Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (v. 1) (1880 02 03)
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ight Novels Published! // | | | 3 | ( AS o Lio | Yen 3 erential: Bd: Meee ea | | $2.50 a year. Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., a8 Second Class Mail Matter. _, Copyrighted in 1880 by BEADLE AND ADAMS. ‘February 3, 1880. No.412. Vou I. PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST., N. Y. PRICE, 5 CENTS, a £ gitsad. M4 | ‘ i “4 Ay | ” init i i} ad NA Hl vit | \ May Vit HAN H HN Mt H\| i Mi 2 " y et =. ; : ‘i eT) =e P ~ : AN \ 4 a SSS a i \ AU His Lawful Wife; or, Myra, the Child of Adoption BY MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS. $ CHAPTER LI. MOTHER AND CHILD. THE windows were all open, but shaded fold after fold with muslin transparent as dew drops. and snowv as the drifts of a summer cloud. ea -* —_—_. _ ae e e G The floor was spread with East India matting, and in a corner of the: chamber stood a couch shaded with clouds of delicate lace and clad in snow white even to the floor—a great easy chair, covered with chaste dimity, stood close by the bed, and further off a miniature couch, snow white also, save where the soft rose tints of an inner curtain, light and iq silken, broke through the waves of snowy gossamer that flowed over { it. Upon the pillow of this pretty couch lay. a bouquet of flowers tied loosely by an azure-colored ribbon, and more beautiful still a sleeping in- i fant, with one tiny hand resting like a torn peach-blossom, on its little | | bosom and its sweet lips parted smilingly, as a bud uncloses to the warm sunbeam. ‘iere, in its snowy nest, with the fragrant flowers sending
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ee my we _ 4 2 s & ~ their breath in and out through the misty dra- perks and half-smothered in delicate lace, lay he beautiful infant; and a little way off, upon the larger couch reposed another being in the first bud and bloom of womanly beauty, not asleep, but with her large eyes wandering ten- derly toward the infant, and from that to a bouquet ‘of orange blossoms and moss-roses that, feebly clasped in her delicate fingers, was. yet. falling ‘apart and dropping its blossoms over the counter- pane. An air of gentle Janguor lay upon this yo creature, and there was something more than tha affectionate tenderness with which a mother regards her young child, in the look that she, from time to time, cast upon the slumbering infant—a shade of sadness, that but for her feeble state, might have taken the stren of passionate regret, seemed ready to break from her eyes in a flood of tears, | whenever they dwelt longer than usual upon the babe. But when her grief was ready to break forth, she would allow her eyes to droop toward the flow- ers that seemed to have some pleasant association connected with their fragrance, and a sweet smile— not the less sweet that there was sadness in if—would de her Eps while a faint sigh floated through em. . All at once the infant began to nestle in its crib, and opening its large brown eyes, turned them upon ‘the recumbent female. As if her tears lay so near the surface as to require only this. motion to set them flowing, the young mother, as she encountered the infantile glance, s uddered faintly, and large drops gathered in her eyes, and fell one by one over her full but pale cheeks. “T must not look at it, I must not learn to love it so,” she murmured, turning her head away, and shading her tearful eyes with one hand. ‘“ Ahi why should I, a mother so young, and with husband like him, always find ie” | feeling, every, impulse shackled as it sp 3 from my heart? Why was there no one to shield my youth from the blight, pn I feel, too surely, will cling around me to the end?’ ¢ Tho infant began to cry, and there came into the room a colored woman, tall and with that superb luxuriance of form that so frequently character- izes the dusky-hued women of the uth. She approached the crib and took the child in her arms, hushing it with a sort of cajoling attempt at tender- ness, that seemed to annoy the youhg mother not a ttle. “Give the babe tome!” she said, feebly reaching forth her arms. ; “Better not, better not, missus,” replied. the woman, pressing her full lips upon the velvet cheek resting on her bosom—a most unnatural pillow, as the unhappy mother felt all too keenly. »‘‘ Nurse said Jast night that yeas missus must be kept quiet, and the baby not left to fret her so much,”’ | “Pret me! my child fret me! Give it tome, I say,” ening of a rosebud. is cruel, it_is «amkin us to keep a babe from its mother’s bosom. He never ordered it. I know well enough it is not his wish that I should be tortured in this manner,” ' ake the child to its mother. Why do you hesi- tate in obeying your mistress?” cried a firm and manly voice fromthe door; and with his lofty step somewhat subdued, a gentleman entered the cham- ber, whose air of authority awed the negress at once. He approached the young female, who had started eagerly up from his pillow, with every manifesta- tion of deep tenderness in his voice and manner, “Have you been waiting for me, Zulima?’ he asked, bending down to kiss the fair forehead of his wife. “Iwas kept longer than usual at the counting- house this morning.” Oh! I knew that you would be here soon,”’ re- lied the young wife, capey a his hand between both ers and kissing it with a sp of passionate ten- derness that thrilled throug in her weak state, excess of painful. ““What! becausel scattered my path to your bed- side with the flowers you have been wasting?” was the smiling reply. “They were welcome and very sweet, for they told - eried the young mother so pesslonatey that the es broke over her ac: pipe like the. abrupt her feeble frame, till, me that you were soon to follow,” said the young } wife, gathering the scattered flowers together wit her hand. in better condition. She is not old enough her er to pieces the moment they come within reach!” 3 “Tile her mother, ha! Zulima!” said the gentle- man, shaking his head, but smiling fondly all the time, ‘‘ She must have more patience and less pride na mother, this pretty child—or she will e—’ “As unfortunate and as unhappy as her mother has been,” said the young wife, and her eyes filled | with tears. “T only hope she will be as lovely and as innocent, what ver her lot may prove, and as truly pas | Zuima,” he added, after a moment’s pause; an with an expression of deep feeling, mingled with a shade of sadness, the proud husband gazed upon his wife and child till the tears clouded his own fine eyes. For a moment there was silence between the hus- band and wife. Roth were gazing upon the infant, sand both were occupicd with thoughts where pain -and tenderness were almost equally blended. Pride, stern and lofty pies tinged the sweet current of his reflections, and she—impulsive young thought of nothing but her sufferin her passionate love for him, and of the beautif f child she was _ gshe'tering upon her bosom with one fairy arm, from ewwhich she impatiently flung back the loose feeling became almost | “Soo! your little daughter has kept hers | tear | creature— | HIS LAWFUL. WIFE. sleeve of her night-dress, asif detesting the delicate lawn for coming between her and that little form. “You will not send her away!’ said the youn creature, lifting her eyes to the face of her husban which was becoming more and more thoughtful He sr moment. “ Ahl if you knew how much I love er!’ : “T know—I know, Zulima,” said the husband, in- terrupting the beautiful pleader with an accent which, though not unkind, told how the slightest op- osition chafed his proud nature, “It is natural. ou must love the child; who could help it? But do ounot love me better?—do you not love its future ame? its father’s fame—your own reputation, well enough to relinquish her for a time?” “Thave thought of it all—I know what the world will say of me—but I cannot give her up—indeed, in- deed I cannot.’ The young mother rose in the bed, and with her child folded to her bosom with one arm east the other round the proud man’s neck, an drew his face down until it touched the infant, as she covered his forehead with kisses. ‘ You will keep us both—you will not take my child from me!” ‘*Zulima, it must be,” said the husband, drawing gently cack, and freeing himself from her fond em- brace, while) his fine features bespoke the terrible pain which it cost him to be firm. ‘ While the man who has once claimed you for his wife remains un- punished, I cannot acknowledge Rw mine, legally, innocently mine, as in the sight of Heaven you are.’ “T do not.ask it,. Let the world think of me as it likes. I willsubmit to reproach—to suspicion—any child—never!”’ I! tae leave m: “ Zulima!’’ was the firm and almost reproachful reply; ‘‘do you think your reputation is separate from mine? Shall I cast a stain upon my wife which no after time can efface, and then produce her, wronged and sullied to society? Listen to me, Zuli- ma; cease weeping and listen! The man is yet alive who has called you wife—” ““Tknow—I know!” cried the poor young creature, shuddering from head to foot, and burying her face in the pillows; ‘‘oh, say no more! I will give up the child—but spare me that subject!” “No, Zulima. Let us speak of it this on | then it shall be banished our lips forever. you it is not as painful to me as to you?” How painful it was geo be guessed by the color- | less cheeks and the quivering of that proud man’s | lips while he was speaking. | “While a mere child you became the dupe and victim of this vile man, De Grainges. He wronged | your confidence, wronged your love—”’ | “No, no! I did not love him—I was a child— | I knew not what love was!’’ broke in passionate | murmurs from the pillow where Zulima’s face was buried. ‘‘ Do not say I loved that man!” ‘My poor wife! know that you did not love him. I know quite as well that you do love me. Look up, sweet child! I would give worlds that I could speak of all this without distressing you oar ppt with me oad a rise rae bead only w: is to reconcile you, ssible, to the inevitable.” is = “T will listen,”’ replied the tortured young mother. and bink TT know, Z that you were deceived by this bad man—that he wedded you while his wits was at you fled from his home the moment this truth was made known. Of all this I was thor- oughly convinced before nue became my wife; but until this man is convicted in open court and before the whole world, how can I convince society of that which to me is a sacred truth? How, before the fact of his previous marriage is thus publicly substan- tiated, can I proclaim the union which has made me more than happy? Zulima, I am a proud man—sen- sitive to public opinion—careful of my standing in the world. Were a breath of suspicion to rest upon the fame of my wife, I should never be happy again. You are Fone appones to be unmarried—livin here under the roof of-my dearest friend, who, wit one exception, is alone in my confidence. In a few months this man, now in prison, will receive the punishment of his crime. Do you not see the peril | of keeping this child with you till after that event enables me to claim my wife before the world? Zu- lima! look up say that you forgive me the pain I | am causing—say, that, for my sake, you will submit | to have this little one sent from you for a season— only for a season.” | Subdued and touched to the heart by the depth of feeling with which this appeal was made, Zulima arose from the pillow where she had been striving to subdue her grief, and taking the infant in her trem- bling arms, motioned her husband to receive it. The moment she was relieved from the sweet bur- | living, and | eyes, tried to check the grief that, however sup- pressed, still clamored at her beart. It was all in vain; the tears gushed like shattered diamonds through the pane nervously with one hand, in a terrible strife to force ‘back the agony that was choking her. | Poor young mother! she felt with that keen intuition which is like a prophecy, that she was not parting | from her child fora season, but forever. “You consent, Zulima? You will Pigs up our | little one with no anger, and without this Pitter rief?” cried the strong man, pale as death, and ending over the young mother with the child pressed to his bosom. ‘*} will, I do,” burst from those pale and trem- bling Pps The husband turned away: his limbs trembled, his eyes were blinded with moisture, and the weight cf that little babe seemed to bend and sway his | Strong frame, as if he had been areed. He looked | back upon the mother, There she Jay, the wet eye- ‘lids closed and quivering—her white lips pressed together, and so pale, that but for the agitation of | e *. den, the young creature fell back and closing her | thick and silky lashes, and she grasped the counter- | ! | | | her features she might have seemed stricken dead in the — of her anguish. He returned to the couch. , * Zulima, would you kiss the babe before it goes?”’ _ “I dare not—I dare not,”” broke from those pale lips; then Zulima held back her sobs, for his foot- ae were departing—a door closed—husband and child both were gone. Then the mother’s anguish broke forth, her arms were flung upward, her quiv- ering hands clasped wildly together—a moment and they fell get § upon the orange flowers that still wee the bed, crushing them in her utter insensi- ility. CHAPTER I. THE FALSE FRIEND. THEN, while the young wife lay so pale and deathly there stole toward the bed that negro woman, who bent down till the bright Madras ’kerchief turbaning her forehead mingled with the chestnut tresses that lay seattered over the shoulder and bosom of the sufferer. She listened a moment, asif to make her- self quite certain that what seemed so deathly was not. death itself, and then glided from the chamber. The negress stole softly through the open hall, and into a spacious garden, a row of small white build- ings stood at the further extremity, gor in snowy patches through vines and trees that embow- ered that portion of the garden. These were the slave dwellings belonging to a rich plantation some three miles from New Orleans—belonging to the husband of Zulima, and occupied for a season by his bosom friend that the infancy of his child might be honorably sheltered. And here in a little white- washed room of the slave dwelling this bosom friend was impatiently watching the approach of the fe- male slave whom he had temas ie dark spy—in the bedchamber of that ag ess young wife. With his face close to one of the four panes of glass that ad- mitted light to the humble room, he watched the fiery colors of the Madras turban, which the woman always wore, asit glided like some gorgeous bird abies, the thick foliage, nearer and nearer to the den where he had for two hours been waiting for news from the sick-chamber. The slave entered her dwelling, and sat down before her master, full cf that consequential assumption that a little power is certain to cali forth in one of her ignorant and de- graded class. “Well, Louisa,” said the master, with a show of eareless indifference, for he was of cool and subtle temperament, with passions slow and calculating, but all the more grasping for the deliberation, wit’ which, like well-trained hounds, they were let free from the leash of his strong will; ‘‘ Well, Louisa, how is the lady this morning?” “Oh, she am about de same, Massa Ross—no dan- ger of her going off dis bout anyhow,” replied the negress, turning her head on one side and moving a palm-leaf fan before her face, with an air of self- conceit that made her auditor smile, spite of his pre- bats) : ‘She just had a little fainting spell when I come out, but it won’t last ene danger!’ “Has she had any visitors this morning—has he been there, Louisa?’ - a Dar, now, you ask me dat, Massa Ross, just as if he didn’t come ebery morning of him life.’ “Then he has been there,” rejoined the man, ‘and left her fainting. Tell me, Louisa—oh, here is the Napoleon that I promised.” “There, that am something like Massa Ross,” and the negress tied the gold in a corner of her handker- chief, and thrust itinto her bosom. ‘‘ Yes, he was there a long time.”’ “Well,” intone Ross, Wye ge im patient, ‘‘ tell me all that passed, word for word; do not forget a look or a syllable—and another gold piece is ready when you have done.” . And the negress, thus stimulated, told him all. That scene of tender anguish—the struggle of love and pride which she had witnessed in the sick-cham- ber—all was related; and oh! how its exquisite pathos, its touching dignity was desecrated by the vulgar mind and coarse speech of that slave woman! Ross listened to it all, his face changing with every sentence; for, with only that coarse witness, he did not think it necessary to control his features with the dissimulation that had become a habit. He listened, and as he felt, thus the evil man looked. When the woman ceased speaking the exultation of a fiend was in the smile that curled his lip. “And he was determined—spite of her caresses, spite of hertears. I knew that if would beso. He is not a man to waver, having once taken a resolution —but the child, Louisa? I have recommended a woman up the river to take charge of it, but you, my good Louisa, must still be its nurse. It seems a feeble little thing; do you not think so, Louisa?” “Feeble! Lor a massa! No; it’s the best-natured, healthy little thing I ever see,” was the reply, and Louisa agitated her palm-leaf fan with considerable violence. / “But away from you, Louisa, with some one less kind, it may become sickly in a very little time you know.” a am “Sure enough!” and Louisa half suspended the action of her fan, as she fell into a fit of profound | contemplation. “With you to give it medicine and superintend, if it were ill, I should feel quite safe,” said Ross, and a strange, fiendish smile crept over his lips. Pn course, I should come and see you very often.” “Oh! you would, Well, den, I haven’t nothing to say against going with the baby.”’ ‘Wherever I send you, Louisa?”’ * Well,-yes, I don’t care, if it isn’t so far off that you can’t come once a week or so to see us, Massa Ross; but I won't go far, now I tell you.” .
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~———— val — — “Well, now, go to your charge. I will see you again to-morrow.” The negress arose, and with an insolent twist of her head to the left shoulder, stood in the doorway fanning herself, “Weil,”’ said Ross, impatiently, ‘‘ well, what are you waiting for now?” ‘*Dis piece of gold in my bosom, Massa Ross,” and the negress places a plump ebony hand upon her heart. ‘It *gun beginning to feel lone- some.’ “Oh! Thad forgotten; here, here.” r Louise drew for.h the pocket handkerchief, which, from its embroidery and exquisite lace, must have been purloined from her mistress, and a sec- ond Napoleon was nested in her bosom. “Stop,” said. Ross, as she was going out; ‘‘ you said that the lady was fainting—that he took the child forth in hisarms. Where is it now?’ “How should I know? Is’pose he took the baby to your wife. She was in the back parlor, and he turned that way.” Ta, “There he is now. Go back into the room, Louisa, ‘© back!”’ Ross seized his hat as he spoke, and eaving the slave-house, wound through a grove of fruit trees that sheltered him from sight, and taking aserpentine path, came leisurely forth into that part of the garden, where he had seen Mr. Clark. The roud man was walking hurriedly forward, his arms olded, and one white aristocratic hand thrust into the bosom of his black dress. He was very pale, and his finely cut features bore traces of great inter- nal anguish. He saw Ross, and turned quickly toward him. “Tt is over, my friend; it is all over,” he said, ping the hand which Ross extended, and wring- fart hard, A smile, full of proud ee my , broke the firm and classical beauty of his mouth, and his eyes spoke volumes of eo res “What is over? what has happened?’ inquired poe starting and turning’ almost as white as his riend, + ty wife! my child!” “What of them? what has happened to them, my friend?” “Nothing but that which was inevitable. But, oor wife! lt would wring your Zulima, my poor, e suffers from the separation heart to see how from her child,” “But the child; is it yet with her?” “Hark!” said the other, lifting his hand. ‘Do you not hear?” It was the sound of a carriage driving rapidly from the house. Mr. Clark seemed listening to the sound as if his life was departing with it—fainter and fainter from his bosom. There was something in his countenance which Ross dared not disturb, thouzh his soul was burning with glee to know why the common sound of carriage wheels grindin: through the gravelly soil should so Brofouudly agi- tate his benefactor. The sound grew distant, and died away before another word was spoken, then Mr. Clark turned toward his false friend, his nerves hitherto drawn to their most rigid tension_relaxed, and his eye met the gaze with which Ross was curiously regarding him with an appeal for sympa- thy, that would have touched a heart of stone. — ‘It is gone!” he said, in a broken voice. ‘“ My child is gone?!” “Your child ones when, where?’ cried Ross, fearfully excited. ‘Surely you have not sent the infant from its mother so Seay Rear gla with- out consulting—I mean without informing your best friend?” “That carriage—you heard it—bore away Zuli- ma’s child!” said the unhappy father, mournfully. “But where has it gone? With whom is it placed?”’ ‘it is placed with one whom I have long known, the noble and childless wife of an old and dear friend, Myra willbe to them as an own child, till I claim her again,” “And may I not know the people, and the place?” inquired the false friend. ‘The child of my bene- factor is dear to me as my own.” “T have pledged myself to secrecy in this. It was the desire of my friend,” repeated Mr. Clark; ‘ but for that you should know every thing, All this con- cealment will soon be over;a few weeks and this man must be sentenced. Then wife and child shall take possession of their home before the world. In this you canhelp me. I can not well appear in per- son to press forward this man’s conviction, but you, my friend, will use every effort to relieve me from this painful position? My poor wife scarcely suffers more than I do.” ‘*T will do every thing that youdesire. Indeed, the commonest gratitude should insure that,” said Ross. pressing his patron’s hand, but with restless an nervous haste in his manner. ‘Shall [ set out for “No, no; seek your wife first; tell her to comfort my poor Zulima. I can not see her now; without wishing to reproach me, she could not help it. I tell Yyvu, Ross, I would rather encounter a squadron of armed men than the look of those soft eyes, as they followed her child this morning, when I took it from her. It was theglance of a wounded fawn, as we have often seenit, turned upon the hunter.” .'1 will see my wife at once,” replied Ross, unable with all his duplicity to conquer the disappointment that was consuming him; ‘“ then I will depart for the city, and make a strong effort to bring to his trial.” “It is strange,” said Mr. Clark; ‘“ but some influ- ence that Ican not fathom seems to keep back this man’s sentence. The court, as if it were trifling with his case only to perpetuate my troubles, keeps putting off his sentence from day to day with eruel pertinacity. But now I am resolved that it shall be _ the city at once?” e Grainges | of those who would sell his soul for money.” as | WiIEE. See 3 more prompt; this hidden influence must and shall revealed.”’ Ross listened to the first portion of this speech with acold and crafty smile playing and deepenin about his mouth, but at the close this smile die away, and with it every vestige of color—his eyes wandered rapidly from object to object. are the face of his benefactor, and when Mr, Clar would have spoken again, he forgot all the habitual deference of his manner and interrupted him. “Have no trouble about this man, De Grainges; I will attend to him at once. The cause of this unac- countable delay in the court shall be ascertained and remedied. Now that I see how deeply your happi- ness is involved, no effort shall be wanting on my part to bring the trial toan issue. To this end, I must start for the city at once.” ete held out his hand, and grasped that of his patron. “Accomplish this for me, Ross, and no being ever lived more grateful than I shall be,”’ said the gener- ousman. ‘‘I depend onyou.” “You may, most positively,” was the emphatic re- ply; and wringing the hand he held, Ross left the magn He met a servant in the hall, and accosted im with the sharp command to have a horse sad- died. Then, passing into the inner room, he spoke a few hasty words, not to his wife, but to the black woman, Louisa, and then hurried to the stable. With the sluggish habits of his race, the negro was lazily dragging forth a saddle from its repository, when his master came up booted, and with a riding Mir ts his hand, “Walk quick, you. scoundrel!” he said, laying the whip over the sleek negro with a force that made the old fellow start into something resembling haste; but even this unheard-of activity did not satisfy the master; he snatched the saddle, flung it over the horse, and set his teeth firmly together, as he buckled the girth, Sharply ordering the men out of his way, he sprung uponthe horse and dashed towerd the city, at first in a light can er; but the moment he was out of sight, the high- es animal was put to the top of his speed, and horse and man flew like ba CF 8 along the road. At. turn of the road Ross would lean forward on his saddle and take a new survey of the distance, muttering his Gesppeinisnent in half-gasped sen- tences, as he sped along. “Oh, if Lcould but overtake the carriage before it reaches the city! A single glimpse of it might be enough—nothing should take me from the track; nothing, nothing. Ha! that is it—no, only a sugar- cart. y did I let him keep me? I must, I will pei who these people are—no, no, I am foiled at This exclamation was followed by a sh check to the horse, who was still bounding icwned at the top of his speed. The city lay before him; but along the A eage highway, over which his eye ran like lightning, there was no carriage at all resembling the one that Louisa had described to him as that which had borne her young charge away. Ata slow pace, but with his horse reekin the effects of his former hot speed, Ross 1 the city. He took a circuitous route, to gis own counting house, and held a long consultation with a young man whom he found there. This lasted sev- eral hours; and then the two walked arm-in-arm to- ward the city prison. CHAPTER IIL. UNEXPECTED VISITORS, THrovueH the gloomy labyrinths of this prison the two men made their way, conversing together in low voices; a turnkey went before them, umming a tune to himself, and sometimes raising an accom- paniment by playfully dashing a huge iron key, which he held in one hand, against the door of some prisoner’s cell, :miling grimly as he heard the poor inmate spring forward, in the vain hope that some friend had come to break the gloom of his bondage. From time to time, the two visitors seemed to study this man’s face with close scrutiny; and as some new manifestation of character broke forth in his manner or his song, they would exchange glances that were full of meaning. _ ‘Offer him gold!” whispered Ross to his compan- ion; “say that it is for his trouble; we can judge soniething by the manner in which he receives it.” “True,” was the emphatic but whispered reply, “it will be a sure test.” The officer paused at the entrance of a cell, and placed his key in the lock. ‘‘This is De Grainges’s — Romo ; how long will you wish to stay with im with e into “We may wish to remain so long that you will suffer some inconvenience,” said Ross’s companion, dropping his hand into a pocket with that easy grace which renders the most singular acts of some men perfectly natural in their seeming. ‘‘ Here is some- thing to repay the trouble we may occasion.” The turnkey reached forth his hand eagerly for the silver coin which he supposed the stranger was about to offer him, but when he saw a bright piece of gold glittering in his palm, the sudden ie of his heirt broke with a sort of loating ferocity over his face, and with a low chuckle he folded his other hand over the gold, and began to rub the palms to- gether, with the coin between them in a warm clas as if he thought thus to infuse some portion of the precious metal into his own person. Ross and his companion had crip within the cell, and thus, clouded with semi-darkness them- selvis, watched the man, whose face was fully re- vealed in the broadly-lighted corridor. 5 ‘*it will do,” whispered’ Ross, smiling; “it will Os y “Yes,” said the other, thoughtfully; ‘he is one é & | The man said this with the air of one who reflect- ed sadly upon the infirmities of human nature, and really felt shocked at the gross cupidity that himself had tempted; and so it was. He did not reflect that he himself was there for no purpose on earth but to barter his own soul for the very yellow dross, only im a larger amount; that he was ready to ield to this man’s bartered treachery; that all the difference be- tween himself and the man he tempted lay in the pS each set upon his integrity. But the great vil- in despised the lesser sincerely, and sighed that human nature could be so degraded. So it is all over the world. Those who shroud their crimes. in purple and fine linen ever do and ever will look down with benign contempt on those who fold lesser crimes scantily in poverty and rags; so scantily that. je world sees them as they aie, coaise rude and. glaring. * Thus, shaking their heads end sighing over the degeneracy of the human heart, these two arch-vil- lains entercd the cell of De Grain; es, the bigami pepe the officer without to gloat over his piece gold. A tall man, pale from confinement, end yet pos- sessed of a certain air of languid elegance, sat with- in the cell writing. _He looked up as i).e two visitors entered, and regarded them with an expission of nervous surprise, but observing that they weie gen- tlemen in appearance, arose courteously, and plaved the chair, in which he had been sitting, for Ress. The cell contained but two seats, and the priscner stood up with his arms folded, and leaning in a posi- tion that had much grace in it against the wall. “You have come, gentlemen, * said the prisoner, in a low, sad voice—‘t you have doubtless come to tell me that the time of my sentence has ariived?”’ “No,” said Ross; ‘that would bea painful task, and one from which we are happily saved. We come, as friends, to ask some questions regarding this singular case. Perhaps we may have the power —we certainly have the will—to serve you.” ‘“It is too late,” replied the prisoner, sadly... ‘My trial is over. Why they have not sentenced me be- fore this is incomprehensible.” “To you, perhaps, butnottous. You havestrong friends outside; those who have done something in keeping back the sentence, and may do more—ob- tain, for instance, a new trial.” ; “To what end!” questioned the prisoner. ‘I am guilty. I have confessed it. In the wild delirium of a passion that was never equaled in the héart of man, I married the most confiding and lovely crea- ture that ever lived. The fraud was detected. My Willorestay) dines wife forced herself into the home where I had sheltered my falsely-won bride, Zulima would not love the v who had wronged her. She left me; and without her I care very little whether it is to.a prison or a grave.” ‘But what if Zulima loved you yet? Whatif she only desired that in this trial your right to her could be established?” The prisoner shook his head. “IT only say,” continued Ross, ‘if this were the case; if a new trial were granted, if there was n lack of funds to pave the way through court, — you not, having a new trial, suppress the this former marriage? Might not your wife herself be persuaded to aid in clearing you?” “No,” replied the prisoner, firmly. ‘It could not be. y_ wife pursues me with that strong hate which is born of baffled passion. Zulima ceased to love me.” ‘Because she believed her marriage unlawful,” said Ross. “It was unlawful. Ihave acknowledged it again and again. Zulima had nothing left—nothing but her freedom from the man that had wronged her to hope for. I would not deprive her of that.” “And if the means were before you? If youcould obiain a new trial, this first marriage, you are cer- tain, would be proven against you?” “Tt am very certain,” replied the prisoner. “Remember, if they fail to prove the first mar- riage, you are free forever, and Zulima is your lawful wite. Js not this worth an effort?” The unhappy man clasped his hands, and fer a moment there broke through his sad eyes a luster that was perfectly dazzling. “Worth an efiort!’’ he said. ‘‘Oh, Heavens! £ would die but tosee her look upon me again with love for a single moment.” “Then why not make the effort?” “Because I know that Zulima has ceased to love me. She is young, beautiful. I feel that she has brought me here, not for revenge, but that herself may attain honorable freedom. I would not raise my hand to thwart her in the just object.” The two men looked anxiously at each other. they were astounded by the strange magnanimity of the prisoner, “*T tell you,’’ said Ross, earnestly,” this thing can be brought about. Your counsel have seen the wit- nesses. Gold is a _— agent. Even your wife yields; she will not appear. You can be cleared of this charge; you can claim Zulima as your lawful wife. We pledge ourselves to accomplish all that we have proposed.” “Gentlemen, you seem kind, and I thank you; but I kncw that ‘the wrong which I inflicted on ‘that young girlhas been followed by her aversion; she as told me so. She is not my lawful wife; with- out her love—her firm, earnest love, I would not claim her if she were. All that she desires is free- dom; that she shall have, though it cost my life in- stead of a few years’ imprisonment.” | Ross arose and went into the corridor, where he conversed in a low voice and very earnestly with the turnkey. Meantime the prisoner sat down in the empty chair, and burying his face in his hands, seemed to be lost in bitter thought. When Ross a ~
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ad _ J id . the low LS hoo - <3 + . i 4A HIS LAWFUL WIFE. returned he arose and stood up, but his face was haggard, and he seemed to suffer much from the ourugple that had been aroused in his breast. “Phen you are determed not to claim a new trial?” “T am,” was the reply. ‘Perhaps it is as well; but we are the friends of Zulima. She suffers, she shrinks from the thought of your imprisonment. This new appeal may be impossible, but there is another way. Your trial has done all for Zulima that can be accom- plished; it sets her free. Now she would give that to you, which your self-devotion will secure to her— freedom. To-night, De Grainges, the means of es- cape will be provided; at daybreak, to-morrow, a vessel sails for Europe; you must become one of her Foe : ; “And does she desire this?’ asked the prisoner. aroused all at once from the stubborn resolve of self-sacrifice that had possessed him. “She does; we are her messengers.” : : _ “o-night--this is sudden! and she desired it? She deems the trial that has taken place sufficient _ for her emancipation from the hateful bonds that _. made her mine? You are certain of this?” “ Most certain.” ** And the means of escape?” ‘* Leave that to us. The time, midnight; be ready. That is all we desire of you.” ‘*T will be ready,” said the young man, falling into the chair which Ross had just left, and over- come with a sudden sense of freedom--freedom given by the woman whom he had so deeply wrong- ed. His nerves, hitherto so firm, began to tremble, and covering his face with both hands, he burst into tears. When he looked up the two strangers had left the cell. The next morning, when Ross entered his count- ing-room, he found the turnkey talking with his partner. Just then Mr. Clark ente also, but with a harassed and anxious expression of coun- tenance. “My friend,” said Ross, advancing toward him, “you have come at the right moment to hear this man’s news from his own lips. I fear it will give you pain. No, I had better tell it myself; heisa stranger, and knows nothing of your interest in the matter. Step this way, sir.’ ‘* What is this? Zulima—”’ “Ts well, and becoming reconciled to her loss; but De Grainges—”’ ‘What of him, sir? what of that unhappy man?” inquired Mr. Clark, sternly. “He has broken prison; he escaped last night.” Mr. Clark staggered. The color left his p, and he leaned heavily on the back of a chair. ‘ ly poor, poor wife! will her trials never have an end?” he ex- claimed with deep feeling, and, turning hastily, he left the counting-room, “It will be some time before he acknowledges her now,” said Ross, in a low voice, to his partner. ‘‘ See For what would you prepare me? how his step wavers.” “That may waver, but his pride never will,” was “Never — And he was right. Poor, poor Zulima! CHAPTER IV. TREACHERY. Ir was spring-time in the South—that rich, bright season more luxurious in foliage and profuse in fragrance than our warm and mellow summers ever are. The urane trees were all in flower; carnations blushed warm and glowing upon the garden banks; the grass was mottled with tiny blossoms, gorgeous and sweet as the airthey breathed. All around the house which Zulima occupied was hedged in with honey-suckles and prairie-roses, that sheltered the s and lea up here and there among the magnolia trees, lacing them together in festoons and ~ areades of fantastic beau Poor, poor Zulima! With this beautiful paradise to wander in, with the sweet air, the warm sky, and all that world of flowers, how unhappy she was! Alone—utterly alone!—her child slept in the bosom of another; her husband had been months away in the far North; an unacknowledged wife, a bereaved ent, how could she choose but weep? Weeks had ‘one by and no letter reached her; at first her hus- hen had written every day; and with his letters eloquent of love, lying against her heart, she could not be wholly miserable; thinking of him she some- times forgot to mourn for her child. At first she had been srreatly distressed by the impediments which the flight of De Grainges had multiplied : rainst the acknowledgment of her marriage, but this event had in no degree shaken the holy trust which that young heart placed in the object of its love. Si arly unambitious in her desires, but im- yotuous in feeling, she only felt the continued secrecy maintained regarding her marriage, because it separated herfrom the babe she had learned to love so intensely. True, it served as a restraint upon hor husband, and frequently deprived her of his presence, but with her imaginative nature, the slight romance of this privacy only served to oe her affections more vivid and her fancy more res less. She was all impulse, all feeling, and some- times, like a caged bird, she grew wild and restive ae the restraints that necessity had placed upon cr. Weeks went by, one after another, and now Zulima grew wild with vague fears. Why was he silent? where could he be wandering thus to forget her so completely? Her nights were sleepless; her eyes grew bright and wild with feverish anxiety, That young heart was in every way prepared for the Tee which was to be poured into it drop by drop, ill jealousy, that most fierce and bitter of all the * ¢ ; & oo passions, should break forth in its might and change her whole being. Zulima had gone forth alone, not into the garden to sigh among its wilderness of blossoms, but away, with an aching heart and pale forehead, to suffer among the wild nooks of the neighboring hollows. Here nature started to life in harsher beauty, and sent forth her sweets with a sort of rude wayward- ness, forming a contrast to the voluptuous air and over cultivation that closed in her home, as it were, from the rough and true things of the world. Another day was to be passed in that agony of im- patience which none but those of a highly imagina- tive nature can ever dream of—a weary night had been spent, the morning had come—surely, surely that day must bring a letter from the absent one. The air of her chamber—that chamber where her child had slept in her bosom, where he had been s9 often—she would not wait there; all the associations were so vivid, they goaded her on to keener impa- tience. She could not draw a deep breath in that room, thinking of him and i¢. So,as I have said, Zulima stole forth and wan- dered away where all was wild as her own feelings and a thousand times more tranquil. Ross ba PG pe her to return very early from the city that ay, when he hoped—the villain could not look into her eye as she said it—when he hoped to bring a let- ter that would make his sweet guest smile aga n, Zulima knew a place near the highway which led to the city, and yet sheltered from any traveler that might pass, by the broken banks of a rivulet. ck trees fell over it, and in some places the water was completely embowered 8 their branches. She could hear the tread of a horse from the ic, should one ane up from the city; and so, with a cheek that dled and a heart that leaped to each sound, the young creature sat down to wait! oh, how hard a task for her untamed spirit, her eager wishes! Never till her mai e with Mr. Clark had Zulima’s vivid nature been fully aroused; never before had she been capable of the exquisite joy. the intense suffering that marked every stage of her attachment to that lofty and singularman. As she sat then by the lonely brook, the young creature oc herself up to a reverie that embraced all her e, for life with her seemed to have commenced only since she had met him. She drew forth his letters and read them again and again; tears blinded her sometimes, but she swept them away with her fingers, and read on, kissing here and there a line that spoke most eloquently to her heart, She came to the last letter; that was more ardent in its lan e, and warmer in its expression of love, than any of the others bad been. y was this the last? t had happened to check a pen so ee in to chill a heart so warm? Was he dead? is was Zulima’s thought; she never doubted his faith or dis- trusted his honor for a single moment. When the bo pee ealousy reaches a heart Jike hers, it comes with a fling, striking hi: fangs suddenly and at once. Zulima was not jealous, but that fierce pain lay coiled close by her heart, ready to make a leap that should envenom her whole being. More than once Zulima had started from her seat at some slight sound; which proved to be only a bird rising from the overhanging bank, or a rabbit leaping across the thick Swan and thus, between hope an despondency, dreams and thoughts of the stern real, the time crept by till noon. A wooden bridge scarcely lifted above the water, spanned the brook only a few yards from where Zulima was sitting. Here the bank fell voce giving descent to a pretty cascade half swept by a sheet of pendant willow-branches. Their delicate shadows, broken with long gleams of sunshine fallin aslant the water, told Zulima that the time of *s return was fast dra near. Now she became cruelly restless. Like some bright spirit sent down to trouble the waters at her feet, she wandered along the broken bank, gathered quantities of wild flowers but to cast them away at the least noise, and fright- a ground-birds from their nests with reck- less inattention to their cries, always listening, and half the time holding her breath with impatient longing for something to break the entire solitude that incomp issed her. It came at last—the distant tread of a horse—more than one—Zulima’s quick ear detected that in an instant. Still she could not be mistaken in the hoof-tread; she had heard it a hundred times when her heart was beating tumultuosly as then, but without the sharp anxiety that now sent the blood from her cheek’and lips while she listened. Ross had ridden her husband’s horse to the city that day, and she would have been sure of his approach though a troop of cavalry had blended its tramp with the well-known tread. Zulima started from her motionless attitude, and springing up the bank, stood sheltered by the willow-branches, waiting for ss to pass the bridge, when she would demand her letter. There she stood trembling with keen impatience, eager and yet afraid of the sharp disappointment that might follow. How leisurely those two horsemen rode toward the bridge! They were conversing earnestly, and the animals they rode moved close together, as if the riders were intent on some subject to which they feared giving full voice even in that profound solitude. They crossed the bridge at a walk, and without seeming quite conscious how it happened, the two men checked their horses close by the willows, and continued their conversation. With one foot strained back and the other just lifted from the turf, ready to spring forward, Zulima had watched them coming, but somehow her heart sunk as they drew near, and without knowing it, she allowed that eager foot to sink heavily on the turf again, and shrinking timidly within hersheiter, she .) y. ——— waited with a beating heart for the conversation to be checked, that she might come forward without intrusion. ‘**Zulima!” they had used that name once, twice, before her agitation permitted the fact to convey any impression to her mind. But with that name was coupled another that would almost have aroused her heart from the apathy of death itself. ““We must convey it to her gradually; she must be subdued by degrees,” said Ross, smoothing the mane of his horse with one hand. “Yes,” replied the other—the same man who had accompanied Ross on his visit to De Grainges’s cell—‘‘ with her inexperience and impetuous begeel ac there is no judging what extravagance she m ght enact. She might even start off in search of him, and then—” Here a sensation of faintness came over Zulima. and she lost a few words. When the mist cleared from her brain, Ross was speaking. “He could not see her. You do not knew the man—see!”’ Ross took a letter from his pocket, and the two held it before them, while Ross once or twice point- ed out a paragraph with his finger and commented on it in a voice so low that Zulima could onl ather what he said from the expression on his ace. The first words that she could distinguish were: “This silence has already driven her wild; you will have a fine time of it when she hears this gossip about a rival.” “Tt may not reach her; indeed, how can it?” “These things always reach head-quarters sooner or later,’ was the reply, so far as it reached Zuli- ma, for that moment the horse which Ross rode became tired of inaction and shied around suddenly; his rider with difficulty secured the letter, which was crushed in his hand, as he hastened to draw the curb, while an envelope, which had contained it, fluttered to the ground. ‘Let it go, let it go. I have all that is important,"’ cried Ross, checking his companion, who was about ie emount, and reining in his impatient steed with culty. The next instant they were both out of sight. Scarcely had they gone, when Zulima sprung from her covert and seized the envelope. It was her hus- band’s writing, addressed to Ross, the post-mark Philadelphia—a letter from her husband and not to her! Zulima held her breath; she looked wildly around, as if in search of something that could explain this mystery; then her eyes fell to the writ- ing again. Tears that seemed half fire, flashed down upon the paper; her lips Le to quiver, she cov- ered the fragment of paper with passionate kisses, and then cast it from her, exclaiming wildly, ‘‘ Not to me—not to me!” Zulima returned home that day as she had never done before. The slow, bts ap 3 pace, so eloquent of depression and baffled hope, that had previously marked her return home, was exchanged for a hur- ried tread and excited demeanor. e was fully aroused to a sense of wrong, to a knowledge that some eet existed which involved her own future. All her suspicions were vague and wildly combined with such facts as lay before her, but not the less powerful and ip get 5 She found Ross in the hall, standing by the back- door, which opened to the garden, and talking to his traveling companion. The conference was checked as she came up, and she heard Ross say, quickly, ‘‘Hush! hush! she is here!” Then the two stepped out and sauntered hag along the garden- walk. Zulima followed their footsteps, and with the wild fire of excitement burning in her cheeks and eyes. Ross turned to meet her. His look was calm, his voice compassionate. ““We have heard nothing. There was no letter,” 7 said, interpreting the question that hung on her “*No letter to any one?”’ Ross looked at her rey It was a strange question, and startled him. Could the young crea- ture suspect that he was in correspondence with her husband? She might conjecture, but could not know. With this thought he answered her: “He seems to have forgotten all his friends, for even upon business Mr, Clark communicates with no one.” Zulima parted her lips to answer, but checking herself, she turned away and went to her room. Her previous distrust of Ross was fully confirmed by the false answer that he had given; henceforth she resolved to act for herself. There was a storm that night; the orange-trees and the thick lime groves were swept by a hurricane that rocked the old mansion house like a cradle. The rain came down in torrents, dashing against the windows, and ae are out with The wind in waves of dusky silver. All night long the light- ning and the winds wrangled and caroused around the house, kindling up the chamber of Zulima every other moment with a torrent of white flame. She was writing—always writing, or with impatient hands tearing up that which she had done, dissatis- fied that language could not be made more eloquent. She lifted her a face as the Per | came in, sweeping over her loosened hair and her long white robe, and longed to dip her pen in the flame, that it might burn the feelings that were heaving her bosom upon the paper, and kindle like feelings in the soul of her husband. Sometimes the lig tning found tears on her cheeks, trickling down from her long eyelashes and raining over her paper in torrents that would have quenched the fiery words she so longed to write; sometimes it found a smile parting her lips, and a gleam of ineffable affection glowing in her eyes. Changeful as the storm was that beau
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tiful face, where the tumult of her feelings was h Hage te plainly as the tempest could be traced upon e sky. At last Zulima became wholly absorbed in that which she was writing. Her pen flew across the pa- per, her eyes grew luminous with ardent light. She no longer started at some new outbreak of tke | storm; when the lightning flashed over her, she only wrote the faster, as if inspired by the flame. A great magnolia-tree near the window, with all its garniture of leaves, its massive branches and broad whiie blossoms, was uprooted and hurled down up- on the house, shaking it furiously in every timber. That instant Zulima was placing her name to the letter, which in all this whirl of the elements she had written to her husband. She dropped the pen with a scream, and darted toward the window. ‘The sash was broken and choked up by a great branch of the magnolia, through whose dark leaves and white blossoms, crushed and broken together, the lightning shot like a storm of lurid arrows. The broken glass, the rent foliage, white and green, fell around Zulima as she thrust aside the massive bough with both hands and looked forth. It was completely wptorn, that fine old tree! The fresh earth, matted to its roots, rose high in the air, drip- ping with rain, and its great trunk crushed the wicker garden-seat into atoms where she and her husband had sat together the evening before his de- arture. Heartsick and faint, Zulima drew back. he letter to her husband lay upon the table, and nearit the taper flared, throwing a jet of flame over the delicate writing. Pale and trembling, for the fall of that oid mag- nolia had terrified her like a prophecy, Zulima fold- ed the paper and directed it. But how her hand shook; the name of her husband was blurred as she wrote it, and with a deep sigh she took up the seal- ing-wax and held it in the half-extinguished light. Her hand was very unsteady, and a drop or two of the hot wax fell upon her paim and wrist, burning into the delicate flesh like a blood-spot. Still, in her sad preoccupation, Zulima felt nothing of the pain, but sealed her letter just as her light flared out, and sat down in the gloom to wait for mowniegs Two weary hours she spent in that dark sti a for the hurricane having done its work, passed o as suddenly as it had arisen, leaving the night hush- ee ane = , like a giant lying down to rest. after a ard fight. , When the morning came, with its sweet breath and rosy light, Zulima arose. Hastily binding up her hair, and changing her dress, she took up her -letter and left the house. All around the old man- sion was littered with vestiges of the storm. She was obliged to make her way through branches heavy with drenched blossoms and young fruit; fragments of lusty vines that had cast their grate- ful shade around the dwel but a day before; oak boughs wrenched away from the neighborin groves, and masses of torn foliage that lay heape upon the door-step and along the walk, she was compelled to traverse on her passage to the high- way. carcely heeding the ruin around her, Zulima walked on toward the city; her delicate slippers were speedily saturated with wet, and at another time that tenderly-nurtured frame must have yielded to the discomfort and fatigue of her unusual exer- tion, But she had an object to attain—an object which depended wholly upon herself; and when a woman’s heart and soulisin an effort, when was her strengta known to give way? The old cathedral clock was striking six when Zulima entered New Orleans; @ few negroes were abroad, going to or from the markets, and around the wharves arose aconfused sound as of a hive of bees preparing to swarm. At another time Zulima might have been startled at finding herself the only white fe- male abroad in the great city, but now she only drew the folds of black lace more closely over her bonnet and walked on. With her own hands she mailed the letter which conveyed, as it were, her soul to the husband who seemed to have forgotten her, A sigh broke up from her heart as the folded paper slid from her hand into the yawning mail-bag, and then, with a feeling of relief born of her own exertions, she turned away. “T have trusted no one; he will get my letter now,” she murmured over and over : her rapid walk home, and with that vivid reactionso common to imaginative natures, she became almost happy in the sweet hopes that this reflection aroused to life again. - Oh, itis so difficult for the young to feel ab- solute despair or absolute resignation; both are the fruit of good or evil old age. Unmolested, as she left it, Zulima stole back to her chamber. Weary, and yet with a heart more free than it had been for weeks, she flung off her damp garments, and lying down, slept sweetly for anhour. Zulima dreamed that she was sitting with her husband beneath the great magnolia tree; her babe lay upon the turf laughing gleefully, and, with its little hands in the air, grasp: ng after the summer insects as they flashed overhead. All at once a whirlwind rushed out, as it were, from the depths of the sky, overwhelming her with its violence. She strove to reach her child, but fell upon her face to the earth, shriekin wildly. to her husband to save her and it. Then fell upon her one of those dark, fantastic clouds that make our dreams so fragmen- tary. She felt the magnolia upheave under her, and scatter down the fresh earth from its roots till she was half buried. Husband and child both were gone, leaving her peeiae and almost dead, to battle her way through the storm alone—alone! Zulima awoke with these words upon her lips, It was but a dream. Louisa had entered the cham- ber and was. examining the wet garments that her mistress had flung off, muttering suspiciously to her- HIS LAWFUL —s tomb ~ % WIFE. self as she saw the soiled slippers and other evi- | dences of an early walk. ‘‘What am demeaning ob all dis? What can de missus be about?’? she muttered, casting down the raiment that had excited her distrust. The candle almost burned out, the drops of wax on the table, torn pt of paper on the floor, were new ob- jects of comment. The torn poe was all written upon, and had been gathered up in a grasp and | wrenched asunder. The pieces were as and might be — combined. The negress could not read, but, wit the quick cunning of her race, she saw that something unusual had happened, with which these | fragments were connected, so gathering the ae | Ww in her apron, she bore them to her master, spy she was. t was the noise that Louisa made going out which aroused Zulima from her wretched vision. The ose young creature started up, ae God that it was | t but a dream. In moving about the room, she ap- proached a window opening: upon the garden just in time to ses Ross follow her woman, Louisa, into the pinche ant epigomercy which we described in our last chapter. Zulima natn’ by the window. hour before It was half an oss came forth again; he was followed by the slave woman, and stoo conversing with her | some timein one of the retired walks. Soon after, the young man who had been Ross’s companion from the city the previous day came up, and Louisa seemed to be dismissed. Still the two men con- versed earnestly together, and, after a time, slowly retired into the slave-dwelling. Since the pears day Zulima had grown suspi- cious, and_she remarked all these movements with interest. Well shemight, for that day and hour, in the low slave-dwelling, was written a letter des- tined to cast black trouble upon her whole life. There, two fiends, fashioned like men, sat down and concocted a foul slander against the innocent youn, woman which was to cling around her for years, an which her full strength might struggle against in vain. Thevery mail which carried out Zulima’s pas- sionate and tender epistle to her husband, bore also a wicked slander framed by these two base men. The pleading words, the endearing expressions, that she had fojded upfresh from her innermost soul that he might know how truly she loved him, wen jostling side by side with the fiendish assertion that she, Zulima Clark, had been unfaithful to his love. And these two letters reached the husband in one Lege ee lying close to each other. He read the slan- er first. Zulima waited, but no answer ever came to her letter. Week after week she lived upon that painful hope which hangs upon the morrow, and still hope mocked her. Then she grew desper- ate, One day, when Ross came back from the city em ty-handed as usual, Zulima had left his house ihe ne * eden intention of seeking her husband in e North. ‘Let her go,’ said the fiend, coolly folding the | ‘a letter she had left behind. ‘: The mail travels faster than she can; my pretty bird shall find all things prepared for her coming.”’ Again Ross sat down and wrote to the husband of Zulima, telling him that she fled from his house at night to escape the vigilant watch which had been placed upon her actions, The letter reached its destination and performed its evil work. CHAPTER V. LITTLE MYRA, Zuuma had taken passage for the North, but the brig must lio at its wharf a few ho and the un- happy young creature was far too. restless for con- finement in theclose cabin, A oenmne desire pos- sessed her to go and search for her infant. Though enjoined to caution and strict secrecy, the place of her child’s residence had been intrusted to her, and she had found means to see it unsuspected, from time to time, before her husband’s de ure. Now, when she was s going in-agon of spirit to seek the father, she could not depart without embracing his child once more, and, with its little hands around her neck, praying God to bless her mission. Urged by these keen desires, Zulima threw a scarf around and drawing down her vail, entered the streets her, of New Orleans. The house where her child lived was in the suburbs, and she was obliged to cross the city. With a quick step she threaded the streets, heedless of observation and only desirous of reach- ing her child before the brig was ready to sail. as it fate, or was it that sublime intuition that belongs to. the higher order of sectnes which led poor Zulima by one of those large Catholic burial- ce in New Orleans which seem to open the way o eternity through a paradise of flowers? It must have been the spiritual essence in her nature, for as the young ee passed this beautiful place of death, she looked eagerly through the gates, and something impelled her to enter. A wilderness of | tombs, draped and garmented with vines all in blos- som, and eal that exhaled perfume from eve leaf, lay before her, and at that moment deat looked so pleasant to poor Zulima that she longed to lie down and let her beart stop beating where so many had found quiet rest. These reflections pie a tears to her eyes; she felt them droppin fast beneath her vail, and entered the inclosure tha no one might witness her grief. Slowly and sadly she wandered on, forgetful of her purpose and pos- sessed of a vague idea that her errand led no further. A strange and dreamy sensation crept over her, the vigor of her limbs gave Way, and sweeping the purple clusters of a passion Mower from one of the marble slabs, she sat Gomi: Aaa put. aside her bigs hem began to read the ription upon the nb while listlessly passing her finger through th deeply-cut letters, , « | there came bounding along | walk a young child, evidently rejoicing over its es- | led fawn, still laughin: | mother there was no last; | and called down a. blessi | the contents of the epistie. As he 7 *| a 5 Tt was aninfant’s tomb, A child eighteen months old lay beneath the marble. Eighteen months—that was the age of her child, little Myra. She started | up. It seemed as if her weight upon the marble could injure the little sleeper. Carefully drawing | the passion-vine over the stone again, she turned away and was about to depart. But that instant e vista of a neighboring cape from some person who might have controlled its actions. In and out through the flowery laby- ’ rinth it darted, its chestnut curls floating on the wind, and its blue sash, loose at one end, sweeping the tombs at every turn. The child, at last, felt evi- dently quite secure from pursuit, for, leaning for- ward upon one tiny foot, she eee roguishly through the branches and burst into a clear ringing — that sounded amid the stillness like the sudden gush of a fountain. Through and through Zulima's heart rung that | silvery shout; eye, lip, and cheek hted up to | aa = tare she reached forth her prep h somid 3 i ra!’ " be child heard her name and turned like a start-— a but afraid thatthe black nurse had found her. en she saw only a beauti- 7 ful woman with eyes brimful of tears, and out- | stretched hands, the laugh fied from her lips, and fixing her large brown eyes wonderin on the / strange face for a moment, she drew tim toward the tomb by which Zulima stood. | _ “My child! my own dear child!” broke from the lips of that young mother, and sinking upon her | er lips and forehead with kisses. | : ” | | pr iy oe snatched the little girl to her bosom, coy- erin, "Bo you love me? Myra, do you love: me?” she cried, holding back the face of the infant between both her trembling hands, and gazing fondly on it through her tears; ‘Do you love mo, Myra? At first the little girl was startled by the passion- | ate tenderness of her mother, an reidh to get : away from the bosom that heaved so tumultueusly aga pst her form; but, as the ees ee for affec- tion broke from Zulima’s lips, the child ceased to | struggle, and lifting her clear eyes with a look of wondering pity, she oan her little hands over her mother’s neck, and to her trembling lips pressed ~ that little rosy mouth, “Don’t ery so, 1 do love you!” lisped the child, in its sweet imperfect language. These pretty words ocked a flood of tender grief in the mother’s heart. She arose, with the chil in her arms, and sat down upon the tomb. " Si.ucs now broke through her tears, and. duri fifteen minutes it seemed to Zulima as if she passed through that place of tombs into paradise, so sweet was the love that flooded her heart with every lisping tone of her child. But for the poor happiness. While her bosom was full of ergo Sroternad feelings, there came tearing through the shrubbery a negro woman, panting with haste,and shouting inacoarse __ voice the name of little mae ‘ “We must part,.my child!” murmured Zulima, — turning pale as the woman caught sight of her charge from a tomb which she had mounted to command a : view of the grounds, and with a degree of self-com- mand that was wonderful even to herself, she arose and led the little girl forward. “Oh, Miss Myra, Miss Myra?” cried the negress, . MEINE UD e little gi Magen re her pa a egree of eagerness made poor Zulima shudder; “* what should I have done if ae had been lost in earnest?” Myra struggled to get away, and held out her arms to Zulima. How pale the poor mother was! Her eyes sparkled though at this proof of fondness * in the child, and taking her fromthe woman,she kissed her forehead, and leading her a little way off, bent down with a hand upon those bright ringlets, from God upon her © “I daughter. Ah! these blessings, what things — , they are! The sunshine they pour forth, how cer- tain itis to flow back to the source and fill it with brightness! If “curses are like chickens that always come home to roost,” are not blessings like the ringdoves that coo most tenderly in the nest that shelters their birth? For many a day, while tossed upon the waters, Zulima was the happier for having seen and blessed her child, ‘ CHAPTER VI. IN THE OILS. Ir was near midsummer when one of the city post- men of Philadelphia entered a large the business principal d on one arm, from which he drew a single letter bear- ing the New Orleans postmark, A young man who | stood at the desk writing what appeared to be busi- | ness notes, of which a pile damp with ink, lay at his elbow, ‘took the letter, and thrusting his pen af that city. He apmmveched ike | at city. He approac e with a bundle of papers and letters back of one ear, prepared to open it. There was an appearance of great, even slovenly haste about this letter. The paper was folded unevenly. The wax had-been dropped upon it ina rude mass, and was 7 rougbly stamped with a blurred impression which | it would have been difficult. to make out. The ad- | dress was blotted, and every thing about it bore | marks of rough haste. The young merchant broke open the seal with some trepidation, for the singu- | lar appearance of the letter surprised him nota fit. tle. He read half a dozen of the first lines, then looking over his shoulder as if afraid. some one might see that which he had read; he turned Lis back to the desk and was soon wh absorbed in turned. over’ the page, you would have seen the color gradu dee; fap bin cheeks, and even flush up to the fore- head, as if there was something inthe epistle whi
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6 did not altogether please him. After a little he folded the letter, compressing his lips the while, and feli into deep thought. Theservice which this letter required of was one against which every honest feeling of his heart revolted; but his worldly pros- pects, his hopes of advancement in life, all depend- ed upon the writer. Ross had been his friend; had placed him in the Philadelphia branch of a great commercial house; and to thwart one of his wishes might prove absolute ruin. as had omitted nothing in that epistle that could persuade or reason into wrong. It was doubtful, he said, even if Clark ever had been married to Zulima; or, being so, if he would not deem it a good service in his folnide to relieve him of the obligations im- posed by that union. Bitter and cruel were the ac- cusations urged against that poor young wife; and with his interests all with her enemies, joined to a lively desire to think ill of her, in order to justify his conduct to his own heart, this weak and cruel man yielded himself to become the tool of a aeeper and far more unprincipled villain than himself. Again and again he perused that letter, and at djength put it carefully away in his breast-pocket, close to a heart which its evil folds were doomed to harden against the secret whisperings of a con- science that would not be entirely hushed. Perhaps, had James Smith been given time for after reflection, he might have been shocked with the t that he was called upon to rform; but the letter which opened this wicked scheme to him had been delayed and carried in a wrong direction by the mail, and nearly two weeks had been thus lost after the time when it should have reached him. Smith had scarcely turned from his desk with the evil letter in his bosom, when another man entered the warehouse and placed a little rose-tinted note in his hand. A vague idea that this note had some _ connection with the slovenly epistle that he had just read took possession of him, before he broke the ge of pale-green wax that seaied it. The conjecture proved real—Zulima had written that note. She was in Philadelphia, and hoped through her husband’s protege to hear some news of him. Smith had no time for reflection; he was call- ed upon to act at once. He went to the hotel where Zualima was mys a Smith entered the hotel hur- riedly, as one who has a painful task to accomplish and wishes it over. He was not villain eno to act with deliberation, or with that crafty coldness which fitted Ross so singularly for a domestic con- irator. When he found himselfin the presence of this helpless young mother; when he gazed upon her beaut; mmed, itis true, by all that she had suffered, but obtaining thereby a soft melanchol that was far more touching than the glow of yout in its full joy can ever be—his heart smote *him for the wrong it had meditated against her. He sat down by her side, trembling and almost as anxious as she was. “My husband,” said Zalima, turning her eloquent eyes upon his downcast face; ‘‘ you know him, he is your friend; tell me where he is to be found.” ““Your husband, madam! of whom do you speak?” “ Of Mr. Clark—Daniel Clark—your benefactor and my husband,” said Zulima. ‘Danial Clark, lady?” “T wish tosee him—I must see him—tell me where he is to be found.” Zulima was breathless with im- patience; her large eyes brightened, her cheeks took a@ faint color. She was determined that nothin should keep her from the presence of her husband. “And you—you are the young lady that went South with him the last time he was here?” said Smith, bending his eyes to the floorand faltering in his speech. “Yes, [went with him—I was his wife!” Smith shook his head; a faint smile crept over his mouth; he seemed to doubt her assertion. Zulima saw it, and her face kindled with indignant ion. ‘I am his wife!” she said. “The marriage—was it not secret? was it not almost without witness?” “Secret? yes; but not entirely without witnesses. Tecan prove my marriage.”’ *“You can prove that some ceremony took place; but can he prove that it was areal marriage cere- mony? Indeed, have you never had reason to doubt that it was such?” “Never, sir,” replied Zulima, turning pale, ““never!”? “ You were very young, very confiding,’ replied Smith. “Yet you had had some experience in the ‘perfidy of man; this should have made you cautious,”” ““Oh, my experience! it had been bitter—terrible!” murm Zulima, clasping her hands, and = gazing on nw face of her visitor with a look of wild excite- ment. *‘ And yet you trusted again!” Zulima stood up; her face grew white as death. “Dé you mean to say, sir; that my husband—that Daniel Clark deceived me like the other?” “T mean to say nothing,” replied Smith; “ nothing save that from my heart I pity you, sweet lady. So roar beauty, so trusting; who could help pitying ou “You pity me? Oh, Father of mercies!” cried the excited young creature, bending like a reed and rais- ing her locked hands to her eyes; “if this thing should be true!” She fell upon a chair; her slight figure waved to and fro in the agony of her doubts. “‘ Has he written—did he send for you?” questioned gre eat himself against her grief. 0, 20 “Is he aware of your coming?” “No; I shall surprise him; T wished to rise _him!” cried the wretched young creature, dropping mea atadiead wil surprise him, and unpleas- “Tam ‘ou s and un vantly, too!” said Smith, oa : 3 “y 3 HIS LAWFUL WIFE. Zulima turned her dry eyes upon him; her lips arted, but she had no power to utter the questions hat arose in her heart. A thousand black doubts possessed her. ‘‘Why—why?’’ It was all she could say. Smith hesitated; he was reluctant to consummate the last act of villainy required of him. It seemed like striking down a lamb, while its soft, trusting eyes were fixed upon his, But he had gone too far, he could not recede now. “Tt is rumored,” he said—‘‘it is rumored that Mr. Clark is soon to be married!” A sort of spasmodic smile parted Zulima’s pale Hips, till her white teeth shone through. She did not attempt to speak, but sat perfectly still gazing upon her visitor. ‘“Had your marriage been real, Mr. Clark would not thus openly commit himself.” ““Where is Mr. Clark?’ said Zulima, sharply, and starting, as if from a dream, “He is in Baltimore now,” * And—and the lady?” **She, too, is in Baltimore. “ And I—I will go there also!” ** You! and after that which you know?” “If these things are true, I will have them from the lips of my—of Daniel Qlar . if they are not true—oh, Father of Heaven! then will his wife lie down and die at his feet—die of sorrow that she has ever doubted him.”’ Smith was startled; he had not anticipated this resolute strength in a creature so oe and child- like. Did she see Daniel Clark, he knew that all was lost to those whose interest it was to keep the husband and wife asunder. He attempted to dis- suade Zulima from her plan, but this he saw only excited her suspicion without in the slightest degree changing her. Allthe answer she made to his argu- ments was, “I will see my husband; I must have proof of these things!” Smith would have urged his objections further, but they were interrupted. The room in which the sat was a parlor to which others might claim ad- mission, Just then the door opened, and a youn gentleman entered with the easy and confidenti air of an old acquaintance. He cast a glance at Zulima, seemed surprised by the terrible agitation so visible in her face, and then fixed his penetrating eyes searchingly upon Smith. : “You do not seem well,” he said, approaching Zulima, and Smith could detect that in his voice which ought to have startled Zulima long before. “Has anything gone amiss?” and he cast a stern look on Smith. ; “T am not well!” said Zulima, and tears came into her eyes. “But you seem worse than ill—you look troubled.” Zulima lifted her eyes up with a painful smile, but made no answer. The young man looked distressed; he stood a mo- ment ore Zulima, and then walking toward a window, began to drum on the panes with his fin- gers, now and then casting furtive glances toward the sofa where Zulima and Smith were eo Smith arose to go. A new gleam of light had broken upon him. He saw and understood more than that fated young creature had even guessed at. “Then you are determined to undertake this aan AN e said, in a low voice. ‘Yes “When will you set out?” To-morrow!” * Alone?” Zulima unconsciously glanced toward the youn man; he had been very kind to her, and it seeme hard to start off utterly alone. “T don’t know,” she faltered; ‘‘ yes, I shall take the Pate alone.” “Your health seems delicate, you are so young,” urged Smith,” reading her thoughts and hoping that she would be guided by the first imprudent impulse, young—I am not well—but I shall go alone,” she answered, with gentle firmness. The young man at the window seemed restless. He walked toward a table, and taking up two or three books, cast them back again with an air of impatience. Smith observed this, and smiled quietly within himself, as he went out. Zulima saw noth- ing; she o knew that she was very, ve wretch an ing her arms over the k of the sofa, buried her face upon them and groaned in bitter anguish. Zulima was so lost in the agony of her feelings that she did not know when the young man placed himself by her side. She was quite unconscious of his approach till her hand was in his, and his voice uttered her name in tones that made her nerves thrill from head to foot. Tenderness had given to that -voice an intonation startlingly like the low tones of Daniel Clark when love most softened his proud nature. She started °nd looked wildly at the young man her hand trembling in his—her a Be ahs inah smile—the delusion had not quite left her. “Zulima, what is it that troubles you? Oh, if you only knew, if you could but guess, how—how it wrings my heart to see you thus! What has the man n saying to wound you?” . “To wound me?” repeated Zulima, recoverin from the sort of dream into which his voice had cas’ her, and drawing her hand away. says thi to wound me, I think!” ‘But T never have.” “No, I believe not,” replied Zulima, listlessly; “I aaineye will,” urged th arding never , urged the young man, reg: her with alook of deep tenderness. vs “TI don’t know,” was the faint reply, and Zulima’s face fell back on her folded arms again. a “Oh, everybody — The young manarose and began to pace up and down the room; many a change passed over his features meanwhile, and he cast his eye frcim time to time upon the motionless figure of Zulinia, with an Pgs ee that revealed all the hidden love, the wild devotion with which he regarded her. He sat down again and took her passive hand. She did not attempt towithdraw it. She did not even seem to know that it was in his. “Do you know how I love yon—how, with my whole life and strength, I ee you, Zulima?”’ he said. ‘ There is nothing on earth that Iwould not do, could it give you a moment’s happiness.” Zulima slowly unfolded her arms, and lifting her head, looked earnestly in his face with her eyes. She ; did not seem to understand him. ‘Oh, you must have seen how I love you,” hesaid, passionately. Zulima smiled—oh, what a mocking smile! how full of wild anguish it was! ‘ Another!’ she said; ‘‘so now another loves me.”’ “No human being ever loved as I love you, Zuli- ma,” said the young man, in that pure, sweet voice, which had so affected her before. f “That is a marvel,’ said Zulima, with a bitter smile. ‘Others have loved me so well. You do not know how others have loved me.”’ “IT do not wish to know anything except how I can make you oa than you are, Zulima,”’ “Tf you wish to make me happy, do not even men- tion love to me again. The very word makes me faint,” said Zulima. ‘I am ijl—I suffer. Do not, I pray you, talk thisway tome. I cannot bear it.” “T willsay nothing that can distress you,” replied the young man gently, but with a look of grief. Zulima reached forth her hand. It was cold and trembling. ‘‘Farewell!’’ she said, very kindly; “Tt shall go away to-morrow. Farewell!” He would not release ber hand. “You are not going far—you will returnin a few days? Promise me that you are not saying farewell forever.” “T do not know—the Father in heaven only knows what will become of me; but you have been kind to me—very. You have respected my unprotected lot. You did not know how wrong it wasto loveme. I cannot blame you. When I say farewell thus, I much fear that it is to the only true friend I have in the world. You could not wish me to feel more re- — thanIdo. Isit not casting away all the unsel- h kindness—all the real friendship that I have known for a long, long time?” ‘But this love—this idolatry, rather,” persisted the young man; ‘‘must it be forever hopeless? Shall I never see you again?” “Tt is wrong, therefore should be hopeless,” re- plied Zulima. ‘‘ You do not know what trouble it would bring upon you.’ “Why wrong?—why me?”’ “Should we ever meet again, you will know. Everybody will know why it is wrong for you to love me, NowImust go.” Zulima drew away her hand, using a little gentle force; and while the young man was striving to fathom the meaning of her words, she opened the door and disappeared. . Every way was poor Zulima beset. The false posi- tion in which the concealment of her marriage had ie her, made itself cruelly felt at all times. She ad taken a long journey, alone and entirely unpro- tected. Young and beautiful—to all appearance single—she was war exposed to all those atten- tions that a creature so lovely and unprotected was sure to receive, even against her will. In the young man whom she had just left, those attentions gradu- ally took a degree of tender interest which, but for her state of anxious preoccupation, she must have observed ney 3 before, as others less interested had not failed to do. But she had literally given the de- votion, so apparent to others, no thought. Knowing herself to be bound by the most solemn ties to the man who seemed to have forgotten her, she never reflected that others knew nothing of this, or that she might become the object of affectionate, nay, Lome ay regard, such as the man had just de- clared. Now it only served to add oe to the bit- terness of her grief; heart-wounded, neglected as she had been, it was not in human nature to be oth- erwise than flattered and very grateful for devotion which soothed her pride, and which in its possessor was innocent and honorable. But even these feel- ings gained but a momentary hold upon her; they were followed by regret and that shrinking dread which every new source of excitement is sure to oc- casion where the heart has been long and deepl agitated. She went away then with a new cause ones added to those that had so fatally oppressed cr. ; , should it bring trouble upon CHAPTER VII. A MOURNFUL WEDDING. Zutmma reached Baltimore in the night. Wea with travel and faint with anxiety, she took a coac at the stage-house and went in search of the hotel where she Toarned that her husband was lodged. As she drove up to the hotel a private carriage stood at the entrance; a negro in livery was in the seat, and another stood with the carriage door in his hand, watching for some one to come down the steps; the door opened, and by the ip that streamed thro Zulima saw her husband richly dressed as if for some assembly. One white glove was held loose in his hand with an embroidered bgt De which he put upon his head as he came quickly down the ste ulima was breathless; she leaned from the win- dow of her hackney-coach, and would have called te him aloud, but her tongue clove to her mouth; she a —— ee
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a3 wv His LAWes0L WIFE. 7 could only gaze wildly on him, as dust touching the step of his carriage with one foot, he sprung lightl in. The dcor closed with a noise that went throug. Zualima’s heart like an arrow. She saw the negro spring up behind the carriage; the lamps flashed by her eyes, and while every thing reeled before her, the coachman of her own humble hack had opened the door. : ; “No, no, I do not wish to get out,” she said, point- ing toward the receding lamps with her finger. ‘* Mount again and follow that carriage,” The man hastily closed the door, and mounting his seat, drove rapidly after Mr, Clark’s carriage. Zuima was now wild with excitement; the blood seemed to leap through her heart—her cheeks burn- |. ed like fire. She gasped for breath, when a turn in the streets took those carriage-lamps an instant from her sight. F They came insight of a fine old_ mansion-house, standing bavi: trom the street and surrounded by tall trees; an aristocratic and noble dwelling it was, with the lights gleaming through its windows, and those rare old trees curtaining its walks with their black branches, now gilded and glowing with the golden flashes of light that came through all the windows. The house was evidently illuminated for a party—one of those pleasant sr a rag oe hey that are half given in the open air. A few lamps hun like stars along the thick branches that curtaine the house, and glowed here and there through a Laat pete arbor, or in a clump of bushes, just lightly enough to reveal the dewy green of the foli- age, without breaking up the quiet evening shadows that lay around them. Myr. Clark’s carriage stopped before this noble mansion, and Zulima saw him pass lightly into the deep, old-fashioned portico while her vehicle was yet half a block off. ‘*Do you wish to get out here?” said the coach- man, going again to the door; ‘‘the carriage that you ordered me to follow does not seem to be going any further.” “T know, I see,”’ said Zulima; “not now; I will wait. Draw off to the opposite side of the street, and then we shall be in nobody’s hee The man expressed no surprise at her strange or- ders, but drove back to the shadowy side of the street and waited, standing by the door a moment, to learn if she had any further directions to give. Zulima bent from the window; she was terribly agi- tated and her voice trembled. “ Whose house is this?” she said, hurriedly. The man told the owner’s name. It was_ one cele brated in the history of our country; and Zulima re- membered with a pang that the daughters of that house were among the most lovely and beautiful women of America. Smith had told her that her husband was about to be married. Was it in that stately old mansion house that she must search for arival? How her cheek burned, how her lip trem- bled, as she asked herself the question! ‘‘Did you know,” she said, addressing the man; “did you know the genileman who just went in yonder?” “Oh yes, everybody here knows Mr. Clark,” said the man. “I guessed well enough where his carriage was driving to, when it started from the hotel. He is going to marry one of the young ladies; at least the papers say s>.”’ ; : Zulima drew back into the carriage; it seemed as if she would never breathe again; she sat like a fam- ished bird, gazing on the house without the wish or power to move. ' There seemed to be a large party assembled; gayly dressed people were constantly gliding before the window, and she could see the gleam of rich wines and trays of fruit, as they were borne to and fro by the attendants. Sometimes a couple would saunter out into the deep old portico, where she could see more distinctly by the wreath of colored lamps, festooned with trumpet-flowers, roses and honeysuckles that fell like a curtain overhead. Zuli- ma saw one couple after another glide into the flowery recess, and away again, as if the musie that came pouring through doors and windows were too exciting for a prolonged fete-a-tele. Still she kept her eyes fixed upon the spot; she was certain that Mr. Clark would be among those who haunted that flower nook, so like a cloud of butterflies. She knew his tastes well. Sure enough, while her eyes were fixed on the open door, through which the back- ground of the portico was flooded with poles light, she saw Mr, Clark come slowly down the hall, not alone—oh, how she had hoped for that—but with a beautiful woman leaning on his arm—leaning heavi- ly with that air of languid dependence which so often marks the first development of on. His head was bent, and he seemed to be addressing her in a low voice; and though he smiled while speak- ing, Zalima could see that in repose his face was rave, almost sad. It only lighted up when those arge blue eyes were lifted toward him. They sat down in the portico, and seemed to converse earn- estly—ten minutes—half an hour, and hours—thus long did the two sit side by side under that canop of lic.1ted blossoms, and then Zulima could wate: them no longer; a heavy faintness crept over her, and in a dull, low voice she asked the coachman to drive her back to the hotel. Poor Zulima! she hoped to see her husband alone in that portico, if it was only for one minute. How long, how patiently had she waited, and that beauti- ful Lipo <1 never left his side fora moment. It was crue) hen Zulima left her room early the next morn- ing, she found Mr. Smith, who seemed to have just left the coach. She knew him at once, and he recognized her with t cordiality. “T have come,” he said, in a low, frien “T have come in noes of seeing you with Mr. He is in the hotel, I hear.” ever voice— Clark. “He is,’ said Zulima. ‘I saw him last night!’ Mr. Smith turned pale; but there was a deep de- pression in Zulina’s voice and manner, that reas- sured him the interview cculd not have been a happy one, to leave that cheek so hueless, the eye so heavy—he was not yet too late. “T saw him,’’ said Zulima, “* but he did not know it; to-day, within another hour, I shail know why he has treated me thus; tell me how I can get a mes- sage conveyed to him.” I will convey it; I will urge your cause.” ‘‘Only tell him I am here; { want no one to for me with him. Only do that, and I will th much,” “*T will do that, and more,” said Smith, bowing, What influence was it that kept Mr. Clark so wakeful on the night when Zulima, his young wife, slept beneath the same roof with himself? He knew nothing of her presence—he felt not the bitter tears that almost blistered her pale cheeks, as she tried to stop thinking of him—the sobs that shook her frame till the bed trembled under it—none of them reached his ear. It was not any remembrance of the lovely young being who had hung upon his arm, and sat beside him in that flower-lit portico but a short time before; her beauty had pleased him, her conversation had whiled away a little of that time which was so often spent in bitter thoughts, since he had begun to receive the letters of Ross and to yield credence to the reports regularly sent him of the estrangement and faithlessness of his young wife. She had fled now—fled from his friend’s roof, and come northward no doubt to obtain greater freedom, and escape the vigilance of those he had laced about her. Thus ran the last letter that lark had received from his friend. Clark read the letter over, after he returned home that night, for something seemed con- stantly whispering of Zulima; he could not drive her from his mind. It seemed to him as if some reat mistake had arisen, as if he had not read the etters of his friend aright. No; when he perused this letter again, it was clearly written; nothin ambiguous was there, nothing hinted; his wife h ceased to love him; she had fied. Still there was something at his heart that would not be thus appeased; the mysterious presence of this young creature seemed to haunt his room, haunt the inner- most chambers of his heart; he thought of the letter she had written him, and which he had burned while under the terrible influence of his friend’s epistle. He began to regret now, to wish that he had at least seen the contents of that letter; still his friend was dispassionate, just—why should this calm report be doubted? a meyert evidently wrung from him by a strong sense of duty. Mr. Clark slept little that night; his better angel was abroad. ulima, too, was weeping beneath so same roof; he knew it not, but still he could not sleep! In the morning Smith came to the chamber where Mr. Clark was sitting at breakfast, His face was sad; he seemed ill at ease. ay thought it best to come and bring this news t you eet it might save you from great embarrass- ment.”’ “What news?—what embarrassment?” said Clark, who had no idea that Smith knew anything of Zu- lima, or her connection with him. ‘Surely nothing has gone wrong in the business?” “No; but the: young lady who says she knew you in New Orleans—that she has claims upon you!” Mr. Clark turned dea white; this sudden men- tion of his wife unnerved him. ‘** And is she in Philadelphia ?—where is she?—how came she to find you out?” ‘*IT do not know; she sent me a note, and I went to her hotel.” ‘* Was she alone—was she alone?” questioned Mr. Clark, starting up. “No, not quite alone,” replied Mr. Smith, with a meaning smile; ‘‘I saw only one person with her, a young and remarkably handsome man.” Mr. Clark sunk to his chair as if a bullet had passed through his heart. ‘‘Go on,” he said, after a moment; ‘‘go on, I am listening.” “This lady, sir, seemed determined to see you; she came on here—she is now in Baltimore.” “And her companion?” said Mr. Clark, with a ghastly smile. lead you “No,” replied Smith; “I think she would not do that. She wishes to see you; I do not know what her object is.” “*T will not see her; I will never see her again,” said Mr. Clark, and his face looked like marble. “If she needs anything, supply her; she is, sir, the mother of my child; she ie--bot I will not talk of it; let her want for nothing—she is my wife.” “You will not see her then?” “No, it is enough.” Mr. Clark rung the bell—a man entered. “Have my carriage brought up at once, I shall set out for Washington. Mr. Smit: y yu know how to act. Save me from a repetition o his; you see how it tortures me. I loved that young creature—I thought, fool, madman, that Iwas —but she seemed to love me.” Mr. Clark went into another room; he could not endure that other eyes should witness his emotion. The coachman now came up: his proud master understood that everything was ready, and without speaking a word, left his apartments. He on i into his carriage; he was gone—gone without hear- ing the wild shriek that broke from the lips of that peor Pings Pegi who had caught one glimpse of i m her window. She shook the ; she strove to call after him; but her arms trembled—her voice was choked; with ali her effort she made but little noise; those in the next room heard nothing of it, till she fell heavily on the floor. Mr. Smith found her there, lying like a corpse rigid and insensible Then his heart smote him—then would he have given worlds that the faisehoods which brought all this misery had not been uttered. He had tried to think ill of his victim, to believe that between her and her husband there was neither love nor sympathy; how had the last hour undeceived him. ladidone = doubt and jealousy, his benefactor had not even attempted to conceal the anguish occasioned by what he deemed the perfidy of his wife; and she— was she not there, cold as marble, white as death, prostrate at his feet? 4 But he could not go back—his evil work must be fully accomplished; now to shrink or waver, would be tu expose himself; that he could not contemplate fora moment. Zulima became sensible, atJast. It | was a long time, but mire. she opened her eves and sat up. He is gone,’’she said, lifting her heavy eyes to Smith, ‘the is gone without a word of expla- nation.” . ““What could he explain, but that which he would not wish to say face to face with his victim? He has | deceived you with a mock marriage. I knew that it would prove so. You are free, you are wealthy, if you choose. Be resigned; there is no redress.” “No redress!’’ Zulima repeated the word over and over again. ‘‘No redress! I thought myself his wife: Iam the mother of his child; Oh God! Myra, Myra, my poor, poor child—” They were parted—Zulima solemnly believed that she had never been the wife of Daniel Clark, that she was free—oh, how cruelly free~—and another loved her. Wounded in her pride, broken in spirit, outraged, humiliated, utterly alone; was it strange that the poor torn heart of that young creature at length became grateful for the affection that her grief and her desolation had excited? She told him all, and still that young man loved her, still he be- sought her to become his wife; and she, unhappy woman—consented. There was to be no secrecy—no private marriage a now; in the full blaze of day—robed in satin, glo f and white as the leaves of a magnolia, her magnifi- cent tresses bound with white roses, her bridal vail looped to the curls upon her temple with a snowy blossom, and falling over her, wave after wave, like a cloud of summer mist. Thus went Zulima Clark forth to her last bridal. It was a mournful sight; that — girl, so beautiful, so fated, standing be- fore the altar, her large eyes surcharged with sor- rowful remembrances of the past, and her poor heart heaving with a wild presentiment of coming evil, till the rose upon her bosom, and the pearls upon her throat, trembled as if a wind were passing over them. It was a mournful, mournful wedding; for there, Zulima, the wife of’ Daniel Clark, sealcd the perfidy of her enemies. Beautiful pride, innocent. woman, thine was a hard destiny! CHAPTER VIII. FACE TO FACE. Zuiima made her home in the South, and there” also, after years of wandering. came Daniel Clark— weary with excitement, and unhappy with a scuse of bitter loneliness. In the first moments of his anger against Zulima, he had made his will, giving all his vast possessions to an aged relative, and making the false friends who had caused his misery executors of that will. And this was the pe: game for which these men had staked their souls—these possessions and the control over them. No matter oe the ¢* fair wife was crushed to the earth; no matter though ; that beautiful child, in all her infant unconscious- ness, was despoiled of her just inheritance. It was for this they had toiled in darkness; it was for this they had heaped falsehood upon falsehood, wrong upon wrong. t Clark had returned to New Orleans, not to Mis tr, - - — 7. 4 7 _— 1 cl ttt a week and away again, as before, but to control his own business—and in New Orleans was Zulima, They might meet, still it was Se for she was proud and sensitive as ever, and live jn the bosom of a new family, and was girded around by new and powerful affections. Looking upon Clark as a heart- traitor, one who had betrayed her unprotected siate, and trifled alike with her reputation and her love, she shrunk from a thought of the past. The wrong that she belie to have been practiced upon her was so terrible, that she shuddered at the retros tion. Without one shadow of hate or hope of re- venge, to perpetuate the struggle that had been so heartrend at first, the only effort that she made was to obtain forgetfulness. Zulima knew not that Clark had arrived at New Orleans, but a strange inquietude came over her. Thoughts of the sweet and bitter past made her rest- less whys night; she was haunted by a constant desire to see her child—the child of Daniel Clark; from this innocent creature, wrong and absence in the father had failed to alienate her love. A little out from New Orleans was a pretty country house, surrounded by ornamental grounds and em- bowered in tropical trees. It was a small dwelling, secluded and beautiful as a bower; works of art, rare books, and light furniture, befitting the climate, gave an air of refinement and grace within; passion- flowers, briery roses, and other clinging vines draped the cottage without. An avenue of orange and lime trees led to the front door, and behind was a small garden, cooled by the rain that fell yim from a fountain near the center, and glowing with tea roses, lijies, and a world of those blossoms that grow most thrifty and fragrant in the warm South. Among these beautiful grounds little Myra Clark. had been at play since the breakfast hour. She had. chased the humming-birds from their swarming places.in the arbors and rose-hedges; she had athered golden-edged violets from the borders, and loaning up with a h to the orange-boughs that s i
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4 § ) a bc “Perhaps it is as well,’ murmured the father, and his look grew sad. Myra bent down and looked into his eyes, smiling. “Don’t look so sorry,” she said; ‘I will call you Papas if you like. Papa! dear papa! there, mow But even the childish caress, accompanied as it was by a voice and look of the most winning sweet- mess, failed to dispel the sadness th fallen supon the father’s heart. Perhaps mess of the child did but deepen - wainding him of its mother. Let ‘Mr. Clark sat down by the rl in his arms, but he remained silent, thus chill- g the little creature whose arms were about his meck, and she too became _ hushed, as it were, by the seecen into which he fell. D several minutes e father and child remained thus i ed in silence. At last he spoke in a low and troubled woice, kissing the forehead of the child: “Myra, do you love me?” ; “Indeed, indeed I do,” said the little pil, lay- ing her cheek to his. “Better almost than any- body else in the wide world, if you are only my godfather.” ~ “And whom—” here Mr. Olark’s voice faltered—”’ and whom can’you love better, Myra?” “Oh,” said the child, shaking her head with a retty mysterious air, “there is somebody that I ive so much, a prongs beautiful who comes to me so often, and so strangely, just like one of the fairies nurse tells me about. Sometimes she will be a long, long time, and not come at all. Then, while Pf cae ig among the trees, she will be close to moe before I think of it. She blesses me just as do, and once—that, too, was so like—” the c panes and seemed pondering over something in er mind, “What was so like, Myra?” said Mr. Clark, ina aint voice, for his heart misgave him, , ng,” said the child, ~ “Why, I was just t hus lay the child; thus | ee laughing and | pvt heen with them ew 4 the waves. She saw | mo g but their golden flash, she heard nothing but ‘the light drops, that dimpled and clouded the water . - Baa * HIS LA s FUL WIFE. | —————d thoughtfully; ‘‘this pretty lady wanted me to call her mamma, just as you wanted me to call you papa, you know, only in fun.” * And did you call her that?” “Yes, but I never will again—no, never in the world; for, do you think, she began to cry like a“ thing the moment I put my arms round her nec and said ‘mamma!’ You can’t think how she did cry, and after asking me, too.” Yr. . Clark turned away his head; the child’s earnest look troubled him. ‘*She knew well enough that it was all fun,” per- sisted the child, ‘‘and yet she kept on crying all I could do.” : “Ob, such words are bitter, bitter fun,” mut- tered Mr. Clark, tortured by the innocent prattie of the child. ‘*T did not mean any harm; the lady asked me to call her ‘Mamma,’ but I never will again,” said Myra, drooping under what seemed to her the dis- pleasure of her best friend. “Oh yes, Myra, you must love this lady; you must call her any thing she pleases,” said Mr. rk, | with a burst of emotion that startled the little girl | of painf Half in joy, half in timid surprise, | | will be | and there coming u “Be good to her; be gentle and loving as if—as if it was not fun when you call her ‘Mamma.’ You good to her; promise me, my darling, that you will.” : ‘‘ But she will not ask me again. It is a long, long time since the lady has been here,” answered the child, thoughtfully. “Perhaps she will not come any more.’ “Perhaps,” said Mr. Clark, with a voice and look abstraction. A slight noise in a distant part of the garden drew the child’s attention. She started, and bendin, eagerly forward looked down a winding path shel- tered by the orange trees. “See!” eried the child, pointing down the path with her finger, while her eyes sparkled like dia- monds; ‘‘ didn’t I say that she always came like’a fairy? Didn’t I tell you so?” rk followed the child’s finger with his eyes, the path rapidly, and with eager haste in her look and manner, he saw Zulima, the wife of his bosom, the mother of his child. For | the world, that proud man could not have risen to | his feet; his strength utterly forsook him; he at- | tempted to remove Myra’s arm from his neck, but even that he failed to accomplish, so profound was fe astonishment; so overpowering was his agita- on. A tree stood close by the fountain, overrun and shadowed by the convolutions of a passion-flower | vine, that fell like a curtain around it, concealing the father and child as Zulima came we Thus it happensd that without any preparation, the wronged wite and the deceived husband stood face to face, ou ild , shak look of unutterable distress fell u breathless and pale as statues in a graveyard. The child clung to her father’s neck. Her large eyes dilated, and her face grew crimson with fear. oye was frightened by the terrible pallor of Zulima’s ‘ace. Mr. Clark arose pale as death; and trembling in every limb, he placed the child gently on the grass, and approaching Zulima held forth his hand. She took it, but her fingers were lilze marble, and like marble was the cold smile that went in a spasm of pain across her lips. “Zulima, will you not speak to me?”’ Oh, what a flood of bitter waters did that gentle voice unlock in Zulima’s heart. Her limbs began to e, her hands quivered like aspen leaves, and a n her face. “To what end should I speak?” she said, in a low and husky voice. ‘“‘I have no wish to reproach you and what but reproaches can you expect from me?’ A hitter smile disturbed the pallor of Daniel Clark’s face, and a bitter intonation was blended with the mournful cadence of his voice. ‘*Reproaches, Zulima, are for slight wrongs; but slight or deep, } deserve none at your hands. While ou—oh, woman, woman, how have you betrayed the deep love, the honor which I gave you in holy trust. Neither will J reproach; but when I look upon your face, still young, full of beauty, and bearing he old look of innocence, it forces me to think of the vows you have broken, the mockery you have east upon our marriage.”’ “Our marriage,” repeated Zulima, Again her lips were distorted with a smile mournful and bitter, bese a mt her hands she wrung them nervously ether, ) a Why do you smile thus? Why do you repeat thus bitterly the words that I have spoken?” said Clark, regarding her wild agitation with wonder. “When I speak of our marriage, you do not shrink or tremble as one who has profaned a holy rite, but your eye is full of scorn, your lips curl with bitter smiles. Zulima, are you ind so lost that the mention of ties that bound us once, and that logailly bind us yet, ties that Pes unhappy woman, have ee dishonored, can only awake a smile of scorn Zulima stood motionless, her hands clasped, her eyes dilating; the truth was struggling to her heart. “Speak to me, speak to me again,” she cried, ex- tending her locked hands imploringly. ‘That mar- riage, you know, you know well, it was all false, all deception. I never was your wife!” Mr. Clark drew back—he breathed with difficulty ; the truth was breaking upon his soul also—the cruel, terrible truth. “Speak to me, speak to me,” cried Zulima, in a voice of thrilling anguish; ‘‘ I never was your wife!” “The God of Heaven, at whose altar we were united, can answer that you were my lawfully wedded wife, that you are so now!” A sharp cry broke from Zulima, she staggered forward a pace, and sat down upon the close by her child; covering her face with both hands, she bent it down to her knees, and remained thus mo- tionless and absolutely without breath. Clark stood gazing upon her, every nerve in his body quivering; the horror that her face had ex- hibited, that sharp cry, the utter prostration of her energies, all these things were fast unsealing his eyes. He sat down by the unhappy woman, at- tempted to remove one of the pale hands clasped over her eyes, but she resisted him with a faint shudder, and then through those lashed fringes gushed a flood of tears. “Zulima, try and compose yourself, make one effort; for, on earth, I feel that this must be our last | interview. Shrink not thus! I have never wronged | you, or if it prove so not leche. 94 or willfully.” Zulima shook her head, and sobbed aloud. ‘ There has been wrong, deep, black wrong somewhere,” she said; “‘I was told that you also had deceived me by a false marriage, that the ceremony we went eT was a fraud, and I, your victim, not a wife.’ “And who told you this infamous falsehood?” said Clark, clasping his hands till the blood left them, in the agony of his impatience. “Ross hinted it; Smith told me so in Philadelphia and in Baltimore. They told_me, also, that you were about to marry another; I saw you together with my own eyes. Yourefused to see me; but for that I had never believed them!’ ‘““And Smith told you this; Ross hinted it,” cried Clark, locking his teeth with terrible anger. *‘ These two men whom I have fed, whom—” He paused; the violence of his emotion was too great for words. Put why should we further describe the harrowing scene? It was long before the spor ag beings could speak with calmness, but at length all was told—the fraud that had kept back their mutual letters, the slow and subtle poison that had been instilled so as- siduously into each proud and passionate nature— all. For the first time, Clark learned the sufferings, the passionate love, that had sent his young wife in search of him, her struggles, her despair.» Then his own haughty reserve gave way; he laid open his whole heart before her, its history and its anguish. He told her of his wanderings, of the deep and har- rowing love, which not even a belief in her faithless- ness could wring from his heart; he told her all, and then these proud beings sat again, side by sice, looking in each other’s faces, and yet separated, oh, how irrevocably ! Then came the time for parting. Zulima must go back to her home, and he—where could he seek shel- ter from the grief of that terrible moment? They both arose, and face to face, stood gazing on each other for the last time; ‘neither of them doubt- ed that it was for the last time, on this side the grave. A look of mournful despondency was on their features, their hands were ciasped tor an in- stant, and then Zulima turned away, and tottering Pio} in her walk, passed from the garden. He stood watching her till the last flutter of her - ments disappeared under the orange-boughs; then he turned away and went forth, a broken-hearted man. Mother and father both went away, leavin the child alone. Terrified by the scene of anguis passing before her, the little creature had neither moved nor spoken, and in the gets of that last parting she was forgotten. She had no heart for play then. The fish turned up their golden sides in vain, the humming-birds flashed by her quite un- heeded; she was gazing after hcr father, and her eyes were full of tears. All at once, she saw him coming back, walking rapidly; tears were in his eyes , and, taking her to his bosom, he kissed her forehead, her hair, and her little hands. Myra began to sob piteously. She could feel the swelling of his heart against her form; the hot fever of his lips as they touched her forehead, made her tremble and cling closer to him; it seemed as if the little creature knew that this was the last time that noble heart would ever beat against hers—as if she felt in her own being that he was her father. Thus, after ‘ brief struggle, the parent and child parted, and orever. CHAPTER IX. : THE DEATH-BED. TuarT night Daniel Clark spent under the roof of his friend, Ross, the very roof that had sheltered his bridal life with Zulima and the birth of her child. He met his false friend calmly, and without any out- break of the terrible sense of wrong that ached in his heart. He said truly that reproaches are for slight wrongs, only his were too mighty for words. He never once hinted to the traitor that he was aware of his treachery. Perhaps the footsteps of coming death were pressing too heavily upon him, even then, for he whispere’ to his heart more than once that day, ‘‘ Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, and I will repay it.” There was no vengeance in Daniel Olark’s thoughts, for death was there already, and he felt that the little time given him on earth would scarce- ly be sufficient to right the wronged. In the very chamber where Zulima had sat, amid the storm, writing her last eRe > | letter to her husband, was that husband at midnight, writing eagerly as she had been. His face was deathly lay one minute, and the next there spread over it a warm red hue, that seemed burning hotly through the flesh. He wrote on, sheet after sheet, i the es together as he completed them, with a black ribbon; and, notwithstanding the anguish that shook, and the fever that burned him, the writing, as it flowed from his pen, was firm and even as print. toward daylight the document was finished. Two black seals were placed at the last page, then the
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oe _ softly try: 4 5 HIS LAWFUL WIFE. 9 whole was folded up and carefully sealed Weary and haggard was Daniel Clark, as he arose from his task; the bed stood in a corner of the chamber, cool and inviting, but he approached it not. Witha heavy and wavering step, he reached the open window, and folding his arms upon the sill, turned his face to the soft night-air, with a faint groan, and thus he re- mained till morning. ; ‘ The next day, Daniel Clark rode into the city, and was closeted with several of his old and intimate friends. In the house of one of these friends the others met by appointment, and there Daniel Clark read his last will and testament, making his child, Myra Clark, the heiress to his vast possessions, and there he solemnly declared his marriage to Zulima, that child’s mother. After this he sat down in the presence of his friends and chosen executors, and piace’ his signature to the will that his own hands ad written. 4 : When Mr. Clark left them that day, his friends ob- served that the hand with which he clasped theirs was burning, and that his eyes looked heavy and swollen. They remarked, too, that he had never once smiled during the wholeinterview; but the oc- casion was a solemn one, and so they merely gave these things a passing t ought, deeming them but the result of some undue excitement. At nightfall Mr. Clark reached the dwelling of Ross, It had been Zulima’s residence, and he yearned to lie down in the room that she had occupied, and to press the same pillow that she had wept upon. Aljll the deep tenderness of his early love for that wronged woman came back to him with a knowledge of her blamelessness. Pride, the great sin of his nature, had been prostrated with the ee that he, with all his haughty self-reliance, all his splendor of intellect, had been influenced by base and un- ares men to wrong the Lip Berio to him in ife. All the manifestation of displeasure thit he displayed toward Ross was a desire to avoid his pres- ence, fat even that awoke the ever-vigilant suspicion of the man. He had placed menial spies on the steps of Zulima, but in hunting down the sterner game Ross played the spy himself. The plantation which Ross aad my was the property of his patron, and in the dwelling Mr. Clark had always kept his own apartments. On returning home that night he en- tered a little library belonging to these apartments, and opening an escritoir had taken from thence an ebony box, in which were his most valuable papers. After placing the will therein he had carefully locked the escritoir and the room before retiring to his chamber for the ht. At two o’clock the next morning there shone in this library a faint light. By the escritoir stood Ross a key in the lock, and behind him on a table rested a dark-lantern, so placed that all its rays fell in one direction, leaving most of the room ia darkness. Noiselessly the key was turned, and with- out a sound was the escritoir opened, and the ebony box dragged forth. The will was the first paper that presented oa en opening the box. Ross took it up, seated himse in Mr. Clark’s easy-chair and began to read; nervous- ly glancing over the pages, and starting from time to time if the slightest sound reached his ear. “As I thought!” he said, ina stern, low voice, dash- ing his hand against the Me till the sheets rustled loud enough to make him start. ‘ Thus has oneday undone the work of years. Iknew that something had ‘warped his heart against me!” Thoughtfully, and with a frowning brow, Ross folded up the will, laid it in its depository and se- cured it as before, At first he was tempted to take the light from its lantern, and consume it at once, but the rash thought was abandoned after a mo- ment’s reflection, for there was danger at any hour that Mr. Clark ht detect the fraud and place another will beyond his reach. With his duplicate key and ready access to all the apartments, there was little to dread while the will remained under the roof. The moment every thing was safe, Ross closed his lantern, and sat for more than an hour musing in the darkness. When he came forth, there was a deep and gloomy cloud upon his brow; the pale moon- beams fell upon it through the windows, as he passed to his own room, but the moonbeams failed to reveal the black thought that lay hidden beneath that form. There was more than fraud in that hideous thought. Mr. Olark slept in Zulima’s chamber, upon the couch her delicate limbs had pressed, and upon the illow where her head had found its sweetest slum- hare. Perhaps the fever-spirit grew riotous and strong on the memory which these objects aroused, or it might have been that, without all these remi- niscences, the illness that came upon him that night would have proved more painful still. The mo found the heart-stricken man faint and strengthless as a child. A vague dreaminess hung about him which did not quite amount to delirium, and yet it could not have been said that he was quite conscious of passing events. He talked in a low voice of his wife and child; there was something sad and broken- hearted in every word that he uttered, totally at variance with his usual proud and lofty reserve. He seemed to take little interest in those about him. but murmured gently to himself, and — ° them. If this was delirium—and it must have been, sv totally was it at variance with his previous man- ner—there was something ein ee a ire and mournful in it, for the death-bed o: at noble and strong man seemed marked by a degree of solemn tenderness that might have befitted the death-pillow of a loving woman. At first the disease seemed scarcely more than an attack of nervous fever, such as often follows violent excitement. The spirits of heaven who rded that death-bed alone can tell if re 22 or Fritation, or pane and darker causes combined to terminate that slight illness in death. Ross was his attendant; constant and unceasing was the assiduity | of his watch. No physician, no friend entered the sick-room, and for three days that noble man lay struggling with death, in the presence of his bitter- est enemy, and one faithful old body-servant, who could only watch and weep over the master who was to him almost more than mortal. Then came the third night, and still the failin man was alone with that one old negro, who would no be sent away; and over him bent the household viper, whose sting had been worse than death. A dim lamp was in the room, and through the open windows came the night air, in soft, sweet gushes, pee, te muslin drapery tremble in the flaring amplight. Daniel Clark turned upon his pillow; his eyes opened wide and he moved his hands in the air, as if seeking to grasp at something. Ross bent over and spoke to him, but the dying man closed his aves and motioned the traitor away with his hand. The old negro came up, choking back the tears, and bent his gray head gently over his master. Again Clark opened his eyes; a sudden light came into them, and a smile stole over the whole face. ‘Bend down,” he whispered, ‘‘ bend close to me, we fee servant, for Iam dying.” e old man bent his head still lower, holding his breath, and checking the tears that swelled his faith- ful heart. ‘‘Dear mastef, I listen.” Clark lifted his hand, and grasped that of the old man with a feeble hold. **My wife—my child! them.” The old man looked down upon that ashen face with surprise. ‘‘ This must be delirium,’ he thought, ‘‘ for my poor master had neither wife nor child.” The eyes of the dying man were misty, but he saw the doubt in his servant’s face. A look of distress passed over his own, and he made a vain effort to collect the power of speech. But he could only say ‘The wil—that must tell you—it is below, take i into your own hands the moment I am dead; and take it to—to—” ‘*To Master Ross?’’ said the old man, observing that his master’s voice was sinking. ‘“No! no!” These words broke from the dying man with his last breath; he fell back upon the pillow; his hands wandered upward for an instant, and then fell heavily upon the bed, Still his eyes were open—still they were fixed with mournful in- tensity on the old man’s face, ‘He is gone!’’ murmured Ross, bending his ashen face over the ashen face of the dead. _ ‘He is gone!” cried the poor old servant, wring- ing his hands and sobbing aloud: “he is gone, and without taking the old man with him!’ Then the faithful old creature cast himself upon his knees, and ta: the pale hand of the dead between his ebony palms, lifted up his voice and wept. While the voice of his grief filled the room, while his faith- ful heart seemed pouring itself out in tears, Ross turned softly and stole from the room. A few brief minutes the old negro gave to his sorrow. Then amid his tears he remembered the last words of the dead. He did but pause to close, with reverent hands, the eyes that seemed still re- garding him with earnest command. He did but compose the lifeless limbs, and draw the sheet over those loved features, before he went down to obey the last behest of the dead. The poor old man went forth from the death-chamber, guided by the gray dawn. His tread was slow and mournful, ou could scarcely hear him as he passed along, for it seemed to him that the faintest sound might disturb his master. He reached the library; his hand was upon the latch; he turned it with a cautious ard to sound, not with premeditation, but because the death-scene he had witnessed made the least noise appear to him like sacrilege. But the door remained . It was evidently locked within, for through the keyhole streamed a faint light, and with the light came an indistinct sound of rustling papers and the cautious tread of a footstep. The old man bent his eye to the keyhole and looked in. Directly within the range of his vision stood Mr. Clark’s escritoir wide open, and by it was Ross searching among the pa- te in an ebony box, which the old man knew as he repository of his master’s most valuable docu- ments. Ross took from this box a voluminous p cel, thrust it in his bosom, and carefully locking th escritoir, held up the light and looked timid] around as if fearful of the very silence. Then, wit! a quick, noiseless tread, he passed across the room. is face was deathly pale, and the old negro saw that the lamp shook and swayed in hishand. There was a fireplace in the room, but the door command- ed no view of it, and the old man strained his sight in vain to secure further knowledge of what was pee within the library. But if his eye was baf- ed his ear remained keen, and that was directly startled by the sh rustle of papers apparently torn apart in haste; then the whole room was filled with a glare of light. There was asudden and faint crackle as of some hastily-kindled flame passing up the chimney. Then all was dark and hushed once more. The lamp seemed extinguished; a little smoke, afaint smell of burnt paper, and that was po the poor old negro ever saw of his master’s The old man went back to the chamber, knowi too well that his mission was at an end. He kne down by that death-couch trembling like a culprit, and heart-sick from a consciousness of his own im- potence. ‘‘Oh, master, master! forgive me—forgive me!” cried the gray-headed old servant, bending his wrinkled forehead to the hands he had clasped upon the death-couch. ‘ Forgive me that I staid to ery when I should have ae ee the last order you can ever give the old man. I have seen, I have heard See that no wrong is done | — who will believe me, master? Am I not a ave?’ ““A slave? Yes; go hence, and forever!” cried a stern voice in the room; ‘“‘you who have no more discretion than thus to talk with the dead,” The old man arose and stood up; his keen eyes dwelt firmly upon Ross, and with his right hand he drew the covering from the dead. There was some- thing noble in the look and attitude of that old gray- headed negro as he confronted the false friend, the household traitor, who might yet have almost the power of life and death over him. ‘He is my masier; I will not leave him,” said the old man. ly. “You may whip me, you may kill me, I will never leave him {ill he is buried, I rocked him in his cradle, I will lay him in his grave. Then sell me, if youlike; no matter what becomes of the old man when his master is in the grave.”’ And turning away with a look of unutterable woe, the old servant east himself by the death-couch, crying out, ‘‘ My master! oh, my master!” A few weeks after, the old man was sold and sent away to a far-o ntation, for he was a part of the propert, Daniel Clark had left, and ac- cording to the old will, the only oneever found, Ross was the executor of the estate, and had aright to sell the poor old man. CHAPTER X. THE FIRST CLOUD. Tue will of Daniel Clark was never found, and the vast inheritance that should have been his child’s, became the spoil of those who had crept like vipers along his life-path, poisoning every pure blossom: that sprung up to bless him on his way to the grave. His wife was bereft of everything but her sorrowful memories. His child had not even these. To her. father, mother, all was a dream—an idea that had floated through her infant memory and was gone. _ Years went Ly Pee years—and then in one of | the most splendid mansions of Philadelphia, lay a fair young girl, half arrayed in her morning cos- tume, and but partially aroused from one of those sweet dreams that of late had made her ee vision of love, While lifting the wealth of her brown hair between both her small hands in dress- ing before her mirror that morning, she had been taken with one of those rich gleams of thought that are the poetry of youth, and allowing the tresses to fall over her slight person again, where, in their wonderful and bright abundance, they fell almost to her feet, she had stolen peck ated to a couch in her boudoir and cast herself upon the crimson cushions. There, with some loose drapery gathered around her, one fair cheek resting in the palm of her hand, and the white arm half vailed by those loosened tresses, ge deep in the silken cushions, the young girl fell into a reverie. Perhaps the dream from which she had just been aroused still haunted her mind, but it would have been difficult for Myra herself to have said what were the strange and sweet fancies that floated through her mind at that moment; for her own thoughts werea mystery, her feelings vague as they were pure. These sort of day-dr-ams, when they come to our first youth, have much of heaven in them; if they could only endure through life always bright, always enveloped in the same rosy mist, “Man might forget to dream of heaven, And yet have the sweet sin forgiven.” Myra was aroused from her day-dream, not rudely as some of our sweet fancies are broken, but by a light footfall, and a soft voice that called her name from the innerroom. The young girl started up— ‘** Mother—mother, is it you—am I very late this morning?” * es. é ~\ s “Oh, you are here, daughter,’ said a middle- ged. : ae 0, and gentle lady as she entered the boudoir, not very late, but do you know that your father has just arrived and is inquiring for you?” ““My father here, and I not half ready to down!” cried Myra, eagerly gathering up her hair, while, with the wonderful mobility natural to her. features, the whole tone of her face changed. The dreamy, almost languid expression vanished in an instant. The warm glow of her affectionate nature poy. feature like flame hidden in fa pearl. Her cheek, her mouth, her ad were full of animation; her brown baad spark} th delight. With her whole being she loved the man whom she believed to be her father, and for the gentle woman who stood g: upon her with s0 much affection as her toilet was completed, Myra’s devotion was almost more than the natural love of a child for its mother. Scarcely a minute elapsed before the young girl was ready to go down. Another minute and she was in the arms of a fine and noble-looking man who stood by the breakfast-room door paeenty, watching for her. During many weeks he had been absent from his home, and he could not feel thoroughly welcomed back again while Myra was not by to greet him. It was a joyous family ] a ty that gathered around the breakfast-table that morning. The eyes of that gentle wife wandered, with a look of grateful affec- tion from the noble face of her husband to meet the ea that oe of her child; for Myra was more an achild to her. Rejoiced to be once more in the bosom of his family, a, animated and hidden thought or a r. D. was more than usu- able. There was not a sunited feeling in the little family Group. “And whom have Pie had to visit you since I went away, Myra? hat new conquest have you made? Tell me all about it, child,” said Mr. D., smiling, as he received the coffee-cup of Sevres china from the hands of his wife. Myra laughed—a clear, ringing laugh, that had is a >
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_ the presence of her father. Fig i HIS LAWFUL WIFE. Ay acts ae of hearty glee init than any thing you ever oaru. “Oh, we have had crowds of visitors, gallants without number. Ladies like a swarm of humming- birds, and—and—oh, yes; we had one very singular and romantic person, a namesake and intimate friend of yours, papa. Iwrote you about him, but you never mentioned him at all in your reply.” “Oh, yes; 1 remember,’’ said Mr. D.; ‘‘a grave, gentlemanly old man, with just gray hairs enough to make him interesting, and the most winning man- ners. He carried a little Bible with a gold clasp in his bosom—I remember the description well. hat of him, Myra? You lost your heart, of that the let- ter told me;—but who was this mysterious person? Pray, enlighten me.” ; yra and her mother exchanged glances. A faint erimson broke over the elder lady’s face, and the young girl looked a little puzzled. “Why, papa, how strangely you talk. This gen- tleman Ixnows you woll; he is a member of the legis- lature, and his seat is close by yours in the house,” said Myra ** Nonsense, child; there is but one man of my name in the house, and he has not been absent from Harrisburg a day during the session; besides, he has not a white hair ir his head, and never carries smail Bibles with gold clasps to exhibit td young ladies. You have had some impostor here, hat did the interesting gentleman want?” ‘*He had lost a portmanteau that contained his money and clothes,” faltered Myra. ’ “a jee the little Bible!” cried herfather with a augh. ‘And so,”’ continued the young girl, blushing, “ as he was a friend of yours and out of money, he only desired mamma to advance him a small sum.” ‘‘And she did it—I’ll be sworn she did ity’ cried Mr. D., enjoying the blushes of his wife. ‘ Taa scoundrel carried off my wife’s purse and my daugh- _. ter’s heart at one fell swoop.” “Tt was not much, only twenty-four dollars,” said the lady, struggling to bear up against her husband’s raillery. “ But I—I told him he could have fifty just as well,” said Myra, joining in her fath r’s laugh; ‘*whocoull suspect him with his gentle manners—’ “ And little Bible?” interrupted Mr. D. ‘* And gray hairs? Indeed, papa, it was worth the money to be cheated so gracefully. You havenoid22 with what an air the man took his leave—the teavs meine stood in his eyes.”’ “The fellow was a fool not to take your fifty dol- lars, Myra, that is all I have to say about him—so now on with your list. What other interesting stranger have you entertained in my absence?” Myra hesitated, her eyes drooped for an instant, and the damask of her cheek deepened to crimson. For the first time in her life she felt embarrassed in What if papa should gh him an imposter also? she thought; ant er heart was in a glow at the very idea. She felt _ that the saves of her father were fixed on her inquir- ie Ks ] iH _. suming something of her natural courage. ingly, and this deepened her confusion. “We have received one other stranger here,” sho said at length, making an effort to look up; ‘ta very talented and agreeable gentleman, whom I met by accident when out on an excursion.” $ “Indeed; and who is he?” inquired Mr. D.,in a grave tone, and casting a glance at his wife that had a shade of displeasure in it. “He seems a most estimable young man, fuil of talent and generous feeling,’ said Mrs. D., anxious to save her child from the embarrassment of an an- swer. “He seems—who is he?’ demanded the husband; his voice was stern and his look suspicious. ‘ Myra, who is this man?” ‘* His name is Whitney,’’ replied the young pith re- i ave made no further inquiries; but he is no impostor, papa, Iam very sure of that.’ r. D. arose from the table, evidently much an- noyed. Myra’s heart beat quick. Why should she tremble, why should every nerve in her slight frame thrill so, if the stranger were no more to her than a hundred others had been? Why was it that the laugh died on her lip, and all her courage fled, when she saw the displeasure so epider marked in her father’s face? Was the young girl awakening from her dream? did she begin to feel how truly, how ar- dently she loved? or was the rosy vail but half lifted from her heart? She cast a supplicating glance at her mother, and her look was answered by one of sweet and undisturbed affection. That feminine and lovely woman could sympathize far better with the sweet, wild feelings that broke so eloquently, that moment, throuzh ths troubled eyes of her child, than with the stern displeasure of her husband. She arose from the breakfast-table and glided from the room, making a sign for her daughter to follow. “Stay,” said the master of the house, addressing Myra, as she was turning toward her own room, *{ would ask a single question, and then let us ont done with this impostor, for, doubtless, he is such.’ “No, father, no; IT would pledge my life for his honor; he is no eg ae exclaimed Myra, as her father led the way to a little study that opened from the breakfast-room. 7 “As you would have done for the gentlemanl old man with the Bible, I dare say,” was the halt- humorous, half-ironical rejoinder. “But answer my question, Myra: Has this young man ever pre- sumed to lift his eyes to you as anequal? Has he ever uttered a word that might lead you to suppose that he thinks of you save as a stranger?” “Indeed, papa, he never has—far, far from it. When other young men have overwhelmed me with flatteries; when, as your heiress, homage of every e kind has been lavished upon me, he alone has been silent. Always respectful, always kind, he has never, for one moment, taken the attitude often as- sumed by other young men who could not boast a tithe of his merit. He has seldom spoken to me of himself—never has the word love passed between us “You are eloquent, Myra, alike in the praise and in the defense of this stranger.”’ “T speak but the truth, papa.” “Well, I am glad of it. Tie whole affair can be more readily dismissed than I supposed. Now go to your chamber and think no more about it.” “Think no more about it;” truly it was a request easily made, but how impossible to obey. Why, the very thought of that stranger youth had henceforth | the power of an angel spirit which might steal down and trouble the still waters of her heart forever. Myra knew not even yet that this spirit took the form of love. She entered her boudoir again and flung her- self upon the ccuch, but how changed were her feel- ings—the sweet dream, so tranquil, so full’ of rosy content, was oe away like a cloud. Her heart was in a tumult, her cheek burned, her eyes filled with tears. She felt indignant that her father should, for one moment, hold a doubt of the being in whom she put such perfect trust. Thus musing with herself the young girl spent an hour of disquiet, when her reverie was disturbed by a servant, who informed her that Mr. Whitney was in the drawing-room. Her first sensation was a thrill of joy, such as had long, unconsciously, fol- lowed his approach. The next was a feeling of re- serve, a shy, half-distrustful sensation, such as had never possessed her warm, frank nature before. She went down, not, as had been her wont, with the step of a gazelle, and with a glad smile sparkling in her eyes and on her lip, but with a lingering tread and eyes vailed by their snowy lids and dark lashes. She entered the drawing-room so gently that its occu- ant did not at first observe her. He stood by a’mar- le table, near the window, turning over some books that lay upon it. The light which fell over him was subdued by many a glowing fold of damask that swept over the windows, thus giving the dim look of marble to features so perfectly classical in their out- line, that but for the thick bifeabe: hair, and the low of life that pervaded them, the head might ave been taken for that of some antique statue. To these manly attractions was added fe tail beyond the ordinary standard, sinewy, athletic, and yet full of subtle grace. While he thought himself alone a look of tranquil repose la, bine fe Whitney’s features, but the moment he lifted his head and saw the fair girl who stood hesitating by the door, the whole character of his face changed; a glow of animation lighted up his face, and he came forward with all the eager cordiality that her previous frank bearing had al- ways warranted. yra hesitated. before she reached forth her hand, and when she did place it in_his, it quivered like an aspen. The young man looked earnestly in her eee eee and then led her to a seat, himself a prey to all the quick ei pe that her unu- sual restraint was calculated to inspire. A few bi pe a words were spoken, then both be- came silent and preoccupied. At length Myra cb- served that her father had returned home that morning, but she blushed while saying it, as if the oung man could have guessed at the conversation hat had given so much pain to herself. A yao idea of the truth did evidently flash across the young man’s mind, for he turned another long and earnest look upon her face, which was now plowing crimson to her temples, and when he turned _ Abe away, the faintest possible smile stole over s lips. “TP is,” he said, with a faint sigh—“it is now more then two months since I arrived in Philadel- phia. All that time your kind mamma has received measaguest. Perhaps I should not have accepted this hospitality without first convincing her that I was not unworthy of it; but 1 found it so sweet to be talen on trust, so flattering to be valued for my- self alone, that I had almost forgotten the reason- able demands of society. I ought long since to have convinced her that it was no impostor to whom her kindness had been extended.” ; “Impostor!” exclaimed Myra, with a smile that told how impossible she thought it that even suspi- cion should be attached to him. “What if I were to be suspected as such?” added Whitney, with an answering smile. “T would not believe it—I would believe no wrong of you, en your own lips asserted it!’ was the enerous reply. 53 The Sick ewe t over young Whitney’s face, and there was something in his eyes that deepened the crimson on Myra’s cheek; but he only answered in a low and earnest voice: “T thank you; with my whole heart I thank you for this confidence.” _. en, after a moment’s hesitation, he took from his pocket several letters vhich, with a hand that trembled somewhat, he presented to the young girl. She took them to the window, and, half-shaded b the curtains, began to read, rejoicing in the obscuri- ty, for she felt a terror that the quick beatiny of her heart might become visible. The letters were from several of the first men in America-—men whose autographs had become famil- iar to Myra upon the public records of the land. Nothing ‘could have been more ample than the testimonials that these men gave of the high wane talent and position sustained by young itney. yr seal these letters with a feeling of proud triumph. Her trust in him was sustained; she had never distrusted his worth, and in her hand Ain -—— doubt that her the proud power of crushing eve | father might have had. Merit to which the highest and purest in the land bore such testimony could never again become subject of dispute. She re- turned to Mr. Whitney. The generous enthusiasm that wholly possessed her beamed in every linea- ment of a face lovely in itself, but most remarkable for a quick and brilliant expression seldom equaled in the human countenance. _“‘ Mr. Whitney, may I retain these only a short time? My father—he will be pleased to see them.” Myra was petite and slight in her person, almost as fairy. As she stood clasping the letters between her hands, and with her eyes uplifted toward him, those eyes, so brilliant with every feeling of the heart, a prettier contrast with his tall and stately form could not well be imagined. “Certainly; do with them as you please,” he said; “but you must not allow your father to sup- pose that I exhibit them from ostentation.”’ “ Oh, he will not think that!” cried Myra, extend- ing herhand, for her guest was about to take his leave. ‘He will never think any thing that is not noble and good of you, I am sure.” “To morrow, then—to-morrow, I will eall for the letters.” “Yes. to-morrow,” replied Myra; and while a servant opened the door for her guest, she entered her father’s study. Mr. D. was seated by his escritoir, reading some papers. He looked up as Myra entered, and smiled kindly upon her. ‘“What visitor have you had?’ he inquired, folding up the paper in hishand. ‘‘ Did I not hear some one go out a moment since?” “Yes, sir; it was Mr. Whitney.” Mr. D. tossed the paper he held upon the escri- toir, and his brow contracted. “Mr. Whitney again! Have I not told you, Myra, that no man of whose character I am not well in- formed, shall visit my house? Howcan you tkus receive a person of whom you know nothing?” “But, papa, I do know all about him, now, and so may you; only read there letters and you will find that his family is as gocd as curs; his character irreproachable; his position everything that can warrant the acquaintance he has sought.” Mr. D. tock the letters very coldly, and without another word proceeded to read them. Myra watched his countenance with a palpitating heart. The frown remained immovable on his forehead, and his mouth relaxed nothing of its stern ex- pression. Coldly and deliberately he read the letters through: laid them down one by one, and then as his hand upon the parcel, turned to his aughter. ‘““What proofs have we that these are not foger- ies?” he said. Myra’'s heart swelled indignantly. She eculd hardly force herself to answer. It seemed as if her father had determined to receive no evidence in favor of the man, against whom he had taken a prejudice that, to her warm nature, seemed most unjust and causeless. id “The handwriting, the patonrep ne, are they not genuine? are they not sufficient?” Mr. D. took up one of the Jetters and examined it closely, ‘The letters may be genuine; hut what Mpa have we that this young man came by them onorably—in short, that his name is Whitney, or that he is at all the person for whom he represents himeelf?”’ “Oh, papa, this is too much! Only see this young gentleman yourself, and then judge if he can be sus- pected of obtaining those letters by dishonorable means!” Myra grew pale, and tears started to her eyes as she spoke, Mr. D. regarded her for a moment, then emi, letters, in his escritcir, he turned the yra waited for some answer to her ey. appeal, but he coldly took up the paper that he had been reading as she came in, and seemed to cast the sub- ject of conversation from his mind. Myra went to er chamber with a heavy heart; she felt chilled - and hurt by her father’s coldness; perhaps, too, there was in her heart a feeling of disappointment regarding Whitney also. In the slight mystery that had, up to that oer enveloped him, her ardent fanc had found something for the imaginatien to dwe upon. In the generosity of her youth she had rather hoped that he might prove one of those rare eniuses that struggle from an obscure origin and hrough poverty, to the intellectual and moral em- inence which alone she prized, and which she was certain he had attained, Perhaps some vague fancy of relieving his poverty by the wealth which, as her father’s heiress, she must one day possess, had formed part of the day-dreams which of late had haunted her. Certain it is that a sensation of re- gret mingled with the sadness that her father’s settled disapprobation had cast upon her srpirits, She felt almost grieved by the proofs that, even as a friend—for she had not allowed her thoughts to range beyond that gentle character—Whitney, from Bie ta ly position, would never require a sacrifice rom her. CHAPTER XI. THE SECRET OUT. Tue next day Whitney called again—called to take leave. He was about returning to his native State, and_ had way a moment in which to utter thanks and farewell! to the friends whose kindness he should never cease to remember with gratitude. In a few months—it might be weeks—he would again visit Philadelphia, and to renew the acquaint- rene had made would be one of his sweetest hopes en. Myra heard all this with that quiet and gentle she held | dignity which no surprise could wholly conquer. _ m4
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———. ree ete eA ee She saw that her guest was agitated, that he was not taking leave of her with the indifference of a common acquaintance; and with that deep trust which true affection gives to the heart, her thoughts turned to the future. A few broken sentences peasy between them, and then Myra went to her ather for the letters that he had locked in his escri- toir the day before. “J will bring the letters myself,” was the cold reply which was given to her request, and Myra returned to the drawing-room pale and agitated, for there was something in her father’s manner that filled her with vague apprehension. A few moments elapsed, and then measured foot- steps in the hall made the young girl’s heart beat quick as she listened. They approached the draw- ing-room door; lt was opened, and with a cold and stately politeness Mr. D. entered, holding the letters in his hand. He approached Mr. Whitney, who had risen to receive him, and now resumed his seat. “Sir,” he said, gravely drawing a chair and seating himself apposite to the {° man, “ there are the letters with which you have honored me; they are perfectly satisfactory.” si * og so chill and cutting in the courtesy with which There was somethi measured tones and unbendin this was said, that it had all the effect of an insult without yielding an excuse for resentment. Whitney took the letters, and the color mounted to his temples. ‘‘I trust,” he said, ‘‘that there was nothing in the letters, or in the manner of present- ing them, that could give offense?” "Before answering, Mr. D. turned his eyes upon Myra, who sat pale and dismayed in a corner of the sofa, and made a motion of the head that she should leave the room, ; The young girl arose trembling in every limb, and left the room; but while she stood upon the threshold struggling for strength to move on, her father spoke. ‘* May I ask you, sir, why those letters were present- ed to my daughter?”’ Whitney’s voice was low, but firm, as he an- swered: : ‘“*T have received much kindness from your family, sir, within the last two months, and could not leave the city, as I am about to do, without giving Mrs. D. and your daughter all the proof in me Rover that their hospitality had not been unworthily bestowed.” “And was this your only motive, sir?’ “Tt was my only motive.” ‘* And have you not presumed to place yourself on an equality with my daughter? Have you not taken advantage of her } See and my absence to ingratiate yourself in her favor? In short, sir, have you not presumed upon the pre ngan awarded by my wife, and offered address to my child, every way distaste- ~ ful to her =F e. ‘No, sir, no, [ have not thus presumed.” Myra heard no more—a sharp sense of humilia- tion, a thousand confused thoughts flashed through hen brain, and with a pang at her heart such as she had never dreamed of before, she darted up the stairs. White and gasping for breath, she paused at the top, madea grasp at the baluster for support, and, for the first time in her life, fainted upon the floor. Humiliating and bitter, indeed, were the thoughts that flowed through the young girl’s mind, when she awoke from her swoon and found the sweet face of her mother bending over her; proud and keenly sen- sitive, she felt as if the dignity of her self-respect had been irretrievably outraged. Never in his life had Ae Whitney spoken to her of love, and in all her thoughts of him, the idea of passion had never once mingled. But now she felt in her innermost heart that something stronger and more powerful than mere friendship had driven the blood from her heart when she heard him so cruelly arraigned for feelings and hopes that he had never breathed, per- haps had never felt. This knowledge of her own heart, thrust so rudely on the young girl, was but another pang added to her outraged pride, and for days not even the sweet and soothing care of her mother had power to console her. In this state of feeling Mr, D. left his child and re- turned to his legislative duties. The very day after his departure from home, there came a letter for Myra—a letter from the man who now occupied her every thought. She broke the sealin the presence of her mother, and read such words as made her heart thrill and her pale cheek glow again. “Nothing but the harsh words of your father would have given me confidence to address you so,”’ the letter said; ‘‘ but there was something in those words, cruel and cold as they were, that gave me the first leam of hope I have dared to entertain—hope that fhe great love I feel for you might be returned. Say only that this hope—it is faint and humble—will not be thought presumptuous, and surely some means can be found by which the prejudice which your father exhibits against me will be removed.” She loved, she was beloved. The weight that had bewed down her pride was swept away by that let- ter, like mists before a glowing sun. A hopeful and joyous creature was Myra, and her light heart shook off the trouble that had oppressed it as a wild blossom casts the dew from its She answered the let- ter. Modestly and with sensitive reserve, she vailed the affection that thrilled at her heart as she wrote to him for the first time, but still Myra answered her lover’s first letter, and in all this her confidante was that loving and gentle mother. “Let us hope for the best,my child,” the fond woman would say. “When your father knows his worth as we do, and is satisfied that you love him truly, then he will relent. We have but to wait.’ They did wait, and in the meantime letter after letter came ae went, eae tame eee two young hearts more and more firmly together. Mr. D. came home at length, and now the true reason of his dislike to Whitney became manifest. Myra was intended for another. Wealth and station, everything that could win the sanction of a proud man, was in favor of her father’s choice, and on the very day of his return he explained his intentions and his wishes to the young girl. | “You shall have a noble fortune, my child,’’ he said. ‘Few ladies in America shall give so fine a property to a husband.” “Father!” answered Myra, and it was wonderful how mild and firm the young girl remained, know- ing, as she did, how powerful were the interests she opposed, with her fragile strength—‘‘father, I | cannot marry this man. I do not love him, and will never commit the sin of wedding without affec- | tion.” The young firmness in her eye that revealed all the pure strength that sustained her. She paused, drew a deep breath, and while her father stood gazing upon her, dumb with astonishment, she added: “T will never marry any man but Mr. Whitney, for while he lives I can never love another.” And now that it was over, Myra began to tremble; for there was something terrible in the fierce an pallid rage that held her father for a time mute and motionless before her. At length his lips parted, and his eyes flashed. ‘“Whitney! the ingrate, the impostor, you love!— you would marry him against my consent?” “No, I willnever marry any man against your con- sent, papa,’ replied Myra, bursting into tears; for her strength had been taxed to the utmost, and she was not one to brave a parent’s wrath unmoved. ‘I can remain single, and will, if you desire it; but with the feelings that I have for Mr. Whitney, it would be a sin should I give one thought to another.” : Mr. D. gazed on the pale, earnest face of his child as she spoke, but there was no reienting in his face. Anger, scorn, a thousand wrathful passions broke through its pallor, and he answered in a voice of cutting scorn: ‘* And this man, you told me, had never breathed a word of love to you in his life.” Myra was about to acknowledge the letters that had passed between Whitney and herself, for there was a seeming justice in the proud man’s taunt that cut her to the heart; but she thought of her mother, of the self-sacrificing mother who had so generously risked the displeasure of her husband in sanctioning the letters her child received, and she only answer- ed, ‘‘I can never love another, papa.” Mr. D. turned away, and began to pace the room. His lips were pressed forcibly together, and uncon- agin le passion seemed burning in every vein of his upon the terrified girl—‘‘ thank God, no drop of my blood runs in your veins.” “Papa! oh papa! this is terrible. Why, in your anger against me, say things that are as cruel as they are without foundation?” cried Myra, starting to her feet, and approa her father. ‘“Without foundation! It is true, girl, I say it is true. You are not my child!’ girl; with the household links of many a happy year clinging about her heart? One word could not tear them away so readily, but the very thought made her pale as a corpse, and every nerve of her delicate frame trembled. A. reproachful smile quivered over her lips, and she laid her hand upon the stern | man’s arm. ‘*Oh father! I know that this is too much, It would that again.” Mr. D. turned. Anger was fierce within him still, and he took no pity on that pale and tortured girl. “As there is a heaven above you, you are not my child! I can prove it—have papers in the house that you shall see.”’ A faint pt Mee from Myra’s lips. She staggered back and fell upon a chair, her eyes distended, and fixed wildly upon the stern man, as if she searched in those angry features for a contradiction of the words he had spoken. She saw nothing there to re- lieve the doubt that ached at her heart. “Not my father? mamma not my mother?” she murmured, and _the tears began to rain over her white cheeks, She suddenly clasped her hands and stood up. “Then whose child am I?” Mr. D. sat down; the an fire was fast going out from his heart, and it could sustain him no longer. Regret, keen and self-accusing, took possession of him then. Love, pity, every tender feeling that had so long enlinked that young girl to his heart, all came back like birds to a ravaged nest. He would have given worlds for the power to annihilate those ten minutes of his life, when one fierce gleam of anger had unlocked the hoarded secret of years, He turned_his eyes almost imploringly on the trembling girl. His proud lip quivered, his hand shook as he rested it’ on his knee. Myra crept toward him, heart- broken and wretched, beyond all her previous ideas of wretchedness. She laid her hand upon his shoul- der, and bent her face to his as she had _done many a time in her childhood, when some small trouble o ressed her. ood were those agonized features? . ‘“‘ Father—father!” she said, and her voice bespoke in its low and thrilling tones all the anguish he had inflicted—“ father, tell me, whose child am I?” ‘*To-morrow, to-morrow!’’ said Mr. D.; ‘‘I can go through no more to-day.”’ “But is it true thatIlam not your child?” said Myra, still hoping against oa ‘It is true!’ he answered; and, rising from his seat with an unsteady step, he entered his study. ou are only angry; but kin me to Hea Sue say ae was very pale, but there was a mild | | Ber deep and sorrowful interest. It o But oh! how unlike her sweet child- | | she presse book | troubled forehead with one hand. | man whom she had always deemed her 44 A moment after Mrs. D. met Myra on the stairs. One glance in her face was enough. ‘‘ Myra, daugh- ter!’? she exclaimed; ‘‘ what is this? You are white as death—you tremble.” “*Mother—mother!’’ burst from the lips of the pone girl, almost with a shriek; ‘‘ they tell me that am not your child!” Mrs. D. was struck motionless. Marble could not kt been more coldly white than her face and ands. “* And who—who has told you this?’ she faltered. “He told me himself—papa—he has the proofs, Mother, mother, say in mercy that he is only angry— that it is not so!” With a wild gesture and a burst of passionate tears, the ey girl cast herself into her mother’s arms. The poor lady trembled beneath the weight of that fragiie form. She wove her arms around it; kiss after kiss upon that forehead with her cold and quivering lips. She strove, by the warmth and passion of her maternal love, to charm away the pain and the truth from her daughter’s heart, but she said not in words, ‘‘ Myra, you are m child,” and the young girl arose from her bosom a terly desolate. : e morrow came, and ohh stood by her father in his study, for he was stilla father to her. The escritoir was open before them, and a large pocket- with the seal wrenched apart, lay upon the ‘Mr. D. sat with his head bent and shading his Myra held a let- ter in her shaking grasp—a letter addressed to the ] arent, and signed by Daniel Clark. She could not read; the words swam before her eyes, but she laid her finger on the signature and said in a low and husky vo ce, “This name—Daniel Clark—he was my godfather. “He was your father!” replied Mr. D. ‘Read, re for yourself.” resolution she kept Every word of that letter contained proof that went to her heart. She was the daughter of Daniel Clark, CHAPTER XII. A MAN’S PASSION. Littte by little, as her shattered nerves could bear it, the truth was revealed to Myra. It was asad, sad trial, the uprooting of her pure domestic faith, the tearing asunder of those thousand delicate fibers that had so long woven, and clung and rooted them- selves around the parents who had adopted her. lid. | Love them she by ore as it seemed, more intense- ly than ever, but there was excitement in her heart a sort of wild, unsettled feeling, that destroyed all the sweet faith and tranquillity of affection. It was Wa | no longer the quiet and serene love which had clung “Thank God!” he muttered, turning furiously | around her from infancy, naturally and without ef- fort, as wild blossoms bud upon a bank where the sunshine sleeps longest—but something of unrest and pain mingled with it all. In the history of her arents she found much to excite her pase nage ned upon her with all the vividness of a romance, that kindled _ her fancy, while it pained her to the soul. Then § | came other thoughts and more thrilling anxieties. She did not believe him. How could she, poor | The beloved one, the man of her choice, whom she had dreamed of endowing with riches, from which she now seemed legally dispossessed—how would he receive the news of her orphanage—of her depend- ent state? Alas, how were all her proud and ous visions swept away! And yet, did she doubt hi love or his pure disinterestedness? Never for a mo- | ment. Loyal, lofty and unselfish as her own pure heart, she knew the beloved of that heart to be, She felt assured that his faith to the dowerless or- han would be kept more sacred than his pledge to ~ he heiress. Full of this high trust she wrote to Whitney and told him the whcle. “You sought me,” said the letter, “‘and loved me as the heiress of great wealth, as the only daughter of a abe and rich man, All at once, as if a flash of lightning had swept across the horizon of my life, revealing the truth with a single fiery gleam, I find myself the orphan of a great and good man, whom I remember only as the shade of a vision—and of a forced her nerves to be still. With desperate. her eyes upon the writing, ~ ae 4 eners «© = tr woman, lovely as she had been unfortunate—alive © still, but kept from her child by bonds that have yet proved too strong, even for the Men ge of mater- nal love. I know that Daniel Clark, my father, was supposed to aa great wealth, but Iam told that he died insolvent, and that in his will neither wife nor child was mentioned. Therefore am I an or- phan, dependent upon those who are strangers to me in blood for the love that shelters me, for the wealth that has hedged me in with comforts from my cradle up. * * * Iam not the person whom you loved—not the Pag whom two short days ago, I believed myself to be. Should Myra Clark, orphaned and without inheritance—her very birth loaded with doubt, and her hold on any living thing uncertain—still claim the faith pledged to Myra D., the heiress? No; like the rest, I resign this last and most precious hold on the past. You are free—honorably free, from all responsibility arising from the faith you piente Of all my ops life, IT have nothing left but the simple name of a, This is but an extract of Myra’s letter to Mr. ba be caf but it was enough to satisfy her delicate sense 0 honor. It set him free, It relinquished all claim upon his faith or his honor. Much there was in the letter to melt and touch a heart like his, for with a great secret swelling in her breast, she found consolation in pouring out the feelings that op- pressed her, where she was certain of sympathy. And Whitney answered the letter. He had not loved the heiress or the lofty name—but Myra, the noble-minded, the lovely, the beautiful. If she was an orphan, so much the better; he would be A 1 — = SS ee OOOO—SE
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_* hav Smt "Whitney's reply, and Myra felt no longer meena me She | became proud of the pure and holy love, which only | ~ 7s % ” ek: . ¥ { ' F ft ~ whole 412 2 HIS LAWFUL WIFE. { wealth, the world to her. Ie grieved for her sorrow, | but seemed to revel and rejoice in the idea of ving her all to himscl?: This was the tenor of elastic nature gathered up its strength agair grew brighter with adversity, and this beautiful pride rekindled all her energies. Among the fine scenery which lies upon the upper portions of the Deiaware Bay, there is a splendid oid mansion-house, large, massive, and bearing deeper marks of antiquity and aristocratic Owner- ship, than are us ally found in a country where dwellings that have withstood the ravages of a hun- dred yearsare seldom to be found. It was a superb country-place, uplifted above the bay and command- ing one of the finest prospects in the whole coun- try. Picturesque and broken scenery lay all around. Portions of this scenery were wild, and even rude, in their thrifty luxuriance, while close around the dwelling reigned the most perfect cultivation. Park-like groves, lawns fringed with choice shrub- beries, and glowing with a profusion of flowers, might be seen from every window of the dwellinz, _ The stables, lodges, and other buildings, all in excel- lent repair, bespoke a degree of prosperous wealth, and a luxurious taste, seldom found in our primitive land. A spacious veranda that ran along the front. commanded a beautiful view of the distant bay and all the broken shore, for miles and miles on either hand. In the whole State of Delaware could not have been found, at that day, a gentleman’s resi- dence more perfect in itself, or more luxurious in its eer ENO: To this house Mr. D. took his family to spend the summer months, and Myra en- tered it, for the first time in her life, with a feeling of profound loneliness. This noble mansion was to ~ have been her inheritance; she had spent all her girlhood in the shadows of its walks; she had learn- ed to love every tree and flower and shady nook that surrounded it—to love them as the home of her pa- rents, the home that should hereafter shelter her and her children, Now she enter:d it sadly, and with a feeling of desolation. Transient. certainly, but very painful were these natural regrets, “But amid all the shadows that hung around her ath, there was one gleam of golden sunshine. is ra i ag left to her—his faith still remained firm and perfect, With the visitors who came with Mr. D. to his country dwelling was a distant relation of the fam- ‘ily, his wife, and two lovely children. To these per- sons the secret’ of Myra’s birth was made known, and to the lady, ee and SeRereney. amiable, Myra sometimes fled for counsel and sympathy. But to those persons the secret of Myra’s parentass opened new and selfish hopes that forbade all genu- ine friendship for the confiding girl. Myra, severed by all ties of blood from the family that had adopt- ed her, now seemed only an obstacle in the way of their own interests. The excessive love still ex- pressed for her both by Mr. D. and _his angelic wife, seemed so much defrauded from the rights of their own ee and those who had flattered and fawned a jectly on the daughter and the heiress, now returned the touching confidence of the orphan with treachery and dislike. Thus surrounded by secret enemies and those sad __ regrets which hopes so suddenly crushed could not Fall ‘ Yaed"h to excite, the young girl yie ed her whole bein up to the one sweet hope still left to her, undimme and brightening each day—a lone star in the cloud- ed sky of her ii The love, that under other cir- cumstances might have been diversified by many bp at MB tts now concentrated itself around her ing, and its pure intensity became almost sublime. ; Mr. D.,in revealing the secret of Myra’s birth had, as it were, thrown off all claims to her filia obedience, but the peek td girl took no advantage of this most painful freedom; her great desire was still to win his consent to her union with the map she loved, her Peecicen union, for Myra neith hoped nor wished for any thing more than the love of those who had gon aa her infancy to carry as a marriage dower to her husband. Under the sanc- tion of her gentle mother—for such Mrs. D. was ever to Baie Sue oun girl had still carried on a corre- spondence with Mr. Whitney, and it was decided that he should write to Mr. D. and again request permission to visit the young creature, who, with- out a daughter’s right, had no desire to evade a gs rei obedience. Believing the acquaintance between Myra and her lover broken off by his own firm ape Mr. D. had not given up her union with another, which had for many years been a favorite object with him. His astonishment and indignation may, therefore be imagined, when the mild and respec ful letter of Mr. Whitney reached him at D. ce, some few weeks after the retirement of his family to their country mansion. It was early in_the morn- ing when t letter came, and . D. was alone with his relative and guest when he broke the seal. The anger that shook the proud man’s nerves, the sharp exclamation that sprung from. his lips, were heard by Mrs. D. as she pas into the. break- fast parlor. She saw the handwriting crushed angri- ly between the fingers of her husband, and filled with dread that Myra’s pevale correspondence had been betrayed, she left the room and hastened to her daughter’s chamber. “Oh Myra! I fear—I fear that your papa has in “gome way obtained one of Mr. Whitney’s letters,” _ eried the aid lady, with a face that bespoke all the anxiety that pre éd upon her, ~ Myra turned a little more pallid than usual, for her father’s anger was a terrible thing to brave—of that she was well aware; but, after a moment, her natural ¥ | | courage returned, and she answered with some de- gree of firmness: “ Dear mamma, do not look so terrified. Let his anger fall on me; sit down, That pale face must oi tell him that you have ever known of these let- ers.’ Mrs. D. sunk to a seat, striving to regain some de- gree of composure, and Myra went down-stairs, very pale, but making an effort to sustain with dig- py e reproaches that she felt to be prepared for er ‘Here, young lady!’ said Mr. D. as Myra entered the room; “here is a letter from that Whitney again—a letter to me—asking permission to visit ou.” 7: Myra drew a deep breath; in her agitation she had forgotten that this letter might be expected, and so long as ber father’s anger had only this source, she could withstand it. 4 ‘Well, papa, and you will answer it?” said the young girl, gently, ‘but still with some tremor of the voice. “T will!’ was the angry reply; “T will answer it as such presumption deserves!’ “Surely—surely, papa, you will not for:et that Mr. Whitney is’ a gentleman, and deserving of courteous treatment? es “J forget nothing,” was the curt reply; and with- out further a ent Mr. D. left the room, and in half an hour after an old colored man was galloping toward Wilmington, with a letter directed to Mr. Whitney in his pocket, What that letter contained might have been guessed from the hasty and blot- ted address, had it not been written black as night on the angry forehead of Mr. D. when he sat down to breakfast that morning. A few days went by—days of keen anxiety to poor Myra and her gentle mother; then was the young rl summoned once more to the presence of Mr. D. She found him white with rage—deeper and more terrible rage then his fine features had ever exhibit- ed before; a letter was clenched tightly in his hand; his fingers worked convulsively around the crushed paper as he addressed the trembling bia : “ Twice—twice in my life have I been insulted, girl! By your father once—by your lover now. He is coming here! He will be in Wilmington in a few days he! Let him come; but as I live—as TI live, girl, he shall never leave that place alive! This in- sult shall be atoned then and there.” “ Oh, father!’ was all poor Myra could say. “Tf he is a gentleman, he shall answer this as a gentleman, he is what I suppose, then I will chastise this insolence as I would a menial. When once we meet, one or the other will never return alive.’ Mvra shuddered, her pale lips refused to utter the worcs that sprung to them, and she stood before the angry man with her hands clasped, but motionless asastatue. At length she gathered strength to ut- ter a single sentence. “Father, you will not challenge Mr. Whitney? It would be terrible; it would kill me.” “Tf he comes within my reach, if he dares to in- trude his presence even into the neighborhood, he shall answer it with his life or mine!’ was the stern reply. CHAPTER XIil. MYRA’S SACRIFICE. Myra turned away trembling and heart-sick; she knew that this was no idlethreat, no mere burst of vivid passion that would die within the hour. Her lover would bein Wilmington in a few days; it was afirm but courteous announcement to this effect Hag had so exasperated the man whom she had just eft. ‘* Mother—mother, he will not do this thing—he will not meet Mr. Whitney with a challenge!”’ cried the harassed une creature, throwing herself into the arms of Mrs. D., who stood in the chamber of her child, where she had retired from the angry storm below. : “YT fear it, alas! he deems himseif braved and in- sulted,” said the good lady, weeping bitterly. ‘‘ Oh, Myra! why did we permit Whitney to write—why consent to his coming to the neighborhood?” 4 te Why, why indeed! if it is but to meet his death?” cried the poor gir), wringing ber hands. x f be; my father will re- . But, mother, this cannot ent! Mrs. D. shook her head. ‘‘Not where he deems his honor or authority contemned, my poor girl!” “Oh, what can we do—what can we do?” “His anger is so terrible—if you could but give Ney Pihincugnl of the man; if you only could, my Cc ° i Myra withdrew from her mother’s arms, her slight form: seemed to dilate and nerve itself for some great effort. The tears hung unshed upon her eyelashes, and her lips were pressed firmly together. e thoughts that swept across her sweet face were quick and painful; she scarcely seemed to breathe; so intense was the struggle within that mo- tionless bosom. . ‘Mother,’ she said, in a low and husky voice, so low that it was almost a whisper—‘‘ mother, I will girs him up. It is to save his life or the life of your usband; I will give him up!” While the un appy lady stood wonde at the strange calmnéss with which these words were oken, Myra passed down-stairs once more, and Sood in her father’s presence, calm, resolute, but very sorrowful. ‘Father, I love the man whom you would chal- lenge, por. yoa would force to the extremities of life or death. How dearly, how wholly I love him, you ean never believe, or tis agony would have been spared me. Father, you, know of his coming, he is already on the way; thus it is out of my power to ede: that which so offends you. Let him come; et him depart in peace, and here I solemnly promise never to speak to him again. Father, I give up, but it is to save his life or yours!” The young girl ceased speaking; the words she had uttered were pronounced hurriedly and with firmness, but the white lips, the heavy trouble that clouded her eyes with something more touching than tears, revealed all the heroism of her sacrifice. You could see that to save a human life, she had | given up all that made her own life valuable. It was strange to see so much heroism in a form so gentle and so frail; it was strange that this beautiful spirit of self-sacrifice should prove powerless to curb the wrathful spirit that possessed the proud man ore whom she had pleaded, but his answer was relentless. “No!” he replied. ‘‘That which I have said is immutable}, lf this man comes so near my house as the next town, he shall answer for the presumption with his life, or I will sacrifice mine!” Myra stood for a moment looking in that frown- os he ace, and as she gazed her own became painfully calm. ““My father, once again—once again reflect, it is more’ than life that I offer you for this!” she said, and her voice grew softer, as if tears were swelling in its tones once more, “That which I have said I abide by!’ was the stern yA Myra pleaded no longer, but turned gently and left the room. In the upper hall she met her mother. “Does he relent—will he accept the sacrifice of your offer?’ questioned the anxious lady. ‘‘No, mother, he refuses; he seems athirst for the life of this noble pone man; but I will save him, I will save them both.” “How, my child? how can you, so frail and so = aay) struggle against the strong will of your ather?’ ‘*T will leave the house. I will no longer remain Bere innocent and honorable love leads to scenes e this.” “What, leave your mother—your own fond, too fond mother? Myra, my child, my child!” ‘Hush! mother; dear, dear mother; these tears, they make me weak as an infant. If you weep and cling to me thus, mother, my strength may fail; and do you not know that death may follow —death to your husband or to mine, for is he not my husband before God, do you think, sweet mother?” But Mrs. D. only wept, and clung more fondly to her daughter. yra withdrew herself gently from that warm clasp, and went away. On the morrow Mr. Whitney would be in Wilmington, and before then the young girl had much to accomplish—much to suffer. : All that day Myra avoided the family, above all the gentle mother, whose teara she feared far more than the anger of her proud father. She had formed a resolution that required all her courage, and more strength than seemed to animate that slender form, She shrunk, therefore, from encountering the tears of that sweet and loving woman, ; There was an old servant in the family, with whom Myra from her childhood had been a sort of idol. Indeed, in all that os household there was not a dependent who did not reverence and love the young creature. This man, early in the afternoon might have been seen riding toward Wilmington at a brisk trot, and with some little anxiety in his man- ner. When he reached the town the old man entered a dwelling where he was received by two bright and joyous-looking young ladies, who greeted ea- gerly, and inquired for news of his young mistress, while the old mea was searching in his pockets for a hastily-folded billet, which he, at length, produced with no little mysterious importance. One of the young ladies tore open the billet, and began to read. ‘* Sit up for me one dear girls,” thus the billet commenced, ‘‘ sit up till morning unless I come be- fore; ae will certainly see me during the night; then I will explain this hasty message. It may storm; no matter, I shall surely be with Tete ’ YRA.”’ The young ladies looked at each other, wholly ata loss to guess the reason of this singular message, but Myra had promised to explain all, and so they allow- the old man to depart unquestioned. Long before the faithful messenger returned, Myra was standing in the humble dwelling of an out- door dependent in whom she could t: . ‘“*And you are determined, Miss Myra?” was the me que:tion as he stood, hat in hand, by the oor. ‘*Yes; obey my directions exactly as they are given; that is all | require of you.” “We would do any thing—any thing on earth for you,” said the wife of this man, coming forward; ‘you know we would, Miss i Per even though it may be our ruin should your father know that we aided you against his will!” “But he never can know; nothing shall tempt me to inform him, and the secret will rest with us alone,” was the prompt reply. ‘““ We will be punctual, never fear,” said the man; Neo A ooeeia . a epee F ell,”? sa: lyra, casting her eyes toward the heavens, which did indeed bear indications of a mus- tering one “it does not matter; be ready all the same. member to come by the old carriage route, not along the new road—you might meet com- pany there.” ‘ “T will be cautious, dear young lady; I will be cautious as you could wish.” % “Tam sure of it,” was the mild and grateful re- ply; and with a beating heart Myra went back
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ie the heuse which was soon to be her home no onger. The relation whom we have mentioned was still at D. Place, and his wife, with her two beautiful chil- dren, occupied a room near that appropriated to Myra, and to this room the young girl betook her- self after returning from the visit to her humble friends. A spirit of unrest was upon her; she longed for action, for i re for some being to whom she could pour forth the anguish which ‘eat like a fever in every vein of her delicate body. Myra found her father’s guest in an easy-chair near the window. She was a quiet, tranquil woman, devoid of strong passions, but selfish in the ex- treme, and possessing a sort of gentle craft that from its very want of active spirit was calculated to deceive. She knew that discontent and disunion were active in the dwelling, and after her usual inert manner was waiting for some result that might prove beneficial to herself and children. When she saw nag enter her room with a glow upon her cheek, but pale as death about the mouth and tem- ples, this woman drooped her eyelids to conceal all expression of joy this agitation kindled in her bosom, but her look was tranquil, her voice full of ga eG as she addressed the young girl. _ “You look anxious, nay, ill, my sweet friend,” she said, taking Myra’s hand, which fell over the back of her chair. “You know,” answered Myra, in a sad voice, 4 pou know what has passed to-day in this house; tell me—for much depends on your answer, and I can hold counsel with no ore else beneath this roof—tell me, do you believe that if Mr, Whitney should arrive in Wilmington to-morrow, my father would find him out and put his cruel threat into exe- eution?”’ “You know Mr. D. Is he not determined; did he ever swerve froma resolution once formed?” was the mild and sinister reply. ‘Then you honestly believe that he would chal- Mr. itney?’’ was the anxious rejoinder. ‘Has he not said it, Myra?” “Then if you think so—you who always look on events so still and passionless—I have but to go on,’’ said M. in accents that bespoke all the grief this conviction fastened on her young heart. “What do you meets Myra—what is it you con- template?” said the confidante, with a gleam of satis- faction in her downcast eyes. “T am going from this house to-night. Before Mr. Whitney reaches Wilmington, I will see him and prevent this meeting.” “ You. ‘a! —you—what will your father say? What will the world think?” “Tt is to save life!” answered Myra. ‘‘ My own soul tells me that I am right.” The wily confidante dropped her head upon_her hand, when she fell into a moment’s thought. With all her apparent apathy, she knew well how to ex- cite the resolution of a generous and ardent nature like Myra’s, while seeming to o Ppose it. The arguments that she used @ Deals entirely to those selfish considerations which were sure be cast away with disdain by the young creature on whom they were urged, and Myra went out from the interview more impressed than ever with the necessity of putting her project into immediate operation, The storm that had been threate all day, came on at nightfall with all the rush and violence of a tempest, but this scene suited well with the ex- citement and wild wish for action which swelled in the young girl’s heart, even as the elements heaved and struggled without. She sat by the window, ens 3 upon the storm; the trees tossing their ranches to and fro like giants reveling in the wind; the rain sweeping downward in wreaths and sheets of silvery water whenever the lightning glared over it; and afar off the distant bay, heaving into sight, as it were, from the very bosom of dark- ness, and sinking back again when the lightning withdrew from tie sweep of its fiery wing. Mr. D., full of unrest as the elements, was pacing the verandahis face was unnaturally pale in the gleam of lightning, and_he paced up and down, un- conscious or heedless of the water-drifts that now and then swept over him. Poor Myra sat watching him; the storm within her own breast and the tempest without, imparted to her spirit a wild and ess courage. She stepped out on the veranda; the rain beat in her pale face, the lightning glared across her eyes, already more than brilliant; she met her father in his walk, with her cold hand. “Father, father! you have reflected. Oh, say that you will not provoke Mr. Whitney into this death- strife when he comes.” Mr. D. paused for one moment, a shade of irreso- lution swept across his features, but it left them more pale, more resolute than before; he turned away without a word of answer, and Myra disap- and touched his arm ared. e That night, close upon the hour of twelve, two people, a man and a woman, stood near a back entrance of Mr. D.’s dwelling. The female held an umbrella, dripping and drenched with rain; the man stood with his ear bent to the door, listening. At last, amid the storm, he heard a key turn and a bolt withdrawn; then the door swung open, and Myra appeared ere in a large shawl, and stand- ing by a little trunk which the slender girl had dragged step by step down the lofty staircase “Carry it carefully; there is neither lock nor key; it was the only one I could reach,” she whispered, dragging her humble burden toward the man, who swung it to his shoulders and disappeared in the darkness. Myra drew close to the woman, and sheltered by the dripping umbrella, followed after. A walk of. HIS LAWFUL WIFE. some distance brought them to a carriage which stood waiting back of the stables; the steps were down, tie horses and vehicle all drenched with rain, and furiously shaken by the wind, stood ready to receive her. She sprung, pale and breathless, into the frail shelter. er faithful friend was about to mount the seat. ‘One word,” said Myra, bending her white face into the storm; ‘‘ the turnpike gate—you may be known there if theman seesyou. The storm rages so fiercely he may not be aroused, but if he is, make no answer; your voice, good friend, would betray you, and this kindness to me might your ruin with my father, If thismancalls, do not speak: the gate is old, the horses good, the carriage strong; be resolute, and drive on as if nothing was in the way. Do you understand? trample the old gate down, and that without aword. It will open your way back ain. “‘T will drive through the gate; never fear,” was the prompt eel, and the man sprung to his seat. One grateful shake of the hand, a smothered **God biess you, Miss Myra,’’ from the good woman who had risked so much for her, and Myra fell back in the carriage. The man was obliged to drive very slowly, for the night was intensely dark, and he only kept the road by the gleams of lightning that ever and anon hed over it, At length they came to the turnpike gate that stretched its sodden timbers ina dark line across the road. The tempest was high, and every pee was made to avoid the least noise, but he old toll-gatherer had a well-trained and most acute ear. ust as the driver was dismounting to try the lock of his gate, out came the old man, half- dressed, and with a candle in his hand that flared out the moment it felt a breath of the tempest. F ‘*Halloal who goes there?’’ shouted the old fel- ow. Myra leaned from the carriage: ‘‘ Not a word— use ine whip—down with the gate—but not a single word. A firm sweep of the whip followed—a plunge—a crash—and then over the broken boards and through the black storm, the carriage was swept Se Along the dark road it toiled, pelted with rain, half- overturned every instant by asweep of the wind, that kept rising stronger and higher, tillon every hand rose the black, gaunt shadow of many a dark- ened dwelling, and their midst a single light gleamed Jike a star. “They are up—they are waiting!’ exclaimed Myra, with a burst of grateful joy, as she saw this ht. “‘Now, my friend—my good, kind friend— Eee must go no further; even they must not see you. top here; set my trunk on the walk; I will find the uh Fee now!” e man would have protested against this, but Myra was firm, and there in that wild storm she stood till the carriage was out of sight. Then she seized the trunk by the handle, and straining every nerve in her delicate frame by the effort, dragged it toward a window where she saw two fair, A ppt beautiful faces ring inary ye out, as if they were searching for some loved object in the dark- ness, All at once those faces disappeared, a sound of glad welcome came toward the door, and the next instant Myra, panting with fatigue, white as death, and drenched through and through, till the rain Hb like a rivulet from her garments, was folded in the arms of those noble-hearted girls, CHAPTER XIV, : A WOMAN’S DISAPPOINTMENT AND A MAN’S REMORSE. Waite Myra was exchanging her drenched gar- ments, and partaking of those refreshments which her late and comfortless ride rendered so necessary, she related to her young friends the cause of this sudden abandonment of her home; and they, with all the warm enthusiasm and vivid romance of youth, entered into her feelings and plans. There was no for any of the pretty group that night, but closeted in a little bedroom, with a bright fire flashing and glowing over their lovely and eager faces, the young girls plotted and held council to- gether, sometimes laughing at the miserable plight in which oe had presented herself at the door; sometimes listening with a start, as if amid the rush and pause of the storm, they yet feared to detect the tread of some person in pursuit of the beautiful fugitive. ; And now,” said Myra, after all had been told “let us deliberate on the best step. At deylight I must start for New astle, and thence to Baltimore in time to prevent Mr. Whitney taking the boat. He must not approach Wilmington. Who will go with me? WherecanI rest for a few hours in secrecy?” “Who will go with you? , father, of course,” exclaimed one of the young gir , entering heart and soul into the interests of her friend. ‘‘ Where can you rest? Have we not a brother married and settled at’ New Castle, who knows and loves you, even as we wi ? His. wife will receive you, and. joyfully enough. , Myra arose, her sweet face animated and spark- ling with titude; she threw her arms around the rouse girl and kissed her. “Oh, what friends you are; how I love _you,”’ she said, in her own frank, joyous way, turning to the other sister and pressing her forehead with lips that glowed with generous feeling. ‘It is worth while having a little trouble, if it were only to be: such hearts as yours. I shall never forget this night; never to my dying day.” “Oh, it is quite like a romance, Myra,” exclaimed the younger of the girls, sh back her ringlets, with alight laugh. “ Here we had been for hours and hours watching at the window, with the rain beating and pelting on the glass close to our faces, * £.48 and exactly like two characters in a novel. Then, between the flashes of lightning and the rain that absolutely came down in sheets—I never saw any thing like it in my life—you come toiling up to thi door, like some poor little fairy shut out in the storm—your face so wet and pale, and your eyes ~ floating like diamonds, and your black curls all drip- ping with rain. Upon my word, Myra, there was something unearthly about it all.” “Perhaps it was best,” said Myra, smiling at the vivid fancy of her young friend. ‘‘Had the night been calm and every thing quiet, I should have felt it more. The storm gave me courage. It seemed as ifthe very rushing and outbreak of the elements ex- cited a sort of heroism in my heart. Had it been a soft moonlight evening, when I could have seen the old trees, the fiowers, and all those sweet objects that poor mamma and I have loved to look upon so often when the moonlight was on them, I could hardly have found strength to leave them all. Poor, poor mamma, how she will grieve; it will be a sad morning for her.” Myra bowed her head as she spoke, and her dark eyes filled with tears. The young girls gazed upon her with saddened countenances. This sorrow, sO natural, so true, it was something to chill all their light ideas of romance. yra still sat with her face bowed down, lost in painful thought. Her heart was once more in its old home, e thought of the mother, the kind, parce wcman, who had taken her, like a young ird from the parent nest, and up to that very day had warmed her as it were with the pulses of her own heart into life and happiness. She thought of the proud old man, proud but full of strong affec- tions; self-willed but generous; who was dignified and d even in his error—of the old man who had loved her so long and so well. She thought of him, too, and the rolled fast and heavily down her cheeks. It was a terrible romance to her. — thing. Nothing but a firm sense of right could have induced her to proceed a step further in it. She was no young heroine, but a noble, strong-minded woman, suffering keenly, but firm because she believed herself to be in the right. There was silence for a time, for the young girls respected the grief of their friend, then the eldest arose and lean: over Myra’s chair, began with gentle delicacy to smooth and arrange the light tresses ee had been so completely disordered by the storm. ‘‘And when you have found Mr. Whitney, bi Abe when hes have prevented the meeting, how will it end? a wedding and a reconciliation at the great house, no doubt,” said the sweet girl, anxious draw her friend from the painful reverie into whi she had fallen. ‘“No,” answered Myra, brushing the tears from her eyes, ‘“‘I expect nothing like a reconciliation. When I abandoncd D. Place last night, it was with no thoughts of return. I gave up every thing then.”’ thing but the man “Every thing but love; eve who loves you,” whispered her friend. “Even love—even —I gave up all. Do you think that I have a dream of marrying him now? That I intend to surround myself with the ar eclat of a ‘runaway match?’ It was to save his life that Ileft my home. I will meet him on the way, warn him of my father’s hatred, and free him of all the engagements that have existed between _ us. ** And where will you go then, dear friend?” “T have relatives in the West Indies, as I have been told, and I had resolved to seek their protection before leaving home.” “Then there will be no wedding after all, and we shall lose you yay eae cried the young girl, yee in tears at the thoughts of this abrupt separa- tion. _ ‘*Not forever; I am sure we shall meet again,” answered Myra, casting an anxious glance through the window, for the conversation was arousing old ae ie keenly within her. ‘‘ But it will soon be ig: as 4 ° aT have just aroused father, and told him all; he will go with bh to New Castle,” said the younger girl, who had been absent from the room. “The stage starts by daybreak.” Daybreak! The gray of morning was in the even then. Instantly there was a bustle of prepara- tion in that little bedroom. Myra’s garments, that had been crying by the fire, were hastily crowded into the trunk; a fathcm or two was cut from the bed-cord, that her ill-secured luggage might have tke best protection their means afforded, and at the appointed time all was ready for Myra’s departure. Amid tears and affectionate embraces Myra parted with her Pps J friends, and before the deep blue of night had fairly left the sky, she was on her route to New Castle. The s had no passengers except Myra and her kind attendant, so in the stillness of the morning she had nothing to distract her thoughts from the mournful channel into which they naturally turned, The storm had swept over the earth, leaving only freshness and beauty behind. The trees that bent over the road were vivid with moisture, over which the rising sun fell with sparkling and genial warmth. Every spire of grass bent as if with the weight of a diamond at its point. The vires aud creeping shrubs that grew along the fences seemcd blossoming with ees so thick were the water- drops among their leaves; so bright were the sun- phere was full of cool, rich fra gush of air, as it swept = oe bore Myra from her home, was delicious to. reatne. . Ever and anon, as the stage followed the windings beams that kindled them into beauty. The ‘ae “a rance, and ever q SP en through the ponderous vehi- _ _ a + 3 : * * ‘
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et? ' ’ 14 » HIS LAWFUL (andi 2 = os = of the highway, Myra could obtain a view of her former home; silent, stately and refreshed, as it were, by the night storm, it rose before her tearful eyes. The proud old mansion, lifted on a terrace of hills above the level on which she traveled, could be seen for miles and miles around, and thus at every turn the noble features of all that she had given u were spread out before her gaze cs if to mee her loneliness, or with their grandeur tempt her return. But Myra scarcely thought of the stately old mansion. Her affectionate heart penctraicd beyond its walls; she saw, as ina vision, oe pale and gonile head asleep on its jillow, dreaming of scenes that would never be again. It was a memory of the slumbering household abandoned in its unconscious- ness, that filled the eyes of poor Myra with tears. She felt no regret for the noble property that she had rendered up without a sigh. But the household links that she had broken still quivered about her heart, and Myra, as she cast her eyes back on her stately old home, could not choose but weep. Our young traveler found her friends at New Cas- tle mauling. to aid her, as the generous girls in Wil- mington had been. It was arranged that an old gen- tleman, father of the lady whose roof had given shelter to the young girl, should proceed with her to Cainer and with this most unexcoptionable es- 1t Myra set forth. Wih the gentleman whose house she had left, she intrusted a note which was to be delivered to Mr. Whitney, should he by chance have taken passage in the boat expected in a few hours from Baltimore. Anxious, hurried, and half ill with excitement, Myra and her companion reached Baltimore just in time to learn that a gentleman bearing the name of Whitney had taken passage in a boat which had passed them on their way. Agitated by fresh fears, and wild with dread that the meeting between her father and her lover might take place in spite of all her efforts, the poor girl had no resource but to return with her companion, ‘in the wild hope thet her note might reach Mr, ' Whitney at New Castle, and thus prevent his pro- ceeding on his route. By the rcturn boat they reached the home of their generous friends once more, and there to her astonishment and dismay, Myra found that a person of like name, but not the Mr. Whitney whom she sought to preserve from per- iling his life, had passed through New Castle. It was now beyond the day appointed for her nowledge of the lover’s arrival, and, without any time when he would pass through Baltimore, ae had no better means of meeting him on the way than by remaining quietly with her friends till he should reach New Castle. e kind clergyman, who had so kindly given his protection to the adventurous girl, arranged that astrict watch should be kept at the landing. Thus day after day passed by, durin which poor Myra suffered all the irksome pains o suspense, hoping, yet dreading the appearance of her lover, and haunted with a fear that her incensed parent might find out her place of shelter, and thus render all her efforts to prevent mischief of no avail, But. thus harassed and worn out, she had only one resource. To wait—wait. To a nature ardent and impetuous as hers, this wasa weary trial. So long as she had any thing to do, the excitement of action asp up her courage, but this life of inactive expec- tation wore upon her nerves, and she began to droop like a bird fettered in its cage. .Thus she had lin- gered three days, imprisoned by her own free will, in the solitude of her chamber, when the event which she had most feared brought new_agita- tion to her already overtaxed spirit. After days of vain and anxious search her parents had found out the place of her retreat. It often happens that persons of strong and power- ful organization become the slaves of their own will and act in opposition to their best feelings and coo judgment, merely because that will has been ex- pressed. Pride, stern, commanding pride, such as ‘must have been the characteristic.of a man like Mr. D., shrinks from the confession of fallibility, which a change of purpose too surely acknowledges, Im- perious from nature and from that right of com- mand whichis so readily yielded to the rich even ia our republican country, he had expressed his dislike and opposition. to Mr. Whitney, and maintained it, not that he believed his suspicions of unworthiness ps. but because they had been once expressed; and e, though generous, noble, affectionate, and filled with love for his adopted child, was the slave of his own will—that which he had said must be. Upon the night of the storm this man had walked hours upon the veranda in front of his house, with . the thunder booming and clashing overhead, and with the fierce lightning glaring across his pale face -——wil why? Not that he did not feel his heart trem- ble with every roar of the thunder, not that each blaze of lightning did not take away his breath. He was afraid of etinine: and for that very reason chose to brave it. Even the fear that was constitu- tional, that had grown and strengthened with him from childhood must yield to his will. After that night of storm, when the strong man had wrestled with his better feelings as he had wrestled with his fear, to conquer both, he awoke to find his daughter gone. Like the lightning, she had disappeared, leaving him nothing to contend against. At first he would not believe the truth, even the wild yey of his wife, who had lost her child, and refused to be comforted, seemed ground- less. He would not believe in the effect of his own violence; but when the day passed by, when messenger after messenger returned, ap no tidings of his daughter, the anguish which he endured could no longer be held under control. Strong as his pride of authority, deep and earnest as his nature, was his love for the young girl just driven from beneath his roof. Why had she becn forced to go? Even to his own heait he could give no answer, save that he had willed her to love according to his wishes, and found her unable to wrestle with her affections as he had wrestled with the lightning. And now all the injustice of this ob- stinate adhesion to his own will became palpable to him, asit had long been to those who had suffered by it. With the impulse of a heart really capable of Great megnanimity, he longed to make reparation to is child. The half of his great possessions he would have given for the privilege of holding her once more to his bosom, without the painful ne- cessity of explanation. But a sleepless night was again followed by search and disappointment. It was strange hov lonely and desolate that spacious house ssemed when Myra was away. He miss the silvery ring of her laugh as he passed from room toroom, Her empty seat at the table seemed to reproach him. He missed her light tread at night when she no longer came like a child, as she s‘ill was at heart, to ask for the good-night kiss, The tears and pale sorrow of his wife distressed him more keenly even than the void which Myra had left in that lordly dwelling. Pee see = it was a mournful family—mournful as if a funeral had just passed from its midst. Taus day followed day, and at length the sus- pense, wich had become terrible to bear, was relieved; Myra’s retreat at New Castle was made known to Mr. D. CHAPTER XV. A HAPPY DENOUEMENT. Ir seems a matter of astonishment that high- minded and strong men should so often become dupes and victims x0 spemnons every way inferior, intellectually and morally; but when we reflect that the wise and generous are not only incapable of the low cunning and low motives which belong to the low of heart and mind, we cannot marvel so much that they are inoppaiie, also, of believing in the ex- istence of these t s, and thus from an unbelief in evil, leave themselves unguarded to the insidious meanness they cannot recognize as a portion of humanity. We have said, that in the house of Mr. D. there was arelative and guest, to whom the departure of Myra from her home opened hopes of influence ani ultimate gain, which were strong enough to arouse all the cupidity of his nature. This man had, with insidious meekness, reanimated the disquiet of the household, and with his soft words and silky manner, poured oil on the wrath of Mr. D., when he saw it Yielding to the generous dictates of affection. He ad excited the fears which drove Myra from her home, through the soft duplicity of his wife, and now it was his great desire to prevent an interview, or the least chance of reconciliation between the oung fairl and her parents. This man had found ittle culty in tracing Myra from the first, but his knowledge was kept secret until he found that Mr. D. was certain to hear of her movements from other sources; then he openly claimed the merit of great exertions in finding out her on i of shelter, and volunteered, with the most disinterested air imaginable, his influence in persuading the young girl to return home. Glad to save himself the humiliation and pain of entreaties, from which his proud nature revolted, Mr. D, was well pleased to accept the friendly offer, and it was this man’s arrival at New Castle, that startled Myra from the little repose she had been enabled to obtain. Mr. D. had authorized his messenger to induce Myra’s return by gentle per- suasion, by frank and generous promises that a should be forgiven, all forgotten. He made no stipulation, no reserve... All that he desired was the love and confidence of his child. To this was added many an affectionate message from the mother, whom Myra loved so fondly, and these were more than enough to have won the warm-hearted girl back to the bosom of her family. Myra saw this man, and he gave Mr. D.’s mes- sage faithfully, even the caressing words of Mrs. D. were not withheld; but when he saw tears swell up and fill the fine eyes which turned upon him as he gave the message—when he saw a gush of passionate tenderness sweep across her face, the man changed gradually in manner. His eye, his downcast look, the compression of his mouth, all told that something had been kept back. He seemed struggling with himsclf. and Myra saw that all was not as it should be. The young girl had no doubt of this man’s sincerity—she had always believed him to be her friend. How then was she to reconcile this restless manner, this sort of caution that gleamed in his eyes and spoke in every feature of his face, with the frank message of which he was the bearer? After much anxious questioning the man consent- ed to speak, but it was only out of the deepest and most self-sacrificing friendship to her. It was periling the favor of Mr. D. forever, but still he would speak. He would not urge a creature so young and lovely to rush blindfold into the power of a man exas- perated as Mr. D. was against her, True, all these promises had been sent; but in reality, the hate of er father had only been ravated against Mr. Whitney by her flight. Mr. D. was implacable as ever, and instead of receiving his child with kindness, his sole desire was to win her by false protestations into his power again, and then punish her with all his haughty strength. All this was repeated with the most perfect ap- pearance of sincerity. The truth seemed to have een wrested from this man’s heart, only by the solemn obligations of friendship. Myra was very grateful for this friendly warning, and the traitor WIFE. left her strengthened in her purpose, but with an aching and desolate heart. Not an hour after this interview, Mr. Whitney ar- rived at New Castle. Various reasons for deiay had kept him behind his a Rointenens, but Myra’s agent Lad been vigilant, and her note reached him as he left the boat. He came directly to the residence of her friend, ignorant of all that had transpired to drive Myra from the protection of her own home. Mr, Whitney had left the young girl gay, blooming and brilliant, with joyous anticipations—she met him now pale and Sel espe eyes heavy with tears, her form swayed by the weight of her grief, like the stalk of a flower on which the dew has fallen too heavily. “And now,” be said, when she had told him all, ‘there is but one course for us to pursue, and that, thank Heaven, is one to secure our happiness. This man is not oe father, and has no legal authority over you. Iwill not speak of his injustice to me—of his harshness to you--for in former years I know that he has been kind.” Myra’s eyes filled with grateful tears. There was cee in this gentle forbearance that touched er deeply. ‘* Let us be united now, Myra; no one has authori- ty over you. Iam, inall things, independent!’’ It was hard to resist that pleading voice, those eyes so full of hopeful tenderness, but Myra drew away her hand with an air of geutle dignity, and a painful smile parted her lips. ‘*No,”’ she said, ‘“‘no; I am here of my own will unsolicited, unexpected. It must not be said that your wife ran away from her father’s roof only tobe married,” The proud delicacy with which this was spoken—so earnest in its simplicity—left no room for a doubt. Mr. Whitney did not plead with her, though greatly Gienppointed he merely took her hand, with a smilie, and said: “But this seems like rejecti me altogether. Surely there is too muchof pride here. Would you suffer thus to save a life, and then render that life valueless, Myra?” The color came and went upon Myra’s pale cheek. Now that he was by her side, her hand in his, those eyes upon her face, the poor girl felt how impossible it was to part from him forever. ‘*] have friends—relatives in the West Indies,” she said; ‘‘let me gotothem, Come to me there, with the frank and full consent of your parents to our union, and I will be your wife.” “No, not there, not so far. In Philadelphia—let me place you under the protection of your friends there. I wiil visit my parents—their presence and full consent shall sanction our marriage. Will not this arrangement satisfy even your delicacy, be- loved?” Again the warm rose tinge came and went on Myra’s cheek, and the tears that still swam in her eyes grew bright as diamonds with the smile that broke through them. * 'Yes,’’ she said, ‘‘ this is enough.” Three hours from that time Myra and her lover were on their way to Philadelphia, but the good clergyman and his wife went with them from New Castle, and left their sweet charge with her friends, while a islaacemted proceeded to the home of his parents, And now, when the necessity for resistance was gone, the reaction of all this wild excitement swept over and prostrated her. Like a plant that keeps green so long as the frost is in its leaves, but withers and droops with the first glow of sunshine, her strength gave way, and there was a time when her very life seemed in jeopardy. | Thus weak and feeble, poor Myra lay upon her couch in the quiet gloom of her sick-chamber, and shrinking from the slightest sound, with that sensi- tive dread which was itself a pain, she heard a noise upon the stairs. It seemed like the hesitating tread of a man, blended with the eager and suppressed remonstrance of some person aa desired to check his progress. Myra began to tremble, for even this was enous? to shake every nerve of her slight frame. She lifted her pale hand, put back the tresses from her temple, and made a faint effort to lift her head from her pillow, but in vain. ‘My child—my child refuse to see her father? I will not believe it!” “Father! father!” broke from the lips of that pale gers and she sunk on her pillow gasping for rea All was hushed then, the dour opened softly, and through the gloom which hung aroun er couch Myra saw the stately form of the old man who had so long been her father. His face was e, and tears stood upon his cheek, as he bent down and kissed her forehead. Myra smiled, and drawing a deep breath, closed her eyes, and then opened them with a look of touching love. “ Wather!” “My child!” The old man sat down with her hand in his, and began smoothing the slender fingers with his other P m, as be had done so often in her childhood, This ittle act brought a world of enya old memories back to Myra’s heart, one r another, like drops of cool dew i a half-blighted flower. She turned gently, and placed her other hand in the old man’s paim, ‘ He bent down and kissed the two little hands he clasped in his. “And mamma!” whispered Myra. ‘“Your mamma has n pining for her child, ae 7 | ee to take you rapes nge oe ; ut you hai im—you—you—’ e poor girl broke off with a shudder. 6 ; 5 alt= ‘* No, I will like him for your sake, love!” was the kind reply. : ~
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Myra closed her eyes, and tears broke through the dark lashes. The old man now smiled, as he saw the tremulous joy his words had brought to that pale face. ‘We will have the wedding at D. Place, and when si 0 away again, Myra, it must not be without a essing. ‘*Oh, papa, Iam so happy,” whispered the poor irl, toate a deep Groom. She did not unclose er eyes again, but a sweet placidity stole over her face, and she fell into a calm sleep, the first that had visited her eyelids in many a long day and night. ever had D. Place looked more beautiful than it appeared on the day when Myra returned to it, with her happy father. The fine old building, with all its anrrérnitds trees, was bathed in a flood of sunshine that hung over the whole landscape like the mist, of a bridal vail. The servants were all out to receive their young mistress as she alighted from the car- riage; even the hunting dogs came whining and yelping from their kennels, riotous with joy, as so many politicians the day after an election. Myra had smiles for all; but as her eyes fell upon the gen- tle mother, who had loved her so devotedly, the oun 1 broke away, her cheeks glowing, her 3 es ful of tears, and threw herself into the arms that were joyousl opened to receive her. “Oh, mamma, i never expected to be so happy again!” she cried, shaking back her curls, and gaz- ing upon the face of her mother with a look of thrilling affection. ‘‘ But you are pale, mamma!” No, not now; but Iam very, very happy, Myra.” “But I have only brought her home that she may leave us again,” said Mr. D., with a frank smile, as his wife held out one hand to welcome him, while the other still clung to her child. : “T know, I know; but that is quite a different thing,’ answered the happy mother, drawing Myra into the house. As Myra passed up to her old room she met the household traitor, who had so deliberately misrepre- sented his friend. He held out his hand. ““No,”’ said Myra, drawing back with quiet con- tempt; “ for your chiidren’s sake I have not exposed yom baseness, but there can be no friendship be- een us in future.” **So because your father has changed, Iam to be censured for misrepresentation,” answered the man with consummate self-possession. ‘‘ But:this is the usual reward of an bonest endeavor to serve.” Myra passed on, without reply. Mr. D. was not a man to make partial atonement for anerror, A prompt and urgent request was for warded to Mr. itney and his parents, that they should make D. Place, and not Philadelphia, the destination of their journey. Meantime every ar- rangement was commenced for the wedding, and thus Myra’s path of life lay among blossoms and in the sunshine again. It was a pleasant thing to wait then, for a world of happiness seemed dawning for her in the future. Mr. Whitney came at list, and with him the revered parent, whose consent to his son’s marriage had beén frankly given. After all their trials and adventures, the young be were to be married quietly at last under the shelter of home, surrounded by those who knew and loved them best. You should have seen Myra Clark as she came down the massive staircase in her bridal dress that wedding-night. Her petite figure, graceful as a Pe tn was rendered still more etherea! by the misty oating of her bridal vail. The fragrance of a few white blossoms floated through her ringlets, and her small foot, clad in its slipper of snowy. satin, tines seemed to touch the stairs as she de- scended. Whitney stood by the open door ready to receive hisbride. With her own peculiar and feminine grace she met him; the “hes upon her cheek took a deeper rose-tint as she laid her small hand in his. She trembled a little, just enough to give a flower- like tremor to the folds of her vail, and for one instant the shadow of deep thought swept over her face. The bridegroom was very tall, and this gave to Myra a look still more feminine and childlike, as she stood by his side. : : é; = you ready, dearest?” he said, bending gently over her. She gave a faint start, and lifted her large brown eyes to his with a smile of such deep love and holy trust, as_ seldom looks up from a soul merely human. That smile was answer enough. The next moment they stood within the broad light that flooded the drawing-room. A few words—a few murmured _blessings—perchance a few tears—for the tears of affectionate regret are sometimes the brightest jewels that can be cast at the feet of a bride—and then Myra Clark became a wife. CHAPTER XVI. THE STRICKEN HOME. In a quiet village of New York, Myra Whitney made her home with the man who had won her ainst so much opposition and amid so many trials. She had cast off the splendor of her old life, and, sharing the fortunes of her husband, began a new and stili more noble existence; but directly came one to the little Eden with news that’ would hence- forth and forever more drive quiet away from her home. A man who was well acquainted with the frauds that had been ek peeiee on the infant heiress, sought out the young bride and told her of the vast wealth illegally withheld from her by the executors of Daniel Clark’s estate—told her of that which stirred the proud blood in her ve ns more warmly than any idea of wealth could have done—the doubt ¢ * —_—s.- -=s Ss a Ri es Se a sn SR atc ee a a a RE at a ee _—— |) oo HIS LAWFUL WIFE. that had been craftily thrown on her own legitimacy, and thus on the fair fame of her mother. From that day all ge of repose fied from her happy home. A stern duty was before her—that of retrieving the wrongs heaped on her mother, and of wresting the honorable name of a father, whom she worshiped even in his memory, from the odium that had been fastened upon his actions. Joined to all this, was the natural ambition of a high-spirited and one young woman to claim her true position in he world, and to endow the man of her choice with wealth justly her own, but of which he had been all unconscious at the time of their marriage; and now commenced that stern strife between justice and fraud which has for more than twenty years made the romance of our courts. With her young hus- bane Myra went to New O:leans, and there gathered a those threads of evidence which laid the iniquity, which had darkened her whole life, bare before the world. There she found Madame De Gordette, her mother, the Zulima of our true story, and there, for the first time, she learned all the domestic romance of her own history. The anguish thai had followed her mother, the remorse and solemn restitution et had marked the closing hours of her father’s ife. To a being ambitious and imaginative as rat be this interview with her mother was calculated to make a painful and solemn impression. The one great idea of her life became a firm resolve; to that she was ready to sacrifice domestic peace and all those feminine aims which spring from highly culti- vated tastes. Still womanly in all her acts, she took upon herself the research and duties of a man, not one, but hand in hand with the husband whose happiness and aggrandizement would be secured by these exertions. But the vast ge erty of Daniel Clark had been scattered far and wide by the men who had taken it in trust. The personal press, had melted bis first, then tract after tract of land, block upon bloc of real estate had followed, till the claimants, most of them innocent purchasers, might be counted b hundreds, But the ater the obstacles that pre- sented themselves, the more resolute became this young creature in the advocacy of her own just cause, All necessary evidence of the existence of a last will and of its destruction was secured; witnes- ses of Zulima’s marriage with Daniel Clark in Phila- delphia still existed. The mother herself, though shrinking from the cruel publicity of her wrongs, gave such aid as her naturally shrinking nature, now rendered almost timid by suffering, would per- mit. Men of influence, struck by the sublime spec- tacle of a fair young creature, with scarcely the physical strength of a child, entering courageously on a battle where such fearful odds prevailed against her, came generously to her support. The at fight of her life opened hopefully; victory might. be eens, but she would not doubt that it would come at last. But in the midst of her first struggle she had for- gotten to be prudent; indeed precaution was scarcely natural to that early period of her life. 7 adop- tion she had become a child of the North, but the warm, genial glow of her blood still sympathized with the sunny climate to which she had moved, fearlessly, with her little children at the most dan- gerous season of the year. But her husband was a Northern man by birth and he did not assimilate readily to the hot, moist climate of New Orleans. The excitement into which he was thrown doubtless added to the causes which oppressed him; in the midst of his etter in the full bloom and force of his manly youth, Whitney was struck down among the first victims that the yellow fever seized upon that year. They were living at a hotel in the heart of the city, with no home comforts around them, and sur- rounded by a crowd of enemies—such as spring from hotly-contested law-suits where many persons are interested in the defense. To all those persons who had imany way attained a claim on the og eh ty of Daniel Clark, his daughter was, of course, held as an aggressive enemy—a woman who had come with ber ambition and her deubtful claims to disturb the tranquillity of a great city. Many of these per- sons, having bought the property they possessed in good faith, really felt her action to be a great wrong —they had no means of knowing the facts of a case over which so many legal minds have struggled, and naturally sided with their own visible interests against the fair claimant. Thus the yellow fever which struck her husband down in a single hour, found Myra in the midst of enemies such as few wo- men have ever encountered. All day Myra had been lonely and sad, her chil- dren felt the heavy effects of the climate, and her own bright energies seemed yielding themselves to the enervating influences that surrounded them. Sometimes ia the great struggle thas she had com- menced so bravely, Myra felt the painful reaction which springs from a long strain upon the energies. That day she had been thinking of her in the North, of its quietude, its cool thickets, and the great forest-trees thot overshadowed it. Near the house was aspring of water—one of those nat- ural outgushes of crystal waves which children love to play near, and whose flow is remembered as the sweetest music in the world afterward. In the heat and closeness of her room, Myra’s thoughts had been constantly going back to this spring. The chil- dren also had prattled about it between themselves, and once had guid mother t out-of-doors. Myra felt the tears come to her eyes as she an- swered them; there was no real cause for this de- pression, but it. had fallen heavily upon her ali day; she felt like snatching up her little ones and fleeing so) home oined in a pretty petition to the lan- ai they might go back again and play * 7 * ‘ a | y ) h “t b pe yl S with them to the northward, where they might all breathe and laugh freely. While the young wife was in this strange mood, the door opened and her husband came in. She glanced up in his face smiling a welcome, but his eyes were heavy, and a hot crimson b on either cheek startled her. She put the children aside, and seizing his hand, gave another terrified look in his face. He tried to smile, but instantly lifted a hand to his forehead and groaned aloud. “What is this, my husband—are you ill, or have you been walking in the hot sun?” He withdrew his hot hand from her clasp, and rial el ordered the children back as they came laughing toward him. The little ones began to ery but Myra would not be repulsed; she was no child to shrink away from a sharp word, though it was the first she had ever Lnown him give her darlings. “ Ah! nowIam sure you must be ill,’ she said, hushing her children; ‘‘ who ever saw you cross be- fore, my Whitney, above all things, to them?” 1 They must not come near me—send them away. and go yourself,” he said, aneeay. ‘ “What, I—I go away?” cried the young wife, with a groan of indignation breaking up through her ter- ror; ‘‘ what can you think of me, itmey?” “ For their e—for your own, Myra,” he said, pened her away; ‘‘ child—child, it is the feverthat _ upon me.” 52 She looked at him eagerly, almost wildly; her pale lips fell apart and her cheek grew cold as snow. ‘Take the children away,” she said, motioni backward with her hand to a mulatto girl who s looking on. ‘‘ Take them quite away into your own room, Agnes, and be still.” The little ones went reluctantly and with tears standing in their wild eyes. It was so strange for them to be sent away when papa came in; then he looked so odd and stood so unsteadily on the floor; besides, mamma was beginning to cry; they would go back and ask her what it was all about. But no, the firm little maid held them tight, and forced them, struggling, through the door. She knew what those symptoms foreboded, and a sudden dread seized upon her. Yes, she would save the little ones—that was all she could hope for—and away she dragged them into her own little room, which was distant from the infected chamber. Mere forgot her children, forgot everything in the frightful symptoms that burned on her husband’s face and shot fire into the hands she clasped and ber in her own. “Oh, husband! my husband, it is not that—not the fever, God help us! You have been in the heat —you are tired out; a glass of ice-water and a little rest will drive this ache away!” “Oh, it is terrible, Myra, my temples seem splitting with the pain,” he murmured, holding his ead between both hands and reeling to and fro, “But it is the heat—it is the heat!” she persisted, determined to believe herself. “Tt is death! Oh, Myra, I fear it is death!” She began to tremble in all her limbs, a wild terror broke into her brown eyes, giving them an unearthly brightness. *“Oh, don’t—don’t! the bare idea kills me!” she pleaded, flinging her arms around him. He struggled and tried to force her away, but the fire of disease and the power of her great love were stronger than his confused will. She drew him toward the bed and forced him down to the pillows, praying him to be quiet and try and sleep. hile he lay moaning on the pillows, she ran for ice-water and gave it to his hot lips, bound his fore- head with wet napkins, and strove, in her sweet. feminine way, to assuage the pain which had seized so fiercely upon him. To have seen that slight crea- ture acting as a nurse to the being she most loved, you would hardly have believed it possible that she eee sufficient energy to take a controlling ead in one of the most important law-cases that ever astonished our country—that she had breasted difficulties and outlived discouragements before which bine J men might have retreated without a forfeiture of courage. In that sick room she was gentle as childhood, but quick as lightning to seize upon any means of mitigating the pain that held that young man as in the embrace of a fiend. Hour after hour she watched in that sick chamber. The doctor came, ordered the usual remedies, and went away again, with a heart that felt little and a face that told nothing at all. His course of practice was unvaried; the same medicine in almost every case; copious bleeding; vague, wild hopes in the loving hearts that ached around the bed; then the last fatal symptom and death—thus it went day after oor Myra! bow she searched that man’s leaden eyes for some little gleam of hope when he came into that sick chamber! how eagerly she strove to read features that never changed to a thought or a feeling, even when death stood close by! Still she would not despair; had not every obstacle given way to the force of her own will so far in her life— was she to be baffled and conquered now? To her warm heart it seemed impossibie that death could strike a form so full of manly strength, or that she could live an hour after him if the great calamity did come. Alas! with all her experience and force, Myra was yet to learn how difficult it is for a human heart to reak of grief, or exhaust itself with trouble. If a wish to die could induce the dark destroyer to strike, many a breathing, nay blooming form would be lying vl which is now doomed to runits course to the end. One day, it was less than a week after the first attack, Myra was called to the bedside of her hus- and, A great and terrible change had come upon -
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The children obeyed her, and dropping aoe te their pretty faces heavenw ' meets they had no lan _ tionless in their golden Oh, doctor! is he better?” rn pe , undoubtedly.” ha a burst into tears; the invalid brightened a lit- . ? and when I am gone these garel faces lifted to heaven, and thank God— that splendid: form; the flesh had seemed to melt away from his limbs like mist from the uplands; his eyes were hollow yellowish brown. “Myra, my poor wife!” _ Si bent down and kissed the fever-stained fore- ead. “My huisb» 1! you are better; there, the bright- ness is Cini : ; back to your eyes.” “No, Myra, no; I feel strangely, but not better.” A movement of impotent sorrow revealed the strug- gle with which the poor woman strove to disprove his truth to her heart. “Don’t say that—you don’t understand; wait he dostor comes, he will tell you that I am The sick man moved his head feebly on the pillow, and = moan broke from his lips. ae % Me i the ar came ne from a Bases in 6 infes city. e young wife appe to him with her mournful eyes bi wieae, 9 with an awful dread as his fingers touched the pulse. ; the skin upon his furehead a hen _ turned his face on the pillow, and great tears rolled down his cheeks. _ “No, doctor,’’ he murmured, “no!” “Ttis my opinion we have every thing to hope madam. Letus take a little more blood, and ill go on well.”’ Bandages were brought; the sharp lancet bit its ‘ay . third time into those hot veins, and directly a servant bore out a great white toilet-bowl frothing over with the red life drawn from a frame already exhausted with its battle against the fever. “There, madam,’ said the doctor, laying] the wounded arm of his patient tenderly on the counter- me. ‘He will do well now, have no fear; I will op in this evening; follow the old directions and keep him quiet.” “Oh, doctor! I can not speak my thankfulness, my heart is so full.” “There is no necessity of words,” said the doctor complacently; “‘or for gratitude either, so far as i am concerned.” Myra followed the man, whom she looked upon as something more than human, into the hall, “Ah, doctor, are you sure that he is better—it was not done to cheer him up?”’ she cried, while her poor oe began to quiver with the fear that crept over er. “Nothing of the sort, dear ot He is doing well enough; but take care of yourself.’’ Myra smiled on him through her tears. ‘‘ God bless ha a this comfort,” she said, leaning over the uster. ‘aces. is better, my darlings; d papa, go down on your he your Kiss me a thousand tim knees so with do you understand, children?—thank God, that papa. is better and will live.” edi on like the we see in Raphael’s pictures, looking the Myra, havi asd ties gins t en Myra, ng subdu er great joy, wen back to the sick-room in. How still ae qeathh he lay under the white cloud of sunshine that brood- ed over the bed! Myra held her breath, and listened tor some sign of improvement. His es were closed, and his lips shrunk together and closed mo- or. How the heart of that fond woman chea: itself. His languid still- ness was a good sign to her. “Yes,” she whispered, ee Rae by the bed, and softly clasping his feeble han ‘There is no pain now; he rests sweetly.” He heard herand clasped her fingers with feeble recger eat but did not speak or attempt to utter a word, Still the great tears rolled down his face, and she knew he wes conscious. | eru \ Thus two or three hours passed and then the fever ew rampant ag ia, and fell upon that weak form e a vampire, drinking up all the life that the;lan- cet had left. Myra began to be frightened, and hoped a ar gt for the doctor to come. ere was something in the case that she could not under- stand; doubtless, it was all right, but the look of that haggard face was appalling. | t last the physician came and with that slow | method which is so irksome to an impatient heart, | be came to the bed, felt of the patient’s pulse, laid | his hand gently down, and turned away mnyttoring j that she might go on as bcfore; theve were no fres directions to give. | Now the patient’ opened lis eyes, and fixed them with mournful reproach on the doc‘or’s face; he did not attempt to speak, but the great tears gathered slowly in his eyes, and the dark lashes closed ain, By usual Myra followed the doctor out of the room, “Te'l me,” she said, “he is no worse—he is getting well; there is no danger now.” The doctor drew on his glove, smoothing it to the hand, while she was speaking. “There is no hope, my dear madam—not a gleam. He must die before morning. Did you not observe the black on his lips?’ “Die before morning—my husband? Oh, no! you want to see if I have ali the courage people talk ~ about; but you see, doctor, Iam a poor little cow- Jne does not fight with death. Don’t you see ard. — how I tremble? Don’t, don’t carry this any further. HIS LAWFUL WIFE. I'm not very strong, and—and—oh, my God! my God! why don’t you speak to me?” ‘Indeed, my poor lady, I have nothing more to say; it would cive mo ereat satisfaction to give you hope if I had any myself. But the last fatal symp- tom has come; no skill on earth can save him; ‘ ie but a question of time now—hardly that, in act.” The doctor was going down-stairs as he spoke, for he would gladly have avoided the anguish that came like a storm into that white face; but Myra sprung after him, seizing hold of his arm. ““Oh, doctor! oh, doctor!’ she cried, gasping for breath, ‘‘is this true?’ “Indeed, [regret to say it, but nothing could be more certain ” Her hand dropped from his arm, her whole being grew cold till the icy chill penetrated to her heart. he watched him, as he glided down the stairs, with Then she turned and went into the chamber where her husband lay dying. When Myra came forth again she was a widow. In one of those cemeteries hemmed in by moss- gre walls and filled with gloomy verdure, the aid the young husband down to his long rest. a strained and wild look. pale little woman with two fair children perme ice at their biack crape dresses, stood by silent an filled with a dreary wonder that it took so little time to render a human life desolate, There was no noisy ayy in that solemn inclosure; the little children eld their breath in vague awe. The mother looked on as if those anne men were burying her heart, which she could never rescue back from the ve, Years went by--life made its inevitable claims, and the great battle of the law went on, which Myra fought out in behalf of the parents who were dead and the children of her husband. In the course of this struggle, a brave old man, one who had served his country well, and stood at the head of its armies, laid his heart and his well-earned fame at her feet, and she became his wife. A few Rew and he, in the very city which had proved so fatal to her first love, lay down amid his ripe honors, and died, bless- ng Bee with his last word on earth. And now she still—indomitable still—untiring fights the great battle alone, and another year prove that the life-struggle of Myra Clark es has not been with- out its victory, and that energy, even in a delicate woman, can at last overtake justice. THE END. THE NEW YORK Fireside Library Of notable works by notable authors. Beautifully printed in the popular folio form, from clear, open type; each issue a complete novel and sold at the uniform price of Ten Cents each. No double price on double or extra size numbers. The cheapest library ever published; embraces only the choicest of recent fiction. 1 Was Sore His Wire? Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 2 FLEEING From Love. Harriet Irving. 3 Dip He Love HER? Bartley T. Campbell. 4 ASTRANGE WOMAN. Rett Winwood. 6 Two Greus’ Lives. Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 9 THE Wark OF HEARTS. 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