house, the lower story embellished with a a window on either side of the narrow door. t seemed, indeed, that door had been sacriticed for windcw ; yet this was a banking-house, and the own- ers might have had their reasons for the straitened entrances. Arthur Ames paused here and glanced around him. There were few pedestrians abroad this night; not a soul was in sight. ‘Black Phil is in earnest!” muttered the banker, with a suppressed anathema, as he gazed furtively in every direction. ‘‘ And Yt; so completely in his power! Fiends! why didI trust him!’ He paused and fumbled in his pocket, as if seareh- ing for something. “But I'inot hesitate now!” he suddenly exclaim- ed, as if acting under an impulse. “If money will buy Black Phil, and carry him away, it shall be done! If not, a sudden thi ust, or powder and Lall, must and shall save me. Ill bo/70w the money from the bank, and Malcolm Arlington will be none the wiser.” He drew from his pocket a key, and stepping hack a few paces to a dark, solemn-looking door, which denoted the private entrance, inserted the key, cau- tiously, into the keyhole. There was a low, harsh rattling of the double bolts, a rapid shooting of bars, and the door opened. A moment, and Arthur Ames had entered the dark gg and closed the door cautiously, yet secure- y, behind him. rcely had he disappeared, before, asif from the shadows oa the sidewalk, the e of a te it ayo arose and slowly came into view. ith a few delib- erate strides he walked forward and paused at the private entrance of the banking-house. A neighboring Pp on the opposite side of the street, at that instant, driven by the moa; gust which crept along, flashed its beams brightly forth for a fleeting instant and illumined the face of the ps ee, Wee stood quietly by the side of the bank- =| £e. A singular face it was; hard, stern, calculating. brave, ambitious, “Tam armed, and it may be well that I am. Ar- thur Ames is a coward, afraid of his shadow, but, in such a matter as this, he may be desperate, for he holds every thing at stake! I would not have thought it. But now, my eyes are opened, anil ’tis I, oe eae, who hold you! Atlast youshall work or me |” _ ‘Ah, Minerva! Minerva!” he continued; “I know you love me not, and that you do love the low-born rin Gray. Dream on, dream on; I'll not awaken ‘ll love and worship you, for you must be mine!” He drew out a key, flung open his coat, so that he could readily thrust his han in the side pocket, and softly opened the door. At this same hour a light gleamed from the window of a small cabin, nestled close on the bank of the river, down on the wastelands below the machine shops. It was an unpretending habitation, and stood | all alone, and the light which flashed from the un- curtained window was small and unpretending, too; so faint, too, that its gleam did not penetrate many an into’ the dark, glowering night-air outside. Bessie Rayner saw his glance, and she had noted ; _ mean, shabbily-furnished room it was—sat a man,, | leaning his hands upon a low table. On the table , stood a rude inkstanc, open, and near by lay several ithin the room in which the light shone—and a sheets of coarsely-scrawled and blurred paper. The lamp which flung out its rays was placed near the open window, and in front of the man upon whose face it shone, That face was not one upon which the beholder would like to look twice. The man’s complexion was so swarthy that, in the uncertain light, it seemed almost black. The head 7 > if on P ee ON |
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was massive, square.and brutish, enormously large behind the ears and slanting over the low, wrinkled forohcad. The brow was lowering with the matted masses of coarse red hair falling over it, even down to the eyes. Those eyes were small, piercing, sinis- ter, and of an uncertain color, and they continually roved around restlessly beneath the shaggy brows, thouzh the head was stationary. The lower part of the man’s face was covered by a short, stunted bear! of the same color ashis hair, though the mus- tache dil not conceal the large mouth with its thick, rotruding lips, between which showed one or two rown, jagged, overhanging teeth. aaa Tire frame of this person corresponded in its mold to tho beastly cast of features. It was_ short, brawny and absolutely deformed and distorted by the giant muscles which worked the limbs. The spread of the shoulders was immense, made more so by an unsightly hump on the left side of the back. One glance at his garb betrayed his calling. He was 2 mill operative. ; H> sat quietly for some moments, gazing at the blurred sheets and around the room, At that instant a dazzling flash of lightning blazed throuzh the open casement. Then followed the thunder. The man sprung to his fect and started to rush from the apartment; but he stayed his steps. “No, no!’’ he muttered; ‘I have sent him word to come, and I must wait for him. Ill strengthen my- self, and then I'll not care for the lightning; and the cabin is low, too. Yes, ll stay; for I want money, and I want to see Arthur Ames.” As he spoke, he ei and went toa large chest in the further corner of the room, He raised the lid thrust in his hand, and drew out.a black bottle, from which he took a long draught. Then, replacing the bottle, he returned to his seat near the window. Sev- eral moments elapsed, and he spoke rot. “ Ha! ha!” he cried, ‘now I am ae ant I. care not for the elements now; I care not for the black shadows which haunt me; for the shade which lurks at my elbow; for the childish wail that continually comes up from old Merrimac! No, I care for noth- ing save gold, and for Bessie Raynor. That girl is in my mind allthe time. By force or love, she shall be mine. Now, Nancy *—here his voice sunk and his eyes flashed toward 9, door which led into another room—‘* what of her?” As he spoke he arose. He cautiously eperupeped the door, and igi pia Nea ear down, listened intent- ly. But he heard nothing He crept softly over the floor, and paused near an old-fashioned, low mantle-piece. He glanced toward the door again, and then, turning resolutely away placed his hand on the wall, in a certain spot, aud pressed heavily. . Slowly a concealed door opened, revealing a cavity of considerable depth. In that cavity lay quietly a fang: glistening heap of gold. man gloated over it. At that moment the door leading into the room from the other apartment slowly opened and a wo- man protruded her head, and gave one glance at the scene. One glance was enough. With a wild, startled, greedy look, she was about to spring in. But she controlled herself and softly closed the door, without making the slightest sound. _ Tis all right, all safe,” he said. ‘But we’re go- ing to have a gust. I wonder if old Arthur Ames will come, as I have ordered him to do? I wonder if he too, is afraid of thunder and lightning, and sad, moaning winds, and sadder, wailing waters?” It were hard to believe that such words, breathing refinement, ay, Bey. itself, could fall from the coarse lips of such a looking person. If he fails to come to-night, it will be the first time he has braved me; the first time, though over twenty years—long, drea ears—have rolled b since that night.” r’ rea i ‘Ha! what do you want, Nancy?” he asked, as at that moment the door behind him opened, and turn- ing, he saw the woman we have noted before, stand- in the room, gazing at him. singular-looking woman she was. She, too, was CORR Her rani oF ie diag teed ters Ge 8 ass of thin disordered hair, profusel) sprinkled with fray, fell down her back,’ Wor face was ruddy, as if she was acquainted with the bottle however well concealed it was, which the man had drawn from the chest; yet about it, particularly on the brow, and around ‘the eyes aud mouth, there were hai stern, deep- Vv ae | - bl o) is nh ad grave lines, indicating trou © did not re to th . i 1 ol ‘ i t hf “hy € man’s question, but stood, Tsay, Nancy Hurd, what do you want, and wh: don’t you £9 tobed? I thought Seed were asieap)” he M Hund, is it? and why not Nancy Walsne?” sna ed back the woman, alanmning the door to an # like an Amazon into the room, he® basilisk Syeg piistening ee balls of fire. are not Nancy Walshe,” sneered the man; and he laughed a wicked, mocking laugh. “ And I've told you so before to-night,” balefal ee, didn’t move. She had caught the leful glare of his eyes, and she was somewhat pin Softer expression crept into her face, and Pinte goes h ad jpop fi told me so, To Esha you! Bah! I tell you, that for fifteen years I have ‘ hivs A he palpi you to live with me, but we are ing to prove m y can’t you believe me, and be quiet and reason- able, when tell you you are not dae wife?” These words were spoken with the utmost cool- are: the man half turned away from her. rrible shudder swept over the woman’s face Phil; but then, L on the ceremony wasn’t a genuine one, — | as she listened. But still the tempest which was howling in her bosom, and which she had once sub- dued, did not break forth. She controlled herself. “*his hard, Phil,” she said, in the same low tone, “to hear you talk so to me, I have always been true to Fig! and I thought Iwas your wife. I was deceived, Phil.” : “Then ‘tis time you were undeceived, for I swear to you that we were married by a false ceremony, and you know we were both drunk then.” The woman uttered not a word, but turned to go. The man saw ths movement, He stopped her. “T had jus’ as well be plain with you, Nancy Hurd,” he said, and his voice was stern and positive. **You can remain here for a while, but when I marry the woman I love, you must go.” Nancy turned like lightning. , “The woman you love. Who is she, man?” **You know her well enough; *tis needless to ask. Tlove—Bessie Raynor.” Though the man’s words were bold, yet he sunk his eyes and turned his head away. “Bessie Raynor! ay, a child of seventeen!” “She is old enough to be my wife.” “She is young enough to be your oldest daughter. And she hates you, despises you!” What care I for that, so I can get her for my wife?” : The woman paused; her eyes were now flashing fire; her Amazon breast was rising and falling, tu- multuously; her fingers were twitching nervously. Suddenly she strode up to the man, and laying her hand upon his shoulder, she hissed: “Tam your lawful wife, Phil Walshe; and I tell you, yes, I swear to you, that sooner than you shail marry Bessie Raynor, I will cut your throat, or Til tear her heart out! Bo you understand me?” The man cowered for a moment under those bold words, and shrunk away from the gripe of the wo- man. But he soon recovered himself, and suddeniy rising to his feet, he snatched a knife from his bosom and darted upon her. She turned to flee, but his strong hand clutched her and hurled her against the and her hand rap- wall. , She turned like a tigress at bay A mo- idly delved down into the folds of her dress. ment, and a knife. too, flashed in her hands. “Stand back, Phil! she hissed. ‘God knows I have loved you faithfully. But I am strong, and I am armed. I'll not be murdered in cold blood. Sens back, I say!” and she brandished her knife aloft, But the man still pressed on, CHAPTER IV. A FLASH OF LIGHTNING. - Ir was a terrible fire which gleamed from Black Phil’s eyes, and a fearful scowl which darkened his brow, as he strode toward the woman, who now as if driven to desperation boldly confronted him. His large ers griped the handle of his knife so hard, that the hot blood on the surface was forced away, leaving them cold and unnaturally white. But he paused ere he reached her, though the stern, wicked look did not pass from his face. * “You brave me, Nancy Hurd}? he muttered, be- tween his teeth, “and you threaten my life, and you also threaten Bessie Raynor’s life. You had better not been born, woman, than to have spoken the words you have just uttered! We have lived to- gether long enough; the time has come when we inust separate forever!”’ As he spoke, he raised his knife aloft sudden spring, darted toward her. The woman stooped and slipped away toward the other corner of the room. Black Phil! are youe ? Stand “ Phil Walshe! back, I say, or you’ll come to grief! Stand— But the man sprung after her. ‘No, Nancy; to-night we separate: and, for a change, you’ sleep in the Merrimac!” he hoarse interrupted her. ‘‘ But if you can handle a knife better than I can, do it; for now you have need!” In an instant, unheeding the threatening attitude which the woman hau assumed, he was before her— his left hand grasping out toward her neck. At that moment, from the op te direction, a knife blade raised high in the air, twinkled in the i The blade, with a whir and a whiz, de- A deep, smothered cry of rage broke from Black Phil's mitt as he reeled backward and clasped his tly. One look, however, at the wounded through the skin. ered himself at the woman. knife having cut its way simp] With a howl of Pf hae for the contest, and dashed furiou BESSIE RAYNOR, THE WORK GIRL. and, by a. She again met his attack boldly, unfline ae i Sdaboabae nay But, nothing could withstand the 3 of onset. Nancy Hurd’s uplifted arm was beaten down, and the knife fell from her nerveless fi A and Black Phil, with a kick, sent if spinning across her around the throat. With a single effort he hurled her to the floor, and still ing her by the throat, he raised his dirk menacingly above her. Madly the strong woman st led to free her- self. She succeeded, by a Sora effort, in tearing his grasp away, and gasped: ‘ “Oh! for oe fel sake, spare me, Phil! Iam not ready to die! I can not die now! Spare me, and I'll be your slave! I'll work on my knees for you and Bessie Raynor! Ob! pe ere . “Enough! You waste your breath, woman! The time has come; you die to-night—this hour, this minute, if there is virtue in cold steel!”’ With these brutal words he clutched his_knife afresh, and, without hesitating, drove it down? crs. A moment | ’ the room. Then his brawny left hand had ¢ : But that knife was arrested, and in a singular manner—a providential manner. A vivid, blinding flash glittered into the room, through the open window, lighting sip the apart- ment in every nook and corner. The electric spark leaped to the highly-tempered blade, in Black Phil's hand, and darted into the man’s system. But the metal blade absorbed the greater portion of the charge, and as the handle was porous and a bad conductor, the man’s life was saved. Yet he staggered to his feet, blinded and stunned, and reeling for a moment, fell heavily backward. The bright blade of the dirk was melted down to the handle. : In an instant, after recovering from the shock, which she too had experienced, Nancy sprung to her feet. Groping around in the darkness, she found and relit the bepret which had been extinguished. Then she hurrie y thrust the window-sash down and turned toward the man, whom she loved and honored as her husband. In a moment she was by his side, leaning over him. She tenderly chafed his temples, and rubbed his hands, Then she knelt down and drew him to her bosom, as if to force back, into his motionless re, life and vigor. ‘Oh! Phil! Phil!’ she cried, “‘ wake up and say that you live, that you are mine yet! Oh! Phil, [ forgive you—I know that you were drunk, and knew not what you were bgt Oh! God! can it be? He—he is dead!” she suddenly exclaimed, as she bent her face over to his, and gazed at his rigid, marble-like features. She sprung to her feet and rushed from the room. In a moment she returned, bringing a bucket of water. Unhesitatingly she flung it in the face and on the head of the unconscious man. he effect was magical. _ A sudden violent tremor shook Black Phil's brawny frame, in an instant a flash of color leaped into his dark face; the stalwart limbs contracted, and, all at once, the man sat up and rubbed his legs. “hiticy Hurd uttered a cry of joy, for, beast as he almost was, she loved this fellow with her whole heart. Then she sunk by his side and threw her arms around his neck. At first the man was inclined to repel her; for, in a moment, he had remembered og te Oe th same brutish look came to his face. t as glanced before him, and saw the melted d lade on the floor, a shudder swept over him. A scared, yet a softer look, came to his face. ‘“oPwas a close shave! And you, Nancy, are a good old girl to me, after all.” As he spoke, he slowly disengaged the woman’s arms from his neck and arose. “*Ha! so late? and ke not here?” he exclaimed, as he again glanced toward the clock. “I must see him,” he continued, in a low mutter to himself. ‘1 want to get away from these parts, and I'll go after him to-night. Iam q/raid to stay down here in this thunder-storm, Nancy,” and he spoke aloud, “I am going out.” “Going out? and what for, Phil?” : “To attend to business, which is—my own,” was the curt reply. “Business! Yes, and Tll be bound, with old Arthur Ames! "Tis a strange matter to me, Phil, that one so low in society as you, could have such a visitor, and could visit such a rich gentleman as Arthur Ames, the banker.” . The woman peered curiously at him, as she uttered these words in a low, distinct voice. The man started slightly; but, as a hoarse, haif- triumphant laugh broke from his lips, he answered: . “This may be pata to you, Bests, perheps; it is not to me. But hark you, my old girl,” and he lowered his voice and spoke sternly, as an anxious frown blackened his dark face, ‘‘ whenever Arthur Ames comes here, and is with me in this room, it would be wisdom in you to keep your ear from the hey-hole there, and as far away as possible.” “T understand you, Phil,” replied the woman, promptly. “Now, Iam going. I'll be back some time before day. If Arthur Ames comes before I am gone, tell him I waited for him, and that I have gone to hunt him up. He’ll understand,” He turned abru tly, and striding toward the door, at the further end of the cabin, opened it, and strode out into the dark night. Nancy Hurd did not move for several moments after Black Phil had gone. She stood gazing at the door through which he had disappeared, gazing at the melted knife-blade—the blade which fax been raised against her life—and a dark frown gradually grew into her face. , “T love you, Phil Walshe,” she muttered, in a low voice; “but Tecan hate, too! sAnd—yes—I solemuly swear feain, that before Bessie Ray or shall be your wife, I'll drive a knife into her heart! Ay! a thou- sand times willI do it! And you are hoarding money, are you? To run away and live with tae pale-faced factory-girl! Never, so help me Ged! And you dleed 0} Ames? What can be the hold you have on him? Shall I ever know it?” Black Phil, creeping as far as possible from the river, was soon in the road. He hurried along rapidl . . “Yes,” he muttered, as he act drew near the bridge, and as though asudden thought had flashed over him, ‘“‘it’s allin my way. They say the old man is beseoem uy or something like it. When he is out of the way I'll work for Bessie harder than ever. And how loud He hurried on, reached the bridge, and crossed. He paused as, at last, he stood at the further cae ge and gazed for a moment around him. en he turned abruptly, and hurried up the small Whew! how dark it is! “the dam is!” * _..~hCS Qe. . tow’ * es
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” 4 BESSIE RAYNOR, THE WORK GIRL. —— eee dingy street, on which, some squares away, stood the humble homo of old Silas Raynor. **IT can go through by an alley to Essex, thence into Lawrence, and will lose nothing by getting a look at the pretty-faced, meray dis Bessie!’ The wind was rising moment by moment, and now it sung a wild, shrill cadence around the ee roofs of the narrow way. Occasionally a broad, rapidly flashing sheet of lightning burned out from the black vault above, lighting up the little city of Lawrence as by a million gas lamps. Suddenly he paused. Before him, not twenty yards away, was the home of old Silas Raynor, the sea-captain. A dim light was burning in a room on the ground- floor. That room opened into the little yard. But Black Phil did not pause, because he was near the house where Bessie lived; nor was it because there was a dim light in the ground-floor room. CHAPTER, V. IN THE DEATH-CHAMBER. Buiack Pati had seen the form of a tall, stalwart man, and knew well enough whose it was. “Curse him! What the deuce does he mean?” he muttered. ‘He is always in my way! Some day he’ll get out of it, that’s all.” With these words he once more strode on. A few moments, and he paused before the alley-way lead- ing into the side yard. He stopped only for a moment. Then he cautiously entered. ‘ He was soon in the yard. He glanced around him. He could see nothing, nor could he hear ge i save the wind moaning and groaning loudly t the branches of the old tree above him. Then he drew near the window, from which the faint light flickered and flashed: The window was up. He fairly held his breath, as, at last, he stood by the low casement, and peered m. He saw every thing. Bessie leaning over the bed, the old. sailor, her father, lying upon it, talking to eae child, the plain furniture, the few comforts At that moment another blinding flash came, and another rushing bolt rent, the air. _ It was then that Bessie Raynor and her father instinctively turned their startled gaze toward the Sy dow, aid saw the dark face there. - Black Phil fairly reeled under the concussion, and tottered away. He knew that he had been seen, for he heard the wild exclamation of terror break from Bessie’s lips. Searecly had he set foot upon the pavement, before, suddenly in his way, arose a tall, and threat- ening digure. “ Ah!) you Phil Walshe! What are you doing, rowling here at thiS time of night?” asked the su en comer, in a deep, half-menacing voice, as he resolutely barred the other’s way. Black Phil's first movement was to thrust his hand into his bosom. But as a quick, vivid recollection flashed over him, he dropped his hand, at the same time clinching it. “T have 2s much right here as you, Lorin Gray,” he returned. ** But I don’t mind telling my business. Til just say I saw & lizht, and called by to see how the old captain was.” ’ ; ‘Ah! A strange way to learn—listening at the window! The door is in the front of the house!” ‘You are meddlesome, Lorin Gray,’ was the answer. ‘‘ Dare step between me and any scheme of . mine, and you'll hear from me in a manner which will surprise you—that’s all!” “T seek no quarrel with you, Phil,” was the reply; “but Tlaugh at any threat from you. Let me tell - you, however, that I have my eye upon you, and you do not cease your persecution of Bessie Ray- nor, I'll find the means to make you.” * And who made you her champion?” retorted the other. ‘I had thought, my fine fellow, that, though mill-man as you are, you dared lift your eyes to the banker’s daughter—to Minerva Ames, and—”’ “ Bnough, fellow!’ fiercely interrupted the other, striding toward Black Phil. ‘Be off, and do not tempt me to lay my hands upon you.” “T am going, Lorin Gray; but not at your bid- ding—mark that! I see I’ve touched a tender spot! Ha! ha!” And Black Phil strode away. Lorin Gray stood for a moment and gazed after him in the darkness. ** And does such a scoundrel as that taunt me? I, who was born for better things! Minerva Ames! Do Llove her? DoTLindeed dare lift my eyes to her? ishudder at the question. And yet she— But poor Bessie! Heaven guide me!” Black Phil strode on. Reaching a small cross- street, he turned into if. In ten minutes he stood in Essex street. Then, again resuming his. way, he drew near the banking-house of Arlington & Ames. Scarcely had he entered the shadow of the building when he paused; for, at that moment, the door of the private entrance suddenly opened, and a man came forth, The light across the street shone over and lit - the pale, chagrined, distressed features of ol Arthur Ames. He started wildly as a hand from the gloom was suddenly stretched out and laid over his shoulder. “The very man I am looking for,” said a voice, “You—you, Black Phil! at do you want?” asked the banker, tremblingly. . “Did you get my note?” continued the other. “Yes, yes, Phil; business has kept me late. on me- to-morrow night, at ten o’clock. Now, Pll ” 0. * Ali right, Mr. Ames; and I'll be there, But let me tell you something which, for all I know, may be news to you.” As he spoke, he leaned over and whispered a few words in the other’s ear. Arthur Ames started wildly, though he strove to conceal his emotion. With these words, Black Phil turned abruptly about and walked away. Arthur Ames, for a moment, stood musing. He had recovered from the shock which Phil’s sudden appearance had occasioned, and now he bent his head in pitae aw ‘‘Are all the fiends in torment opposed to me to- night? Caught in the act, bound to a man of iron will, by an infernal oath which I caxnot break— bound to him with a pledge which gives my daugh- ter’s hand to him! Disgraced in an hour! In an hour? Oh! no, no! That has come to me long ago. Dogged by Black Phil, haunted by shadows, I am almost crazy! Bessie! Bessie! And her old father tells tales to her! Would to Heaven she were, by any means soever, in my power! Then I could jorce her to listen tome. Ha! a bright thought! °Tis not | late. By Heaven! luck may be with me! T'I—” Without finishing the sentence, he wheeled about, and walking rapidly, disappeared in a moment up the _ treet. The cloud-storm was now beginning to sprinkle its heavy shower, and the wind was roaring and moan- ing like weary souls in unrest. We will now return to the home of Bessie Raynor —to the death-chamber of her father. “Black Phil! Black Phil, my child?” and a dark frown came to the gld man’s brow. “Yes, father; I saw him distinctly! Oh, Heaven! how I fear that man!” and she cowered away, as if one wae fain seek protection even from her dying ather. “The fellow is a villain, Bessie. I have known it for many years. And he has a hankering after you, the scoundrel! Nay, tremble not so, my child. We have law and order here in Lawrence, and you have friends, who will see that you are protected. Lorin Gray will—”’ “There, there, father!” interrupted the girl, quick- ly, though the thrill which passed over her frame was delicious, The blush, too, which mantled her cheek at the mention of Lorin Gray’s name, was as red as the sunset sky. “Do not speak of him, or of any one, now, father,” she continued. ‘You said you had something to impart to me; you said, too, father, that your energies were wasting away. Had you not better speak of things more serious, and—’’ “Those things are serious, my darling child, very serious to you. I knowI am failing, failing fast, Bessie. But I must speak about this matter first; then the other.” He paused, and then bent his eyes toward the flask of rum. Bessie understood him. She brought the vessel and ~placed it to his lips. : After taking a huge swallow, the old captain fones his face toward her, and began, speaking rapidly: You must beware of this man, Bessie, this Black Phil; and you must be warned of one greater than Black Phil—one mere powerful and equally ready to harm you—Arthur Ames.”’ “Why, father!’’ and the girl shrunk back, though she did not say nay. “You know, Bessie, Arthur Ames has paid you attentions which you cannot mistake. Do not inter- rupt me. You know all this, Bessie, despite the fact that you are barely seventeen, and Arthur Ames is nearly sixty. I tell you, my child, be warned of the man! He may mean no harm; yet, I tell you again, beware of him! I would rather see you dead than his wife! You, who are young enough to be his granddaughter. I thank God that, already, you hate him. Do not be led away or blinded by his riches, for—” “Oh, father! I fairly—’’ “Do not let the gives of gold dazzle your eyes; do not let that crafty old man throw a net aroun you. Years ago, Bessie, there were dark tales about the money which Arthur Ames handles, about the gold which dresses him in broadcloth, and spotless en, Which robes his proud daughter in si and laces, which rolls him about in a gilded coach! But old Silas Raynor is not a tattler; he will not repeat that old-time tale. Perhaps it was idle. But, be- ware of Arthur Ames—beware of Black Phil! There is a dark link between the men, They are villains, if any are to be found! Yet, Bessie,” and the old man’s voice trembled as he cast his eyes earnestly, anx- iously toward his daughter, “there 7s one who can be trusted, and unless all alens fail, one who truly loves you, my child—Lorin Gray.” Pi Opes still kept his eyes bent upon the face of the girl, ‘ mae Gray, father! You dream!” ling face showed the pleas- ure which her father’s words had awakened in her den’s ting’ om, “Dream! Not I! No, no, Bessie, I am seldom deceived. If Lorin Gray does not love my sweet fy Bessie, then, for once, I’ll own I’ve steered Ww Bi Bessie Raynor trembled; an exclamation had sprung to her lips, but she crushed it back. There was pain in it. . After a moment, when she did speak, there was a deepness of soul and an anguish of meaning in her low, scarcely audible tones. . ; “No, father. You are mistaken. Lorin loves the rich, the handsome, the fascinating Minerva Ames, and—”’ * Then God help him or any other man who mar- ries into that family! No, Bessie, I cannot believe it. I have trusted him too much. Lorin Gray is too is too honest, to look away from you, and east eyes upon a woman so h above him in life—so far as meee oes, you know. ey be- cause his strong arm held back the runaway horses to her gorriage and saved her life, is no reason why Lorin Gray should love Minerva Ames, or seek her for a wife. My word for it, and I see far ahead, there’s a mistake in this Paha “You may be right, father; but, is not Lorin’s strong arm and the deed it did reason enough that Minerva Ames should love him, and seek him for a | husband?” Bessie asked the question quietly; her tone was low and sad, as she turned her head away. This was putting the matter in a uew light—a strange light, too. Old Silas Raynor pondered; but, suddenly arousing himself, he said: “You speak like a woman, Bessie, deeply and knowingly—yet, fearingly. But, hark you, my child, ou do not marry Lorin Gra , if you do not secure h it will be your own fault! you lose him you'll lose a prize. But, come, my child, time flies. To other matters; they will not take me long. Oh, my darling sailor-boy, my gallant Ralph! so far away! And Isent him away, Bessie, with such an t! ty dollars and an old sea-chest! Coulda I have not done more? No, no; I wanted to save the other for him, for Ross, for you, and— Ha!” He stopped, and as a shudder passed over his frame, pointed with his left hand to the floor. CHAPTER VI. THE KEY TO THE CHEST, Brsste Raynor looked. An outside lamp was flaring in the wind; it flung its broad flame of light through the window into the room. The rays sprayed over the floor. In that faint, flashing reflection, lay a motionless, distorted shadow. The girl stared wildly and turned hastily toward the window. But, the light faded out as the fickle gale skurried in another direction, The ominous shadow was blotted out. “Gone!” said the old man, ‘in a low, startled whisper. “What could it have been? Was it a remonition of—of what is coming? It could not 1ave been Black Phil; I know him and his dark form so much—so well, that even his shadow could not deceive me. Could it have been, indeed, a fore- runner of—” ‘**Sh, ’sh! father!’’ interrupted Bessie, in a fright- ened whisper, though her own soul was quaking, and she did not believe the words she was speaking. ‘It was nothing—nothing but the limbs of the old tree out there. They are waving in the wind,” ‘Perhaps, perhaps, my child,” But the old man was not satisfied. “*Once more, Bessie, the liquor. I must have it, or my strength will go. Ha! the storm is coming. up in earnest!” he exclaimed, as a spectral flash o lightning, and another quickly following, lit up the small room, girl again gave the rum-flask to her father, and waited for him to proceed. This he did at once. “You recollect, I said, Bessie, that Iwas able to take you out of the factory. I think I told the truth. Yet, for good reasons, I dared not take you and Ross out, yet awhile. I thought too, it would all come out right in goodtime. But Tamcut down very suddenly, my child—too suddenly, "Tis all one however. . . . I wanted to talk to you, Bessie, to night, about these matters. That is my reason for not wishing the kind neighbors to come in. Youcan tell my brave koy, Ralph, all about this when he comes back. Alas! ... Listen, my child; there are scme people in Lawrence who ky.ow that I am worth, in this world ’s chattels—something. Arthur Ames knows it, for from him I bought this house. Jt is mine, Start not, and, I beg you, interrupt me not, for every minute is precious tome. This house és mine; and, though a humble cne, it is worth a few hundred dollars. I have the deed which secures it to me, all safe; yet, it has not been recorded. yeti have pais perha s, that I wasa tenant of Arthur Ames’. Well, ’ti one to me. tis a “Again, my child: years ago—it must be twenty- five at least—when 1 was in port, from a whaling cruise, I met an agent for western lands. He was a glib-tongued fcllow, and, by constantly getting in my way, finally persuaded me to purchase some land. 1 bought the far-away acres simply to get rid of the fellow. I was flush with money, and didn’t mind putting in five hundred dollars, I often regretted my Largain, But, not long since, I heard t news, if true, about this same land. The story went—I read it ina newspaper—that this western property, or some just in the same locality as mine was now worth so much ajool, so much an inch, an that a great city was growing ‘- there... L don’t know if o e-half of this is true. The land was w on Lake Michigan, in Iinois, To that prone ee got the deed, too, made out regularly by old Squire Abbott, now dead these ten years ou can get some honest lawyer to glance at the papers, and _ youif you can hope tor anything in that direc- Aon, “Again, my child: thirty years ago, when I was mate of the old brig Tradewinds, tr: cking between Boston and the Mediterranean ports, our crew saved a Spanish merchantman from wieck. We received salvage. share was twenty golden doubloons, or, in our money, about a hundred and four dollars. Now, for poor people, that is a good deal of money. Well, well; I was of a saving turn then; I had just married, and was compelied to save. o you think I did with my Spanish ee ; ar. What You couldn’t guess. I buried it in the ‘waste, .
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5 BESSIE RAYNOR, THE WORK GIRL. below the spot where the machine-shops stand to- day. Lawrence then only had a few houses... It was neither country, town, nor city—just a few houses; my cld father’s was one of them. I buried my gold, deep under the ground, and, marked the spot— marked it with a compass. Well, it has laid where I utit ever since. The city hasn’t spread there yet. thought I would let it lay, and— Good Heavens! What a flash!" ope Tle paused in his recital, as another blinding sheet of lig atning blazed into the room. But he resumed: “ho deed to this house, Bessie, the deed also to he land in Thinois—bend low and listen well, my child—and the. compass directions, for finding my buriod gold, are sewed all together, in a picce of tarrod cloth, tisht and secure, and the package in- sertodin the lining of an old pea-jacket. . I put them in thero for safoty. That old pea-jacket is stowed away in the blue sea-chest, which stands on the landing, at the head of the stairs. Nobody would think of looking for any thing valuable in it. Thercin, is its safety. The key to the chest is in my pockot-book._ Icel in my pocket, now, for it, Bessie, and take the key.” 9 The girl did as directed. Her soul was filled with wonder. She soon drew out the old-fashioned pockct-book. Opening it, she searched for a mo- ; ment in the folds. At. last, she held up a smalliron key, and gazed at it. At that instant, a terrific burst of lightning glared, like an. avalanche’ of fire, into the room,. It was followcd instantly by a fearful collapse of the air, Tho very house shook to its foundation, and the ratiling of sashes, and the crashing of glass added to ths terror and confusion of the scene. ld Silas turned convulsively over; he gasped but Ong®., 4 Bessie was flung upon her face, and the litile iron key flow, Uke a volt, from her hand. But she staggered to her foct, and cast a rapid glance at the a of him who ley upon the bed—him so dear to er, The glance was sufficient. ‘ Tho rigid lips, the fallen jaw, the staring eye, told atalo. Bossie understood it. usaf Tho dark blue discoloration, like a contusion, cov- ering the upper part of the faco, told a tale too. Silas Raynes had been killed by lightning. With aloud, wailing cry, a cry of frenzy, pecan from a torn and anguished heart, the orphan gir’ a her hands to her head, and fell lilxe lead to whe iloor. Suddenly a man, with disheveled hair, and a wild, startled expression of countenance, darted from the blackness without, through tho open window, into the room. Ho paused not untilhe neared tho stair- ose leading above. Here ho. stooped, and picked some small object from the floor. Whatever it was, he ores it in his pocket. Then turning, ho gave ono triumphant look at the motion- less form cf the girl, and retreated rapidly through the window. In a moment he was in the street. Rain was now falling fast. “Py Heaven!” ho. muttered, with mel. TP’vo woul Tho. key is mine, and soon shall all tho rest bo. Now, at last, Bessio Raynor, I have you in my power! You shail fecl the biting tooth of poverty, and want and wretchedness! Then you will accept my hond, and—my money! Hy monoy! Yes! Mine! , Lawear it!’ Arthur Ames, the banicr, was, indeed, a thief! CHAPTER VIT. A. HAND ON THE, SHOULDER. Soancniy bad the banker rashed forth from the death-chataber of the humble Raynor home that | night, as Bessie lay ia a swoon, wacn suddenly the window Was again darkened—this time by the tall, stalwart figure of aman, : ¥or a moment he gazed at the terrible scene be- fore him. ‘Then he rushed forward, knelt down, and tenderly lifted the senseless girl in his arms. ‘“‘ Oh! Bessie! Bessie! Arouse yourself! “Luck has been ‘e) : 4 Tis I!’? he Bh exclaimed, ina deep voice of anguish. ‘‘O! - ling! why did you not let me stay with you? Heaven be thantzedl” Ro ea as a shiver passed over the ee frame of the frail gir! : v| @ opencd her eyes and glanced around her. She m¢ Pain Biaic like a aturtied bes as she found herself . in the arms of the stalwart man, and endeavored to Feet ie m e oved cautiously wart Perens the gas burner, along the northern th ries ic prilliantly illuminated. But he eroom was quickly t ones to a, fine point, and lowered the gas-jets drawing to ine ied glass partition which separated © Hele a Sea RRS gee s reen baize along the polishe rods. | . ‘ Siaobe entirely dieinded the rays which might have a _ ee wT flashed into the counting-room, thence through the plate-glass windows beyond into the street. But he suddenly paused and bent his ear. He thought he heard the distant creaking of a door, and felt the quickly passing puff of an in-rushing blast, Trembling in every limb, for several moments he kept quiet. But he heard nothing more. Then he strode forward at once, turned the full stream of gas on again, and advanced unhesitatingly toward the large iron safe. He bent down and, for a moment, looked at the solid, heavy, grim-looking, burglar- defying salamander. e drew outa key. He leaned still closer over the lock-hole, and with- out heeding a alteba grating sound which at that in- stant echoed in the room, he examined the key-hole. Then he placed the key in the orifice, and— But he suddenly paused, and cowered back. “What am I doing?” he muttered. ‘‘ What would the law say and do, seeing me thus occupied? What would Malcolm Arlington say, did he now see me, his respected and trusted partner, at such work as this? But the die is cast! Malcolm Arlington has enough and to spare; he’ll not miss this. gone too far, and— My God! what is this?” A wild ery broke from his lips as, at that moment a tall form overshadowed him, and a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder. CHAPTER ViiI. TUE PRICE OF ESCAPE, Anruor Amms sprung to his feet. “You—you here, Malcolm Arlington!” and his eyes seemed to start from his head, The tall man smiled sneeringly and bitterly; but his eyes did not lose the other’s movements, as the old man’s hand slowly sought his breast pocket, and a fixed, dangerous gleam sparkled in his eyes. Malcolm Arlington understood the motion, and, in an instant, his own hand was in his bosom. Maleolm Arlington was a noble specimen of his species. _He was over six feet in hight, stalwart, erect, and of easy carriage. His face was not abad one. It was a stern, marble-like countenance, res- olute, fixed, brave, and unflinching. The men looked at one another for some moments. Neither spoke. The shaggy. brows which lowered over Arlington’s eyes gradually contracted uniil the keen gray orbs beneath them could seareely be seen. His forehead wrinkled into a frown, and he tow- cred grandly aboye the little old man, now. trem- pine efore him. “ And this is my partner!” ; The words were uttered in a tone of commingled scorn and in airy. Tie turned his head as a wild blast at that instant swopt around the old bank building, rattling the sashes, and shaking the wire gratings of. the win- dows. It seemed that somebody was forcing the front door. The movement Arlington made came near being a fatal one to him; for, as he turned, Arthur Ames suddenly drew a pistol, a self-cocking repeater. His haste defeated his purpose. Facing around suddenly, Arlington saw his danger. With a quiet stroke he struck the old man’s arm aside. _ The weapon exploded, a sudden sharp report ran, in the room, and the, ball sped on, imbedding itsel in the solid plastering of the wall opposite, and be- fore the would-be assassin could repeat the shot, Ar- lington clutched him ina giant’s grasp, and hurled him to the floor. A moment, and he had wrenched the pistol from his hand. “Now, Arthur Ames, you areindeed inmy powats in more senses than one!’ he said, ina Beep, 1issing voice. ‘“‘Thelaw would justify me.were 1 to blow your brains out, and I am. capable of doing it, forI am armed. But, Pl not murder you, old man. I can not slay the father of the womanI love. Get up, compose yourself, and we will talk.” As he spoke, he placed Ames’s pistol in his pocket, and, walking leisurely to a chair, seated himself. The old man quickly staggered to his. feet, and sunk upon the settee, near the glass door. He was. conquered, and, the dangerous gleam burned no longer in his eyes.. He crossed his hands before him, and bowed his head, as a_ violent shud- der shook his frame. 7 Maleolm Arlington looked at him, scanned him from head to foot, and measured the man who was so completely under his heel. But no softening look came to hisface. He was the same stern, composed, iron-gray man. j But he spoke. “Cheer up, Mr. Ames. Do not be cast down at your discomfiture. Perhaps, after all, by this little affair, you may be the gainer. Who knows?” Arthur Ames glanced toward him, as if eager to more. “You areinterested? "Tis well. You would like to oe maces Good, Iam a man of business. You Ow it.”’ He drew his Deny Boe watch from his pocket, and glanced at the ; “Tis late,” he said. “I will be brief and to the point. I havelong friend, that you Borsa s my were not altogether right—that you were loose in ce eye as that—Well, in a werd, I enought, to a certain extent at least, that you were a . Do not start! Lam telling the truth, as you know, and I will not be interrupted. You see, my dear partner, you have kept bad company—notoriously bad com- any. This first opened my eyes to erst rosy to ook into and sean your shortcomings. y, on’ more than one occasion I have seen you ata late hour of the ht, in company with that blaeck-vis- aged rascal, Phil Walshe! More. than that, I have seen you on the eastern bridge with Nancy Hurd,* the woman who lives with that man. Tis true, the are operatives in the Pemberton Mill, and earn their a ef) a a : _ Yo! I've | Sor bread honestly. But, Arthur Ames, does not Phil Walshe earn money dishonestly, too?’ and he lared meaningly at the old man, as if he would orce from him a confession. Ames did not answer. His arms were crossed upon | his breast, and his eyes were bent upon the floor. Yet he was listening. After a moment, Arlington resumed: “You see, Iam well informed. I was suspicious, and for the last four years I have been thinking— ' have been making inquiries, though you knew it not. To-night I heard from your lips that there was some- thing between you and this Black Phil. I overheard enough to lodge information with the authorities of this city. Thatis one hold. To-night, by chance, I saw you hurrying along wildly. It was unusual. I followed you—followed you hither, and saw you on our knees about to rob the safe. That is another old which I have upon you. Then, like a coward, you sought my life. have never harmed you; far fromit. Ihave given you place and prominence in ; the worlé; for without association with me, I do not | think you would have been known in Lawrence. Yet you made a base attempt to murder me, That is the strongest hold of all. “Ti not recapitulate; you know you are in my power; that your money, your reputation, your life, arein my hands. “Tis enough. But listen, and learn how you may retain all.” He paused as if waiting for old Ames to speak. But the latter still held his peace; he seemed over- whelmed. Mr. Arlington resumed: “Pledge yourself, by an oath to me, that Minerva mr ek pag © my wife, and all will be well. Refuse, and— “Pledge my daughter to be your wife!’ broke in old Ames. ‘* Why, my child does not love you; she is too young, and—”’ “Bah! and is not Bessie Raynor, the old captain’s daughter, too young tor you? I'll be sworn, too, she loves you not. You sce, [ also know about that mat- ter. But, Arthur Ames, you have my terms. An- swer quickly.” , “T tell ese the girl does not love you; and if truth be told, though I am sorry to admit it, she loves, I sincerely believe, the fellow who once saved her life, you know—the mill-man, Lorin Gray, old Moll’s onepted = “T tell you, Arthur Ames,” the other answered, “T care not, even were this true. Answer me: do you accept my terms?” “T can not—I dare not!” . “Then you and your daughter’s ruin be upon you / TH lock you, now, in this room, and summon a po- liceman.”’ He started toward the door. But old Ames called him back “Hold, hold, Arlington! I'll do axything! Do not expose me—do not ruin me!” You accede?” . Old Ames bowed his head in acquiescence. “Do you accede?—I want an answer,” sternly de- manded Arlington, “I do, Ido! quickly responded the old man. “ “Tis very well; you shall lose nothing by it.. But we must have papers; I will draw them. Then an oath to bind you, for these documents will admit of no witnesses.” He spoke with icy coolness, as he turned to the rapidly 1 taking out some sheets of paper, wrote ra for several moments. He was a ready thinker, and his fingers obeyed his will. In afew seconds he laid two written pages be- eee him. Then he glanced hastily over them, as oO sati ed him. he tossed the sheets toward old Ames, Arthur Ames tremblingly took them. He read them carefully. When he had finished, he turned sa: as if he shrunk from signing. But he saw the brig t gray eyes of Arlington fastened upon him, o used, seized the pen, and rapidly affixed his aig re. colm Arlington did the same, and then com- posedly folded the sheets. i side pocket of his vest; the other he handed to Ar- thur Ames. “Yours, Mr. Ames,” he said. ‘Keep it. Now the oath. ” ‘ As he spoke he drew a Testament toward him from a pile of books, and compelling the other to la it upon it, he administe to him a fear- oa Then old Ames snatched his hat, and with trem- bom haste, strode down the passage to the front Lorin Gray, who had kept a, iguely. vigil in the death-chamber, was astir with the early dawn. He awoke Bessie and her crippled brother, and then— wo he 6 ap compelled to do so—hurried away toward em By sunrise, or a little after, it was known all over Lawrence that old Silas Raynor, who, a few days be- fore, had been stricken down by paralysis, been killed by lightning the previous t. At nine o’clock a rap sounded on the door of the sorrow-stricken tenement, and in a moment, with- out waiting, Black Phil was in the little front room, eee tyler oe ee you. co e mi a e Raynor?” he asked. sev e shuddered and shrunk away. “Can't yae speak, Bessie?’ and the fellow ap- PRROR, Phill De you know the sad | SORE o you know the sad news, that father is—is—dead; that I can not come?” ; vet - “Then you lose your place, that’s.all! But Bessie,” One he placed in the in- h_to see if they corresponded in text. They eis {Read them, andsign, They are duplicates,” and e . | | | am fe ie
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; 4 2 ’ 4 ee and his voice sunk lower as he approached her nearer still, “‘say but a ante word—that you love me, and will be my wife. Then I will see that you aze oxcused, and that—’”’ ‘Oh, Phil! Leave me!” The poor cripple suddenly sprung from his seat, and snatching a piece of board at hand, rushed upon the fellow, and struck him a smart blow. In an instant, with a vicious stroke, Black Phil smote him down. Then he strode to the door, but paused, and looking back, said menacingly: ‘Took to yourself, Bessie! Look to yourself, Ross Raynor! One of you must be in the mill, or—” He closed the door without finishing his sentence. A half hour afterward, poor Ross, the cripple, left the house, and wound his way to the mill. Late that afternoon, a half-hour before Bea out” time, Black Phil was walking on the fourt floor of the Pemberton Mill, Ross ynor was near him. A few hot words passed between them, when, suddenly, Black Phil pushed the crippled boy rudely against and upon the broad leathern belt which was surging up through the floor. A wild ery rung out—a cry of horror, The boy was caught on the belt and borne upward toward the narrow rift in the floor above. Lorin Gray was at that moment near at hand, his coat off, his sleeves rolled up. With a shout he nooo furiously at the belt, and flung his weight upon it. The struggle was fearful, and all the hands looked on with terror, waiting for the result. The strong man won. He flung the belt from the wheel above, and the boy, senseless and bleeding, dropped, a crumpled, shapeless mass, to the floor. “Scoundrel! You did it! I saw you!” thundered young Gray, glaring fiercely at Black Phil. An angry scowl a to that man’s face; but at that moment he caught sight of a peculiar mark on the bare arm of the other. Phil started and shuddered as a wild look of fear came to his eyes. _“ My God, thescar!” he muttered, and turned has- tily away. CHAPTER Ix. THE NIGHT WATCH, A crowp of operatives, by this time, strove to get near the eg boy. “Take him down-stairs; he must have air,” said Lorin Gray, after a moment’s examination of the pier erushed form before him. ‘‘ The heat here is stifling!” Tn B few moments a stout cloth was brought. Then two of the fe ret men gently lifted the bleeding lad into the sheet, and raising him, bore him down the different flights of long stairs, until the outer air wasreached. The sun was just sink- ing, and its beams fell upon the pallid face of the ufferer. a He is dead!”’ said a bystander, In truth the boy looked like it. “No,” saidyoung Gray. ‘‘ He breathes; I can see his nostrils quiver.” As he spoke he leaned over him, and again ex- amined him. The murmuring in the crowd against Black Phil as the willful or unintentional occasion of the accident, were growing louder and more threat- ening. es He did it! the villain!’’ said a strong-armed man, who stood by, with a tear in his eye, and a scowl on hisface. ‘And he should be made to suffer for it!” ‘* Ay, blood for blood, if any harm comes of this!” echoed another; ‘‘ and the poor fellow and his sister just lost their father!” ‘“Ttseems that God forgets us poor creatures at times,” chimed in a thin-faced woman in widow's weeds, seedy and threadbare. “The scoundrel, Black Phil, should be flung'into the Merrimac "’ exclaimed a stalwart rasa 3 fellow, indignation and pity strangely commingled in his face. Ke And, for one, I—but—ha! here the fellow comes !”” At that moment there was a commotion in the outer edge of the circle of human beings who crowd- ec around, and in a moment, amid the half-whis- pered anathemas, hisses and jeers, which saluted im, Black Phil rudely parted *he throng and strode in to the side of the boy. A frown of defiance wrinkled his brow, and a dan- gerous fire gleamed from his eyes as he paused and glanced around him. He was a man that was feared. Hence, when he drew near, the dark words and ominous threats were sunk so low, that they sounded angrily no more. ba | pone fellows, that I did not do the thing in- tentionally,” and Black Phil’s words were deep and distinct. ‘' More than that, the man who says I did is a liar, and I'll make him eat his words, here be- fore you all.” An ominous silence followed this; and then, all’ eyes were fastened on Lorin Gray, who knelt on the py oat side of the boy, to see what effect the words of the black-browed mill-man would have upon 4 But the young man seemed to have forgotten every- thing, save the wounded cripple. “Poor Ross! poor Bessie!” he murmured. ‘God help them now!” ‘“To show you that I am fair,”’ continued P am willing to pay the doctor’s bill. “I don’t deny I accidentally stumbled against the—” “ Accidentally!” exclaimed the stout young mill- man, who had before spoken; and he strode forward as if he would brave the uly, ashamed of the silence he had kept. ‘I don’t be- lieve it! Lorin Gray said you did it on purpose, and Lorin Gray does not lie for such as you, or for any a ae and as if he was. | one else!’ and fronting the brawny fellow, he gazed | him straight and unflinehin ly in the face. Black Phil's ibe lips grew livid with anger, and an iron-like rigidity took possession of his repulsive features. He clenched his muscular hands, and said: “You are a brave man, Adam Lowe, to speak such words to me. And I tell you again, that you and Lorin Gray both lie, if you say that of me! Out of my way, or I'll crush you nnder my boot!’ and he turned as if to foree-his way out in face of all op- position. At that instant, Lorin Gray slowly straightened eee oe up. A deep frown of anger was upon his ace. “Do not notice the fellow, Adam,’’ he said, ina low voice to his friend, as’/he strode between him and the other. ‘‘ Now, Black Phil, repeat your words to mé, and I'll teach you a lesson you’ll not forget soon.” He reared his form as he spoke, until he towered high above his burly antagonist; at the same time he threw himself in an attitude which denoted dan- ger. Black Phil bent his eyes upon him; then he sud- denly raised his clenched hand, and started toward his opponent. But, at that instant, his eyes fell again upon the brawny bared arm of Lorin Gray, again upon the scarlet mark glowing upon the smooth, white surface, so distinctly in the setting sunlight. , His hand rane es by his side; a sudden pallor sprung again to his face, and, with a muttered curse, he stepped back, and said: - “JT seek no quarrel with you, Lorin Gray. The world is wide; go your way; I'll go mine. I say again, I did not intend to harm the boy. But,” and his voice sunk to a hissing whisper, “look to your- self, my fine fellow, and see to it that your path is yours—not mine!”’ Sonos he made his way rig on as Ne 5 the crowd. Ina few minutes he had disappeared. The operatives looked after Black il’s retreat- ing form, but said nothing. They wondered at the scene which had just transpired, yet they did not seek to explain it. In the meantime, the crippled boy showed signs of reviving, Lorin Gray saw him. He quickly turned and ordering a cup of water to be brought, placed it to the boy’s lips. 3 “Now, up with him again, men,” he said. “He is comin to; the air has done him good. Two of ace bring him along; we'll take him home. And such a home!” His last words were scarcely audible. The mill had “let out,’’ but the thronging crowd of men and women, boys and girls, slowly dispersed. The rude litter, with its burden of suffering human- ity, was borne away by Adam Lowe and another mill-man, accompanied alone by Lorin Gray, who walked sad and silent alongside. In fifteen minutes, the solemn cortege entered the little street on the canal, and soon the humble home of Bessie Raynor was reached. The twilight was settling hazily down, and from the door-knob and the closed shutters of the unpre- tending house, the black symbol of death was float- ing dimly in the passing wind. At that instant, light feet echoed on the uncarpet- ed floor within, and the bolt softly turned, Lorin Gray nerved himself. He could not retreat meen not now shrink away from the ordeal be- ore him. The door opened; a sweet, almost angelic facé ‘peered forth. The red-rimmed eyes flashed on the scene outside. and Bessie Raynor Only a look was eysieer a The door was flung wide open, darted out, up to the litter. A rapid, seare teeny ‘at the pallid, bleeding brow, and a wild shrie urst from her lips, “Oh! Father in Heaven! "Tis too much! too much!” and she fell hea’ to the ground. Lorin Gray grasped Bessie’s fainting form in his sinewy arms, and lifted her as a feather. The blow ‘had been too great. A dead father in the house, anda brother brought in mangled and unconscious, It was indeed a moment of trial. : “Bear up, Bessie! ‘Twas an accident! But— there, there—all will be well, Oh, Bessie! Good Heavens, she is cold! Run, Adam—fly to Dr. Gra- ‘ham, on Essex street; you know the number. Fiy, Adam! For there is more than one life at stake!” He turned, as the young man, letting go the stretcher, dashed away at once, and cairied the swooning form of the girl into the house, A moment and he returned, and with the other operative rouant in the stretcher, on which lay Rose yuor. We haye not words to describe the anguish which tore the gentle bosom of Bessie Raynor, when, after a long time, she revived, and learned the extent of her brother’s injuries. it was an hour or more be- fore she fully recovered herself, and could realize the new misfortune which had befallen her. . But gradvally, exhausted and sick at heart, the poor girl’s sobs and moans ceased, and half reclining ‘against the manly heart of the man who sat so eee beside her, her head sunk against him, and she slept. : Dr. Graham, who had been summoned, arrived long before Bessie recovered her consciousness. He irst examined the wounded boy, only giving a pass- ing pes at the girl, about whom ‘feel no concern. He examined the poor cripple thoroughly, how- ever. His opinion was, that the sufferer was seri- ously, but not gaye: poe sen hurt. His left arm was broken, and he had suffered some contusions. The latter, the doctor said, amounted to nothing; the arm, to get well, would require about four weeks at ie seemed to the furthest. But the shock was what gave him the most concern, After thus rapidly, but positively, expressing him- self to Lorin Gray, the physician set to work, and a) Le restoratives, then stimulants, to the wound- e vy Ross soon revived; but his groanings were pite- ous to hear. Administering then an opiate, Dr. Graham, after reassuring Lorin Gray in regard to Bessie’s condi- tion, and requesting the young man to remain there that night, left, promising to call early next day. When, at length, Bessie was sound asleep, Lorin Gray gently laid her on the old settee, pial a pillow under her head. And then commenced his strange night-watch—watching over the living and the dead. As the hours fled, he felt as though a mighty weight was drageing around his neck—as dhovch he would stifle. e went to the window, which was oo, partially raised, and flung it up. e started, as he thought he heard a noise in the yard. But, quickly stepping out, he peered around. He could see nothing; and strode back into the room; through the open window, which, as the reader knows, was on a level wlth the ground.,: _As he entered, he cropped the curtain, thus shut- ting out, to a certain extent, the scene within from oy curious eyes which might be peering around. e had scarcely resumed his promenade, when Bessie moved uneasily; then a gentle ery escaped her lips, then a wild seream of terror, as she opened wide her eyes, sat upright, and pointed, shudder- ingly, toward the window. CHAPTER X. CAN THE DEAD COME TO LIFE? Ir was well that, at that moment, Lorin Gray sunk so quickly to the floor, for just then there was a aeee of white smoke, then a sudden, sharp re- port. The young man pha to his feet, and, unheeding the startled cry of the poor cripple up-stairs, un- heeding, too, the wild shriek of Bessie, as she threw her bands above her head, and fell back on the sofa, he darted out through the open window. Rain was beginning to fall, and, as on the preced- ing night, lightning flashed and thunder boomed in’ the black sky above. Once in the yard, he glanced around; but the darkness was inky. He could not see a yard from him, save when the lightning glared through the branches of the old tree. The shot which had been fired into that room, was inte1ded for him or for Bessie; both were in a direct line. But the ball had struck neither, for he had heard its sharp spit, as it tore into the boards of the door behind. But he would be cautious now; whoever had fired that shot, could in all probability fire another—that other might be more successful. Just then, a blinding sheet of lightning blazed above. It lit be the yard meant 6 even tile rain- drops as they splashed into the little puddles, which had already been formed, could be seen. Lorin Gray glanced rapidly around. He was satisfied that there were no prewlers in the yard; so he returned at once and re-entered the house, After seeing that Bessie had recovered from her alarm, he went out and secured the gate, which opened from the street into the alley, thus, from u at guarter, shutting out danger of further intru- on. It will be remembered, that after Black Phil had had his stormy words with Lorin Gray, he broke rudely through the ring of persons gathered around, and strode away, ‘ Walking rapidly, he never once turned to look back. en he had crossed the eastern bridge, and, turning abruptly, bent his stride across the waste land toward his cabin‘on the bank of the river. A frown rendered his dusky face more repulsive than ever, and a sinister light burned in his eyes. When he reached his home, night had fallen, and a light was burning from tle same window, as on the night preTeay Black 1 halted as he stood near the cabin; he bent his head in thought. “"7Tis a strange thing!’ he muttered. ‘‘A ve curious thing! e features Ican not remember; twenty-two years make a long gap when you look backward. But,” and his voice trembled, and it sunk still Jower, ‘“‘that scar! It was never on but one person’s arm.” He ceased his mutterings, as, at that instant, the door was opened, and the woman, Nancy Hi ; stood there. She gazed at him searchingly. “Why, Nancy, I didn’t know you were at home yet,” he said, as he drew near and sat down on the coor-sill, heaving a deep, troubled sigh as he did so. ‘* You staid so long w th Bessie Raynor, I suppose, that you forgot to come home for your supper!” The woman spoke bitterly. Black Phil slightly started. “You are again treadin Nancy!” he said, in a low, deep voice. ‘Keep away from it, or you'll get into trouble for trespassing— that’s all!” ‘Well, Phil,” she said, ‘‘where were you, if you were not with Bessie nor? You know well enough the mill has been ‘let out’ long enough for you to get home twice.” “*Tis none of your business ven) and you've no right to ask me questions. But, I°il tell you why Iwas late, There was an accident in the mill.” “Ah! I hadn’t heard it. at was it?” much—a boy hurt.” : * Nothin y Black Phil seemed inclined to evade the subject or let it drop; for he spoke curtly, and still bent his eyes on the ground. : on dangerous ground,
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a ore | EP ey = se A boy! And who was that boy?” queried Nancy. “There are two hundred and more to choose from.” “Tt was Bessie Raynor’s brother—Ross. I staid to look after him a little.” The woman started. ““W.sthe lad hurt much? Speak, Phil, for I love that boy!” “T know you do, and I wonder at it. ‘Twas the reason I didn’t tell you sooner, But, he ain’t hurt much. He got in my w y, and I stumbled over him. He fell against the belt coming up from the great turbine, and— Well, he got hurt through his pie fault—that’s all. Don’t ask me any thing else.” As he spoke, he arose and straightened up; but he panaed: Laying his hand on Nancy’s arm, he asked, in a low, half-tremulous tone: “Do you think, Nancy, that people ever come to life after they are drowned—dead, 1 mean?” The woman glared through the gloom at the face of the man. : ; int What do you mean, Phil?’ she asked, in a low one, “What Isay: Do you think people ever come to life, when they have been dead for twenty-two years and more?” His voice was solemn and earnest. “No, Phil; but—” “ Allright, Nancy; enough. You have answered, We'll go in,” CHAPTER XI. LOOK TO YOURSELF, Buack Pum.and Nancy entered the house. Theman passed on through the kitchen to the room in which we first saw him; Nancy remained in the former apartment, and busied herself with the stove, on which a frugal supper was cooking. ‘ Once within the room Black Phil glanced around him. As the light shone upon him, it revealed his face, pale and anxious, his eyes wild and startled. _He strode to the key-hole of the door, and cau- tiously stuffed it with paper. Then, without turnin the key in the lock, he crept softly to the secre panel which we have mentioned before, opened t, and looked, gloatingly, around again at the glitter- ing heap within. Y ‘No, no; not enough yet! I must bleed him more; he must shell out. When I’ve gathered up a fortune, then good-by to Lawrence! But, not yet; I am not rich enough; I must have more. But, Suppose it 7s the fellow? Good God! I—I would go crazy! No, no; it can not be! And old Arthur Ames! But, I had forgot; to-night I must see _ Arthur Ames by appointment. ITH be gone, and— You, Naney!” : “Don’t you want your supper, Phil?” asked the “woman, coolly, 5 ““No—yes—that is—is supper ready? “ Yes, and waiting.” Mechanically he turned and entered the kitchen, where Nancy read the supper. He sat down, hastily devou is food, and arose at guee, No word had at all been spoken during the meal, He turned toward the door. “Tam going out, Nancy—” “Going out again, Phil? You.are justin: Can’t you stay at home any?” and an angry scowl, mingled with a mad, jealous glance of the eyes, showed the deep emotion which stirred her. ““T am compelled to go—that’s all.” “Going to see old Arthur Ames again, or that sickly-faced Bessie Raynor?” “None of your business. That’s enough. Expect me when—you see me,”’ With these words he turned and hurried away. Nancy stood near where he had left her, her eyes fixed on the door through which he had gone. “Ah, Phil!” she muttered, ‘you, too, are treading on dangerous ground! Look’ to yourself! I love that crippled boy, but I hate his sister!” maine aused, and then for a moment continued “T know not why I love the boy, unless it be that he has never spoken unkindly” to me, anit ‘9 seemed to like me. I'll be true to him; but Bessie! I'll sweep her from my path! And you, Phil, ay! look to yourself.” She turned to the work of clearing away the tea ngs. _ Black Phil hurried along his way. At length he reached the town, and s (ood in the dark street by het bridge. Ason the night before, so now he paused. “ Nancy is right,” he muttered. “Tis but a step by the house, Aer home. I want to see how that boy confound him! is; and—yes—pretty Bessie! I wan to see her!” ‘ He plunged on again in darkness. Ten minutes from that time, he entered the alley (Softly, at the lowly Raynor home. Creeping tough, he was soon in the yard: He started back and sunk into the shadow, as he noticed the open window, and the light shinin : through. After a few moments he stole forwa ont ras then that th had ats 1en. t the sound of his footsteps hai Startled Lorin Gray. But when the young man had come gat, Ras oe hid in the » When urtains prowler drew near $ fire was soul ager, a irrestrainable moment, he snatched his ph st his hand through the folds of. the fired. alley. had been drawn, the He was madly jealous; a wick- » covered Lorin Gray with his aim, and ate’? uready seen the result of the murderous As soon as he had fired, Black Phil turned and fled like the wind. He saw that he had failed, and that his safety lay in flight. ¢ He hurried on, heeding not the flashing lightning and the muttering thunder, nor the falling rain. He was on other business. At length he paused before a stately dwelling on Lawrence street; but he suddenly shrunk back as he saw a subdued light shining through the curtains of the parlor windows, CHAPTER XIL THE AROUSED BEAUTY. On this same night, old Arthur Ames, moody and depressed, satin the parlor of his elegant mansion in Lawrence street. He was alone. The light in the chandelier was burning low, yet bright enough to show that the old man’s face was the threater of contending passions, predominant among which, were fear and anxiety. Near him on the piano, stood a decanter and a cut-glass goblet, in a gilded waiter. The goblet wis half filled with an aromatic amber-colored uor. ld Ames gazed at it. Then reaching over, he seized it convulsively, and speedily drank its con- tents. “Twill make me strong!” he muttered. “It has often done so, in days gone by; now, I am depen- dent on it—am its slave! Well, well; I care not. Any thing to drive away the black, haunting shad- ows, which creep around me by day and by night.” He paused as if overcome by some accursed mem- ory, and, after a long pause, resumed: ‘Malcolm Arlington! Ay! he suspects. He has a hold upon me now. I fear that iron-gray man. He has found me out at_ last, and I—his partner! Where will all this end, and how? I have sworn my daughter away to him. Sworn her away with a written document, sealed with a hideous oath! Mal- colm Arlington knows his advantage; he will not let it slip from him, for he fears neither man nor devil. And that paper—ah! Ihave it here. Let me see it once again.” ; He arose, and drew near a side-burner. He turned the gas on, and a brilliant light streamed through the rose-colored globe. He drew from a breast- pocket a folded paper, and, spreading it open, glanced searchingly over it. Then ina low, deliber- ate voice, as if he weighed every word as he went along, he read: “ This wayne made and entered into this 20th day of August, 1859, between Malcolm Arlington of the first part, and Arthur Ames of the second, witnesseth: That, whereas, at a late hour of the night of date above, the said Arlington overheard incriminating words fall from the lips of the said Arthur Ames; and that, whereas, the said Arlington detected the said Ames, on the night above, in'the act of robbing the safe in the banking-house of Arlington & Ames, all the contents of which safe, in money, being the property of said Arlington; and whereas, ina moment of chagrin and desperation, the said Ames did feloniously and murderously attempt the life of the said Arlington, iit is “ First, That in consideration of stipul follow, the said Arlington swears himsel in the matter, and pledges himself to a lasting silence. That stipulation, to wit: , That the said Ames pledges, without any reserve soever, and without any yea or nay on his part, the hand of his daughter Minerva, to the said Malcolm Arlington, she to become his wife by the holy bonds of wedlock. “In case of failure, on either side, to fulfill his pledge, this agreement to be null and void. « Sioned OLM ARLINGTON. Bn ArTHUR AMES,” Old Arthur Ames paused and glared down at the carpet for several moments after he had finished reading this document of singular provisions, No! no!’’ he muttered, and his voice was harsh and bitter. ‘There is no escape, and the paper is cruelly binding. Shall I convert nee pranerts under my control into money and flee? No, no! cannot! Iwill not! I cannet give up my treasure; and, ah! blissful thought, I cannot give up Bessie Raynor. She shall be mine, by love or by force. Ii grind her down to poverty. Ihave the key; I know where the deeds are kept, and the directions for "He hacen edacied e paused suddenly. At that instant the door opened, and the tall, state- ly form of Minerva Ames entered. She was a brilliant looking girl, with her large, rand eyes, her noble brow, her hayghty mouth, Tap rich black hair was drawn away in"mnassive coils from her forehead, and then it was allowed to fall pre heres over Se ere She was richly clad, as if for some great reception. But there was something proud and wondrously scornful in the whole face. _ To-night, as she unceremoniously opened the door, and entered the drawing-room, she was fuperbly beautiful; but a frown was upon her brow, Arthur Ames hastily lowered the light by which he was standing, and crumpled tae bond in his bosom. Then he turned toward his daughter. “Ah! is it you, Minerva?” and he glanced at her searchingly, by the mellow light glancing from the chandelier. . The girl did not answer. She walked majestically to a chair, and, without he her father, seated oe Then'she spoke, and there was sareasm in er tone: “You are fond of being in the dark, father.” “My é ae are weak; they pain me in a bright light, my child,” was the old man’s reply. And there was a tremulousness in his words, a something reed: ions to to secrecy ee NOS. Cee a = — which betokened that he dreaded this interview with his daughter. From her manner he knew that for some purpose she had sought him—that she had something to impart. “Ah! a recent affection, father,’’ and she sneered. * But let it go; the light is sufficient. I did not know you were in, until Mary told me just now. Of late you come and go so like a shadow that we must needs set spies on you to find you out.” mae old man started, and glanced hurriedly at his child, ‘Spies! spies, Minerva?” he asked, seriously, “and on your father?” This time the daughter started. “T did but joke, father. But I am glad you are m. I want to see you.” “T’ve been in the house since four o’clock; long enough, truly, for you to find me. But what do you wish with me?” Minerva Ames did not, at first, reply. She cast her head down, and seemed to ponder. But, as she lowered her eyes, she flung a bright, searching glanee at her father. After a moment she slid her hand into her bosom, and drew out a letter. Handing it to the old man, she pointed to the superscription, and said: “J received this letter this afternoon. Do you know that handwriting, father?” I ask, because if anybody should know it, you are the man!” and she held it before his eyes. Old Arthur Ames glanced through his spectacles at the written words. A single glance was sufficient. He drew back. His face reddened, then apes and he riveted his eyes almost threateningly upon the faco of his daughter, ‘Yes, Minerva,’’ he said, ‘‘I should know Maleolm Arlington’s handwriting, and—” “Tis well, father. Now we'll see if you can in- terpret the contents of this letter. Listen.” oing beneath the chandelier, she read: “Miss MINERVA AMES: ‘*T am aman who never minces words, or evades a oint he wishes to make, So, in this ease I will not Ronete from a life-long rule. “ist. I love you, Miss Minerva—love you more than I ever loved woman—even more than my mother, heaven bless her memory. I love you hon- estly—for your beauty, your accomplishments, for your status in society, and because I am convinced you would make me a good wife. I have loved = now for four years, during which time my heart never turned aside after another idol. , ‘2d, There is a bond existing between your father and myself, which makes it best for you, and for him, that you should hearken tome. That bondis of a pecuniary nature. Perhaps Mr. Ames will euigniee you in regard to it. If so, he has my consent. ‘‘] write this as a forerunner of a call from me. I will do myself the honor to visit you to-morrow eve- ning, when I hope it will be your pleasure to receive — me. LM ‘@Tor,’! CHAPTER XII THE FATHER’S CONFESSION. ‘ Oxp Ames sunk into a chair, bowing his head 2 his breast. A smothered sob burst from his then an anathema. mie Minerva looked searchingly, yet scornfully, at m, ‘Now, father,” she said, in a cool, deliberate: ‘ “explain this strange matter to me, if you can.” But he did not raise his head. “Can't you s ;, father? Have you lost your ae wae with your fr ere nan it that you, in view of a pecuniary o} 0} ould aare pledge my hand to Malcolm Ar mn? Tell me, ff have, indeed, done such a thing.” Still there was no answer. The girl became impatient. “Does Malcolm Arlington tell the truth, father?’* “Yes, yes, ee daughter,” answered the other, hastily, as he half sprung to his feet. ( ‘Do you mean to tell me, father,” and the girl's eyes flashed fire, while her bosom heaved with emotion, “that you, with all your various proper- ties, with your high standing in the community, are under a pecuniary indebtedness of such magnitice- to Malcolm eagle that, in security for it, you should pledge my hand to him?” “Listen to me, Minerva,” he said. ‘1 have seen this terrible matter coming for a long time; but I had hoped to avert it, I have striven hard to keep it from you, my darling. Iam in Malcolm Arting- son power, am bound hand and foot to that man, an — ‘You in his power! Yow bound hand and foot to him! Ican not credit my senses! I know that you are worth piles of old! In the safe, in your chamber, jifty thousand—” ° * “ ! ‘“*Resp’t’ly and sincerely you “Mateo | ,. “Sh 8 | Minerva! Don’t speak so loud! You know you— | “And are you dishonestly bound to him?’ she fiercely interrupted him. “ Have you cheated Malcolm Arlington, or stolen from him?” Her voice was hoarse and commanding. | ‘Yes, no, that. is—of course—not! Never! Do | you think I ama thief, Minerva?” Lp tay “Tt matters not what I mean, and I know not what to think. I want to get at the truth in this matter. Telli to me, I bid you!” and she stamped he® foot authoritatively. “I wiil tell you all, Minerva,” he said. “You know that Iam pd ae rich. e world thinks prerecas own here in Lawrence in the but this house its elegant a) tments, 1 ence, the pile of gold safe up-stairs, are 70’ mine!’
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i +. -- “the safe, sayi \ BESSIE RAYNOR, THE WORK GIRL. ‘Not yours, father! Then, whose are they? Did them, or inherit them by fraud?” A marble-like pallor spread over his features as the last sentence spoken by his daughter fell on his ears. He started, a choking sensation seemed to = up into his throat, and he held his hand half- mingly toward her. “What mean you, girl?” he demanded, in a harsh voice, “‘Whence those insinuations?” and he glanced at her like a wolf. Tt was now Minerva’s turn to start. “ Tnsinuations, father?” and her voice was a little unsteady ‘‘Lonly asked a question. You say the id in the safe, the property in Lawrence, and this ouse, belong not to you. Task again: to whom do they belong?’ Olid Ames trembled at the persistency of his daughter, but he felt the blaze of her eyes upon him, He recovered himself, and looking ber in the face, he said: *““That they are not mine, and that Iam deeply involved, should be sufficient. But, I'll tell you, Minerva, and briefly: Ihave been gore behind-hand a Phone deal for several years past. I injudiciously indorsed notes, which I had to take up and pay. Then, I lost, first in this, then in that venture. en, for a—a certain—specniation, I needed ready pon 4 I had it not.; I knew there was money in the bank. I determined to use it. I borr.wed it.” He hesitated, as the falsehood stuck in his throat. “JT kept on borrowing,” he continued, ‘until [ gotiduretrievatily involved. I could not conceal it m my partner. He had long suspected it. At last, he charged me right out with pilfering from that he knew Iwas guilty of the/t. My blood boiled, for I had not stolen. I had simply borrowed, intending, of course, to return every cent. He would not listen tome. The amount Ihad taken was large—very large, Minerva, larger than the pile of money im my safe. So large, alas! that not only that money, but my entire property, is under lien to him—to Maicoim Arlington! He would not be satis- fied with less!” As» this other falsehood fell from his lips, he paused again, and looked covertly at his daughter. Her blazing eyes were fastened upon him; she was reading countenance. id she read it aright? ‘Now, Minerva, but littleneed be added. Only last night, 1 met’ Arlington. He invited me to the bank and then and there, under threat of exposure and prosecution, forced me to enter into an agreement with him. « The stipulations in that agreement were briefly these: First, on his part, he would say noth- ing of my conduct, and would not even exact from me that which I had taken—borrowed, you know; if, secondly, on my part, my darling child, I agreed that you should give your hand in marriage to Maleolm Arlington. Ah! my child, I yielded, for I knew that you would not see me disgraced for- ever lors : He paused and bent his head, not daring to look up. ; iieecrn Ames’s face was now like marble, her eyes stared almost meaninglessly before her, and her lips twitched nervously. * You “a og yourself, then, dear father, to give my hand toa man old enough to be- your brot er, at least?” ae “Yes, ne eae You see you are still in your ites amd? But, {am a woman, father, and have a woman’s heart, a woman’s feelings, Ican suffer, if I am yet under age. "Tis very hard that, for your short- comings and defections, I should sacrifice myself— all happiness—life itself, | aren “Sacrifice, my child? Why, Malcolm Arlington is a-fine-looking man, in the very prime of life, and I know he:loves you sincerely; and—he has money— moneyY—Minerva! that fairy something, through whose agency he clutches me by the throat!” ** Nevertheless, [ love not the man! You have sold me, father; in that act you have doubly orp ida soto Come what will, Ican not stand by the el) . “Gan not! Why, my child, would you sacrifice me, my name, all our money and position to—”’ “But, father, I love another!’ and a wail went from. her lips. ‘* Who?” thundered the old man, his eyes afire. “Lorin Gray,” was the low, but distinct reply. “What! that base-born— Ha!” He paused, for, at that moment, the hall bell rung in a peculiar manner. CHAPTER XIV. r bre HUSH-MONEY. “You must go, Minerva,” said old Ames, hurriedly. **T forgot that I expected company to-night, and— Ha! another storm!”’ He’shuddered as, just then, a dazzling flash illu- mined the mellow-lighted room for a flitting mo- ment, and then was gone, He cowered away. ‘Yes, father, another storm: and I welcome it, _ it is but a counterpart to the one raging in my ‘bosom. Again the warning bell sounded loud and sharp, as if rung iM one who would be heeded. ne **Go, Minerva; my visitor is urgent. We'll resume our subject at another time. Now—” “father, is not this visitor that black-browed mill- man; who already has come so often?” and she turned toward him. ‘‘How can you admit such “T tell you, Minerva, go! Go at once!” and Ar- thur Ames stamped his foot vehemently, and point- ed toward the door. With a scornful smile breaking over her hard, pale face, Minerva walked from the room. sed At last a servant was heard hurrying along the passage to answer the bell. A moment, and the door of the parlor opened. A short, thick-set man, his face concealed under a wide, soft hat, entered. He turned at once and closed the door, Then, business-like, as if perfectly at home, he locked it. “Tam here, Mr. Ames,” he said, in a rough, famil- iar manner. ‘I never break an engagement.” “*T know it,” replied the other, with some bitter- | ness, ‘‘ especially when you come for money and to persecute.” ‘“That’s lively! Persecute! Pshaw! Mr. Ames, we are old-time partners in an old-time business. I come, you know, to look after the dividends. affairs of the firm have not been settled. Iam sure there’s a balance due me. The | You can pay it, you | know, in installments; but I want one paid to-night, | that’s all.” The man was collected, and cool in the extreme. “T know your errand, Phil. But *’—and old Ames’s | voice changed; his words were stern and _ threaten- ing, as he turned half-fiercely toward the other— ‘the day will come when the last installment will pel eee my man! This thing can’t, and shall not as ’ Black Phil started just the slightest. ‘“‘ The gallows is a dark thing, Phil Walshe. Does ‘it ever come up before you?” The black-browed man shuddered, and a frown knit his brow, as he retorted: “You are hard on me to-night, Arthur Ames. J did the work. Idon’t deny it. Yes, But hanging to me is not as bad as exposure to you. By death would be over with me; by exposure, you would lose oe you value more than life—the money you han- sett “Enough of this, Phil. How much money do you want to-night?” . “That's clever, and to the point. 1y, a hundred will do.” The old banker winced; but he said nothing. Ris- ing he Sait a giance at his singular guest, and left the parlor. Chuckling low to himself, Black Phil left his chair, and sauntered toward the elegant piano. As he passed near the side-light with the rose-colored lobe, he paused. He was near the same spot old mes had stood when he read the contract between | himself and Malcolm Arlington. Black Phil had seen somethin ow near by the wall. He stoope It was a folded paper. Striding under the chandelier, he opened the paper and glanced over it. After reading only a few lines, a cry of exultation almost broke from him. “Ah! and this is why you kept such late hours at the bank. Ha, ha! old man, this is worth more to me than allthe gold Tl get to-night. I'll keep this well, ay—’’ At that moment the door was reopened. Black Phil crushed the paper in his pocket, and with a calm, imperturbable face, met Arthur Ames. ‘* Here is the money, Phil. Now I suppose, you are satisfied. I want to be alone.” “And want me out? All right.” His hand was on the door-knob. ‘Ah! stop, Phil; a moment, if you please. I ai about the accident at Pemberton. ow is the to) ’ if Not hurt much,” was the reply, as the man paused and glanced covertly at the banker. i a how is she?” and his voice fal- ered. Black Phil’s eyes glittered with jealous fires as he answered: “ Bessie Raynor is well—well enough.” ‘Will you take her a message from me, and sa’ oat £ °No, I won’t” snapped the man, rudely, as he turned and faced old Ames defiantly. ‘* And why, if I may ask?” demanded Ames. “Tl tell you, Arthur Ames, ina few words. I be- lieve you are tormenting that child. And why—I love the girl myself--that’s all!” ‘* You love Bessie Raynor? I—” ‘* Yes; and I have the inside track on you!” With these words Phil hurried down the hall, When near the street door a hand was suddenly pn nae out from the gloom,and laid upon his shoulder. lying in the shad- and picked it up. CHAPTER XV. THE BELLE AND THE OPERATIVE. Biack Pur turned. A voice whispered in his ear: “Be still, man. °*Tis I—a woman—Minerva Ames. Speak not. Take oe tan boots and follow me.” _ Wondering what all this meant, he obeyed. Tak- ing off his heavy boots, he strode on softly behind the girl, who led the way swiftly up the passage. Not a word was spoken. The back door opened before the girl’s touch. Minerva gent pulled the man outside under the shelter of the piazza. ¥ “TI knew it was you,” she said, in a low, guarded tone. ‘‘I waited for you. I want you to do a service for me, for. Ay “Yes; I am listening, miss,” was the reply, in the same guarded voice. . “Good. I have written a note to one who works a ey in the Pemberton mill. Will you deliver it 0 him?’ “Certainly; who is it for?” “Lorin Gray.” Black Phil started; but the girl continued: “Give it to him early in the morning, the first thing you do, mind you. I'll pay re when I see Lorin Gray here, for then only know that you have delivered the letter.” We know one another. | The man pondered for a moment. He saw that Minerva Ames was business-like. “All right,’ he said, at length. terms; give me the note.” He reached out his hand for it. He half-shrunk away, as, feeling about in the darkness for her hand, “T accept your | his fingers, as he touched the letter, struck the cold barrel of a pistol. Minerva Ames was wary. But Phil took the letter, and crept out into the yard, thence over the wall into the street. ““ Can all this be true, or is it a hideous dream? Has my father deceived me? Are we, indeed, pen- niless? CanI give up wealth? Can J part with sta- tion, society, luxury—give up all, and cling to Lorin Gray? Oh! the world! CanI turn my back on it, and wed Lorin Gray? Alas! alas! when that money and all that ah tt so valuable, were ours, then I thought I wouid have enough for both of us. But Lorin Gray is poor, very poor, and he is a mill oper- ative. Have I thought of THat? Yes, ’tis not too late; the world knows not that my love, so much sought after, has gone out after this open-faced, iron-limbed, high-souled man. Nay, he, himself, does not know it. Does he suspect it? Shall he know it? A crisis has come. Oh! Heavens! I can not sacrifice my position in this world—in society! Shall I retain it, shall retain money and luxury, by marrying that cold, heartless man, Malcolm Arling- ton? One or the other I must do! But I must, I must love Lorin Gray—the man so noble, so bold, so handsome, so stalwart—the man who stood between me and death! Who— Ha! Somebody stirring in the house? I must enter, and seek my room.” In a few moments she was in her room. , Minerva Am-s was a proud girl, worldly-minded and ambitious; but that night, retiring, she sunk in her rich evening robe by ber bedside, and bowed her head, and wept and prayed. She had scarcely gone up-stairs, when some one glided toward the parlor door, and disappeared in the room. The lights still burning in the chandelier, shone down on the pale, anxious face of Arthur Ames. He quickly turned on a full stream of gas, and be- gan at once groping about the apartment. “Could I have lost it?’ he muttered. ‘‘That aper which barters away my daughter, my reputa- ion! Could I have dropped it? Black Phil was here ! No, no! That would, indeed, be terrible! I must have hid it in ay desk when I went up-stairs for the money. It will be safe there, if it is there.” He paused. His search had been in vain, Turn- ing abruptly, he left the room, The next morning, at an early hour, Black Phil reached the mill. Before ascendin the stairs, he watched and glanced around him. eseemed to be expecting some one. uddenly his eyes brightencd, as he saw a tall form approaching. Lorin Gray came up. Hesaw Black Phil, and was about to pass him without ape ha But Black Phil approached him, and said, so low that no one else could hear him: “You needn’t be so stiff toward me, Lorin Gray. I have something for you—a letter from a lady, who asked me to give it into your hands—Miss erva Ames.’ Lorin Gray started, confusedly, and a deep red stained his face. : ‘A letter for me from Miss Ames? And you the bearer! Impossible!” A dusky flush crept into Black Phil’s cheeks. But he said, quietly: | ‘Oris very possible; *tis a fact, Lorin Gray. I think I am an honest man to bring it to you—you who tried to bring trouble on me about that crippled boy. But, here is the letter.” As he spoke, he handed the missive to the other. Lorin Gray clutched it greedily. Tearing open the envelope, he read the letter. He cared not for Black Phil. That letter was brief, only a line or so. When he finished it, a glad glow, which he could not conceal, spread over his face. He turned to li. “Were you paid, Phil, or shall I—”” “T want no money from you, Lorin Gray,” inter- rupted the other. “ My wages are, if you remember, somewhat better than yours.” Without any reply to this rude speech, Lorin Gray hurried away to his work. But, accidevtally, he had dropped the letter. Black Phil clutched it, and hid it in his bosom. when the dark-browed mill- Late that evening, his home, he chuckled, as he man hurried towar said: “fT hold the right bower in this game! I wonder if I can’t take the queen with it!” CHAPTER XVI. BROTHER AND SISTER. A suBDUED light burned in the little second-story back room of the humble Raynor house. Within that room, on a low, common bed, though one with sheets and counterpane faultlessly white, lay Ross‘ Raynor, the cripple. ‘he boy’s pale face shone like a graveyard marble in the dim light; the large, expressive eyes lighting up the rest of the countenance, so ghastly, as they arkled Leno around. On the forehead was a ark, ugly patch—the doctor’s work—shutting out the contusion occasioned by the accident. The boy’s face, though attenuated and pallid, was a sweet one—one over which it seemed an angel’s. wing had de genet over which pleasant breezes from a far-off, heavenly clime seemed already to, ee crept, leaving quiet, serenity, and resignation. there. The physician had been attentive to his patient,
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— ——————————— — BESSIE and had only left him an hour before, after looking i: sing appliances in which he had set the broken imb. The boy’s eyes wandered around him; they rested upon Bessie. She was asleep, though the hour was early. She was worn out and exhausted. , The dead body of the old father was still in the house. The funeral was to take place on the mor- row. Bessie had silently wept herself to sleep this even- ing, She had been thinking a great deal of her fa- ther, whose loved form was soon to be laid away in the grave. Sinceshe could remember, she had not been separated from him. Her mother had died when she was a little girl; in fact, when poor Ross, the cripple, was an infant. Now, she was all alone with that wounded brother. By a mysterious Providence, her father was dead; and Ralph, her noble sailor-brother, was far away ona foreign sea, She felt desolate, and tears had flown; then she had passed into a deep, dreamless sleep. Her head was as the shade, her brother's in the light. Tt was a picture, in that room. We'll not paint it; let the reader imagine it. Ross Raynor was a cripple from youth. He was uow sixteen years old. Anaffliction of the spine had distorted his thin, frail figure, dwarfed his stature, and made him a weak, delicate creature—the very sport of the winds, But he had been brought up to work, and to work hard, in a hot mill, with the clat- ter, and roar, and jar of machinery constantly around him, We do not deny that we find this statement diffi- cult to reconcile with old Silas Raynor’s last words to his daughter, that he was able to take his children from the mill. Perhaps he had reasons other than those he gave—reasons he intended to give, but up- on which death had now put an eternal scal of si- ence, The boy’s eyes rested upon his sister; tears came to them, as, in a low, hushed voice, he murmured: ‘“Poor, poor Bessio! She has been very good to mo; now she is worn gut. Oh, Heavens! we are all alone, and so poor! God pity us!” The girl moved in the chair. She raised her head. ‘“Were iba speaking, Ross?” she asked. ‘*Do you wish any thing?’ and rising, wearily, to her feet, she drew near the bed, and looked down tenderly in his face. “T was sayi>g something, Bessie; I was talking to ion 9 EutI did not wish to disturb you, my dear cister,”” : ‘*You did not disturb me, Ross, and I am sorry I so far oe ed myself as to go to sleep.” She sighed and bowed her head, as a tear rolled down her face. ‘“Why, Bessie, what’s the matter? Oh, sister, do not ery, for I wanted to talk with you to-night—se- viously, too. Ihave just been praying, and my mind was mado up; I was strong to talk.” “Oh, Ross! what mean you?” and Bessie suddenly raised her head and gazed at him. But upon the cripple’s face there was a sweet smile and a heavenly rest. “Don’t bo startled, Bessie,” he said; “I do not mind ib now. I did at first; but the terror has passed oway. He still smiled softly, touchingly, as his great bright eyes shone into her face. Bessio slid her hand down beneath the sheet, until it-reached his unwounded palm. She pressed his hand senteny, in hers, and looking him earnestly in the face, said: “What mean you, Ross? You speak strangely, and there is a wild look about your face. Tell me my eee if any dark thought distresses you; tell : me if— “T will, Bessie,” interrupted the boy, as a half- stern look of resolve came to his face. He paused for a moment; then he said, suddenly: .““ Bessie, have you thought, since father’s death, night before last, that— Well, have you thought how poor we are—how desolate—how forsaken? Have you pondered for a moment on the fact, that how, Indeed, we are dependent upon our own exer- : tions, and upon—what is a slender support—the cold 2 charity of the world?” 4 sie Raynor did not answer at once. She bent her head again, as her eyes filled with tears. But Ls quickly looked up, as a glad smile played over ler lips. ~ Sho had been thinking. No, no, Ross,” she said, in a low, joyous tone, Speaking rapidly. ‘‘ Let these forebodings pass from you. ve a secret, told me by poor father on his death-bed. You should have known it before, had not that dreadful accident happened. We are no Hs ed poor, Ross, and can leave the mill at any The boy started violently, and, as a twinge of pain shot through his wounded arm, he mrpabee _ Jtestrain yourself, my dear brother; keep quiet end I will tell you what papa told me—will tell eo ow, will you keep quiet and listen calmly?” ey, the ¢ripple goes at his sister; then eat ca ps need Che of assent. * oser im, Bessie grasped afresh . Ais thin, hot hand, and began at once. ; CHAPTER XVII. ; RAP AT THE DOOR. zi rena Raynor spoke rapidly; but, scarcely had nen tered a dozen words, when a wild, doubting “xpression came to her brother's face, and a half ery “Lorin!” she exclaimed. ‘‘ He promised to come; he is here. May Heaven bless him!’ ; Without waiting longer, she hurried down-stairs, and creeping softly through the death-inhabited room, lit by its single unpretending taper, she reached the front door. She panees here a moment; but, summoning her resolution, she suddenly flung the door wide but softly open. The light gleamed out, and with a little cry of alarm, Bessie started back at what sHe saw. CHAPTER XVIII. THE BANKER’S VICTIM. On the afternoon of this day, the events of the night of which we have given in the preceding chapter, Arthur Ames sat in his parlor. The windows were up, and the grateful breeze fluttered and rustled the loosely-hanging lace curtains, as it crept gently in.. , A chuckle broke from his lips—a triumphant, satis- fied chuckle—as he muttered: “Not so bad! not so bad! I'll have my cool hundred and fifty thousand, any ways more too, if Minerva consents to be the wife of Malcolm Arling- ton. He loves her madly. All the better for me! Ha! ha! Malcolm Arlington has much money and no kin! "Twill be mine some day, or Minerva’s—the same thing. She shall consent. Ill not give her a minute’s rest. Then, if worse comes to worst, I'll convert my property into em and fly! I fearsome- thing—something which C can not define. What, indeed, if the water has given up— Pshaw! No! no! But, should it! Then Black Phil would, in com- parison with me, be a free man. I'll see the old woman, who pretends to read the future. Some say she can tell what has happened in the past, and what is to come to pass. Marvelous tales are told of old Mother Moll. I have not forgotten about Abbott Johnson’s money; L'il cross her hand with gold— rich, bright gold. And she shall unlock to me—” He did not finish the sentence; for at that moment the bell jingled. Arthur. Ames glanced at his watch. It was a strange and unfashionable hour for callers. Who could this be? _The parlor door opened, and the servant girl entered, bearing a card. Arthur Ames Giamoelt at it, and an angry expression, spiced with fear, crept into his face. “Show the gentleman in,”’ he said, abruptly, to the domestic. “Confound him! He is in earnest about the matter,” he continued, as the girl withdrew. In a moment, the tall, elegantly-clad form of Malcolm Arlington darkened the door. He paused for a moment, and then, with a low bow and a half- mocking smile, entered the room. “Tam fatigued, Mr. Ames,” he said; “and asyou fail to invite me to be seated, pray excuse me for taking that liberty.” J These words were spoken in an easy, off-handed ee as the gentleman sunk composedly into a chair. “Pardon and your—’ He paused, as, looking up, he saw the keen eyes of the iron-gray man fastened upon him. ‘I understand you, Arthur Ames,” said the | visitor, half sternly. “You would know my business. My dear sir, you are aware that bank hee are over. We ave partners, too, and in view of recent occurrences, it seems to me that esa should be glad toseeme. Surely you have not forgotten that Iam to be your son-in-law?” This time, the mocking smile did not lift the iron- ay mustache over Malcolm Arlington’s lip, nor did words speak aught but seriousness. Arthur Ames cast a covert glance at his visitor. But, he was an adept in concealing his emotions. He smiled blandly, as he said: “Glad to see you, Arlington; but you startled me somewhat, for I was not expecting you, Will you smoke?” and he half-arose as he spoke. “Thank you, no,” and Arlington’s voice was serious and calm. ‘I came on business, I never | smoke unless all care is removed from me, Besides | that, the fumes of tobacco might not be pleasant to | a, ai senses of your daughter, and— Is she well?” | ‘Well, thank you; she received your note duly.” | “Yes; just twenty-four hours an I eee al | ceived no rep.y, Mr. Ames, and am here now to | me, Arlington. Iam glad to see you; inquire into the matter.” is was business indeed! ““You see, Arthur Ames,” he continued, and his voice was stern and distinct, ‘‘in business, I business; nothing more nor less. Our business of two nights since, was serious; it should not be so soon forgotten. Your copy of the agreement should keep the transaction well in mind.” y Ta spoke to Minerva,” said the old man, in alow bei ‘and told her of my obligations to you. She “TI hope you did not tell her the whole truth,” hast: interrupted Malcolm 0. nt “ol no! I told her a tale of my own making, an
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os hi ere el ote cence Rn ori ne eh eee ie eat Ree OS eer ae IE CON EE os 10 “Good! for 1 would not have my future wife to | in her chamber, she flung herself upon the bed and | burst into tears. know that she has such a knave fora father! Na; do not frown at me; I am speaking the truth. you doubt it; we'll annul the agreement, and J will submit the jacts in my possession to an impartial jury—the public. What say you?” ‘“*There, there, Arlington, do not speak in that manner. I am guilty I know. I am dependent on you for—”’ Just then a noise was heard in the small back room 2djoining the parlor. Old Ames looked hastily in that direction; then springing to his feet, he ran to the door, flung it «pen, and gazed into the little room. He caught sight of the skirt of a female dress dis- appearing through a side door into the hall. CHAPTER XIX. THE EAVESDROPPER. SumMonING every effort, Arthur Ames controlled himself and returned to his seat. ‘*The wind flurried in through the window,” he said; “that was all.” Maleolm Arlington looked at him keenly, but he said nothing. Several moments elapsed in silence, But the iron- gray man had come on business; he glanced at his watch, and said ‘Failing to get an answer, I have come, Mr. Ames tosee you about it. I have a planof my own. it want to hear from your daughter's lips, that she will accept me as her suitor. do not wish her to tell me so, for I honestly love her—love her more than I do my soul’s salvation, and I would woo and win— would prove to her that, though I am rough and poin in my speech, a thorough man of business, yet, that I have a tender, warm and loving heart, Which, in return for her love, I can give her.’ He paused. His words had grown hot, and a generous glow had come to his smooth-shaven _ cheeks, I ’ Old —— looked at him, as if expecting him to »roceed. me Now, place me somewhere so that I can hear and not be seen; then send for Minerva and have an inter- view with her. In the conversation, bring about the point I desire.”’ “Thate to do a thing of this sort, Mr. Arlington,” _ said old Ames, after a brief pause. ‘‘I may be a bad man, but T am that girl’s father, and it looks like putting a spy on her actions.” **T admire you for those words, Ames,”’ Arlington said; “but trust to my honor in thiscase. Remem- ber, I love Minerva not less than you do.” ‘**Tt shall be as you wish, sir. Retire to that room; there pe can hear all.”’ 1 Without a word, Malcolm Arlington arose and gaa to the apartment to which we have re- ferred, ‘ As soon as he was gone, Mr. Ames struck a hand- bell, A servant appeared. He Miss Ames that I wish to speak with her.” ‘*'Yes, sir.’’ In a few moments, Minerva entered the room. Her face was flushed and her hands were nervous and unsteady, as she arranged the folds of her hair. She glaneed hurriedly around her; she evidently ex- pected to see some one. - sy Why, father, where is Malcolm Ar—Mr. Arling- mn “Mr, Arlington? How knew you he was here?” and the old man scanned her face closely. “T_T saw him from my window. He came this bea then I heard the bell jingle.” She spoke innocently; but, what was strange for her, she cast her eyes down. “Mr. Arlington was here, my child, but he has gone,’ and he watched her covertly. “Gone! Strange that I did not hear the door, and —but, did he ask for me?’ and she looked straight at her father. “He asked kindly after you, Minerva, buc did not express a wish to see you. He said he would call this evening, you remember, and—” “This evening! Oh! I had forgotten!” and the girl started, as an anxious shade came to her face. “What disturbs you, my child? You know that ee Arlington notified you he would call this even- ng. Old Ames’ voice was lower and more subdued. “T know, father; but I will be busy till half-past nine, and 1 would see Mr. Arlington as became ‘so as my future lover,” “That hour will suit him,” said Mr. Ames, in a loud, = tone; ‘‘and so, Minerva, you have con- cluded to make your old father happy} you have concluded to accept Mr. Arlington? Heaven bless cir my child! Mr. Arlington is a noble gentleman, and— ‘Yes, father, he is, I know, in yee of me, and—and—for the sake of bot { can learn to love him.” “Thanks! thanks, my child! bless you, and—” “But, father, why did you send for me!” The question was so sudden it took old Ames by surprise. He stammered; his face reddened. But a bright look came to his eyes as a sudden memory flashed over him. e ‘I sent for you, to say, my child, that I would be absent this evening, perha r until a late hour of way worth of A I Toes Again may Heaven the night, and that you need not be uneasy about—” “Why, father,” interrupted the girl, ‘ Mr. Arlin ton is to come, you know. What will how will it look—” “Pshaw! daughter, Malcolm Arlington is a gentleman, en; as it may be late before he eomes, I may see him.” ev ood, father; as you wish.” The gir turned and left the room. Once up-stairs | | | he think, ai | littie feline turned and left the room. | The paroxysm lasted only a few moments. She ag aga! sat py } “This is folly!’ she muttered, in a half-hissing voice. “Ican not avert destiny! The struggle has been severe. I am awakened to the truth. Lorin Gray must go! Had he money, it would be differ- ent. But he has it not! Unlu fellow! Malcolm Arlington has money, and he has position. I am wedded to the world, and I can and will learn to love him! The die is cast, and to-night—” rae paused and bent her head low, as she con- tinued: “Yet, though I cannot love Lorin Gray longer, he must loveme! Imust have his adoration! Then, TP tell him.” When Minerva had B aio from the parlor, old Ames quickly let his itor out of the little back room. “What think you, now, Arlington?” he asked, as a bright smnile flashed over his face. “That you have ik your word, and that you can command me, my silence, and my purse,” was the enthusiastic reply. ‘*T am pleased then, and—”’ ‘Pardon me, I must hurry home, Mr. Ames, T’ll take the dear girl at her word. Til be here about half-past nine. Good-by,” and with a proud smile of victory upon his lips, and fires of enthusiasm glancing in his eyes, Maicolm Arlington grasped the old man’s hand. Then, striding softly to the front door, he opened it and left the house. The lamps were being lit in the streets of Law- rence, and the grateful breezes of evening flung the sand about hither and thither. Old Arthur Ames stood in his bed-chamber. He was robed ina singular attire, a rough-looking garb. and he held in his hand a large, wide-brimmed woo hat. He placed the hat on his head, and gazed at himself for a moment in the mirror, above the oto he hastil hed the light, and, en he ily extinguishe e light, an hurrying softly down stairs, left the house. At the corner of the adjacent street, directly under a lamp, he came in contact with a tall man. One glance at him, and Arthur Ames hurried on, The other turned and glanced back at the banker’s queerly-clad, retreating e. “Do my eyes deceive me,” he said. “That was Mr. Arthur Ames, or I’ve lost my sight!’ CHAPTER XX. THE DECISION AND THE CHOICE. Arrer Lorin Gray had receivea the note that day from the hands of Black Phil, he did not seem like the same man. He went to his work on the fourth floor of the mill, as usual, and as usual did not idle. But, there was an abstraction and an absent-minded- ness in his manner that was entirely wnusual. Black Phil all that day had watched him closely but covertly. There were times, too, when flitting about like a shadow amid the looms, the man’s eyes would fairly burn in the face of Lorin Gray, anda shade of anxiety or fear would epring to his brow. At such times he would shake his head and skulk, mutteringly, away. ; Having obtained permission from the overseer, Lorin Gray left the mill at an earlier hour than usual, and hurried toward his humble lodgings on thecanal, _ - Once in his room, he flung himself into a chair, and bent his eyes moodily upon the floor. Thus he remained for several moments, musing: “Tis unfortunate!” he muttered. ‘I scarcely know what to do. A letter from her, breathing, however distantly, alove forme! Strange, and yet not strange. Iamaman—an honest man, Nature has cast me in a seemly mold, and made me—not uncomely. Then, too, I stood between her and cer- tain death that memorable day in the Salem pike. Yet, do Llove Minerva Ames? I, an operative in the mills! CanI dare lift my eyes to her? Dare I face the frown of that proud old man, her father, who has intimated to me that my visits to his house were not desired? Proud old man! You were not too roud on that dark afternoon to grasp me by the and, fling your arms around my neck, and pray God to bless. me, for saving to you, your daughter, the peerless Minerva! You were not too proud, then, to crush money into my hand, ay! a whole year’s wages in value, and bid me make your house my home! Thank Heaven, I would not touch the gold! I was proud, too, Arthur Ames; and I am proud to-day. Now you are cold, and you frown when my coarse boots stamp upon the velvet carpets eh ie parlor; you frown when I bow before the radiance of your daughter, and take her hand in mine. And why? Bah! Because I have not gold, because Iam an humble workman Alas! My hon- esty, my industry, my perseverence, my devotion to my old mother—she is such to me—my muscle and sinew, count nothing in your eyes, Arthur Ames! Well, well!’ He paused tor a moment and turned toward the open window of his little room, looking out on the dark canal. But he faced about again, suddenly, for the door was opened and a little boy entered. “Ts this Mr. Gray?” lie asked. _ “Yes, my boy; what do you wish?” “T have a letter for you, sir; here it is.” he missive in the millman’s hand, the Wonde ly, Lorin Gray took_the letter. lanced at the superscription. He started, con- sedly, as the well-known handwriting met his aZze. : : ‘Bessie! From her! Ah! I had forgotten! What has induced her to write?”- He opened the letter; another fell from the inside to the floor. He picked it up. It, too, was directed to him, but in a handwriting with which he was not familiar. It was sealed with wax. First, Lorin Gray spread open the little folded sheet, and read thus: ¥ ‘Dear Lorin:—I send in this envelope another letter. On looking to-day through my father’s desk, I found this letter bearing your address. I don’t know when it was written, as I have not opened it. But, thinking it might contain something of impor- tance to you, Isend it. It is directed in my father’s handwriting. Do not forget to come to-night, for, ah! I am so lonely. May Heaven always bless you, is the prayer of Bessie RAYNOR.” For several moments Lorin Gray held the letter, mechanically, in his hand. “Yes,” he muttered; “I had not forgotten her— ens Bessie. But, this other letter; I'll see what it is.” He tore open the envelope, drew out the sheet, and read as follows: ‘* LORIN GRAY: ‘* Dear Boy ;—Something may happen to me any time; I feel it. Iam getting old, and in the ordinary course of nature, my old hulk must soon go down beneath the waters of life. “JT am anxious about my children, particularly Bessie and Noss; Ralph is strong limbed and clear- headed. Besides, he is a good sailor. I don’t fear for him; he can get along. But, dear Lorin, I am very anxious about Bessie. She is a young girl, weak, frail, helpless, and surrounded by wickedness. Ihave blamed myself for keeping her in the mill; but I had my reasons. However, when I am dead and gone, be the time near or far off, on searchi through an old chest of mine in the house in which live, enough will be found to keep my children, in tuture, out of the mill, and living comfortably. ‘Another thing, Lorin; though an old, gray- headed man, Arthur Ames has shown a liking for my Bessie, a mere child, as you know. He may be honest, and he may be dishonest. Taking his sur- roundings into consideration, I believe the latter. I don’t like the man. Twenty years ago some queer things happened, in which this old man played a part. “Iwas along time ago, and the matter is for- zotten, But I distrust him, Keep your eye on him, orin, and guard my child and her honor, I can trust you, for I have seen you tried. ‘One more point: Bessie, though a child, Lorin, is old enough to love. She does dove—aman. You are the man, Iknowit, I have thought that you loved her, and the thou ‘ht gladdened my heart. If Iam right, Lorin, you have my consent and blessing. But wait; wait awhile, till the girl has grown intoa woman, and knows her mind. Remember my words, and may God ble you to keep them sacred. ‘Your friend, Sras RAyNor,”’ This letter was dated just a month prior to the opening of our story. A violent shiver passed over Lorin Gray's frame as he slowly refolded the letter, and placed it in his pocket. He clapped his hand to his head, and leaned heavily back in his chair. ny heavens!” he muttered, in a low, broken tone. ‘‘Clouds hover above me, and snares are springing around me. How canlact? Oh, beauti- ful, peerless, fascinating Minerva! Oh! goddess of my dreams! I must bow before you. Oh! sweet, Pt en sad-faced, orphaned Bessie Raynor, must— He paused suddenly, and a wild torrent of blood rushed to his face. agony of soul, and a deep groan escaped him. us, Father in heaven, teach me to decide!”’ he eried, oud. Several moments porged, and the strong man a nobly with the thoughts that were rending iim, At length he became still, and a holy quiet rested upon his face. : ““T have decided!” he said, in a low, hushed voice. “T must see Minerva Ames—I must, to her, pour out my love! I must ease my aching heart. I feel that Iam worthy of her, and I believe she loves me. Til not desert Bessie Raynor, nor forget the dead father’s dying injunction. But, as Destiny beckons me on, so will I follow!” As he spoke he arose from the chair and began to pace the room up and down. An hour sped °F. and night had fallen. Lorin Gray su denly paused in his monotonous, and, it seemed, never-ending promenade. “Tt am resolved, come weal or woe! T'll heed Minerva’s call and go! I'll break my promise to the poor orphan girl, all alone with her dead father—all alone with her wounded brother. All this I'll do for you, Minerva! The die is cast; I have thrown my whole hope of happiness into your hands! Oh, fling me not otf!” He paused, and as a sudden reproachful expres- sion came, to his face, he reeled away toward the open windbw. “Yes, yes, I cannot deny it!” he cried, alniost fiercely. “I am a coward; but friends nor devils, ood angels nor bad, can make me turn back now! h! Minerva Ames, Tam your slave!’’ He flung his coarse working-dress aside at once, and began his toilet for the evening. In twenty minutes he looked like a different per- son. His well-shaped figure was clad in a. genteel, well-fitting suit; long dark hair was crigaed combed away from his broad, bold brow, and a mustache was arranged to fall gracefully over e mouth. He surveyed his image in the glass, and a smile of conscious pride—pride at his manly appearance, swept over his face. 2 He griped his hands in his
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The clock in a neighboring factory told the hour. ““Tmust be gone,” he muttered, ‘I fly to her, who, however high in society above me, I adore !”” A moment more, and extinguishing his lamp, he hurried down-stairs and left the house. It was he who met old Arthur Ames, face to face, under the gaslight at the corner. In ten minutes after this meeting, he paused before the splendid mansion on Lawrence street. CHAPTER XXJ. A TABLEAU. y A sricuT light gleamed through the parlor win- dows of the mansion of Arthur Ames, and the silken curtains were drawn aside. Within the richly-fur- nished apartment, every thing was visible, the articles in the room standing out in bold relief. ' Minerva Ames, grand, love y and stately, wasstand- . ing by the pedestal of the cheval mirror. She was gazing at the beauty of her fascinating face—gazing at her broad, white brow, with the thick, radiant tresses laid away from it, gazing at her flashing eyes and curling mouth. : This was the sight that made Lorin Gray pause, that made his heart jump and rise in his throat. But, recovering himself, he turned again to the door; and as he muttered, ‘Oh! sweet, divine preset he strode quickly up the steps and pulled the bell. A moment and the door opened. As the young man disappeared within the brilliant hall, and as the door closed behind him, a dark figure emerged from the shadow of the house, and stood for a moment on the curbstone. : It was Black Phil; and, though still in the darkness himself, yet he was in a position to look into the parlor, and see what transpired. : For fully ten minutes he stood and gazed into the room. Then he turned abruptly and slid away in the darkness of the street. “Til show her a sight to-night, if signs are to be counted on! mings are working; I’ll give them a little: time. But, if this doesn’t secure Bessie, and give her to me, or anybody but him, I’lI—” The rest of the man’s sentence was lost, as he turned the corner and entered Essex street. An hour after this, when, as we have stated, Bessie was called down-stairs by the rap, and when a opened the door, no wonder she started With a scream of terror, Bessie was about to fling the door to, but the man who stood there suddenly interposed his brawny hand and arm. “A moment, Bessie,” he said, hurriedly; ‘‘I won’t keep you long.” 3 “What do you want, Black Phil?” asked the girl, tre bling, holding on to the door knob ? ‘* Just to say a few words to you, Bessie.” As he spoke, he strove to push by. But the girl barred hls way, so that he could not get in, without resorting to actual force. ; “You are hard on me, Bessie,’’ said the man, and a tinge of bitterness wasin his tone. ‘I cameto ask how Ross was, and to tell you that in case you , needed money, I—"” , , ' “Thank you, Phil, Ross is better,” interrupted es we do not need money. ood- night.” speaking, she suddenly pressed her weight against the door, to close it. But the man antici- pated her. “No, no, Bessie,”’ he said, positively. ‘‘I came on other._business, too; and I must speak with you,” ie ian = interposed his arm between the door and e jamb. The girl trembled; she saw that she could not oppose this man, force to force. She dared not make him angry. - et a Tan Pa Spent on in, Bessie, ani Ill te vu, a! ¢ afraid of me, : 2 eae you arg the last person I would harm in any wa; and you know it. No, Bessie, ’ll not iuyire gona t Tl tell yon out here. pb sight; to-nigh’ He is in other and rich er , Start, read this letter and You'll laiow hero As he uttered these words ra hrust teed into Bessie’s hand. ndash sale a e ok it mechanicall la: i leaving the door open, spead ott the pore Head, Her eyes flashed rapidly over the written words; and a low groan 1 wailing tone: ' “Dear Mr. Gray:—I must see you to-night. Matters of importance, perhaps. I ean not think the brave man, who once stood between me and r, will refuse to come at the bidding of one who holds him in sweet and grateful remembrance. Come, and at an early hour. ** MINERVA.” Bessie dropped the letter, and reeled away to the maeniie for Bu ort. She heeded not the presence of © dead in which she stood, as she heeded not the sar who had brought the letter, he shaft had struck her. She knew now where * an Lorin G | promise w: th her =0 why he had failed to keep his | berton m a ! say this letter is your own making, fy, making! 'That’s very likely! Bah! you pea better. “Come wi fie, Serge Raynor, vad Show you a sight which will cure you of your love for this double-faced fellow! She glanced at him Her f, a theater of gerugating emotions. She thought of the lonel house, of the chest which Gan pacts so saluahic, Om escaped her lips as she read, in a 1 { | said. “Wait a moment. BESSIE RAYNOR, THE WORK GIRL. of poor Ross, and his uneasy slumbers; she thought, too, of the stark, cold corpse! But, love and jealousy were waging a fierce battle in her bosom. She would know the worst! “Tl go, Phil! I’ll go, though I die by the act!”’ she Poor Ross! I must look after him.” With these words, she turned at once, and hurried softly up-stairs. A glance at the calm, marble-like, innocent face, | So spectral, so pallid, told her that the invalid slept. A moment, and she crept softly down-stairs again. Throwing a light shaw! over her shoulders, she ex- tended her arm to Phil, and said: “Come; J’ll trust you; let us go.” Phil closed the door, and with the frail girl hanging } On his arm, he walked away. Fifteen minutes from that time, two silent figures stood by the open window of the Ames mansion— ; one a man, the other a woman. | | | | | Babel of gold! | Suddenly the latter, as she gazed with bated breath into the elegant, brilliantly-lit apartment. uttered a long, wailing shriek, and sunk to the cold pavement. = had seen something through the open case- ment. CHAPTER XXTI. THE PROPOSAL. Mryerva Ames gazed at herself in the mirror— gazed at her resplendent beauty, and a smile of tri- as came to her face. “Yes, yes! The die is cast!” she muttered; ‘‘ and Ihave decided. I have torn his image from my heart, and flung it away forever! Alas! he has not money. He can not give me the luxuries, the ele- gancies of life, in which I have lived and been hap- py. But Malcolm Arlington is rich, and he can a0 this. He holds thousands upon thousands at his command. What care I for the disparity in our ages? Bah! the world overlooks such, when there’s money in the bargain. bg og not I do the same? And1lso much at stake! My father’s fair name; and, what is more, his fortune, and another huge Oh, I must have it! I must secure all! Ay, l have indeed decided, and I thank Heaven I have been so bold. Yes, yes: I must have the roffer of Lorin Gray’s love / Tf possible, this night, e shall be brought to kneel at my feet. He is an operative, a common mill-man, it is true. But where can one find a nobler type of the man, physically and morally—ay, intellectually, too? as, alas! Lorin, you must be sacrificed because you have not that léver which, without a Julerum, moves the world! Money! But he is laté.” She glanced toward an alabaster clock, ticking si- lently under a crystal shade. ee at if that dark-browed man failed to give him my note? Or, can—” he paused, and an anxious, uneasy frown came to her face. But she resumed: “Can it be true, as I have heard, that Lorin Gray loves that pale-faced thing, old Silas Raynor's daughter? I saw her once—a weak-eyed, yet sweet- featured, child. There is nothing grand or striking about her to attract a man like Lorin Gray. Besides that, she is as poor as starving poverty itself. Ha! ha! T'll not credit such an idle tale. Yet what boots all this to me, if Z have given Lorin up? Oh, heavens! though I can not marry him, yet I would die to see him wedded to another! Tlove him tenderly, yearn- ingly,down deep in my heart. But he must never know it! Strange about this girl, this child of the mill —she is nothing more than a child. That dark-faced mau, who comes here so often, loves her too, if Ican read human nature. Then, too, I’ve heard strange mutterings from father about her. Good heavens! what can all this mean? Is shea witch, or a fairy in i child all the time?” he door-bell sounded. Minerva started, and, de- spite all she could do, a deep blush mantled her ests, and her hand trembled as she half-clung to the mantle for support. ‘*He comes!” she muttered. ‘Be still, my heart; behave, my soul! First, a ce and lofty conquest; then, Lorin Gray, you and I cease to know one an- other.” She turned as the “Mr. Gray has girl ow ae ee * “Show him in : Then the tall forma of Lorin Gray darkened the parlor door. He entered the room. : , Minerva Ames met him with a charming smile, extending her hand warmly, ‘Tam glad you are here,” she said, with cheping frankness. “I was beginning to fear you had faile to get my note. I was very lonesome. Lorin Gray took the lily tips of her fingers tender- ly in his muscular hand, and, bowing over it with the grace of a courtier, said, in a low voice: “Thank you, from my heart, Miss Minerva. But you choose'a strange messenger. Do you know the man who brought tp the wet and he looked at her steadily though respec y- Minerva started just the slightest, but she replied, ro : ’ . opps: that the man is a workman in the Pem- where you are cmeployet He ied an employe of my father, years ago. comes here sdimetitee to ae him—perhaps to consult him about his money matters.” rlor-door opened. led, ma’am,”’ said the servant- i Ames uttered these words, a dark igen weinind her white brow, and she turned away *ohaleing a on a short distance from the girl, he said, with a light laugh, and in the most respectful tone: i 5 to Black Phil, Miss Minerva. I am ki ful fo muntbae the delivered your letter safely.” | , 3 ee ee 44 In a few moments they were engaged in a warm and earnest conversation. Time flew by and the night was passing. Lorin Gray, now seated close to Minerva, held in his hand an open album. His eyes were riveted on two photographs, evidently copies from paintings. The oe aced each other in that richly-bound velvet ook. A singular look came into the young man’s face as he aa sad, sweet, ee look. “You are interested, Lorin,” said Minerva, softly and familiarly. “Yes, Miss Minerva,’’ he said, at length, slowly. “Whose pictures are these?” The girl slightly started, and a faint tinge of red came to her face, as she glanced at the two pic- tures. “Why, the gentleman was my father’s brother— Bernard Ames; the other was his wife.” ws Ah! I did not know that your father had a bro- er.”’ “Yes; he has been dead over twenty years. His wife died before him. Uncle Bernard was very rich, and— Why, he had only one child—a son. Poor little fellow!” “What do you mean? Where is his boy?” ‘Alas! dead, too! The whole fami y swept away! The boy was drowned accidentally in the river. I've frequently heard my father tell of the sad occur- rence. And the money that the poor boy would have inherited went to my father; there was no other liv- ing relative.” rin Gray did not start, or show any sign: of sur- prise. He simply said: ‘ “Ah! I now see a family resemblance,” and he looked her in the face. His stare was almost bold; then it gradually grew into a soft, tender glance. He closed the album and laid it upon the table. Several moments elapsed, when the young man said, in a low, emotio voice: “T have thought it very strange, Miss Minerva, that you should allow me to visit you—me, a poor workman in the Pemberton mill.”’ He did not look up, but nervously edged his chair nearer to hers. . Minerva Ames trembled, and her cheeks were stained with deep blushes, -But her voice was calm as she replied: “Tis not strange to me, Lorin, It matters not what you are, where you work, or where you gain your | ne You are an honest man, and you once saved my life. I can never forget you. My grati- tude is yours always.” ° She had hesitated as she used the cold word “‘ grat- itude;” “love ” was on her lips. She watched the effect of her words, and her eyes brightened as she saw a deep glow spring into the face of the mill-man. “Thank you, Miss Minerva,” he said; and now his voice was husky. ‘Will you bear with me, listen a foe to me, to-night?” and his words grew sty. The girl looked at him in well-feigned astonish- ment; then she bowed her head in assent. “T came to-night, Miss Minerva,” he began, ‘‘ pre- eae to speak—to tell you a tale. I will be brief. know,” he continued, after a slight pause, ** that you are far above me in station, in society. I know am poor, and that I occupy a humble position in the world. I am of obscure origin, too, though I know not what it is; and I work from the rising of the sun until the setting of the same—work for my bread. But, Iam an honest man, Miss Minerva—one with iron muscles, and an unswerving resolution, I know I can carve my way in life, in whatever direc- tion that way may lie. More than that, I have a warm, yearning heart in my bosom, a heart which I would, with all its love, lay at your feet,” rs ge he caught her by the hand. “Oh, Minerva!” he continued, in a wild, hot strain, “T can not keep back my—” At that instant, a long, wail shriek pealed in through the open window and fe wo, on the ears of the Lorin Gray sprung confusedly to his feet, He had ne Pe the open window, and Minerva had for- gotten it. were: A moment of awkward silence ensued, Minerva’s face as red as the sunset sky; Lorin Gray, tremu- lous, pale and agitated. The sturdy mill-man gazed straight out at the open casement. That wailing voice had sounded strangely | familiar in his ear. “Could it “Good heavens!’ ave—” | _At that moment the bell sounded sharp and clam- | orous in the hall. | _ Minerva Ames glanced quickly at the clock, Her face paled. “Tis the other!’ she muttered. Malcolm Arlington comes.” Lorin Gray had caught the last words. “ Maleolm Arlington?” *Yes, Lorin; my father’s partner. business. I must entertain him, till father, who is out, mae he , And—yes—another time, Lorin, I will n, and—’ “God bless you, Minerva! I understand you. I will be gone. Good-night, _Heaven’s blessing rest upon you!” ; He bowed low before her and left the room. As he stood in the brilliantly-lighted hallway, he met Mal- colm ee tall and stern. The banker glared flepoely at him, but Lorin Gray paid no heed to him. nother moment and he was gone. ._ ‘Now, Bessie Raynor,” whispered Black Phil, as, in the dark shadows outside, he caught the falling girl in his arms, “you’ve seen enough! Come; I attend you home.” he exclaimed. “ Half-past nine! He comes on —~s —
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12 5S The girl did not reply. self, and clinging to Black Phil’s arm, staggered away. She had seen Lorin Gray take Minerva Ames’s hand; she had noted that Minerva Ames did not re- sont the liberty. Lorin Gray was indeed lost to her / She could not compete with the banker’s daughter. She could not look again. them. glance, ejaculated: “ Ah! the other! A pretty mess of fish, indeed!” CHAPTER XXII. THE SACRIFICE. An hour before the events last given; in other words, a few minutes after Bessie Raynor had con- sented t» leave her wounded brother and the corpse of her father, to go with Black Phil, a man appeared at the alley gate. , He was cautious in his movements, freading softly, and glancing around him in all directions. He strode at once into the alley,and disappeared in the dark yard. . Then he stood by the window of the ground- iloor room to the rear. He paused and glanced up. One faint light was burning; it came from the room of Ross, the cripple. Then the nian peered through the window. A dull, subdued light was shining into the room from the one adjoining. He gently tried the window. It yielded, and went softly up. The man at once entered the room. He trod very softly. “The old chest is up-stairs on the landing!’ he muttered. "T’ll find it!” He drew a small dark-lantern from beneath his coat, and sprung the light cautiously on. Then, ap- proaching the stair-case, he ascended as stealthily asacat. The top was reached. The man paused and listened. There reposed the old sea-chest, time-worn and battered. It had sailed many miles over the briny waste, with its old master, now past all sailing. But, for years past, it had been resting from its journeys. The old captain had owned two chests, very much alike; but the other was now far away in the north- ~ ern seas, with Ralph, the sailor son. 7% The man glanced around him. He placed the lan- tern gently on the floor; then he drew from his 5 sr akey. He wastrembling in every limb. He elt down and inserted the key in the keyhole in - ehest. The lock was rusty; it didnot yield read- ‘ihe man worked nervously. Suddenly, with a snap, the bolt shot back. e started at the sound, and cowered down close to the floor, scarcely breathing. But, as nothing fol- lowed, he slowly raised the lid, and gazed into the cavity. He could see nothing. — Raising the lantern so that its rays fell into the chest, he again looked in. Now he could see. ; = Ht bottom lay a sailor’s all moth-eaten pea- acket. : Greedily the man leaned down and grasped it. As ue sy so, his foot incautiously struck against the Cchesy. An Lond moving sound, as of some one turning with difficulty in bed, was heard. It came from the yoom adjoining, the door to which was ajar. Then a weak voice was heard, faintly calling. The man trembled and listened keenly. ‘Bessie! Bessie!’ wailed the voice. ‘“ Water! ee Lam dying with thirst!” The man slunk and turned to fly. But he paused. A. strange fascination seemed to hold him. “ Bessie! my sister, water! water!’ plead the voice. No response. sa “She sleeps! Ah! Heaven help me; Ill wait.” Then all was still; the voice came no more. ~ The man, nigger like an aspen leaf, seized the oll pea-jacket, and hastily made a bundle of it. Then cautiously relockin the chest, he crept down- stairs, and fled through the open window. Twenty minutes from that time, the dark figure of a man climbed over the wall to the rear of the Ames mansion, and softly drew near the back door, A moment and he had disappeared within. Arthur Ames stood panting in his bedroom. He flung his disguise from him, and slipping on a dress- ing-gown, sunk into a chair. ‘Glorious! glorious!’ he muttered. ‘I’ve won; I must conquer. Oh, Bessie! you shall be mine. Oh, love! what will not a man risk and do in your ser- vice? Oh, blessed old pea-jackéet!”’ He paused, as he jaid the bundle before him, and gazed at it. Long and steadfastly he kept his eyes fixed on the old, time-rotten garment. Gradually he leaned for- ward; his eyes closed, his hands fell to his side, and his head sunk on his breast. He was asleep. An hour went by, then another. Still Arthur Ames . me uddenly he started and sat upright. He rubbed his eyes and gazed wildly around " aa Good heavens!’ he exclaimed. ‘A hideous, ter- rible dream! So fearful! so real! so life-like! nay, so death-like! Plain as day I saw the helpless child flung by a strong man into the dark river! I saw the black water reach forth its greedy mouth and swal- low the innocent down! I saw the tiny outreaching hands, the white, childish face! Then put bubbles! But *twas a dreant—nothing but a fool- ish dream. The old pea-jacket! Emblem of my vic- . ‘ory! Let me look for the papers. I want tobe sure; chen [ll la, ro eee A good night’s work, and Ar- ‘ington quieted and appeased, too! Ha! ha! But the a the deeds!”’ As he spoke ae drew the bundle toward him, a . ; o ” _ ) 2 Save BESSIE She slowly recovered her- | Two neon from the house, a tall man strode by | essie knew him not; but Black Phil, at one | sSaw—naught |. RAYNOR, THE WORK GIRL. ets and lining of the old pea-jacket. He paused suddenly, and a triumphant glow passed over his features. “They are here!’’ he muttered. He drew out along folded Lrg from between the lining of the garment and held it up. It was an old faded, rusty-looking document. With trembling hands, Arthur Ames opened it. His eyes flashed greedily over the written words. In a low, hu voice, he began to read: “This indenture witnesseth that for and in con- sideration—” Just then a gentle tap sounded on the door. Old Ames started, and hastily thrusting the pea- jacket under the table, having placed the paper he ad found in his bosom, he turned in his seat. | The rap sounded again. ; “*Comein— Ah! you, Minerva? What would you have, my child?” and the father looked anxiously at his daughter. | Minerva Ames was dazzling in her beauty. Her | eyes flashed, and her cheeks were aglow. There was | a loftiness in her manner which showed her off to ; advantage. } She smiled half-scornfully, but in a satisfied man- | ner, as she walked to a chair and seated herself. “Tis very late, father,’’ she said, ‘‘ certainly near midnight. I did not know you were at home. I was going to bed, and heard a voice. Then I saw a light under your door. How long have you been in?’’ and she gazed at him keenly. “Why, some time,my child. 1 did not feel like coming down. I was tired.” The girl said noehing, At last she removed her eyes from her father’s face, and with a half-weary sigh arose to go. She had not communicated much; it was plain that she held something back. Her father knew it. He stopped her. “Have you had company to-night, Minerva?’ he ‘| asked, as in turn, he bent his eyes upon her. “Yes, father, and enough of it,’’ was the wearied reply, as the girl, resting her hand on the back of the chair, paused and faced her father. ** Who, my child?’ “Lorin Gray, and—” “Lorin Gray! The impudent scoundrel! How dared he—”’ “Lorin Gray is not a scoundrel, father, and you know it!” Minerva’s cheek kindled into a fresher glow than ever, as she uttered the words with dignity. “2 Why, Minerva, what do you mean?”’ “J mean that Lorin Gray, whatever his occupa- tion may be, is a gentleman. Moreover,if he had Toney, none would be welcomed more cordially here, by you, than he.” “Tet that g0, Minerva,’’ he said petulantly. ‘“‘ This man és noi rich; *tis enough. He must cease his vis- its here. The world will talk. But, was there any one else? Was Mr. Ar—”’ “Malcolm Arlington was here, father,” interrupt- ed the girl, as her eyes flashed and her bosom heaved. “Well, my child?” ‘**He came on an errand; he proposed marriage to me,”’ said Minerva, in tones almost inaudible. “And, my child?” “T saved you, father. I accepted him.” And now her voice was a whisper. CHAPTER XXIV. BLACK PHIL’S AVOWAL. Wuen Black Phil had ais aes Bessie Raynor a that night, he lingered fora moment by the oor. The girl had not spoken a wor | since after viewing that tableau through the open window of Arthur Ames’s seep 5 She had begged Phil to carry her home. But her enategt tremulous movemen her broken. criggt sighs, which would now an then burst forth, told the man plainer than words what she was suffering. He had endeavored to speak with her, but receiv- ing no reply, he, too, had relapsed into a gloomy si- ence. i But he lingered by the door after she had said a hasty good-night, and after she had entered the te) use. ‘** Bessie,” he said, in a soft, subdued voice, as he slightly detained ker by holding her shawl, “‘ you’ve seen a sight tonishs-etongh to open your eyes, and make you look at certain things in the right light. I have only a word to say, Bessie—only a word or two; then you cango.” _ He paused; his voice was almost a whisper. In astartled, frightened manner, Bessie turned to- ward him. She trembledas she clung to the bolt for support. O Well, Phil, what would you say?” she asked. Be know I have a wounded brother up-stairs, an age “Yes; I know it,” interrupted the man, though not rudely. He, all at once, seemed to have grown tame in the presence of this frail girl, who vas ps wdinn Siprde than ‘a child. He loved Bessie Ray- nor, this rough fellow—loved her madly. “*T'll only be a minute, Bessie; if you get tired lis- ‘tening, you can go.” r Bessie moved impatiently. “ey pen you ae et rs po _— _ u have gone ugh a grea -nig oaths s to fy stronger nerves than yours. But now is a good time for me to speak, for you can compare my conduct with that of another man you know— one who has given you some signs that he loved you.” : spread it out, and began to search through the pock- pee et et ee "et a ee ee ee ee ee ee ef ee Ne ee ee i I SF ce ee a ee Oe ee eS Ee oe ae Bessie, still clinging to the door-knob, bent her head and listened. “T know, Bessie,” resumed the man, speaking more hurriedly, “‘that I am a rough-looking fellow; that Iam old enough to be your father; that I am ill-favored and forbidding. I know, too, that I am not rich and can not offer you the comforts of a fine home; that I have been, at times, rough to you and Ross; I know that ople who don’t know any better say I have a wife already; I know that I am not as comely 4 man as Lorin Gray. Yes. Bessie, all this ] know and confess. But listen, and I'll tell you some- thing else I know: I know that Nancy Hurd is noi my wife; that I have a good snug pile of money laid up; that I am strong-armed and full of spirit to work; that Lorin Gray trifles with you, and is fals« to you; that his heart belongs to one who, though she spurns him and laughs at him, stillleads him on, that, in the end, she may fling him over; that Zlove you, Bessie Raynor, more than a man of my rude speech can tell, and that I would die for you!” He paused. His words had grown hot and impul- sive; he spoke sincerely, and his hand reached out and grasped hers. ‘ Bessie endeavored to draw back; but the strong hand of the mill-man held her as in a vise. ‘* Answer me, Bessie,’ he urged. ““Whatever be your reply, Ili begone at once.’ Tremblingly the girl raised her eyes and gazed through the gloom at his face. “Your words are so sudden, Phil,” she said, and her voice was very low, ‘‘that I cannot answer you now. I feel that Iam but a child, Phil, and you know I am surrounded by care and sorrow. My dead father lies in this room—” her voice sunk to a whisper—‘‘ and ny wounded brother sleeps above. How can ] think of anything else? But—”’ She paused. Then, summoning her resolution, she continued: “You may know this, Phil: whatever [may have thought of you in the past, I think better of you now. Fcr your kindness to me this night, I'll al- ways pray God to bless you.”? hil suddenly took her hand more Ef hig. still tad in his, and pressing his bearded lip to it, said: “May God, if there is one, bless you, too, Bessie! Good-night!” He turned at once and strode away in the dark- ness. Bessie tottered into the room, closing the door be- hind her. “Good heavens!’ she exclaimed, ““what have I done? Have I given that dark-faced man encourage- ment? Ah!—” She paused and bent her ear, ‘Bessie! Bessie!’’ wailed a voice up-stairs. “Yes, Ross, darling; Iam coming, brother!” and she bounded up-stairs. A moment, and she was in the sufferer’s room. ““T am here, Ross!’ she exclaimed, panting, as she stood by his bedside. “Oh! Bessie! Iam so glad to see you!” said the cripple, in a low voice of bodily anguish. “I am feverish, and when I heard you on the stairs long ago, I begged you for water, and—”’ “Me, on the stairs? Why, Ross—”’ ! “Yes, Bessie; you seemed to be at the chest.”’ The girl started at the word chest, and stared fixedly at her brother. She had, for the time, for- otten about that chest, about the secret wealth ig contained, about the tale her father had told er. “Oh, Ross, forgive me!” she exclaimed. “Iwas not on the stairway. You have been dreaming! I saw that you were asleep, and I went out for awhile. Business of—”’ ; “Not on the stairway! Dreaming!” and the poor fellow rubbed his eyes in a bewildered manner. “Yes, Ross; you have been dreaming. You had sere? take the sleeping potion left by doctor, ‘or—”’ Pe ““How do you know, Bessie, that I have been dreaming?’ asked the boy, interna her. “*T know it, Ross, because you talk so singularly.” re opened his eyes, and looked toward Tis sister. “I was dreaming, Bessie,” he said, calmly— “dreaming that same dark dream! Isaw the vision again! ! I forgot; I did not tell it to you. It was a black dream, sister. Listen: a dark winter night —clouds across the sky—great piles of smoke. rush- ing high in the air—a terrible crackling and roaring noise, rehroegh es and wide—only a few stars peep- ing from the black sky! A crippled boy and an old man! Tho boy flung— I cannot tell it! "Tis horrible! But ’twill come, Bessie; all this will come to pass, when the leaves have fallen, when the snow has whitened the lanes and field! Will come when the year is dead!” : “here, there, Ross! Do not talk so wildly,” and Bessie laid her hand upon the bare arm of the boy. She started as if shot. The skin of that arm almost burned her. “You are feverish, Ross,”’ she said, sympathizing- ly. ‘‘The bandage is too tight. Let me loosen it,” and she leaned over him. ; The boy had sunk into a deep, though troubled sleep. «Poor, oor fellow!” murmured the girl, as her eyes filled with tears. ‘He is very low; his senses are wandering. Oh, Father in heaven, watch over him and preserve him! Were he todie! And Ralph so far away!” ; She sunk devoutly by the bedside, and, bowing her tear-bedewed face, prayed to Him who has prom- ised a shelter to the shorn for strength and eomfort. This night, in the little cabin, far down on the banks of the roaring Merrimac, Nancy Hurd sat SS. Pa a
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again and kissed hm ae ee ie BESSIE RAYNOR THE WORK GIRL. silent and motionless. She was in the little room, | ‘“‘Bessie! Bessie!’ he whispered, in a voice of with the window looking out across the waste of sand-flats. “ He’s away again!’ she muttered. “He is away every night after her, a child, and she’with her dead father ving stiff and cold in the house! Philis a brute. But, Pll not put up with this. Philip Walsne, whatever he may say, és my husband; and, yes, l swear it! she shall pay the forfeit! When? Before the setting of a half-dozen suns! Haljf-dozen? Then, if Phil goes traitor on me, I'll get that pile of gold, and leave him forever!” As she mel she drew from her bosom a long, naked knife; she ran her horny finger along its ge edge, as a wicked smile lifted her coarse ip. At that instant, the outside door creaked on its hinges. Nancy concealed the knife hastily, and sink- ing into a chair, feigned sleep. lack Phil entered the room. He paused as he saw Nancy quiet in the chair, and a half-pitying ex- pression crept over his dark features. — Walking wp to the woman, he laid his hand gently upon her shoulder. : f She started, and rubbed her eyes, in well dissem- bled astonishment. ; “You—you, Phil?” she said. “‘Iam so glad you’ve come.’ “You should have been in bed an hour ago,” he said, unheeding her remark. ““T waited for you, Phil; I wanted to see you. Where have you been so long?” “On my business, which is none of yours.” “Phil Walshe!” ‘ “Yes, Naney Hurd, I’ve been to see Bessie Ray- hor, and she says she likes me}”’ 2 he woman shook violently; but, suddenly rising, She left the room, without any reply. As she passed into the next ¢ ae? however, She clutched her hidden knife and hissed: ‘Her doom is sealed.” CHAPTER XXvV. SHADOWS AND REALITIES. Tae sun of another day arose upon the world. It Saw a little scene of solemn hurry and bustle at the umble home of the Raynors. Bessie, though she had only slept a few hours, was up early. Then a few neighbors dropped in. At nine o’clock a hearse drew up before the door; hen came a carriage—only one. Shortly after this, a meek-faced man, in a black suit and white cravat, entered the lowly abode with a solemn, kindly step. The undertaker, in his methodical way, set to work with his assistant, ergs the last arrange- ments. Then he signified to the minister and to Bossie that all was ready. ) With bursting heart, the poor girl retired to her room. Ina few moments she emerged from it, clad ina plain suit of deep black—her pretty, pale face making a painful, yet half-sweet contrast to the dark bonnet which surrounded it. “God strengthen me!” she murmured, as if at last her mind was made up, and turning abruptly, she entered the room of her invalid brother, Ross started as his gaze fell upon Bessie, upon her sable, dreary attire; then he turned his head away. Large tears forced their way down between the lids, and rolled down his wasted cheeks. *ssie silently drew near, and placed her hands upon his brow. fi is ready, my brother,” she said, in a low, broken voice, “The hearse’ will move wi a fow ior I musi go now. You are again better, a can rest quietly until Icome back. God bless 24, my brother!’ and she stooped and pressed a 188 upon his bloodless lips. ageuae Bessie! Bessie! can T not look on his face Sesh Oa! can I not look upon my father again?” and his voice wailed sadly in the room. SI ep sob burst from Bessie Raynor's bosom. she Soe not restrain it. to nv? Ross,” she answered; “it would not be safe Move you. God knows, my brother—”’ TI eee esses Tam resigned. Go.” paven stand by no Sa lips or you, brother. Oh! $ she uttered these words, she leaned down him tenderly as if loth to leave eee tearing herself away, she rushed from site ot bottom of the stairs, as she stood in the the little silent company of five or six who comers led, her gaze restéd upon two new- ie ae hil, dressed in his best attire, stood there; and to the rear, his face sad and solemn, hase eyes red with tears, which, despite his man- », would flow, was Lorin Gra. Roth mmen simultaneously ‘iro e forward. Bessio's car met 4 oe whispered softly © tim n must take her last look at the dead. Trembling Lapin hold lee turned to the two men, and, as m him, and jpand to her, she wheeled abruptty and they na mo Tushed, astounded Acpereg ee orin Gray clutched Scarcely believing his senses, : : at a chair. All eyes were upon him, and it required his earnest resolution to * was taken; and, still leaning on ok Phil, and preceded by the minister, e carriage. strode the ng from his stupor, Lorin Gray suddenly mn a mush the room and out into the street. door, ment he stood by Bessie at the carriage- agony, ‘““T am your friend. ag Ra ell me, what does all us mean? — ¥ She turned toward him and held up her Spar: rang interrupting him. But she spoke no word. Then, with quiet dignity, she ascended to the carriage, aided by Black Phil and the minister. The clergy- man followed. Then Black Phil. As the latter entered, his face was lit up by a dia- bolical sneer of triumph, as his eyes blazed defiantly at Lorin Gray. The coffin was borne solemnly forth and deposited in the hearse. Then the little procession moved softly off. Lorin Gray’s bosom heaved; his face paled, and he strode away at a headlong pace. The hearse and the single accompanying carriage wound their way along Newburg street until they reached Methwen. Into this they turned. As the carriage reached Appleton street, a coarsely-clad woman standing on the corner s and gazed intoit at the occupants. With alow ex- clamation of anger, she turned and strode ‘back to Canal street. The cemetery was reached. Then, after some delay, the coffin was iowered into the grave, and the pe in solemn tones, committed the ‘‘ dust to dust.’ ( Then all was over, and Bessie Raynor felt that almost ali light had gone out from her. After having seen the carriage and those who rode in it to Silas Raynor’s funeral, Nancy Hurd— for she it was—turned up Cana) street, and, in a few moments, paused by the front door of the Raynor home. She glaneed around her. Nobody was ob- serving her. She tried the door-knob; it yielded. A moment, and she was inside. She paused and listened. Then a faint voice wailed down stairs from above: “Who's there?’ Nancy Hurd did not answer, but turned to the staircase, and strode boldly up. A moment, and she stood in the room of the cripple. Ross started, and looked at her with great, wonder- ing eyes. But then, a pleasant expression settled on his thin, wan face, and he smiled. “Ah! Nancy, is it you? How kind in you!” and he held his unhurt hand toward her. The change which came into the woman's face was remarkable. A softness—a_ real yearning, motherly expression was there, as she walked to the bed, and took his wasted hand in hers. hen she bent over him, and a tear came to her eye. **Poor Ross!’ she murmured, “I am sorry are hurt. Iwas coming by, and concluded to stop in and see you. But, is Bessie in her room?” “No, Bessie has gone to—to the funeral,” and the poor fellow broke down. “Ah! I thought I heard her in the room there.” “No, Nancy; and since I’ve been wounded, she stays in the room here—through this door. She wants to be near me.”’ Nancy started. Ross had told her what she wanted to know. “I simply came, my poor fellow,” she said, ‘to say how d’ye do, and to bring this jelly for you.” he drew from beneath her apron a bowl. “Thank you, Nancy. May God bless you for your kindness to me.” “Good-by, Ross,” she said, after a pause, and she held out her hand to him. i - took it, and held it some moments as if loth to et it go. The woman noticed this act of affection, and as tears came into her eyes again, she leaned over him, and kissed him tenderly. . Then she turned suddenly, wrenched her hand rather rudely from his thin fingers, and left the apartment. At a later hour, when Bessie Raynor returned from her sad trip to the desolate cemetery, she started as she alighted from the carriage in front of her humble home; for, just as she had thanked Black Phil for his kindness, she chanced to glance toward the adjacent street corner. - She saw there a form she could not mistake—a bowed, though manly form, with a sad, ghastly face. A moment, however, and it had gone. Bessie Raynor knew it was Lorin Gray, and, do what she could, as she caught sight of his bended, woe-begone figure, and of his sad, er abner face. she could not ae — flutter in her bosom, an the aching of her heart. Then, na the carriage rolled away, without further notice of Black Phil, who had also alighted, Beasie i i the house. ar tr he with bated breath, had you e And Lorin Gray, who t watelial the scené—-who, untiring , had waited for her return, staggered away, with a heavy load weigh- ing him down. ‘ The day passed slowly. - ; A tercihis desolation settled upon peg and, in the silence of the sick-chamber which was urbed ewer cand save the hard, short a of the wounded boy, she bowed her head again and prayed Ross Raynor slept soundly. ; Bessie Leone; ibehed over him, and gently kissed his brow. Then uae withdrew through the open door to the adjoining room. fi In ten ralanbes, she was asleep—sleeping a deep, iS eae slumber. q e night were on. i Suddenly, Ross Raynor awoke with a start. A amother "voice rir be broken upon his ear and oe di uly turned his head / e slowly turn : Z The li ht! in the lamp was still burning brightly. Then fhe cripple saw a sight which, for a moment, froze his blood and struck him dumb. ‘to God for help. hoe - CHAPTER XXVI. MOTHER MOLL, Ross Raynor strove to speak, but, his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he could not | find utterance. He held his breath and looked. A fearful tableau was revealed to the cripple’s eyes. Tiaeadia Raynor was lying on her bed, in the room next her brother’s, while above her towered the brawny form of a woman. In the hand of that woman a long, keen-edged knife was glittering. Ross Raynor uttered a low groan and hid hs face. Then, as with a giant’s strength, forgetful of his state of weakness, of his prostrated form, of his broken arm, he sprung from bed and rushed into the other room. With a low howl of rage, the fiend turned. She saw who had stood between her and murder. She sprung upon him, clutched him by the throat, and ‘bore him backward into‘his own room, pulling the door to after her. “Spare me, spare me, Nancy! Oh!—’ “Ha! ‘tis you: Ross,’’ and the woman suddenly released her hold and glared at him. “Yes, Nancy, tis I. Oh! do’ not murder me, do not harm my sister, she has never harmed—”’ ‘** Never harmed me!” she hissed, in a low, dee voice; ‘‘why, boy, she has come between me an my husband. She has stolen his love from me, and, by heavens! she shall die!”’ She suddenly turned and strode back toward the sias But the same puny hand again held her ack. ‘“ Nancy, Nancy,” whispered theboy. ‘ Bessie has not done what you say! Oh, believe me, Nancy!” and he stole his unwounded arm softly around the woman’s neck, and lifted his big, bright, melan- choly eyes to hers. ‘‘Nancy,’ he continued, “I know you love me, and, I know not why, I do love ou, Nancy, though people say you are wicked. Oh! ancy, we are only two, my sister and I; my brother, Ralph, is far away. Sometimes I think he’ll never come back. Naney, be kind to me yet, and spare Bessie,’”’ and he bowed his head on her broad bosom and wept silently. t It was a strange light that beamed over that hard- ened woman’s face of bronze; it was a strange fire which gleamed in her eyes; it was not a wicked or a vengeful fire. Then, that fire was dimmed, extin-— guished, for a tear had sprung there and hid the sparkle. . A wild shudder a over her frame; she stretched out her hand which held the fatal knife, the fingers relaxed, the weapon fell, and uivered on its well-tempered blade, as it pierced the hard boards of the floor. Silently clasping the frail form of the boy, who clung to her, she murmured, in his ear: “You have conquered me, Ross! You have driven back the wild, dark blood, which was filling my brain, and nerving my hand for a hellish deed! You have crept into - heart and made me feel that Tama woman again! Oh! Ross, had I had kind words oftener whispered in my ears, had I had gentle treatment, I would not be the evil-faced, wicked Nancy thatIam. I was. not alwaysso. I can re- member long ago, when—_ But ‘tis an old tale, Ross, an idle tale. [Pll not tell it to you, now. I must be gone.”’ she a took away her arms, released his single one from her neck, and then, stooping, lifted h gently to the bed. “Now, Ross,” she said, ‘go to sleep again. Your sister is safe. Iswear it. For your sake, I spare her. As forme, poor black-hearted Nancy, I'll suf- fer on insilence. Ill bear my burden, as best I may. But, Ross, Siete me you'll say nothing of this. There may be time left for me yet, to do better, to do some good. Promise me, Ross, and I'll be- gone.’ She looked at him with her tear-bedewed face, and her eyes seemed to plead with him. “T promise, I promise, dear Nancy! May God bless you! And Nancy, I know you will not care, I will pray to Him, that He may lghten your load, that he may bless you.” The woman gazed at his wan face, now lighted up with enthusiasm; she leaned down and imprinted a warm, passionate kiss upon his forehead. Then, seizing the kuife, she was gone, Bessie had slept unconsciously through all, The next afternoon, or rather evening, for the mill had disgorged its living burden and sent them forth to breathe the fresh air, Lorin Gray strode across the eastern bridge and turned into the Ando- ver road. A cloud was upon his brow, and with eyes fastened on the boards at his feet, he continued his way. Dark thoughts were filling his mind and rack- ing his ‘i Rand Bessie, to fling me aside,” he muttered, “for that dark-browed villain, for that man whom her father hated, who would have murdered her brother, who has a he , deny it as he may. Oh! heavens! and she a child!) But—” He paused, as a sudden thought seemed to strike him. ‘Have 7 been true? Have I loved Bessie and Minerva, both ? Do I love them both? Can I be true to both? Have I not told my love to Minerva? Oh! ea I have, indeed, been cruel—cruel to the poor ¢ Re 7 “But, [T must h on. My poor old mother, I have neglected bared bave put her from my memo- ; ry. But, to-night I'll see her and will make amends. ‘oor r old mother, and she loves me so!”’ Wight had now fallen, but Lorin Gray, looking neither to the right nor the left, hurried on. In a plainly, but comfortably furnished room of a small, unpretending house, nestled in. the woods on the Andover road, some three miles from Lawrence, sat an old woman—a strange, mysterious-looking . . | . | | | , .
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ee. eas oe w 44 woman. She was nearly seventy years of age, and her long, white hair smoothed softly away from her forehead fell, unrestrainedly, in a snow-white mass upon her rounded, age-bent shoulders. But the face, though wrinkled and tanned, scarred and seamed, as it was, in the long battle of life, was kind and won- drously fresh. Her eyes s arkled and flashed as Phe hummed an old-time distich and gazed around er. She was clad in a manner that betokened she was fair-to-do in a worldly way, or, had some kind relative to care for her and her wants in her old age. A fire burned brightly in the stove; on that stove a plain supper was coo ing. The windows were up and the doors were open; for, in addition to the heat of the weather, the stove rendered the room uncom- fortably warm and stifling. This old woman’s name was Mary Gray, but she was commonly called Mother Moll. Singular powers were attribured to her by lowly people, and by some who belonged to the higher walks of life. It was asserte1 sho had the power of divination, of telling of the past, and of unvailing the future. Some called her witch, others spiritualist; but Mother Moll unpretendingly, tan boldly, designated herself a fortune-teller. One thing is certain, it was by this ae that she had made her bread in her younger ays. ertain it is, too, that Mother Moll, ‘f hearsay and authority were to be believed, had performed some wonders, almost passing credence. She was the woman whom Lorin Gray called mother; yet she was not his mother in the flesh, and the young man knew it; but Mother Moll stood to him’ as such, having reared him and taken care of him from an uncertain, yet a very early age. She had fed Lim; had educated him as he grew up in the fh of Now York, and had procured a situation for _ BESSIE in the great metropolis. Bret, the young man onged again for home scenes, longed for her whom he called mother, and without her bidding he had returned, a fino, handsome fellow. Without her knowledge, ho had obtained work in the Pemberton i; tho fortune-teller, while she frowned slightly, ] welcomed him back with open arms. _ This happened a number of years before the com- eneemont of our story. __ Yo-nightsho sat with her hands folded across her bosom and gazed, sometimes out of the open door into the darkness of the gathering night; sometimes at the cheery glow of the stove, with the old-fashiond black tea-pot simmering thereon. As she gazed, the contented, happy look gradually faded from her countenance and an expression of brooding, fore- boding anxiety took its place. Then she leaned her head softly down and bent her old eyes in a stare, on the floor. “*T have not read the stars!” she murmured. “T have not burned the black hellebore; I have not buried the deadly nizht-shade in vain! A vision rises before me! oh! ye unseen powers! A terrible vision of flood and flame, of crushed men and women, of roasted childrey and gray-haired old men! And, m noble Lorin! Oh! heaven, the picture is dim! But, he struggles through it! d now, Bessie Raynor, voud Minerva Ames— Ha!’ sho paused sud- now, Dp. denly, lifted her hand, and gazed toward the door. A tall, manly form was standing there, silently, solemnly. CHAPTER XXVU. . ,LORIN GRAY AND THE FORTUNE-TELLER. ‘Tan old woman sprung to her feet, and darted to- watd the door. —~ “You, Lorin!” she exclaimed. son; it does my old Ave good to rest upon you! ‘have you failed to come? why have you neg- lected meso long?” . “So long, mother? Why, it has not been ten days since Isaw you,” and, as the young mon spoke he entered the room and seated himself. Thocheerful “Come in, my ys which glowed out from the red-mouthed stove | i} 1 full on hissad, serious face. The old woman saw that face, and though she pre- tended not to heed it, an anxious, sympathizing shade passed over her own. ‘Pon days, Lorin! and you only three miles away from me! Tis a long timo, my son, for so short a way.” The oldwoman sighed as she sunk into a seat near LorinGray. } A fow moments passed in 'silence, the young man azing a in the stove; the aged matron eaning her élbows on her knees, and looking him covertly in the face. 5 Suddenly she straightened up, and glanced him full in the eyes. ; “You are sad, Lorin,” she said, in a low tone; “I see it, and I know the cause. 1 can read the stars, and I know the secrets revealed in the fumes of hel- lebore end henbane.”’ The young man started. The words had fallen on his cars with a peculiar significance. He gazed his mother in the'face. ; “T am sad, mother; Iam not well,” he said. “Ton, my son, make known your complaint, and whatever it he Vil find aremedy.” She paused, her piercing eyes never moving from his countenance. Lorin ih a did not answer} he geomo.l awed and impressed. His cheeks glowed, howover, and his eyes sparkled as with an awaken-' in life, ; a Tam not sick bodily, mother,” he said, at length in a low, hesitating voice. ‘I never felt. better; if am sirong, buoyant and active, bui—Iam depressed; Tam melancholy; my mind is harrowed, and some- times I wish T was dead! Tien all would be over.” “Aylay! I thougat so! Nay, I know so!” mut- tered Mother Moll, as shoe sadly shook her head, and | h ~~ =e | | bent her gaze u RAYNOR, THE WORK GIRL. m the floor. Then a tear-drop rolled down and fell on the coarse boards. Lorin noticed this. He softly drew near the old woman, and placed his arm around her neck. * Mother,”” he said, and his voice was low and ten- der, ‘you are all I have in this world to cling to. It does not matter that Iam not your flesh and blood. You are the only mother I ever knew, and a dear, kind,one you have been to me, Now, mother, my heart is burdened; I want to unburden it toyou; I want to talk to you—to tell you a secret.” a paused as he drew her aged form gently to m. Mother Moll shook with emotion; her withered bosom heaved, and the tears, which were flowing, ran down like rain. By an effort, she controlled herself, and returning the Roum man’s warm embrace, she said: “God bless you, Lorin! ThoughI am not your mother, yet, my dear boy, your own mother could not have loved you better. For two-and-twenty years now, you have been dear to me, and in that apse of time, ties have grown up between you and me, which nothing can sever. Ah, Lorin, your story is a long one and a dark one. No one knows it better than I do, and when the time comes, you shall know it! Fear not, you shall know every word. But that time has not yet arrived—though it is coming! com- ing fasti When ——— splendor of summer has gone—when the dead leaves of autumn have fallen —when the snow king, with his mantle of spectral white, rides over the land, then, Lorin, you’ll learn the black story connected with your life. Ah! my boy, you are not what you seem; you were not born to watch and tend a frame in a milly And when you know the secret of yourself, which is locked in this old, seared bosom of mine, will you not turn from me, forget me and my poverty, and seek the joys and pleasures of the world, which your poor old mother can not give you?” “Mother! mother! speak on now and tell me the tale. My affection, doubt it never! Yet, mother, that secret—oh! tell it to me now!” and he seized both of her hands in his and gazed beseechingly in her face. His frame was shaking, and his eyes beamed wistfully at her. ‘No, Lorin, not now; for the fullness of time is not yet! The stars would frown upon me—the wild arbutus and the nightshade would smoke no more for me, dared I draw aside the curtain of the past, and show you the dark picture painted upon it! Ask me no further, but know that for you I would die. Speak on, my son, and freely; confess to your old mother, who, tes ip her years are many, though her face is wrinkled and her form bent, can yet tell you the right way, and point a path which will lead you safely from the lanes of doubt and sorrow.” The old woman’s words seemed almost inspired. Placing his chair so as to face his mother, Lorin again took her hand. ‘*T will tell you, mother. When I returned from New York, chance one day flung me face to face, in the Pemberton mill, with Minerva Ames, the bank- er’s daughter. After that time I met her frequent- ly. Ilearned where she lived, and often after mill- hours, though it was out of my way, I would dress myself in my best attire, and stroll by the elegant mansion. AndasI went by, I always looked for a splendid, queenly face at the window. If I missed that face I felt sad. As time passed on, I found this custom had grown on me so that I could not forget it; it had become part of my life—and I almost al- ways saw that fascinating face at the window, and on it, as I came in sight, a sweet, angelic smile al- ways grew. Thus chance brought about a memora- ble period in my life. Two eae ago, one night as I was returning from this house to Lawrence, in a rough place on the Salem pike, I suddenly heard the clatter of a carriage; withit the cries of a man were mingled. Iturned and saw two frightened horses rumning away at a fearful rate with a carriage. The driver was unable to hold them back. It was his cries heard. I did not hesitate. I flung myself in the middie of the dark road, and, trusting to a brawny arm, I nerved myself for the shock. came, and I was hurled headlong forward. Then I heard a shrill shriek of a woman coming from with- in the carriage, and I shut my eyes redoubled my strength as I still <= the bits. The strug- gle was tearful. Enough to say, as you know, I con- ee Isaved Minerva Ames’s life. The next day received, both from her and her father, letters of thanks, containing an invitation for me to call. Oh, Heavens! how kind fate had been to me! My day- dream had ended in a ms fe awakening. I went; I saw Minerva; she smiled upon me. I went again and again; I became a frequenter of the elegant mansion. Then—I hasten, mother—I suddenly be- came awakened to the fact that I loved_Minerva Ames, Ay! mother, start as you may! I learned that I, a poor workman in the mill—a man _ without name, family, or money, dared love the banker’s queenly daughter. I could not stifle the feeling, the grand emotion which swelled through me. I strove to banish it from my mind. The awakening was startling, yet the idea preposterous. Then, as I could not stem the mad current, which was =. ingme on, I ceased my efforts and floated blissfully on its bosom. I fancied Minerva Ames encouraged me. Ah! Heaven! mother, I was convinced that she loved me! om two nights since I dared speak my love to her, and she did not repel me. We were in- terrupted, but her eyes sparkled and her bosom heaved at my warm speech. “Listen yet further, mother,” he said, and now his voice was tremulous and lower than ever. ‘‘ You know Bessie Raynor?” He hesitated and looked at her. = as lightning the old woman raised her ea | « Ay, Lorin, and a noble girl she is!” she said. | ‘Her old father was as honest a man as ever Law- rence saw or will see. Silas Raynor was, in times dead and gone, alas! a suitor of mine.” “Well, mother, ’tis of Bessie 1 would speak. I will do so briefly and frankly. I have known her since she was a child. She is scarcely more now, though she has a woman’s heart and susceptibilities. More than once has my heart warmed toward her and my blood has coursed along more briskly as I have held her by the hand, and gazed into her soft, dreamy eyes. In a word, mother, I have, at times, fancied I loved Bessie Raynor. Do not interrupt me, mother; do not frown at me. I must speak the truth, Isay ‘fancied;’ I spoke truthfully; when I question myself, I find that it was all fancy—that I do not love Bessie Raynor,” “Do not love Bessie? And why, Lorin?” demanded Mother Moll, in an unnaturally harsh voice. ‘““ Why, mother, I am not honest to love two wo- men, I love Minerva Ames, I can not love Bessie Raynor. I do love Minerva.” “You are a foolish boy, Lorin, and you would standin your own light. Minerva Ames is not wor- thy pe aes my derling rg a do not interrupt me. our old mother speaks what she knows to be the truth. Isay Minerva Ames is not worthy to be your wife, and her father is not a fitting person to own such a son-in-law as you.” “Oh, mother, how can you talk thus? Minerva is soft, gentle and—” - e Granted; but she has a double tongue and a de- ceitful heart! Think you, Lorin Gray,” and her eyes flashed, ‘‘that J can be deceived? No! no! I al- ready knew the tale you have told me—ay! before you opened your mouth. And I know, too, that Minerva Ames is playing with you—I repeat it: play- ing with you. She would have your homage, but she would have Malcolm Arlington’s money.” “Malcolm Arlington! hy, mother—”’ “I speak the truth, Lorin. I tell you that, in com- pany with that rich banker, she rode by this house not two hours since. Ha! the arrow strikes, does it? Yet tis a merciful shaft.” ‘‘Oh, mother! mother!” and the young man stag- gered to his feet. Softly the old woman laid her hand on his arm and drew him to his seat. “Listen, my son; I would talk with you.” CHAPTER XXVIII. CROSSING THE PALM. Bessie Raynor, this same night, sat by the bedside of her brother. here was a feverishness about his © hands and face which made her solicitous in regard — 2 him, Her habitually sad look rested upon her ‘ace, Ross saw her gaze fixed upon him. - “Be not uneasy about me, Bessie,” he said, ina gentle voice, as a faint smile struggled to his face. ‘Do not be uneasy about me. You know I slept well last night. The doctor said this morning that I was getting along well.” Poor Ross! he thought he was the only cause of solicitudein Bessie’s bosom. Bessie could not shut her eyes to the fact; the lit- tle stock of money they had was oink fast. The funeral expense, pal je light in itself, had been heavy when the sm taken into consideration. “T am worried about you, brother,” at length she said, ‘‘and I am worried about other matters, too. Ross, do you know we have not five dollars in the house? Alas!” The cripple looked earnestly at her, and a shade amount in the house was of pain came to his face. But then a smile played _ triumphantly around his mouth as he said: “Bessie, have you forgotten what you told me of — papa?—what he told you about the chest, an —_ “No! no!” interrupted his sister, ‘‘ I had not for- ‘otten; but—’? She paused, as her countenance arkened. ‘I have my doubts, Ross—I do not like to think of that chest. Something seems to whisper in my ear that we will be disappointed—that poor pone brain was confused—that he spoke idle words— “‘Oh, Bessie, how can you talk so? Go now and open the chest. We will never go to the horrid mill, with its clatter and roar, ee Bessie half started to her feet as her brother’s earnest words fell on her ear. “The key, Ross! the key!’ she murmured. ‘That terrible stroke of lightning, it was then I lost the key. I have searched for it since in vain. But I'll go and look again, Ah! if we can find the old pea-jacket, and, in it, the papers! then we can be will leave the mill.” A fire sparkled in her eyes, and a deep glow of ex- ultation, of high bow: of longed-for happiness, illu- mined her cheek. She arose and left the room. A half-hour elapsed ere she returned. When she entered the apartment again, Ross_saw in her every movement the failure of her search. “You have not found the key, Bessie?” “No; I have searched high and low, in every nook and corner, for it. It is gone!” ‘Break open the lid with an ax,” said Ross, reso- lutely. ie started at the proposition. “Splinter the lid, Bessie,”-urged y e His sister hesitated no longer. She ran down- stairs, and in a moment returned, bringing with her a heavy ax. She seemed bent on taking the cripple’s advice, She snatched the lamp and hurried out to the landing, leaving the door open. She placed the lamp near her. But she paused as she d on the old storm-battered, salt-stained chest. She thought of her father, of the many ocean leagues this old appy—we Ss — = + —
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- and then, oh, God! BESSIE RAYNOR, THE WORK GIRL. Ere lt ee ee ee le eae 415 chest had traveled with him, and a choking sensa- tion came toher throat. But she nerved herself. The bright metal flashed for a moment in the light and then fell with a crush- ing thud. The eye of the ax fell on the edge of the lid in which the lock was set. The lock, chain and hasp were stricken entirely away. | Tremblingly Bessie laid the ax aside and knelt by the side of the chest as she flung the lid back. One look inside, and Bessie staggered to her feet. A low wail broke from her lips, as she reeled into her brother’s room and sunk, moaning, to the floor. The chest was empty! Lorin Gray leaned toward his mother, and, now that he had unburdened to her the tale which was Weighing him down, he looked her calmly in the face, “T can tell of the past, my son,” she began, “* and I can read of the future. I know you do not believe is, and that you, with your book-learning, endeavor to persuade me to abandon my notions. Notions / Does not the past tell what Icando? Yet, of myself Thave not the power; it comes from a higher source. But, listen, Lorin; do not smile at me or interrupt me, Iwilltell you of the future; I will spread be- fore you a picture which you will understand. Ido 80, /o warn you. Til not speak of Bessie Raynor or Minerva Ames, though already I know their future. ules it to say that everything will work well. But, isten,’’ As she spoke, she arose, reached down from the mantle an old-fashioned sand-glass set on hour pivots. This she placed on the floor near her, invert- ing it, so that the sand would trickle through the lower chamber of the instrument. Having done his she went to the dresser and took out a handfulo salt. This, with a small quantity of chareoal, which she obtained from a vessel on the mantle, she laid in a shovel. i dregpe ahr the lit- tle heap a tablespoonful of alcohol, she resumed her Seat For a moment the strange old woman muttered Some incoherent and half inaudible words to herself. Thon, suddenly extinguishing the lamp, she lit a wisp of paper by the red coals in the stove, and ap- Plied itto the contents of the shovel, which she was now holding above the sand-glass. Instantly a ghastly, sickly gleam blazed in the room, vend lit up everything with a spectral, corpse- ke glamour, “Ay! ay!’ she began, in a low, distinct voice, her head thrown back,and her eyes gazing at the up- curling fumes, ‘it comes again! A raw, windy day, snow-clouds in the air! The white drapery on the earth! Wild winds through the streets, and along the river! A mighty crash! A mountain of smoke, ame! flame! The sky red with the uplieking fire, and rent with piercing cries, and moans, and wails, and curses, and prayers! The pal- lid moon, shining ghastly on a dead, smoking ruin! Oh! God, shut out, shut-out the view!”’ With asudden movement she emptied the contents of the shovel and arose. Then, as she staggered for a moment, she wailed in the young man’s ear: “Tis the Pamprrron, Lorin. Shun it and be safe! When the snow-king— Ha!’ She suddenly paused, and at that moment the crunch of carriage-wheels sounded in front of the house, The Sound ceased: the carriage had stopped. Then a female voice, echoing like a silver clarion, exela'me 1; ‘This ig the place, Mr. Arlington—the witch's house! Let us go in, and have our fortunes told.” Then, in reply, échoed the deep, full tones of a assent. m ad ing a ; other Moll trembled. “ Away with you, Lorin!” she. . Quick! into the other room there, and listen. he pilus . Lorin Gray turned at once, as a wild fearing shud- der passed over his frame, and sti r pet tos nated. , rode into the apart 2; eard the words, and he knew the voice! Just as he had closed the door, leaving it slightly ajar, two figures, showing dimly in the uncertain tient entered the room, in which remained Mother Moll. The old woman had just succeeded in relight- ing the lamp. Ha! whata villainous odor!” said Minerva Ames, as she entered the apartment. Yes, indsed!”” echoed Malcolm Arlington, who stood just behind her. Your servant, miss and sir,” said Mother Moll humbly, bowing low. ‘What would you have o the old fortune-teller, that you thus honor her lowly abode?” and she eyed her guests keenly. We were out ping good dame, and being near your house, we thought we would pay you a visit,” said Minerva, smiling blandly. You ean tell fortunes, I believe?"’ said Arlington, asa slight sneer broke over his mustached lip. can,” was the prompt reply. ‘‘ Would you haye yours unfolded? 3 palin I! ’Tis the lady who wishes to cross your ene oe aati os said Mer nd ha ne, And os the assin eS egin at once. ei forth your hand, lady.” PA pie ey, drew back; but, placing a piece hae ee ¢ old woman’s palm, she held out her : je! fair lady! You have two lov- and gee ne one who loves you madly you are false, saa fovetrea tenet wi Us n your hand. this other You stand upin marri woe But—there'll be trouble— trouble which you can not shun, and which nothing can avert!” She ceased, and dropping the hand, turned away. Minerva Ames started back, and a dark shade of fear came to her face. But she controlled herself, and asked: ‘* And who is it with whom I will stand—who is it to whom I have given my hand?” Arlington laughed low; but he suddenly became silent, as Mother Moll answered at once: “*To him who is with you now—to Malcolm Arling- ton—to whom you have sold yourself for money |” Again Minerva started violently, and a still darker frown came to her face; but she managed to restrain her emotions, and asked once more, this time in a voice just above a whisper: ‘* And this other, the true lover as you would make him—who is he?” ob aly adopted son! my noble boy, Lorin Gray!” “Your, your son! Come, Mr. Arlington!” and Minerva reeled from the room. A moment more and the carriage-wheels were rat- , tling rapidly re Like a tornado, Lorin fie burst into the room. “False! false woman! False, deceitful Minerva! Tl know the worst to-night!”’ Unheeding his poor old utother, and her uplifted, pees hands, he rushed from the room out into the dark night. CHAPTER XXIX. THE BLOW. THat night when Minerva Ames sprung from Malcolm Arlington’s carriage, at the door of her father’s house, she hardly bade the banker good- night. She hurriedly entered the mansion, not ask- ing her lover to comein., Her mind seemed occupied with some dark topic. Mr. Arlington wondered at thiS strange conduct, and his brow grew black. He was recalling the scene at the old fortune-teller’s was thinking of Mother Moll’s ominous words. Had those words startled Minerva? Had they turned her thoughts from him ? The image of Lorin Gray arose in his mind; Mal- colm Arlington knew him well enough. A bitter feeling of jealousy took possession of him, Had he—this common mill-man, a place in the bosom of the aristocratic Minerva? The banker drove slowly away with these dark thoughts in his soul. He determined this very night to know more of the str. affair. He was well aware of an old-time rumor, that Minerva Ames held the operative in high esteem; but now, she had given him her heart and hand! ; When Minerva was in the house, she hurried by the parlor, and ascended the stairs to her room, Within her chamber, she flung her hat and shawl upon the bed, and sunk into a chair. After sitting for several moments she exclaimed, bitterly: “Oh! Heavens! what can all this mean! Father! father! you are to blame for this! You have tied the mill-stone around my neck! Yet, ah! bright thought, is it too late, even now, to say nay to Mal- colm Arlington? Can I not, at this late time, go back to Lorin?” She paused as the thought came to her; a bright glow sprung to her cheek; a sparkle of enthusiasm ang pene to her ope. : ut, these signs of emotion passed away, as sud- denly’as they had kindled. % ‘No, no!l’’ she cried. ‘The die is cast! I cannot relinquish my position in society; I cannot become the wife of a man who is unable to support me, in ease and luxury. My purpose is fixed; my heart is settled. Iam—” She suddenly ceased her murmurings, as the bell rung with a loud, startling clangor. ‘Who can it be?’ she muttered. ‘ Father is out. Can it be Malcolm Arlington, distrust Gp eg and queer conduct toward him? Come de me, Ha, Mary!’ she exclaimed, as that moment, after a premonitory rap, the girl opened the door. ‘A gentleman, who wishes to see you, ma’am,”’ ‘His card, Mary.”’ ; “He sent none; he seemed to be in a great hurry, ma’am.,’ “Ah! Tis all right then, Mary,” and Minerva, dis- missing the servant, arose. or an instant she looked like one bewildered. But she turned to the mirror, hastily rearranged her somewhat disordered tresses, and with a sweeping scrutiny of her superb person, left her chamber and descended the stairs. Shewpaused as she stood at the parlor door; she had heard the hasty, heavy stride of a man inside. Her hind trembled as it rested on the bolt. But summoning all her resolution, she opened the door and stood within the room. She started wildly as her gaze fell on the tall, brawny figure of a coarsely-clad man. His back was toward her. But, at that instant, he turned “You, you, Lorin Gray!” she said, in a deep, indig- nant voice—a.voice severe and harsh, ‘‘ t would you have?”’ The man strode toward her, his face a wild scene of contending emotions. A moment and he had reached her; fhen he was upon his knees before her. pd could prevent him, he had clasped her hand n There was a bitter, yearni lance in his eye; but a storm of words was upon his lips. He could not quell that storm; it burst like a surcharged moun- tain torrent. ‘i ss ‘¢Oh! Minerva!’ he cried, in a voice of anguish. “Oh! darling Minerva, say that horrid revelation is false ae “gay gd ver scheme ie es} hewwore ou my old mother at she e to ed me From you! Oni Atinerva, Theard all, ay, | i every word, every syllable! And i have hurried hither to learn from you the truth, to hear you brand the whole dreadful thing as faise. Oh! Minerva, I love but you! I cannot live without you. I may be poor; but I'll work for you, slave for you. Say that you have not flung me off! Speak, speak, Minerva, I implore you!” : or a moment there was a bitter struggle in the bosom of Minerva Ames. A wild storm was sweep- ing over her, too. Then it was gone. The working, twitching features grew calm; the eyes became like stone in the steadiness of their stare, and an iron- © like rigidity contracted her features. With a sudden gesture, she wrenched her hand from his, and answered: “ Are you crazed, Lorin Gray? Ordo you foolish- ly, madly dream that you can thus come into my A Bescag and speak such words to me? Am I to lame that you skould thus act? Have I, out of gratitude for a service you once rendered me, and or whi-h money was offered you, falsely led you on? No, no. You are certainly presuming to make use of such Janguage tome. Surely you have forgotten, that between you and myself, a wide gulf stretches; | that you are a common workman—I, a banker’s daughter. No, Lorin Gray; let me hear no more of this. Iam the promised wife of Mr. Malcolm Ar- lington. Now, my good man, you had better be- gone.” She waved him contemptuously away. Lorin Gray slowly arose to his feet. His head was still Hower peer to conceal the wiid tempest of assion which was speeding like a hurricane over is face. He clutched his hands one in the other, as if by his giant’s strength he would crush back the agony which was meng his soul. Then, as he reared his form to its full hight, he raised his face until his eyes met hers. Minerva Ames never forgot that look. She — shuddered in her inmost bosom. . | Then the man spoke. Me “‘T have heard you,” Minerva, and I bow obedience to your words. did love you, as man never woman; but my love has gone forever!” ns The girl started. ; “T was presumptuous, Minerva; yet I never for- got that lwas a poor workingman, and an honest man. I thought, too, that in this broad, fair land of ours, where worth and honesty, truth and e should be recognized, and where I know them to _ dwell, that the barrier which society and money have erected between the classes—between you and I, Minerva, might be removed. I was mistaken! I loved you honestly, not for the money you would have brought me, not for the position you could have given me; for money I can make, and I claim no other position than I hold—that of an honest, God-fearing man. But, _ love for you has been crushed, foreyer crushed. It exists no longer. God knows 1 would be ha y in seeing tom happy, and that you maybe, I'll always pray. Iam srntetaider the kindness you have shown me, and for the con- sideration with which you have always treated me. I can never forget the hours of serene, unclouded joy I have spent in this house, in the sunshine of youe presence. Yet, Minerva, I was deceived when thought that I could love none other than you. The barrier between you and myself was too high to be climbed; I should have known it. Now, that it is reared still higher, even beyond where vision can penetrate, my heart turns to another, right one, as, alas! 1 have learned too late.” Minerva started violently as his closing words fell Patil aad chee ateore ‘attend! Meet ak Feber m, and she strove $ er re- rogee.| her utterance. git Bere, b There is a poor re, but one als pure and retty as Lawrence can boast, one with a sweet ace angel’s heart, who, like myself, is She works in the mill, too. From her honest vel turned, long ago, to you. Her dying father e her into Bro’ I eve been wickedly false tome trust. I will seek her. Farewell, Minerva; ma Rcoven choicest blessings be yours! I goto nor!”’ *Bescie Raynor! Good Heavens! Oh, Lorin, I will— But the mill-man, suddenly seizing his hat, left the room, A moment and the front door closed. € Was gone, never more to return as' the suitor oth tere anne h e banker’s daughter had sprung toward him as he uttered his last words; but, wiles she heard the door close, she sunk to the floor in a swoon, Lorin Gray had not proceeded ten paces from the residence when, suddenly, a tall form stood in his way, and a strong hand clutched him by the arm. He started back, and, in a moment, had assumed the defensive. ‘Hold, fellow, and answer me!” exclaimed the other, in a deep voice of passion. “I saw all through the window; I saw you take Minerva Ames’s hand; I saw you ——s appealing wo to her. Tell me how you dare do ee a things: me, or I’ll chastise you at once!” a: strengthened his grasp as the uttered the wi ords. Lorin Gray’s blood boiled in his veins. I know you, Mr. Arlington,” he said, in a low, men: voice. ‘But Ill answer you, nor any man by threats. Out of my way, or take the eonse- quences!” ‘‘ Hold, fellow, I say, or—” raised his cane threateningly over he mill- ori Gray Gi not wait. and Lorin Gray wait. He ig forward, and seizing his. Cees ‘by the ehouldest, hurled him, like a puppet, to the ravement. Without waiting to see the consequences, he strodé on. : Maleolm Arlington, diseomfited and defeated, — inf
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“is ya, ' Bessie! 416 BESSIE RAYNOR, THE W slowly arose, and shaking his clenched hand after the operative, muttered, in a hissing tone: “By Heaven! you shall pay for this! Oh, Mi- nerva! CHAPTER XXX. STUNG TO THE QUICK. Lorry Gray, with his eyes fixed steadily before him, hurried on. He looked neither to the right nor to the left, He had almost forgotten, though only a few moments had passed, his encounter with Maleolm Arlington. is soul was full of wild passions, and under a sudden impulse, a sudden re- collection of neglected duties, he strode forward, bent on the consummation of one object. He was soon in Canal street, and then on the smaller way, overhanging the sluggish water on which was situ- ated the Raynor mansion. When he had reached the humble home where Bessie and her brother lived, his heart beat tamultu- ously fora moment. He had undergone much that night, enough, truly, to try him, but hi blood leaped madly along his veins. He would not stop novy. He had been negligent of a holy task; he had not encouraged the love of a pure and gentle maiden. This night, this hour, he would make amends. He rapped on the door. Tt will Be remembered that we left Bessie sinking in a swoon on the floor of her brother’s room, after seeing that the chest was empty, that chest in which she expected to find her wealth, that which would take her and the crippled brother out of the din and clatter of the Pemberton mill. She lay for several moments there, as one dead, The wounded brother could not assist her; he could not now summon that cx epee strength which enabled him to rise from his bed and stand between the vengeful knife of Nancy Hurd and his sister. He lay there and prayed God for help. E essie slowly recovered, and crept again to her -brother’s bedside. _ Then, between these two lone ones along, earnest, heart-confiding conversation ensued, and conjointly they lifted their feeble voices and committed them- selves to His care, to Him who had promised shelter ’ to the shorn and food for the fatherless. Then a holy calm rested over them. Bessie Raynor, worn out and exhausted, leaned her head upon the bed and slept. An hour and a half sped by, when Bessie suddenly awakened. A rap had sounded on the door. A shade of fear came to the girl’s face. “Who ean it be?’ she murmured. ‘‘’Tis late, and —oh! Heavens, can it be Black Phil? Heaven pre- serve me! In his hands I am powerless.” Another rap, louder, and as if impatient, echoed in the room below. i “T must go!” she continued. F Tremblingly she took up the lamp, and with an inward, heartfelt invocation for her safety, she stole from the room and descended the stairs. In a moment, she was in the room in which her dead father had lain. The window of that room was up, that the apartment might be aired. : Bessie fearingly went to the.door and opened it. “You, Lorin!” and she started back, yet there was relief, a half-concealed joy in her tones. “Yes, Bessie, it is I,” he said, at once entering and seating himself, as if exhausted, upon a chair. Bessie Raynor soon recovered herself; a hard half-stern frown came to her face, and she turned away, as if to leave the apartment. Oh! Bessie, have you no word for me?’ ex- claimed the mill-man, noting her movement, noting her face, and he half arose from the chair. “What would you have, Lorin Gray? The hour is late; and Iam. a poor, lone girl, unprotected, un- defended, and a , broken-hearted oceupant of a house in which death has lately been! What would you have of me?” E ’ Tae girl's. words were like ice, and they were spoken calmly, quietly, dignifiedly. : Lorin Gray recoiled; his eyes seemed starting from his head, his broad chest rose and fell tumultu- ously. For a whole minute he gazed at her, as she stood, lamp in hand, half turning toward him. “Gan you not speak, Lorin Gray?” she asked, in a severe tone, or have you lost utcerance? Or,” and her eyes flashed, “‘after seeing her, and basking n her smiles, have you come hither to insult me in my poverty? Speak, I say, and then—we had better say good-night!” : 4 came hard to believe that this was the meek- eyed, gentle-faced Bessie Raynor who was speaking these bold, cutting words of sarcasm. — Lorin Gray started violently. His face first reddened, then paled. How had she known of his visit. to the elegant mansion on Lawrence street. Had she seen him there, that night, and heard the words and witnessed the scene? so, then, indeed, was he in her power. He arose and approached her, but she again drew away. Wh do you shun me, Bessie? Am I a villain, am I a leper, or am I not, as ever, your friend?” ‘““My friend? Why, Lorin Gray, do you so soon’ forget? I say again, the time is speeding; the time is late. I have a crippled brother, as you=” “Oh, Raesle, you are cruel! Listen to me, dear § ue Fhe —— m aes toh pon A to i ect th irections of your ng er. come to tell ou, Bessie, that whatever has been my conduct during the last few days, my heart is in the. right place, now that my eyes have indeed been once Oh, Bessie! I was deceived—deceived by my own heart—deceived and led on by a woman, who would win me and my love but to crush me and to scorn it. I have been rudely awakened. now know that I did not love Minerva Ames! Oh, Bessie, you, and I have been together for many € oor your father left you to my care; I will not ring discredit on that trust by neglecting it! Bessie, my heart is on fire, and I must speak! I love you, Bessie—you alone. Oh! say, darling, that you for- give me my waywardness; that you will pardon my transgression, that you will take me back again to your heart! Oh, Bessie, speak!”’ As he spoke, he threw himself impulsively before her, and grasped her hand. At that instant, a low, agonizing wail sounded faintly on the air and echoed in the room. Then all was still. But, Lorin Gray nor Bessie Raynor heard the wail, for the oid tree in the yard was sighing dolefully. Slowly the girl recovered herself; she had been touched and shaken by his appeal. She disengaged her hand from his, and, stepping toward the stair- case, said, in a low, deliberate tone: “This can not be, Lorin! Let the past be buried; but, you and I must walk in separate paths. <A time was, when’’—she hesitated—“ when, [ll not deny, Lorin, that you were dear to my heart. That time has gone by. You have deceived me, Lorin; yet, for the sake of old times and the joys of other days, we'll still be friends. And now, good-night.” Without waiting a moment—not even to receive his parting salutation, she turned from him,.and hurried up-stairs. The young man stood like one in a dream, there in the solemn darkness of the room. Then, as a great sob, which he could not suppress, burst from him, he murmured: ; ** Lost! .ost!”” He staggered to the door, thence out into the inky darkness of the street. That low wail came from Minerva Ames! She had quickly recovered after Lorin Gray had left her father’s mansion. A fire was burning in her soul, She could not remain in the house. *‘‘ Bessie Raynor!” was ringing in her ears. eedless of the hour, and of every thing else, she | had stolen forth. og sey she had witnessed the en- counter between her two lovers; and then, as Mal- colm Arlington had turned off, she darted on in the footsteps of Lorin. ; She kept him in sight, all the way, and, finally, saw him enter the home of Bessie Raynor. Then, through the open window, she had witnessed the thrilling scene within; and then sunk fainting to the pavement. ¢ But, just then, a strong arm was reached out. It caught her, and buoyed her up. ‘Be strong—be brave, Minerva,” said a deep voice at h r elbow—that voice, kindly. ‘“‘I, too, have seen all. Ifollowed you here. Now, darling, are cured of this fellow. Come; I'll see you home.” Minerva turned to the man. “You are right—ay, very right!’ and‘she fairly hissed the words. ‘“‘If never before, now, at last, I'm yours, Malcolm Arlington! We'll begone.”’ The next day, as Lorin Gray, stern and sad-faced, stood at his frame in the Pemberton mill, a gentle- man of dignified freee approached him, and | placed a letter in hishand, He said he would await an answer. The mill-man glanced at the superscription, open- ed, and read the letter. It was this: “Mr. Lorin Gray: ‘“Srr‘—In this country, all men are, or should be, equal. Looking atthe matter in that light, I recog- nize you as my equal. an apology. for the insult of last night. Notify my friend, Col. Thornton, who hands you this, to whom he can. go as yourfriend. Or, an apology, ample enough to satisfy Col. Thornton, will be satisfactory to me. Respectfully, “ MALCOLM ARLINGTON.” Lorin Gray did not start or change color. Fora moment he reflected; then excusing himself to Col. Thornton, he drew out a pencil, and taking Mr, Ar- lington’s sheet, he wrote on the back of it as follows* : “Mr, ARLINGTON: “My Dear Srr:—There is no cause for quarrel between us, love her no more. who never yet told a falsehood. I wish quarrel, sir. Respectfully, yours, ‘Lorin Gray.” That night when, in his fice, Malcolm Arlington read those few scribbled lirf@s in pencil, he brushed a os tear from his iron-gray eyes, as he mut- tered: “An honest fellow, and a real gentleman, if one lives, By Jove! I pity him!” CHAPTER XXXI. A LAPSE OF TIME. , Tur summer had passed; autumn had come and ‘one; snow-clouds had gathered in the air, and snow had whitened town, churchyard and lane. The ‘New Year,’’ with its greetings and “ calls,” all had come and gone. . The year eighteen hundred and sixty had come, and we re- our story on the ninth of January, a day preceding one of the blackest, the most awful, the saddest, the longest remembered in the annals of New England. Before going on regularly, however, it will be ne- cessary, briefly, to refer to the history of our char- acters in this interval of time. : Bessie Raynor, as soon as she had made the dis- covery that the chest was empty—that the deeds to the house in which she lived—to the lands in Iinois, | ‘near the lakes—that the directions for finding the buried doubloons were all a myth—that this was but the chimerical fancy of a» dying man, who, perhaps Thope you | Idemand of you redress, or: I aid love Minerva Ames, honestly. I | This is vpon the honor of a man | you and | Minerva all happiness and contentment. We will not | On Kk Verte. for the weal of his children, doted on and had built up such an idea—as soon as her own hopes had been destroyed, her eyes opened to the truth, she had gone back to her old place in the mill. Bessie was convinced, as was Ross, the cripple, that her father, laboring under a mental hallucina- tion, hac deceived her. Hor the chest was locked, and she had to shiver the lid, as we have seen; the key could not be found. So she had gone to work in the mill, her old place being open for her, retained, as she learned, through the instrumentality of that singular personage, that wondrous admixture of good and evil, black Phil. She had to leave Ross to attend to himself, trusting him, to a certain extent, to the kindness of tie neigh- ae several of whom volunteered to lock after im. Bessie often came in contact with Black Phil on her floor. The man seemed to hang upon ker steps | like a dog, and his kéen, sparkling eyes followed her wistfully, lovingly, wherever she trod. He was not lacking in any attention which would show his devo- tion and love to the girl. Though Bessie did not, as the reader has divined, love the man, yet his attentive conduct toward her, his many little services rendered in his own peculiar manner, which he meant to be delicate, won on‘her. Then, too, she dared not repel him. She was afraid of him. Where all this would end, she dared not even contemplate. So, regular y day by day, she went to the “ Pem- berton,” climbed, wearily, her four flights of stairs and earned her miserable stipend which supported | herself and brother. Lorin Gray, too, worked in the mill. His face now wore a. continual shade of melancholy. Between | him and Bessie there were only a few words, though. | Whenever he addressed her,h s words were tender and his gaze yearning and beseeching. He had been fre- quently to the humble home of the orphans, on the canal, to inquire about Ross and to ask Bessie how she was getting along. The answer he always re- | ceived was cold and chilling; it seemed that the | girl’s heart was frozen toward him, that she had banished forever his image from her bosom. But Lorin still came; he remembe: ed the old sea- captain’s last injunction to him, and he would not de- sert his charge. Over and over he would read the letter of old Silas Raynor, which had committed to his care the orphan girl and her crippled brother; read it to strengthen bimself in his resolve. More than once, too, he had timidly offered money ; but on such occasions Bessie had flung his hones offer rudely in his teeth. Lorin Gray had never gone again to the Ames mansion. He had, on several occasions, met Mi- nerva on the street or driving with Malcolm nto i ton, At first, he had spoken quietly and respectful- | ly to her, but, as she did not return his salutation, he soon ceased to recognize her. As for Minerva, it seemed, indeed, that the sight she had witnessed through the open window of the | Raynor home had cured her of her love or fane; for Lorin Gray, had alienated her entirely from him. | She seemed happy and contented enough as she walked, like a queen, by the side of the stern-look- ing, aristocratic banker, whom rumor said was soon to be her husband. ' But there were times when Minerva Ames was alone, when the silence and sadness and solemnity of the night drew around her, when, within the sa- cred precincts of her own rcom, that a shade of sor- row, of heart-deep regret came to her fair face, scalding tears to her eye. | With Arthur Ames the time had dragged itself slowly along. As usual, he went to the bank during | business hours. But that was simply habit. The money in that bank wasnot Ais ; the business there brought him no revenue... He had no interest, there, save in noticing, and if possible, adding to the wel- | fare of his expected son-in-law. ‘ He had grown haggard and pale as the time wore away, and his step was slow, nervous and halting. Often, in the silence of his chamber,in which he kept his papers, he would start at the slamming of a door, at a tap on his panel, at the creaking of a shutter, and the rattie of the sashes. Bessie Raynor, of late, had passed from his mut- terings—perhaps from his mind, ’Tis true, several months before—just four weeks after burial of the old Silas Raynor—he had one night gone to the Ray- nor home. : ; This he did, after much stimulation with brandy. That night was one never to be forgotten by Bessie, for then, in an cff-hand, yet trembling manner, Ar- thur Ames, this old, gray-headed man, had offered. | her—maiviuge! him and ordered him from the house. Then a wild | Indignantly, uapenaninety, she had rejected storm of anger had burst forth from the old man, as he told her of her ied Then, too, he had de- manded the rent for the house in which she lived. In vain Bessie had asseverated that her dying father had told her the house was his own, that i was paid for, but, tauntingly, the old man demanded the deed to prove it. had ho collected the rental eve Punctuall from her hard-earned savings Bessie month; an paid him. i As of old, Black Phil often came to his house, and the fellow became bolder and bolder, and more ex- orbitant in his demands. Old Ames groaned, but Black Phil heeded him not; he simply reiterated his demands; and he always went away with his hush-money gains. Malcolm Arl m was, as always, a business man—methodical, punctual, honest, and, of course, | prosperous. Lorin Gray, whom he had ceased to | notice, elmost to rethember, never came up before | his vision to disturb him. = Le a
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BESSIE RAYNOR, THE WORK GIRL. { 17 His marriage with Minerva Ames was fixed for the night of January tenth, eighteen hundred and sixty. other Moll was more serious and solemn than was her wont. Her eye did not sparkle so brightly as of old and her movements were slow. : She spent long hours bending over the smoking hellebore and hyssop, and when the moon was shin- ing and flinging its shadows like white-winged spec- ters SEpORge the bare tie ane aoe oy ight have been seen prowli roug e woods, inntitering and sighing, er head bent and her hands crossed before her. And Mother Moll was often, before she sought her couch, upon her knees by the bedside, in prayer—a strange thing for her, i iy Thus matters stood on the evening of the ninth of January, eighteen hundred and sixty. CHAPTER XXXI¥. A POWDER FOR RATS. : Ir. was dark sient again, a dark, cold winter night. All was still, save the creeping wind, which, with its icy breath, swept along the frozen river, and crooned through the bare branches of the trees. A light gleamed from the window of Black Phil’s cabin, It came from the ene, the same win- dow, the same room as the one in which we have be- fore introduced the reader. In that room, close toa glo ving fire on the hearth, sat Black Phil. The mill had ‘‘let out” early that afternoon, in consequence of some new machinery having to be put in, including large turbine wheels, Nancy had lingered in the city and had not returned. Black Phil’s eyes were fixed staringly in the fire, as if from the glowing coals he was weaving fancies, as if from the ashes he was resurrecting black, bur- iolimages. His cheek was pale, and his dark brow was wriakled into a deep, anxious frown. His thic'x bis y air huag in matted masses over his forehead ania lied to his wild, disordered appearance? Nar .a9 door was a lounge; on it a coarse cover- le;avi pillow. The man had besn asleep. “* Go vsious! what a horrible dream!” he muttered, after avew moments. ‘So life-like! so real! Yet, iwanty-bwo years have rolled round sinee tht nivnt. Ugh! L feel the little black shadow here'now, to1ehing my elbow! Oh, heavens! and though old Merrinavec is frozen tight, [ean hear coming up from its davx depths alow, ghastly wail! I feel that I am stidin x1 I iow, that something dreadful overhangs me!’ F H3 rose and staggered toward the window. | With a be of his brawny fist he shattered sash, frame and all. The cold air rushed in and filled the room with its freezing breath. The man panted heavily, as if he was drinking in the elastic atmosphere. “T feel better,” he muttered. That dream was too much for me, and Nancy is away! A thought! Yes, to-night is a good time. The hour is not late. If anybody in.the world knows about that—that matter, it is old Moll. She is a strange old woman, and has told of some very strange things, a long time before Logs f happened, too! No one will ba there to-night. will go, and I'll learn from the o!ld sorceress if she knows anything about this dart, terrible affair. I will have all from her, or Pll choke the tongue from her mouth!” ‘He did not hesitate long. Taking down a coarse Overcoat from a peg against the wall, he arranged the coals so that they would not do any damage during his absence. e left the lamp burning, and striding toward the door, which led into the dark- ness without, he opened it. Ere his foot had crossed the threshold, a woman, bundled in shawls and coarse wrappings, pushed in. Thank you, Phil; you are clever to open for me,” She said, with’a sneer. Her face was red and hor eyes were dancing in her head, The odor which ex- haled from her parted lips told a tale. You, Nancy! and drunk at that!” exclaimed tho man, starting back, as a deep, threatening frown wrinkled his brow. “Yes, ‘tis me, Phil, and Iam not drunk,” replied the woman. “f’ve got enough aboard to suit me when the thermometer is below zero, that’s all! But where are you going, Phil? Ain’t you tired enough, without go ng out again?’ The man did not answer. He pretended not to hear her, as he buttoned his coat around his throat and drew his hat over his eyes. f “Tsay, Phil, where are yon going? Can’t you hear me?” and the woman reeled toward bim. “Tam going out to attend to my own business,” answered the man. ‘So don’t hinder me,’ and he Strove to pass by her. But the woman promptly and boldly barred his ay. “No you don’t, Black Phil!” she said; “you've en away from me all the time, lately. I suppose y 3 are going to see that pale-faced Bessie Raynor!” pa me eyes glittered, and drunk asshe was, she stood ms pond firm, as she asked the question. not wight look came into the man’s face, He did trip pene her to know anything of his contemplated question ther Moll’s. He took a cue from Nancy’s “ What if I dogo to see Bessi see Bessie? As Ihave asked YOu befor night, whose business is it? Get out of MY Way, - Then, fakes nen, 1 Ha! you dare me to my teeth! blow on teooke, he suddenly struck her a violent Side i i He an OX, on ore Ae Sg head, sending her, tumbling Prostrate ¢«2Oment, and without a glance at her again and ‘rm, Black Phil hurled the door open n ten rushed forth into the night. and gt¢ utes he paused, as he reached the road, Tin: tood , : rattled up and wat, oo as a single-horse carriage “A bold traveler on such a night as this! and going the same way with me!” he muttered, as he again entered the road and strode on his way. Slowly Nancy Hurd recovered herself. With diffi- culty she staggered to her feet, and then sunk into a chair. A silence of some minutes ensued; the woman’s heav gory as her brawny breast rose and fell, alone being heard; but, by an effort, she aroused herself. “Ha! ha!” she exclaimed; “well done for you Black Phil! Your blow was from the shoulder an well delivered! Ha! ha! ’tis very well, Phil. I thank you for the stroke! It reminds me of m vow, and it nerves me to do the deed. Ay! Blac Phil! I have sworn it! You and I part to-morrow forever! Ha! ha! forever / and Bessie Raynor can not go with you! First, the money! it shall be mine! hen, to-morrow, the draft! glorious! glorious!” She again staggered to her feet and reeled toward the mantlepiece. _ She began to press her hand on the wall, feeling, it seemed, for some hidden spring. For a long time she worked in vain. But, all at once, as she eam a with an execra- tion and a bitter expression of disappointment, leaned her whole weight against the wall, to her sur- prise and joy, it yielded. The woman pe awe back and gazed. There lay the large pile of glittering gold! “Tis mine at last!” she muttered, as, scooping the coins out, she concealed them beneath her dress, in receptacles already prepared. The task was soon done. Then she broke the spring of the secret door, so that it would not re- spon ne pressure, and shut it tightly in its place in the wall. She drew near the lounge by the door and was about to cast herself upon it, but paused. “ll look once more at the sleep-maker!” she whispered. Drawing a small ype from her pocket, and opening it, she gazed at its contents. cee a good thing to have rats in the house!” she said. CHAPTER XXXII, OLD MOLL’S VISITOR. Morrer ers ey cold winter night, sat in her house, rubbing her withered hands over the stove, which glowed with a dull red color. The lamp was burning dimly on the mantlepiece, finging the few articles of furniture into half-shade and half-relief, and casting over the floor grotesque, unseemly shad- ows. Near the old woman lay a shovel, with a dark, oily mass in it, and by it, on a piece of marble, was a pue of ashes. he room was filled with a faint, suffocating odor. She at len th arose, and shuffled across the room to the window on theeast. She flung open the shut- ter and gazed out at the quiet, sleeping world. Far in the distance, the twinkling lights, like eyes in the night, marked the city of Lawrence. Mother Moll gazed an 1 suddenly started. The great, blood-red moon, gleaming through the murky atmosphere, far away, at that moment broke Ya the edges of the tree-tops of the distant orest. ‘*Good heavens!’’ muttered the old woman, start- ing back. “* The moon to my left hand, and bare boughs belween us / A bad sign! DrarH Is to come! The time approaches, and the—” She paused and peered sharply down the long, dull, gray line of the frozen, snowy road. As she spoke, a carriage, driven rapidly, came into view. Quickly the smoking steed dashed along. In a few moments the vehicle stopped before the little house. “As I thought!” muttered the old woman. ‘And I know who itis. Now. indeed, the time, the hour, the minute, approaches!” She closed the shutter softly, lowered the window, and returned to her places by the stove. Scareely had she seatel herself, when a rap sound- ed on the panel. Before she could respond, the door was opened and a short man in a long overcoat, with a wide hat drawn over his eyes, entered. Mother Moll turned and sat erect in her chair. “ Arthur Ames! you are welcome. Enter.” The man started violently. +2 How know you, old woman, that I am Arthur mes?” “IT expected you. Again I say, welcome, and enter. But now, your business?” He cast his hat aside and drew near the stove, “Tam Arthur Ames, old woman,” he said; “ but it seems to me, as you know everything else about me, you should know my business, too,” and he sneered, 4 The fortune-teller started; a snake-like, revengeful gleam came to her eyes and a rigidity to her lips, as she replied: “T did not say that I knew not your business. Trust me, man, when I say I know many things about ba but my lips are sealed till gold has touched my “T came to get information from. hag for that in- formation I have brought gold with which to pay OE? “Tis well; the hour and the feck are propitious, the hellebore burns brightly, an the stars are clear. Cross my palm and speak on. ; The old man laid several golden pieces in her hand. She bowed, as she said, half-mockingly: “You are liberal, Arthur Ames, with your money. She placed the gold beneath her girdle; the: she arose, and bringing from the dresser at hand a bun- dle of dried herbs, she flung them on the marble. ** Now tell me, Arthur Ams, what would you have me unfold to you—the past or the future?’ and she gazed him ane in the face. ‘‘T have a fair daughter; to-morrow night she weds. Tell me if, in her married life, happiness and wealth shall be hers?” The old woman, with a wisp of paper, lighted the herbs on the marble block. hey flared a and, in a moment, sent forth a dense volume of biue-gray smoke, which wound itself into fantastic wreaths, and floated away to the ceilin, Her visitor started back. was awed. The old woman, still standing, closed her eyes for a moment, and said, in a low, deliberate tone: “Minerva Ames will, to-morrow night, stand by the side of Malcolm Arlington and answer questions es to her by the clergyman. But—there'll be trou- Bamese'? “Trouble, and how, in—”’ “Interrupt me not, or the sight vanishes!” said the woman. Then, after a brief pause, with her eyes still closed, she continued: “Her after-days will be spent in peace, happily!” She ceased. “ And oney ! money, Mother Moll! willmy daugh- ter have it? Speak!” “ All that her heart will desire she shall have, and in abundance!” ‘*Heaven be thanked for that!” murmured old Ames, as he bent his head. Several moments Deny in silence. The herbs were still burning and the smoke was still curling up in the room. Mother Moll o “Would you have more of me, Arthur Ames?” she asked. ‘‘ You have paid me well, and the helle- bore burns brightly still) The curtains are drawn, and I can see far into the future—far back into the st.” “The past! the past! Ccn you see into the past and bring up its secrets again? Speak, woman; or are you but trifling with me?” and as his eyes glared teh her, he sprung to his feet and advanced to- ward her. > With an imperious wave of the hand, Mother Moll. checked him. ned her eyes. “*T can read of thepast. Think over some old-time _ picture in your mind, and I'll tell it to you!” The old woman spoke solemnly; but now a bright glow had sprung to her cheeks and a tremor slightly shook her voice. ; Old Arthur’s face grew pale; he sunk into a chair and said: ° “Trecall ascene of twenty-two years ago. Can you tell it me?” “*Ts it fixed in your mind?”’_ **Tndelibly.” **Then listen.” “ As she spoke she flung anofHer handful of herbs upon the smoldering embers on the marble, CHAPTER XXXIV. BURNING THE HELLEBORE, For some moments Mother Moll paused. She muttered some low, indistinguishable words in a tremulous tone, and, kept her head bent over the fiaring flame on the marble. The thick curlin smoke arose around her frame and almost obscure her from sight. ‘ It was a strange, inspiring scene, and Arthur Ames looked on with fear and wonder. At length the old woman spoke. “Listen well, Arthur Ames; the vision rises clear before me.” ’ She paused. ‘‘T aim listening, Mother Moll; speak on.” The man’s words were scarcely audible, “Ah! Isee! yes! Isee it plainly: A dark night: clouds over the moon; the stars hid from sight; all dreariness, blackness, gloom! <A few lights here and there, scattered in the sleeping town, telling that there are those who still linger up. At the corner of a black-looking alley, near the river, two men stand; one slender, well-dressed, white-handed—a gentle- man; the other, coarsely clad, large-limbed, sho dark-browed—a carter. “Do not start nor interrup me! Icommand you to be still and open not your mouth, or the vision vanishes! The men converse in low, excited tones. They leave the corner of the black alley, and next are seen on a main thorough- fare, then on the steps of a mansion of some preten- sions. They enter; they stand in a library; they speak again. Ink, and pens, and paper on the table. A contract is written and signed; money is passed from the gentleman unto the carter. They leave the library and creep up-stairs. They enter a room above. In that room pb alae child breathes gen- tly in a cradle; *tis scarce three years old. Oh! how beautiful that poor, sleeping innocent, as it sweetly, softly breathes and tosses its little round arm above its curly head! On that arm a mark ora scar. Start not, man, nor dare interrupt me now! A mo- ment the carter gazes at the sleeping child, ties a handkerchief tightly over its mouth, covers it with the skirt of his e coat and hurries out. Then from the house. On he goes. At last, far down by the river, where now the dam_spans the sheet, the dark-browed villain is seen. He heeds not the suffo- cating, appealing wail; the quick hurried breathing of the startled innocent. He stands and gazes into the dark water; then, as a sudden determination seizes him, he raises the child aloft, and hurls the littl helpless Le far out into the dark stream! Oh! A splash, a violent bubbling of the water. and then the pale moon creeps from behind a e cloud and gazes down. Good heavens, the it! the sight! A little white face scared and wet; a lit- tle, tiny hand stretched out from the dark water and all has disappeared! Allis silence! Oh! God!” - rag Do what he could, he ~ naan ‘e 2 #
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Janu Tam orbaie 18 and the old woman staggered back and leaned st a mantle. Arthur Ames, his face white as a winding-sheet, his eyes starting from his head, sprung to his feet. He strove to say something; then an unmeaning, eines laugh broke from lips. ; The old woman aroused herself, and strode toward m, “You like the picture!’’ she exclaimed. ‘‘ Listen further, then,”’ and with her long, lean, almost flesh- less finger, she pointer him to a seat. Awe-struck, the man sunk back. “Listen, I say, Arthur Ames! Far down the banks of that dark river, a small, dark object floats ashore. From the bushes.a singular form emerges. The little object moves—”’ “Woman! you lie! you lie!” exclaimed Arthur Ames, springing to his feet and rushing toward her. ‘Back! man! Iam armed!” At that instant a low rap sounded on the door, not the front, but the one to the rear. “Go, Arthur mes,” continued the old woman, speaking hurriedly. ‘tSome one comes; it might not be safe for you to be seen here. Begone! and remember my words! Remember, too, that the reck- oning day is coming |” With the glare of a baffled tiger, Arthur Ames turned and strode hurriedly froifi the room. Not until she heard the horse’s hoof ringing in the frosty crust of the road did Mother Moll pay heed to the other summons. It came again. The old woman walked to the door, and opening it cautiously, peered out, Instantly, the door was pushed rudely open, and a short, burly man en- tered. other Moll started back. ‘You, Black Phil, and what do you want of me?” she asked, as a frown came to her face, a frown mixed with an expression of fear; andshe retreated toward the mantle. “Mig I, Black Phil, indeed, Mother Moll; but I am not here to harm you,” said the man, respectfully. “Then, your business? Quick, out with it!”? and she spoke imperiously. The man did not hesitate. ‘“They tell me, Mother Moll,” he began, in a low __-yoice, though he kept his burning eyes mop her, es D “that you, as fortune-teller, can unvail things to come and bring to light things of the past.” He paused, be oever says that of me speaks the truth. Go on; what would you bave of me?” “Well, I knew of a Leal child years ago, some twenty or more, that got away from its nurse and fell in the river. It was thought to be drowned; others since then have thought not. That child ha a mark on its right arm like a sear. Can you tell me, if I cross your palm with money, if that poor child was drowned?” The old woman gazed at him steadily for several moments, and then, as she jerked her hand away, refusing the silver which he held out to her, she said, in a deep, impressive voice: ‘He who sunk by the moon’s pale light, Shall live again, as sure as the night Follows the close of day!” Gy man started at her strange, solemnly-uttered words. ‘What mean you, Mother Moll?” and with a fright- ened look, he drew near to her. “ And he, though poor, a waif on the way, Shall have nts again, as sure as day Succeeds the shades of night!’ Black Phil turned back; he gasped for breath. “Then ’tis true! true!” he muttered. ‘“‘Plee, flee, Black Phil; flee from the bottled wrath in store for you |” As she spoke she waved him from her. Without a word, the man turned and rushed from the house. “CHAPTER XXXV. THE BEGINNING OF THE ‘“‘ TENTH.” Tae next TORR the morning of the tenth of ; hteen hundred and si a day to be by many in Lawrence, by some who to this day wear mourning weeds in_a sad remem- brance, broke clear and beautiful. But, before the sun had risen, there was a dull, red glow over the horizon, which fell on the windows of the long factories, giving them a repulsive, blood-hued ap- pearance—a, glow, which with its stretching fingers r ed high up into the sky. It was, what most people would have called, an ominous morning; sailors would have called it an ugly morning. 3 ‘But, the sun rose and dispersed the dull, red a did not remove his clothes. He arose early this morning and bestirred him- self. _ “The old woman knows all about it!’ he muttered. “No, no!” he continued; “I'll keep it; it may serve me in the future, to havea hold on him. But, now, I’ve enough of his money to live a while on, twenty years at least. living twenty years from to-day?” He trembled as he paused. “T_T sometimes think,’ he muttered, as he moved toward the door of the next room, ‘‘that I'll not live vary long; I’ve felt a shadow come over me at times, and swallow me up. Then, I could feel unseen skeleton fingers grasping at my throat! Ugh! Yes, I'll take Mother Moll’s advice—clever in her to give it to me. First, the money,” and he laid his hand upon the door-bolt, He paused. ‘*No, Nancy is there now; Pll wait. Ill go up into the city and speak for a wagon to come to-night for oe i Ay, that will be the way!” e turned at once, and crept softly from the house. In an hour, just as the blood-colored sun was breaking through the ragged gray cloud on the eastern horizon, Black Phil returned. Nancy was up and astir, busying herself about breakfast. When the time came for ber to go to the mill, she turned to the man. ‘Are you ready, Phil?” she asked. She was very kind and bland. There was a marked change in her manner. Black Phil noticed it with wonder. “No, Iam not going to the mill this—” “What! not going to the mill to-day?” she asked, suddenly and anxiously, turning toward the man. “T didn’t say I was nov going to-day; you inter- Tupted me. I was going to say.I was not going this morning. Butt shall be there this afternoon.” “And what keeps you away, Phil? You are sub- overseer, you know, and—” “My own business keeps me away; that’s suffi- cient, N: . Goon, and tell Mr. Thompson I'll be there thls afternoon—that business keeps me away this morning.” He waved the woman to be gone, Naney, with a short, quick glance at him, left the house and hurried away. When she reached the bridge, she muttered, defiantly, as if her mind had been occupied with thought: “No! by Heavens! he shall not escape me! I’ve enc too far, and my preparations are too com- plete!”’ Ai hcg minutes she was climbing the stairs to er floor. Black Phil Ceonpeed himself all the morning in arranging his clothes and different articles about the house. It took him several hours to get every- thing in order. Then he packed his clothes, etc., in a large, common chest, with a padlock. Then he flung himself, with a weary yawn, upon the lounge. The man was exhausted; he had slept but little the night before, and his work, this morning, had not been light. In a few moments his deep, stertorous breathing, denoted that he slept soundly. Three hours passed before he awoke; when he did, it was with a start. “Ha!” he muttered. ‘1 came near over-sleeping myself. Tis pey-day, to-day, and I must draw my money! Yes, | wantevery cent. And, yes, Pll take out my pile now, my pile from the panel, where it has been lying and growing for many a long day. Yes, Pl get it now, and put it away. The day has eome when it must be used.” He arose, and going to a closet in the room, took out a large, stout canvas bag. This he carried to the mantle. He pressed on the wall. It did not yield. He pres: harder. Still it did not open. e paused and examined closely the edge that fitted into the wall. The indentation of a hammer or some heavy instrument caught his eye. He started, and flung his whole weight upon the wall. It remained immovable. Black Phil’s face grew white; a tremor took oossession of his frame, a quivering crept into his ps. ‘*Good Heavens! what does this mean?” he ex- “T can not bear it; PU know what’s the claimed. matter!” He strode into the next room. A moment, and he returned, bringing with him a heavy ax. In an instant, the ax circled around his head, and fell with a ringing stroke upon the heavy board. The splin- ters flew and the door swung open. One look, and Black Phil, tearing his hair and uttering a horrid oath, staggered back, with starting eyes and pallid cheeks. The pipee was empty! Not a single coin re- mained “Treachery! treachery! She has it! Tll cut her throat from ear to ear! Now, by Heavens, my blood is on fire and my fingers itch to clutch her throat! I must begone! all is lost to me if my gold is gone!” Without sto ping even to put on his overcoat, Black Phil rushed from his ein , leaving the doors wide open. He strode on at a_ break-neck pace, looking neither to the right nor the left, but always before him. His gaze was bent.on the Pemberton mill, as soon as it came into view, and from it he did not remove his eyes. | Before he reached the canal bridge, however, he | used; a strange expression came to his face, and e muttered: =e] a in the their She started, sprung quickly from bed. The sun was Twenty years! will I be | BESSIE RAYNOR, THE WORK GIRL. “*T am late, very late,” she said; “‘ and Mr. Thomp- son is so particular! Imust hurry. Awake, Ross, awake! "tis six o’clock and past,” she exclaimed, as she — on her brother’s door. She hurried with her own preparations, and was soon dressed. After a few minutes, Ross, pale and haggard, and looking worn and wearied, appeared in the little room’ below, where Bessie was getting | breakfast. “T don’t think I shail go to the Pemberton to-day, Bessie,” he said, as he sunk, listlessly, into a chair, “T do not feel well; I slept tadly, last night. And dreams haunted me—oh! so black! And that vision, again; the thira time now !” He groaned, as he leaned his head on his hands. Bessie crept around the table to his side. ‘You are ill, Ross,” she said. “Stay at home, and when the sun shines warmer, go out. and take a walk. Mr. Thompson will think nothing of it, for time and again he has told you that you needed | exercise.” “Yes, Bessie, I'll stay at home, and take a walk, as you suggest, after awhile.” he breakfast passed in silence. Avshade of sad- ness grew gradually over Bessie Raynor’s face—a feeling of depression and melancholy, she knew not why, slowly filling her mind. When she bade Ross good-by that morning, she returned, as if by an impulse, pressed a kiss upon his lips, then, she was gone. When she reached the mill, she paused, as she saw a tall, stalwart form just ahead of her. Bessie Raynor knew that form. e had almost reached the entrance, when she suddenly started forward, at a littlerun. A moment and she had reached him. She laid her hand on his shoulder. “Torin,” she said, in alow, tremulous voice. _ The man turned quickly; his sad, melancholy face lighted up, with a glow of pleasure. ‘““You! syou! Bessie!’? and he held his hand to her. “Tis I, Lorin,” she replied, in the same low voice, as she frankly took his hand in hers. ‘‘And I’ve been thinking, Lorin,” and her voice was scarcely above a whisper, “thet I have not treated you right, for along time—have not been kind to you. Forgive me, Lorin.” A big. tear stood in her hi The brawny mill-man’s frame shook like a leaf. “Heaven bless you, darling Bessie!’’ was all the answer he made, as he bowed his head over their joined hands. ‘ Then, they entered the mill, CHAPTER XXXVI. TEN MINUTES TO FIVE 0’CLOCK. As the day wore away and the sun came out more brightly, Ross Raynor drew near the door of his humble home, and opening it, looked out. The air. felt bracing; it sent the blood tingling through his system. * The cripple ee on his overcoat, and taking his hat, secured the door behind him, and left the house. He sirclled into Canal street, and took his way toward the dam. He paused, for a moment, then he crossed the bridge over the Merrimack, and striking into the Andover road, he continued briskly on. The pure, strengthening air was like food to the boy; he sucked it in greedily. He le!t the city behind him and still strode on. He thought not of turning back. When he left his home on the little street in Law- rence, it was nearly three o’clock. When he paused, as he did, near Mother Moll’s, he heard a clock from a factory away back in the city, boom the hour of four. Mother Moll sat before a table in her room; on that table stood an old-fashioned inkstand with a quill pen sticking in it. Near it lay several sheets of paper and a package of envelopes. The old woman sat with her arms folded across her breast, and gazed steadfastly, dreamingly, at the table, at the inkstand, at the paper. A frown wrinkled her brow, and a brooding ex- pression rested on her face. / “Yes, ’tis coming!’ she muttered; ‘‘and nothing can avert it! The vision has come twice to-day! The hour of the ending of all approaches. I distrust Arthur Ames; he knows I have told a truthful tale! He is not e. What will he do? I am an old woman, and a helpless one.’’ Ske pau ed, then, after a moment, she continued: “Tl do it! The te aes must not goby. TU 4 on: He, my dar ing boy, must know the tale! e must have what i! ly—”’ She stopped abrubtly, and suddenly pen, drove it into the ink, and drawin paper toward her, began to write. id as she was, Mother Moll wielded the pen readi- ly, and briskly it ran over the smooth page. Then, she had done. She flung the pen aside, and gazed, for several moments, at what she had written. “Twill do!” she muttered, as she folded the sheet slowly and carefully, and inserted it into an envelope. She sealed the envelope and directed it, in a plain, bold inscription. She started. ‘How shall he get it?’ she asked. “He must have it to-day, or never! I feelit. And to-night is Minerva Ames’s wedding! Oh! heavens! How shall a sheet of I get it to him? Ha!’ she suddenly exclaimed, as, at that)moment, a rap sounded on the panel. *Come in. — Heaven be thanked! You, Ross!’ and she strode briskly across the room to meet the crip- ple, who, at that moment, entered. “T was somewhat tired, and called in to rest a few minutes, Mother Moll.” ‘Heaven has sent you, Ross,” said the old woman, hastily and.as if her mind was set on one idea, ** wut izing the.
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BESSIE. RAYNOR, TH ‘ ene es = you can rest now. Here, Ross, is a letter for Lorin Gray. He must have it to-day, or his life and hopes wil be wrecked.” She forced the letter into his hand and almost pushed him toward the door. Suddenly, she paused. “Good heavens!” ain! Great God! ’tis the Pemberton! and my child! Hurry, fly, Ross Raynor, for now trouble, on black wings, is in the air!” f Wonderingly, fearingly, the cripple seized the let- ter and hurried from the house. : He had not taken ten yards when a carriage drove up, at a furious gait, and stopped by the fortune- teller’s door. A man sprung out and hurried into the houses : That man was Arthur Ames. He had not noticed Ross Raynor, but the cri we had noticed him, had marked, too, the diabolical look which rested on the banker’s withered face, Instinctively he paused and glided back to the rear of the house, and placed his face toa window. A ane of glass in that window was broken. Ross ynor saw and heard the following: | Arthur Ames burst like a whirlwind into the room. The old woman turned to meet him. He advanced upon her, his hand in his bosom, “Now, old woman,” he hissed, ‘‘I am come to know the truth! Tell me if that drowning boy, flung in the Merrimac, lives to-day!” The old fortune-teller reared her bent form, and while her eyes flashed, she shook her lean finger defi- antly in his face, as she thundered back: ‘“* Ay, he lives to claim his own! Ay, Arthur Ames, the boy you would have murdered—the helpless son of your dead brother Bernard—lives to-day, and this day he shall triumph over you! The stars and the hellebore—” ‘*You lie! and you die!” suddenly interrupted the man, as, like lightning, he sprung forward, and, drawing a pistol, placed it to her temple. A moment, and a sharp aa deadened report rung in the room, and poor old Mother Moll, flinging her i spasmodically in the air, fell, without a groan, he floor. The vengeful bullet had plowed through her brain. | ‘Arthur Ames, for a single moment, gazed at the prostrate form before him. Then a shudder ran over his frame. But, recovering himself, he sprun, to the bed in the corner, hurled it on the floor, an taking a lighted brand from the stove, flung it on the inflammable material. A moment, and the flames leaped up and began to roar. 7 ete done!” he muttered. ‘‘ Now the evidence is closed |” He turned and fled, like a brow-branded murderer, from the place. Then he was in his carriage and clattering back toward the city. Ross Raynor, stunned and stupefied at what he had seen and heard, endeavored to break into the house. But the flames which were leaping from the doors and windows drove him back. Turning off, he reeled away, shouting ‘‘ fire,” “murder,” at the top of his voice. He had not proceeded a quarter of a mile before he suddenly paused and shrunk back. The very . ground trembled beneath his feet, and a mighty collapse of air, as if some world-rocking earthquake had passed by, smote on his ear. Then he looked toward the city. A dense volume of dust and smoke reared itself in a huge column toward the sky. It was in the direction of the Pemberton mill. ipa, | a as he reeled on, saw the broad dial of a clock. Th f e hands pointed to ten minutes to five o'clock. CHAPTER XXXVII. THE GREAT HOLOCAUST. Lorin Gray left his loom and drew near Bessie’s place on the floor. As he came along the “ it was be ey , e girl saw him appro rorely d s aspect “e aching, and noted his sad, “They had not spoken further that i few words as they entered the mill, he eiebing: Bessie’s pale face crimsoved, and she bowed her | head and pretended to busy herself with her frame as she leaned down. ; — ae 9 es +z ‘‘ Bessie,” he said, and his voice was ve “there is something the matter. My ra ra et sa te ‘cud ch e looked up in astonishmenf, but the anxious oe et her face, and one of mele took its place. at mean you, Lorin?’ she asked, in a low, a tone, as she gazed him trustingly in the “T mean there is something the matter with the | is t00 keviy - ao lied, very earnestly. ‘I think it Veter he gazed at her str gan ) he g at her str It Was a strange smile, that which played over the 48 he walked siowly al ile show- ing a along, a smile show hand ay vem qvimixture of emotions. He bent his ely. Then, he stood at fifteen minutes to five o’clock. ] * ancy Hurd walked from behind her oom, some Se = away. She carried a smoking and. A smile was upon her lip. she exclaimed, ‘‘the vision | ass,” H easy to see that his face was solemh and | 18 e walls, I fear something will | happen. I wish it were half-past six, and we were | . arity toward the clock, at the further end of the’ moment, Black Phil appeared on the | = 2 ee et She met the man, her reputed husband, just by Bessie Raynor’s frame. | Lorin Gray and the orphan girl instinctively cast their eyes upon the two. . | “You, Phil! I was uneasy about you,” said the woman.” ; me. I promised you I would come. Here I am; — Binks that you have in the pitcher?’ he asked, | suddenly. | **Good hot rum punch, Phil, and I’ve saved the big- gest half for you. *Tis good. Drink it.” As she spoke, she held the piteher toward him. The man gave a quick, suspicious glance toward ' ber, he hesitated. But, after a moment, he took the ’ pitcher and said: ‘* Kind in you, Nancy; thank you.” | He placed the pitcher to his lips, and drained it to the bottom. | . As he handed it back to her, he started. A burn- | ing, stifling sensation hung in his throat, a film came | suddenly over his eyes. Dimly he saw a smile .of ! demoniac bier a on Nancy Hurd’s face. A sudden | shiver ran over him. He reeled toward her. “Nancy Hurd, you—you—have dealt foully—” by God! Whatis this! Fly! fly, Bessie oh! Heaven protect us!” Lorin Gray tottered, as his voice rung high above | the clattering of the machinery, the buzz and whirr of spindles. He had felt the heavy floors vibrate under his feet, he had seen the yarn in Bessie Raynor’s frame snap | and fly toward the ceiling, that ceiling groaning, creaking and gaping. | Oh! heavens! the wild shrieks that rung, at that , instant, from floor to floor through the great Pem- berton mill. “Oh! Lorin, save me, save—’’ She could say no | more. There was a wild creaking of timbers, a loud, | deafening, groaning of cemented bricks and mortar | as wide rents gaped in the wall, then, a mighty crash | and a stunning, deafening roar. At ten minutes before five o'clock on Tuesday, tenth of January, the Pemberton mill, all hands being at the | time on duty, fell to the ground. In the words of one whom the author of this ro- mance loves for her souw-stirring, heart-touching nee to the memory of this great sacrificial oifering: ‘*So the news flashed over the telegraph lines sprung into large type in the newspapers, passe _ from lip to lip, a nine days’ wonder, gave place to the successful candidate and the muttering South, ' and was forgotten.” . Yes, such was the brief message that leaped in the lepomne 6 spark over the broad land—such weré the few words telling a tale of horror, at which the people of the great American Republic, from lakes from coast to coast, shuddered. The Pemberton mill, which on that morning had winked its many eyes at the rising sun—which stood like a strong tower in its might—which, seemingly, ' could have withstood the storms and floods of ages, had gone down in its pride, gone down to wreek and ruin, and death! Quiet citizens sitting by their firesides; shop- dealers engaged in their traffic; laborers in the street —all held their breath, as the mighty sheck caused their houses to tremble and their brains to whirl. And all rushed forth, fearing that some subterra- nean wave was creeping alsng ben th them. Then they looked for the mills, one by one. Pem- berton was gone! Agreat black cloud of dust rising above it in the air, to mark its pl ce and its fall. -““Pemberton has fallen!”. Oh! God! the ery! Then, horror of horrors, there came a ery: . ‘“ FIRE! FIRE! THE PEMBERTON IS ON FIRE!” We sicken, we turn shudderingly away. Let us state plain, cold fact, as written in the words of the chronicler of the holocaust. “On the 10th of January, 1860, the Pemberton Manufacturing Company had in its employ nine hundred and eighteen persons. Of these, nearly six hundred men, women and children, were at work in the large mill where the manufacturing operations were principally carried on. At five o’clock in the afternoon, with no previous warning, almost in an ' instant, certainly ina space of time not exceeding one minute, the floors of this large structure, five | stories in hight, suddenly gave way, the walls were overthrown, and stone, bricks, timber, machinery, and this vast crowd of human beings, lay in one con- fused mass of ruins. A few hours later a fire broke out and raged fiercely over the shapeless pile, and then, indeed, a thrill of horror ran through the stoutest heart, as the thousards, working with almost supernatural effort for the rescue of the un- | fortunate victims, were successively driven off by the "flames and forced to arene friends, relatives and | neighbors to their awful fate. ; “Phe tidings flew, with the speed of lightning over the land, and while here, at the scene of the disaster, every thing seemed sarees but the care of the wounded, fhe burial of the dead, and the relief of | the suffering families of the bereaved, the hearts of | others at a distance were moved as on no other ' oceasion, and charity with layish hand began. to | i erings upon our stricken community.” | PP ae race, far down beneath the debris of the fallen mills, her face scarred and bleeding, her dress | torn, her senses reeling and bewildered, did not | recover her reason until hours after, when she | smelled the smoke of fire and saw the dull, red glow of the flames creeping toward her. It was nine o’clock at night. ; | Bessie gipsiecd ahead of her. , the voice had issued. : sacle | “Tl save you, Black Phil,” he said, in a trumpet roles, “T will save you, if it is in the power of ; Man!”’ _“*No, no! I want you on other business. Quick, time flies. This bit of paper in my pocket—take a splinter from the wood, dip it in my blood, and | write as I say! Ha! the flames are coming !”’ * as Till save you, Phil,’ and ke bent to the | task, “ Write, I say,’ thundered the man; ‘time flies! write, or all is lost!’ He took the paper, then a splinter from a ragged beam. anagedatya ce he Be it into the tiick blood which welled from Black Phil’s arm. He bent his Fw at he listened, he started, he shrieked, he wrote! “Tl sign,” said Black Phil, with a last effort. He did so. , ‘* And I'll save you, Phil, or die! I swear it!” “Come back, come back!’’ shouted the wild | crowd. But Lorin Gray heeded them not. Like a sant he stood, defying the flames creeping around m “ Come back!’’ He still labored on. Then he stooped and grasped the man by the hand. One effort, and, as a loud, ringing cheer broke from his lips, Lorin Gray dragged the man a the burning timbers, far out to the line of the rong. Then he fell from exhaustion. But, Black Phil was dead, yet upon his person, save phe wounded arm, there was no sign of bruise or cut, A ing him, one he ed. His face } “ T ‘ll Take the CHAPTER XXXVI CONCLUSION, SrverAx hours later, when Bessie Raynor lay in her room, recovering from the effects of the acci- dent, while Lorin Gray sat and watched her tender- ly, arap was heard at the door, Lorin crept down and answered the summons. A sailor stood there. “A letter from our mate to his sister,’’ said the sailor. ‘I believe she lives here,” and, shoving the letter in Lorin’s hand, he turved and stro e away. The young man looked wonderingly after him. “Our mate to his sister,’ he murmured. ‘ What can the fellow mean?’ But he turned at once, and went up-stairs, ; He gave the letter to Bessie. With a little cry of mingled joy and surprise, she sat ppriett, and tore open the envelope, and read. ‘“‘Heaven be praised!” she cried. “The clouds eee and the dawn is coming. Read this, He took the letter, and read as follows: “My DARLING SISTER: ; F Ea “Our ship, the Nautilus, is just in. I have been | promoted first mate’s berth a long time since. } J e have been very successful; but J have something while at sea, Fit és true, we strange to tell you. I found somethin in the old sea-chest father gave me.
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~~ or _——_ -'_- 7 © a it. Lori 20 BESSIE RAYNOR, THE WORK are rich. 1 heard of his death on our arrival here. God rest his soul. Isend this by one of ourcrew. I will be up in the nine o’clock train. God bless you. | | Imust call you. My name has never been stained | with dishonor. “RALPH,” *“"Nine o’clock. °Tis past the hour. Ha!’’ and Lo rin paused, as another rap, at that instant, sounded on the panel. Bessie Raynor’s heart leaped to her throat, and a wild, yearning look came to her eyes.. But she did not move. A moment passed, and a loud shout of welcome sounded below. In an instant, flying feet sounded on the staircase; then the door to Bessie’s room was flung oo “Ra ph 1? 7 “*Bessie!’’ and the long-parted brother and sister were locked in each other’s arms. : Still, Ross, tho cripple, whom, in the great excite- ment of this eventful day, everybody seemed to have forgotten, was not there. We draw the scene on this family reunion—a re- union under such circumstances. An hour later, Bessie, her sailor brother and Lorin Gray, the hero, stood, silently, in the little front room below, in which, months before, had reposed in death the body of old Silas Raynor. A silence, like unto the grave, pervaded the little group, as Ralph Raynor, opening an old, storm- stained sea-chest, which had just been delivered by the expressman, drew from it an ancient, threadbare dea-jacket. ith trembling fingers, he opened the ining of the old garment, and drew out some faded documents. ‘IT found them here, in mid-ocean,” he said, in a whisper almost solemn, “‘and my brain reeled. Look over them, Bessie, and tell me if they agree with what our dead father said to you.” The girltook them, glanced over them, and, as her brain reeled, shé uttered, in a voice, just audible: rae These are the papers, Ralph. God has sent em. oe A half hour passed in silence. In that time a let- ter’ had been handed to Lorin Gray, by a messenger, who said a crippled boy had begged him to deliver looking on the envelope, saw his name in ink, and the following in pencil: “Dean Besste: Send this to Lorin to-day or to- night—whenever you get it.” When Lorin read the missive, he had fallen, in a swoon, to the floor. But the time passed, Lorin Gray suddenly bestirred himself. “Come, Ralph—time wanes,” he said. ‘*We must be gone. Ihave my paper, andyou yours. Let’s be gone. Justice, at all hazards, must be done.” They wasted no words. Wrapping themselves in their overcoats, the young men, bidding Bessie be of good cheer, left tho house. Still Ross, the cripple, had not returned, f Arthur Ames’s house wes lit up in brilliant illumi- nation, from top to bottom, We will enter. The mae parlors were packed with a gay and splendid and silent. Before the clergyman stood eee pit Ames and Malcolm Arlington. The groom had already given in his responses, and Minerva was a’ out answering, when a slight confusion near the door attracted the attention of all. A moment, and Lorin and Ralph made their ray through the crowd. . “Hold!” said the former, in a deep voice. fore this ceremony proceeds further, it is better the groom should know his father-in-law.” No words ean describe the amazement and con- sternation that fellupon all. - 7 Arthur Ames, with a white face, strode forward. He started, as his eye fell on Ralph Raynor. “What mean you, fellow,” he demanded, ‘ by coming into my house thus? You are a poverty- stricken—”’ i , **Hold, old man,” said the young man. ‘Read these epee and then tell me if Lam poor,” and he held the documents to which we have referred be- fore the old banker’s eyes. One glance, and Arthur Ames reeled backward. “Tis false! a lic! I have it here,” he exclaimed, forgetting where he was. At the same time he drew from his pocket a folded paper. “I have it here, Ralph Raynor.” : @ spread open the paper; but, as he did so,a deadly pallor came to his faee—the paper fell from his hand, and he clutched at the mantle for support. That paper, with the exception of five written and unsigned lines, was a blank. “What means this, Lorin Gray?” sternly demand- ed Malcolm Arlington, as, dropping Minerva’s hand, he strode forward and confronted the young mill- man. , “This eae will tell you; and Ihave a larger one, a more elaborate one, to confirm it,” said young Gray, trem te his efforts at control. He handed Malcolm Arlington a small piece of paper. The rich banker took it, glanced on it, and started back. ‘“*My God! what does this mean? Do my eyes de- ceive me?” Holding the paper aloft, he read the following: “Twenty-two years azo, land Arthur Ames ted to murder Rutledge Ames, then nearly four years old, the son of Bernard Ames, deceased—the object, to inherit the boy’s money, I flung him in the river, for gue! given me by Arthur Ames. But he was saved by old Moll Gray, the fortune-teller, Lorin Gray is Rutledge Ames. In es dying hour, I do him this right. This is written.an ned in my own blood Pum Watsue,” ‘Tis false! false!” and Arthur Ames, white as a sheet, turned and fled from the room. lot- company. That company were now hushed “ee Be- | For a moment all was silence. Then, Malcolm Ar- lington, striding forward, again said, in a low vcice. “T thank you for this kindness, Rutledge Ames, as And ”’—turning to the pale-faced, haggard Minerva—“I can not now bring disgrace upon it by wedding with you. Minerva Ames, I re- lease you—you are free!”’ With a long, piercing wail, the stricken girl fell on the carpet. ‘ We again draw the curtain on the'scene. Arthur Ames, without his overcoat, and hatless, hurried along the dark street. The moon was just creeping up into the sky and shedding its gentle beams abroad. The old banker looked not behind him. Despair was written on his brow and anguish was in his heart, as he hurried, like a madman, along. And as he went, he muttered: “Tost! Oh! God! Lost! Everything lost!” and he still bent his stride onward. He paid no heed to the way he was going. He cared not, for his soul was steeped in gloom and trouble, and his brain was aflame. His foot trod on the cold boards of the eastern bridge. He suddenly started,as a small, dwarfish figure barred his way. He paused, and a shadowy fear crept over him, ‘*Ha! Well met! Arthur Ames!”’ said the person | who stood in his way. “‘I tried to get to your house ouare! But { and there brand rou murderer that I was faint; I fell by the roadside. Now we are met and I denounce you as the murderer of old Mother Moll and—”’ **Hound! who are you?” ‘*Hound amI! Iam Bessie Raynor’s brother, and again I denounce you as—” ; “Enough, crippled dog! ang you have sealed your doom!” and, in an instant, he flung him- self upon the poor boy. The struggle was an unequal one. The boy was lige back toward the low, brown parapet of the ridge. At that instant, the moon shone brightly down. « | Just as it broke through the gray cloud above, a | squalid form appeared, a female form, her dress torn and burned and smelling of fire, a form totter- ing and reeling. A moment, and she stood by them. “Hold! Arthur Ames! Hold! Oh! God! he is murderin »my boy, poor Ross! Stand back, man!” and she sprung forward. “Ay, Nancy Hurd,’ was the cruel answer, “there he goes!”’ and, with an effort, he raised the boy and flung him high over the parapet into the river. ‘‘May hell seize your foul carcass for that!’ ex- claimed the woman, as she flung herself on the banker. : He was a mere straw in her hands, weak, bleeding and wounded unto death, asshe was, The struggle was momentary. A moment, and as a wild shriek, like the wail of a lost soul, rung on the air, Arthur Ames fell with a a hett into the dark bosom of the Merrimac. Then the moon, as if’ shuddering at the sight, drew again behind a passing cloud. All was still: That night, at twelve o’clock, on the return of the theater train from Boston, the motionless figure of a woman was noticed by the conductor to remain in the car. He approached her. To his horror, he saw that it was a woman who had got on at Lawrence, and that she was dead. When the body was re- moved to the police station for inquiry, what was | | | | | the surprise of those engaged in searching it, to dis- ae alarze amount of gold confined to the woman’s erson. Naney Hurd had gone to her long. reckoning. We have but little more to add: we give it briefly. Lorin Gray, or Rutledge Ames, for that was his name, succeeded in time to his Mabel ink which had been appropriated by his avaricious uncle. The let- ter sent him by Mother Moll was a confirmation, in extenso, of Black Phil’s dying confession. Ralph Raynor established with the papers found in the old pea-jacket his claim to, the small house in which Bessie lived. Not only that, but he journeyed out west with the old deeds, and, to his amazement, _found that he and his orphan sister, by virtue o those old Lae ape owned property of immense value ‘on Rush street, in Chicago. Thon the directions for finding the buried doubloons were followed. Strange to say, the spot indicated by the compass was the ground covered by Black Phil’s cabin. On di ging, the gold was found. hen the ruins at Mother Moll’s burned house were searched, the old woman’s charred corpse was found. Through the bare skull a bullet-hole had been driven. People wondered; but old Merrimac held the secret. , Months after the great accident at the mills, a skeleton, deformed and distorted, was found im- bedded in the mud, on the bank of the river, far below the city. Bessie Raynor knew that skeleton, and then, as she remembe an old-time tale of a vision, she wept. She thought her brother had committed suicide. Minerva Ames soon disappeared from Lawrence. A year after her disappearance, she was seen by Bessie and Lorin (as we prefer to cali him) on their bridal tour, as a princi of a religious seminary, near the,Kaatskill. “She recognized them, smiled pleasantly, and then as a tear fell from her eyes, she hurried away. 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