Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (v. 1) (1880 03 16)
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° ° Rags . S80 year NOS NOL. I. PUBLISHED The Only Young Ladies’ Library of First-Class Copyright Novels Published! \ dof a Price, but 5 cents each. S| A em Copyrighted in 1880 by BEADLE AND ADAMS. March 16, 1880. See = Ee His licl; or, The I-Starned Marriage BY MRS. MARY REED CROWELL. CHAPTER I. THE BETROTHED. Tue Grange was now one blaze of welcoming light, and the occupants were adorning the rooms with all the taste of which they were possessed. Down-stairs, every imaginable preparation for a sumptuous feast was oing rapidly on, superintended by the skillful cook, from whose domains the savory scents would occasionally reach the apartments above, where were waiting the family. . ‘ The family at. the Grange were very aristocratic, very wealthy, and exclusive—so much so, that the honor of being placed on Mrs. Doctor Elyerton’s visiting-list was greatly coveted in the vicinity by aspiring neighbors. ae : The household at the Cai was not large, consisting of the hand- some, dignified husband and father, Doctor Roy Elverton, a retired physician of great skill and world-wide reputation, his elegant lady- wife, and their only child, Maude. : Maude Elverton was but a trifle over eighteen, and charmingly lovely. Of a family noted for their personal beauty on her mother’s side, and HE HAD SEEN THE HANDSOME STRANGER PLAC ING A RING ON HIS IDOL’S FINGER. descended from the famous Elvertons on the other, she inherited graces; of mind and of person, that, aided by the liberal education she hak received, fitted her to shine ‘‘a keignt particular star” in any society. Her gentile, unaffected, and wit al dignified mien, no less than the sweet face, the sloping shoulders, the round, faultless arm, with its tiny white hand and slender, tapering fingers; her little naked foot, peeping~ now and then from the coquettish walking skirts; all these had made» many impressions on the gentlemen she had met from time to time. Impressions that were of no avail, however, much as Maude Elvertom was admired; for of all the scores who, in the brief twelve months she: had been in society, had waited on the doctor to obtain permission to offer their addresses to his beautiful child, the same reply invariably came: ‘‘ Miss Elverton’s future husband is already selected. To a person she had never seen, but of whom report spoke proudly and’ favorably, to George Casselmaine, her own cousin, and heir toa large fcr~ tune, and natural inheritor of personal beauty and intellectual strength, Maude Elverton was to be married. From her childhood days, since she could remember her parents’ consultations together, Maude had learned. to regard the unknown cousin as her future husband. He, in his turn a pig ig the lovely girl, whose picture her mother had sent: m, his wife. Mutually satisfied with this state of affairs, and liking each other at a. . distance, tho intervening years of their childhood had passed until nowy tho time had come when they were to meet, ” — PRICE, 5 CENTS.
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| if he is so HIS IDOL This is what the family at the Grange were wait- ing for that cool autumn afternoon. Waiting for George Casselmaine. Maude and her mother were alone in the dressing- room of the former, who had finished her toilet, and sat Bi the window, glancing carelessly down the road. ; “How does he look, mamma? Is he really as handsome as his picture, or was the artist flatter- ing? Iam wild with curiosity to see him.” Maud’s eyes turned inquiringly to her mother. ‘““George Casselmaine is just what you see he is in his picture. Add to that his grace, refinement and elegant ease of manner.” . “Perhaps bie not meet his expectations, mamma, perfect. Maude laughed as she spoke, even while a proudly ‘ self-conscious look of her charms shone in her dark- ' blue eyes. Mrs, Elverton looked quickly up, a haughty smilé : cu her li for a moment a wild throb o S.. ‘Not be satisfied with you? Child, a prince might be delighted to wed you.” Her maternal pride was her greatest passion, and Maude, whose head was not turned in the least by her fond flatteries, loved the parent for the delight she felt in the daughter. “No, indeed,” resumed Mrs. Elverton. “ George Casselmaine will find all he desires, all he expects in you, my darling. And I can as_ assuredly say that in him you will perceive every thing to admire, to please you.” : ‘* And to love, dearest mamma?” Maude asked the question in a peculiarly pointed tone of voice. bd Her mother raised her eyebrows in amazement. “ My child! how could you help but love him, when I give you such a glowing description? Zove him. Maude? Any woman would do that; they could not avoid it,” “You are an enthusiast on the ie ae of your fu- ture son-in-law, dearest mamma. Perhaps others judge less partial ” ‘Well, you maost be your own judge of that, my child. In avery short time you will see him—” Mrs. Elverton-was interrupted by her daughter’s ‘voice, who, with flushed cheeks, was gazing eagerly from the window. “Ts it he?’ she asked, quickly following Maude’s ool, A noble-looking young man was thé great gate, and as Maudo bowed, he returned the salute, ‘ No, mamma; it is only an acquaintance.” Her words were lightly spoken, but the blush on her face, and the fire in her eyes, were not unnoticed Mrs. Elverton. _ ‘Maude, Maude, why does the sight of Fred Trev- dyn ae that color to your cheeks?” , Almost sternly she asked the question, The tint only deepened as Mande replied: ao Was I blushing, mamma? That was very fool- ish. : 'Mrs. Elverton brought her chair close to ‘her daughter. ny it be possible, Maude Elverton, that you were thinking of him, of any one, when you asked me if there was any thing to love in George Cassel- maine?” Maude turned cally away. “T did not think that of you; your father and I thought that when your cousin came, it would be to welcome him with an undivided heart, and yet you blush when the owner of the Archery passes your window. Oh, Maude!” Her ‘tones were both reproving and vindictive. “You accuse me of that which is false, mamma, Iknow of no reason why I should Lee Fe arg at sight of Fred lic ife Se and I certainly shall meet m cousin with as whole a heart as he brings to me. only know one truth, and that is, that Mr. Trevlyn seems adapted to love, and I wondered if George was equally so.” ‘Oh!’ and Mrs. Elverton uttered a faint scream, *“*how should you know enough of Mr. Trevlyn to ‘know he seems of a ‘loving’ temperament?” ain the hot flush rose to Maude’s white fore- ‘head, but she did not choose to tell her mother of ‘the earnest glances of the dark, handsome eyes that often had met her own in a grave, serious way that had made her heart beat wildly, or the delicate, ten- der attentions he had offered her on the two occa- sions they had met.. Maude did not tell this to her mother, for her heart would not let her. Suddenly she turned to Mrs, Elverton. ““Mamma, this is exceedingly foolish in both of-us. In me, for acting so childishly at mere sight of a comparative stranger; and in you, dear mamma, for accusing me of the improbable fault of beng. trait- wess to you and papa, and—and George Cassel- ‘ maine,” she added, with a genuine embarrassment that effectually removed her mother’s suspicions. “T am my hed pea I was wrong, my darling, and now— ere, there, Maude, comes your lover! A hasty glance rewarded her with a moment’s glimpse of a tall, handsomely-dressed gentleman, whom her father was welcoming at the door. His face she had not seen, but his voice, as the tones were wafted up the stairs, was full, round and mu- sical, Her heart beat as she i from her room and shame filled her heart, as she thought how utterly her own tastes and em ent were ignored—how coniplete a tool she was her parents’ hands. George Casselmaine would hate her, she thought, for her unmaidenliness, and, asif by mere force of contrast, she reflected that Fred Trevlyn would never have degraded her so, But, then George Casselmaine was as much involved ‘as herself in this arrangement, and if he had trav- ‘eled from Germany to see her, she thought she could go down-stairs in her own father’s house to meet him. Again her own cool, dignified self, she accepted her father’s arm at the foot of the broad, elegant staircase. Proudly Doctor Elverton led her in. “This is our eee our Maude, your Maude, dear George. My darling, let me introduce your cousin, George Casselmaine, and our future son, we hope.” Maude blushed prettily, and extended her hand in cordial welcome. The gentleman clasped it warmly. | ; ‘Wor years I have dreamed of this meeting, and now the realization far exceeds my wildest anticipa- tions. My sweet cousin, we are already the best friends imaginable, are we not?” ‘*Most certainly.” The earliest greetings were over—that which Maude had so dreaded—and, accepting his arm, she and George Casselmaine walked away, like old-time friends, ve ee pee } ‘*T hardly dared hope you would desire to keep to me the promise your father made mine when we were children,’ he said, in his low, musical tones, as they promenaded slowly up and down the wide marble-floored halls. ‘** Now that Ihave seen you, Maude, I almost trem- ble when I think how miraculous it is that such beauty has been reserved for me. Strange that no one has robbed me of the jewel I was in such igno- rance of until this hour.” Maude laughed merrily. ‘ “Oh, sir, like all men, you seek to please by adu- lation, and perhaps you can more satisfacto ac- count for my condition to-day from the fact that I care very little for gentlemen's society.” He colored slightiy at her well-pointed allusion, * Let me hope your opinion may be altered before long, conce g me, atleast. And to impress the fact on your mind that I shall constantly and steadfastly aim to attain that standard which is high- est in your opinion, my dear cousin, may I place this on your finger—the talisman that shall protect while it ngthens, and recall thoughts of me while it whispers how dearly Ilove you?” He held a shining circlet toward her as he spoke. “Tt is no fetter, dear Maude, only a charm. Will you wear it for my sake?” 4 She blushed, smiled, and then extended her hand, while George Casselmaine slipped on the ring. He led her to her parents. “My betrothed wife, Doctor Elverton, dear mad- Her father laid his hand on her prone little head in speechless blessing, while Mrs. Elverton glanced proudly at the handsome couple before her. ‘Poor Fred Trevlyn!”’ she thought. ‘I wonder if Maude did insnare him? Well, there is an end of it now. : CHAPTER II. THE MYSTERY AT THE “ ARCHERY.,”’ SLowLy pions, the beautiful road the horseman rode, leaving the Grange at his left as he entered the shady avenue that led to his elegant residence. He had seen her—seen her bow of recognition and returned her greeting, and his heart beat wildly to the tune of deep love; he had left the spot so sacred, because Maude Elverton hallowed it. Fred Trevlyn was a noble fellow, one whose socie- ty every one courted, and one to whom all persons conceded a peculiar position—a position made by himself, and maintained by his habitual reserve, and entire lack of gallantry and attention to the ladies. Not that handsome Fred Trevlyn was ngs ghey to women of his acquaintance, for when he did attend the social gatherings in the he Me none created greater furore among the es than this selfsame wealthy bachelor, for Fred Trevlyn was twenty-seven. Many matrimonial traps had been set to catch him, but he had stepped quite over the snares, en- tirely ignoring their’ existence, until the time had pone by when he was to be caught; a always was e a welcome guest wherever he went. For five years had he lived at the Archery, with no companion but his dogs, and no family save the score of servants, the need of whom was doubtful— yet, considering the Archery was of spacious dimen- sions, and the grounds immense in size, the horses many in number, there might be a good reason, after all, for it. After a year went by, people began to talk darkly of a mystery,at the Archery, and vague, uncertain hints were circulating that a fair-faced lady, as unlike the dark, handsome, stern-faced Treviyn as possible, was sometimes seen there in closest con- versation with him, after which conferences, the master of the Archery would go away for several days; then, on his return, present the impersona- tion of stormy sorrow. These rumors often reached Fred Trevlyn’s ears and, on such occasions, he would smile bitterly, and quietly ask ‘if that was really a fact?” Every effort, to unvail the secret, the mystery of the Archery—if mystery it was—proved futile. ad Trevlyn would not talk of his private affairs to any one, and his well-trained servants had learned to keep silent. had been a Geange life—one of deepest shades and brightest tints. He had lived on the mountain- top of joy,,hope and comfort; he had dwelt in the valley of disappointment, grief and discontent. To-day, as he entered his splendid home, he strode straight to his private room, whose shutters were always darkly bowed, and the door ever locked. Into this room he went now, and, as was his custom, fastened the door after him, then threw himself on a somber brown lounge that stood be- tween the windows. ‘““Wretch! worse than brute that I am! and yet for the life of me I am powerless when I see her— tremble like a guilty school-boy if I do but hear her name mentioned.” He covered his eyes with his hands a moment in 1 silence; then his pent-up grief burst forth. ; ‘Why, why am I doomed to lead such a life? Why cannot I love whom I please, and throw this fearful shadow from my side, where, for these dark years, loom? Oh, foot it has clung in such persevering ve and suffer— that I was—twice fool that I am, to to live yet die daily!” His face was ashen Pee and as he arose he dashed from his forehea ration. ** And I love her—oh, how I love her! with a depth, a force, an intensity that is bu my heart to cinders. Yet I dare not speak, dare not go, like other more favored men, and plead my suit; I must only smother my love for her, and suffer and live on and on in dreary longings worse than Tantalus ever expec Oh, my darling, my darling, if I could but call you mine! my angel! my Maude!” His self-communion had reached an intensity that startled himself, and as the name of his idol was wrung, in anguished tones, from his pale lips, he started, and stood a moment motionless, his hand clenched upon the marble-top stand beside the lounge. Gradually his emotion died away, and then, with bright, glittering eyes, he stepped within a heavy hanging curtained recess, whose folds opened to receive him, then instantly fell tightly together the great drops of perspi- again. . . No sound issued from the vailed apartment, and when, ten minutes later, Fred Trevlyn came forth, his brow was calm and clear, his eyes quiet and dispossessed of the raging fire that burned in their dark depths so lately before; he came forth a enous man, and left the room for his chamber above. This inner room was the one sacred spot of the Archery; mortal eye, save his own, had never pene- trated its hidden mysteries, and if the faint delicious rfumes that occasionally were wafted from this nner apartment were noticed by the servants, they «did not dream of its origin. be This afternoon he went to his dressing-room, where the servant met him with a letter. It was a small white envelope, addressed in a beautifully graceful hand, and hi the superscription. _ He frowned darkly, and rapid flashes of ominous light gleamed in his eyes as he dismissed the man, and tore open the letter, As he read, his lip curled scornfully, and a bitter smile played over his face; then a sudden paling swept over his countenance, and he sunk back to his chair, while the strange letter lay unheeded on the rich carpet at his feet. For several moments he seemed absorbed in thought, then apparently just remembered the missive, for he caught it up quickly, glancing anx- iously to the door, as if fearful some one had wit- nessed his agitation. ; ; Straight through to the end he read, without ores or hesitaney, and then, lighting a match, : hia it to ashes, scattering them far and near on e floor. His writing-desk was open, and he hastil scrib- bled a note, and without re-reading it, dashed it into an es a and directed it. : Calling his groom to fide. Soe favorite Fleet to the door, he drew on his riding-boots, and thrust the let- Wn ears este by a back road, brought our’s op, by a back road, brought the missive in time for the mail. Despite his better judgment, he resolved on once more passing the Grange. Semi-darkness was fast vailing the landscape, and no one would observe him, while he might once more gaze on the sweet face of the girl he so loved. With bea’ heart he drew the reins, and permit- ted Fleet to walk slowly by. ‘The curtains were yet up, and by the brilliant illu- mination within he plainly saw the bright, gorgeous carpet, the elegant furniture and costly arnigs. But these were every-day things, no new sights to him, for the Archery was equall i gaze was riveted upon 5 gro, directly under the glare of the chandelier, and when his mind:fully ap- preciated the truthful import of the the tableau, a cold, dead weight settled on him, and he went dreamily along. ‘ He had seen the handsome stranger placing a ring on his idol’s finger; he had seen Maude’s bright pei nae and witnessed the mute blessing of the proud ather. ‘ “ Oh, my darling, itis right! I can not complain! I have no right to love you, and you—you care nothing for me!” To his lonely home he went, a sorrowful man, with no kind voice to bid him welcome, no merry face to on at sound of his footstep. ith a bitter, half-savage smile, he entered the room, and locked it after him, CHAPTER II, A TRUE WOMAN, own name was Ir was a charming little cottage, little less than a mile away from the Grange, and covered with creep- ing roses from chimney to . Roses with white creamy and blushing pink hue bloomed in wild abundance, and rendered the fr: t spot a fit em se ae ba ana joes the small ousehold of three, wi e ty and grace of a matron of thirty-five. ra ere _ Little Ida Tressel, with ber sleeves rolled to the x toe ly splendid. His .
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- on her informing him. 4 ~ “You are doing —_— ‘elbows, as she prepared the flaky pastry that was to tempt her father’s waning appetite, was every inch a Hebe as she stood so gracefully poised on one _dainty foot, holding aloft the pie-plate in one small brown hand, while with the other she dexterously cut the over-large edges of the brimming pumpkin- ie. - Her cheeks were glowing with health, and her eyes fairly scintillating in her exuberance of spirits, and her father, as he watched her, thought what a seine she was, and Aunt Hetty, the sable house- maid, followed her lithe, nimble figure from oven to dou h-trough in pardonable pride. : “There,” she said at length, “‘I believe I’m through. Now for Hetty’s nimble hands to clear my litter away. Ilove to bake, but oh, don’t I de- test the dish-washing that follows!” Her happy laugh echoed through the large, old- fashioned kitchen. . “There are two custards, your favorites, father you know, and two pumpkins, the first we’ve had his fall. They look splendid, don’t they? We ought to save them for company, only we’re never trou- bled with that nuisance.” Mr. Tressel, who was eonfined in-doors by his rheumatism, fidgeted un- easily in his chair, At last he found courage to sneaks though rather reluctantly. ““Maybe you'd better save them for to-morrow, for -we’ll have a neighbor in to dinner.” ‘ “Who, pray?” and Ida nearly let fall the apron she was untying. ‘Company for us? Why, who can it be?” 7 Her father looked out the door, then at the pies. “Nobody much, child. Only old Andrew Joyce. ‘You needn’t go to any trouble.” “T guess Pll not! Old Joyce? Why, father, he ais almost a fool! What made you invite him here?” She teen an 2 pie look at the old man, who seemed strange at ease, “You TRIED Call him ‘old Joyce,’ Ida. He’s a very rich man, and’s got a splendid house full o’ ‘splendid things,” : “ Just as if that is any recommendation to him! No, indeed, father! ‘He is a disgusting old man, say what you will. why, he is as old as you.”’ 7 No. He is not sixty yet, and that’s pretty young —pretty young.” A merry p of laughter rippled from Ida’s red S. me Oh, father, Mr. Joyce is evidently trying to be- friend you, or wanting you to accommodate him, else why these new ahd sudden views of ‘ old Andy,’ as the boys call him?” Her father looked up in her laughing face, and a sigh burst from his lips. ‘Andrew Joyce is a d, honest man, Ida, and I believe would do well by anybody, particularly you— “* Me!’ screamed Ida, involuntarily springing from her seat, ‘‘ What under the heavens can Andrew Joyce want na me? Tell cay father, for I know there is something between you two.” Mr. Tressel leaned Back in his chair, both hands grasping the rustic oaken cane he mentifop carried. For a moment he did not speak, and Ida bent ten- derly over him, “Dear father, if Mr, Joyce asked you to let me su- ‘perintend his elegant house while the fashionable company from New York is there this season, you meed noi hesitate to tellme. It will not shock m ‘pride, father,” she said, in her sweet way; then add- ahs “and iam not quite sure but that I would en- joy a visit to the Villa, more than you think I should.”* ~ “Would you?” and old Mr. Tressel glanced eager- “Would you really like to go to the “T could earn money, father, or let Mr. Joyce al- low my wages go toward the debt on our dear Bone — da, softly, as she smoothed the scanty lo ‘Then you love this little spot, child, better than any other, even the elegant marble Villa, with the fountains and arbors, and the velvet furniture and costly silver?” “Father!” and Ida’s voice was a trifle reproving. “*PDidn’t mother die in Rose Cottage? didn’t little Albert die here? shall not you and I and faithful old Hetty live and die here?’ There were tears in the old man’s eyes as she spoke, and he dashed them hastily away. ~ Her clear, truthful eyes were raised to his face, and yet in their far-away deeps, old Mr. Tressel fan- ‘cledhe detected other signs. ei ““You a maiden of twenty, and never yet loved? ' Again the vivid blush, deeper than before, spoke more plainly than words. This time she made no reply, and her father smiled ssorrowfully upon her ave ‘ace. agg eps aughter does love, yet has no lover, at is s e, A sudden of tears from her eyes was her assent to her father’s remark. ~ “ Who is this man you cannot tell me of!” “You must not ask me, sehen please do not. With strangely new eagerness, Mr. Tressel insisted ve ; very wrong, my daughter, in ‘holding back the name of the one in whom you are so deeply interested. Besides, I have a right to Samant is name and position. I will you, it, ‘ou will willingly give me your confidence on this yject, of an offer I have received for you.” : : - “ -be worried. Hist IDOL... 3 Ida’s face had colored deeper and deeper, but at mention of an offer of marriage, suddenly paled. *“No one need ask my hand of you,’ she replied, Prompery, “for never will I give it without my eart, and that is bestowed, irrevocably, as you have rightly inferred.” “Who is it, my daughter? I shall not ask you again.” r. Tressel looked almost sternly upon Ida’s bowed head. For a moment or so he waited, but no answer came. Then he resumed: ‘* Whoever it may be, your love is hopeless, for, Ida, I have promised you in marriage.” “Promised me in marriage!’ repeated Ida, in startlingly scornful tones. ‘‘You have exceeded your right. No one, not my own dear mother, whom you know I loved above all beings, should, were she this moment here, bias me in my marriage re- lations.”’ Ida’s eyes flashed decisively. ‘* But, there is immense wealth, a high position, splendid jewels, Ida.” “‘T care not for them all, unless I love their giver,” she replied. “Your fatber will end his days in happiness et comfort, if he could but see you the wife of this suitor.” “In Rose Cottage, with me and Hetty to care for you, you will pass your days just as dappily and peacefully. Do not indulge in any foolish thoughts of a marriage for me, father, for there is but one man on God’s footstool 1 would marry.” The intgione blush on her sweet face strengthened her noble assertion. ‘*Ida Tressel, you have always been an obedient, affectionate daughter; never in word or deed have ar given me occasion to reprove you. To-day impose my last command upon you; as my loving, child, I wish you, nay, I command you, to obe Ida arose, and returned his sternly earnest glance. * You know we owe four hundred dollars on our house, and our creditor declares it must and shall be paid within the month.” e paused to note the effect of his lan; e. Ida was pale, and a trifle angry, but she nodded imperi- ii 3 for him to continue, “A certain wealthy man. loves you, and wishes to make you his wife, and the mistress of his elegant mansion, _You cannot fail of being happy, perfectly happy, and I will save my home, and with Hetty to wait upon me, will live comfortably enough.” ‘Well? is that all?” asked Ida, when he paused. “That is all.” “First, then, if old Andrew Joyce insists upon having his money in such an impossible time, do not We possess a good friend at the Ar- chery, and Mr. Fred will willingly, gladly, loan the pronnt. Thus Rose Cottage need not be sacri- ced. She ceased, and smiled assuringly. ‘Nothing, therefore, remains but for you. to con- he ag ring to my suitor, whoever he be, and with them my positive rejection of him and his overtures.” Having thus peremptorily settled the affair to her owe satisfaction, she turned away to her household uties. oe Stay; you never asked me who had made this offer. Her father caught her arm. “ Because I cared so little. No matter who it is, the answer will apply.” You shall know—and beg must not, you dare not refuse, You shall consider it, and when the time comes, let your answer be yes to Andrew Joyce.” A stifled scream broke from Ida. “Never, never! You. frighten me, horrify me! You fill me with loathing and disgust! J, the wife of that toothless, deaf, silly old man? Father, you dis- grace me, you insu/t me.” . She turned almost defiantly back upon him. He smiled bitterly. : “This is the return you give me for the education Istruggled so hard to get you? When your mother and I went hu to buy you fine dresses, that you ight not be ashamed among your companions. This is your thanks, is it? This is what your learn- ing Bn your religion teaches you?” e tears sprung to Ida’s eyes, ‘ “You wrong me, father. Have I not always obeyed you, and do you not acknowledge it? When as a father, you bade your child do do that, I never rebelled; but when you would bid me bury myself alive, when you command me to shut away a all joy forever from me, I repeat you exc your Bn PAR Ae do what no earthly power has a right to do.” Mr. Tressel watched every play of her features as she replied. “But my word is d, and Andrew Joyce comes on Sunday to greet you, his betrothed bride, and place the costly diamond on your finger,” “ And I solemnly declare that while I am in full eye ty of my mind and reason, while I am capa- le of knowing my own heart, I will never, under any circumstances, under any pretense, for any pur- pose, marry that disgusting man.” She turned indignantly away, and in her own apartment calmed her justly outraged feelings. CHAPTER IV. FORBIDDEN SEORETS. Tue days of that glorious sunshiny week were passing pleasantly away to the inmates of the range. George Casselmaine had found his betrothed wife very beautiful, very charming, and very agreeable; yet there lacked something—a ~~ that made him often wonder why he occasionally- wanted to mount his fleetest horse and dash reck- lessly away over hillside and valley, with the feeling that he was not, after all, the happiest mar alive, as he ought to be, with such a love y fiancee. A vague thought that this same emotion was ex- perienced by Maude Elverton, when her dreamy, misty eyes would wander from him and gaze so; earnestly at the white cupola among the ee teres just visible from her favorite western window. And — e asked himself if it was possible there was want- ing that keen, subtle sensation of first deep love be- tween him and his future bride. ' Possibly Maude loved another? Certainly he did not. At any rate, neither adored the other with that ardor which engaged people of a week’s time are accused of. Notwithstanding, George Casselmaine firmly re- solved that by no sign of his should Maude or her ete dream that he was not the worshiping lover e seemed. He did like his betrothed very, very much, and he could but admit that a lifetime with her would be a fortunate destin for any man. So the time went on, and Maude little knew the secret resolve of Casselmaine, while we must ac- knowledge that she cast many a wistful glance over the emerald meadows to the gleaming white man- ae sion. That mansion was the Archery, with its was Frederic Trevlyn. They had not met often—perhaps a half-dozen times; but, those brief moments had been of suffi cient length to impress indelibly upon Maunde’s heart the handsome, serious dark eyes, the noble, manly bearing of the stern man who had regarded her so keenly. But Frederic Trevlyn had never shown by glauce or token, that beautiful Maude Elverton was any more to him than a dozen other pretty girls. How well he must have preserved his love a secret the reader may guess, ° A succession of brilliant parties, both indoors and out, had followed the arrival of George Casselmaine at the Grange. To these Fred Trevlyn was of course invited, and of course present. i On this evening there was an unusally pleasant at “the Villa,” the magnificent Kathrae” seat of old Mr. Joyce, whose two step-daughters the honors of the house. The music-room was almost deserted, and the lamps were paled before the bright rays of the harvest moon, that flooded the room with its sub- dued brilliance. Most of the guests were promen- ading in the garden; but, alone of the gay company, the star, Maude Elverton, had dexterously s' to this quiet retreat. She had been there but a few moments when a appeared in the doorway, who, on: i her, immediately came forward to the balcony, where she sat. “You are disposed to be cruel to-night, Miss Elverton.”’ Fred Trevl gatherin *s voice made her shiver from head to foot, but she replied, fery and unconcernedly: “T do not comprehend; am I punishing m by staying away from the remainder of the guests?” uite unconsciously she looked. at iim, with a sweet timidity that almost unnerved Fred Trevlyn. “No. You are cruel to your friends, but most kind to me.”’ . A sudden fleet blush mounted her white forehead. ‘*Miss Elverton, do not misunderstand me when I say how delighted I am to enjoy this interview. I have beget friends, and when with them I can spend a brief moment and forget myself, my life, = past, present and future, I can not be too grate- He drew a chair opposite her, and leaned his head against the pillar. Maude glanced furtively at him, and for the first time since they had become ac- quainted she observed how deep an expression of brooded on his handsome: face—how dark a shadow rested on his brow—si that tco ue nly told that he had in early life to the itterest dregs, perhaps, the cup of earth's sorrow. And in her heart a pity for him dawned—that d rous sympathy so near akin to love. And while Maude was thinking of these things, her eyes downcast, her hands idling with a clematis spray, Frederic Treviyn was pe ne a reading her sweet face, thinking how unspeakably, sey, pare ol dear it was to him, already—how happy the Ly ae must be who might bask in the sun ent of her a he would give untold gold might he ut win her! But he dare not think of this. He dare not give his wild imagination play; he, who in earlier, even boyhood days had counted his conquests b dozens, dared not dream even of beautiful Maude Elverton. She could never be aught to him—never, never! He — was a doomed man; he was powerless to speak a. word of love to her—to any woman! ie She was the betrothed of another, so the Lage! ol z said, but that was not the barrier between them, for’ Fred would never have allowed that to: ° and his love. gulf between them! He erie Trev] stand between But the wide, impassable shivered and sickened as he thought that his owm « hands, ignorantly and innocently, fone before, had made that gulf, and now no mortal might bridge it: over! ; The two sat, little dreaming of each other's. per ag ee the beautiful, temp moonlight. “Mr. vlyn, you of all men living, the Owner of the aoe Pate oh asi oa 4 of me Late oung, fortunate, ha , Shou e com- gd “7 fortuna appy ou be jesting, Miss Maude?” ©. ev Yow CAH Wok Bae * | ee ; a id go a a the one person of whom Maude so often red hl \ ; : ¥ +
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7 —_ - ohe S : jet “4 af, 4. ~% * . loved her! perhaps he would love, if he HIS IDOL, “T never was more in earnest, Mr. Trevlyn; but I sincerely hope I have not offended you. You looked pained when I spoke.”’ “ You never could offend me, Miss Elverton; and may I tell you that of the few friends you are the nearest and dearest? Pardon me if i am hasty in $a 5 bere e leaned nearer her, and she met his earnest, almost impassioned glance. “T am very glad you do like me,” she replied, ingenuously, * and ifyin my eed ad of friend, I can serve you or alleviate the dark fate you persist in clinging to as inevitable, you must you promise?” She extended her hand, and he grasped it eagerly, bending to kiss it as he felt prompted to do; but, a strong resolve saved him, and pressing it kindly, let.go his hold upon it. ttle did she dream the whirlwind her innocent words had caused. Poor Fred vee G ! how his aching heart throbbed with joy as he had held her hand that brief moment —throb with afhopelesss joy, insane and intoxi- eating. Poor Maude! her heart bounded with a wild, un- controllable bliss, for she imagined rhaps he id not yet! This was the wanting key-note that George Cassel- maine had failed to discover between himself and Mande; this, that was perfectly attuned between Maude and Frederic Labi Eon Already the room was filling eee with the merry couples, eager for the dance, and Trevlyn led Maude to the floor for the polka redowa. It seemed to them both the perfection of joy; to Maude, who scarcely was able to analyze these new feelings, a new, wild, thrilling joy came when Fred Trevl held her so closely to his throbbing heart, and she knew it must be dove that induced the new emotion. And he? it was happiness for a time to hang upon her smiles—to watch the lights and shades of her ‘beautiful face—to look into her clear, truthful eyes with his searching, impassioned glance. Bliss too perfect for expression, excepting the thought that it aust all end some time, if not that hour, when pru- dence bade him flee from the temptation. The music died away, and he and Maude silently went from the room to the balcony again, where ny. were alone. f either spoke; then, with a mighty impulse, he stooped and kissed her forehead. “Mr, Trevlyn, sir, you forget I am to be George Casselmaine’s wife!’ and even as she spoke, a great, wild heart-throb leaped to her voice, “Forgive me. I did know it—I do know it! But I have so few joys, so few comforts, and we are to be friends.” He held out his hands for the pardon he craved. And Maude? She laid her tiny hands within them, and granted the forgiveness, ow me, CHAPTER V. A FLAS OF LIGHT, Tux ball at the Villa seemed to have been a gayety of Cupid’s own ma ‘ The host, old, silly Andrew Joyce, was in raptures over the suddenly appreciated charms of his neighbor Tressel’s daughter; while Ida herself loved, hopelessly in secret, a far different personage. Maude Elverton had discovered that, though her hand had been formally bestowed upon George Casselmaine, her affections were centered on the eccentric owner of the mg “A thus ving George entirely unprovided for. Yet the goddess did not thus neglect one of her prime fa- vorites; for that very day George Casselmaine met his destiny. ‘ § A riding- nig Bae Maude and Trevlyn, Casselmaine and the elder Joyce had gone for a pleasure tour far off among the hills. In returning they had come past the Archery, thence toward the Grange. This road, the reader remembers, led directly by Rose Cottage, and that humble, lovely spot he first saw Ida Tressel. Since the morning previous, when ' her father had commanded her to receive Mr. Joyee .she was so enamored when she first saw Fred “Treviyn was a riderless ho as an accepted lover, not a word relative to the sub- ject had between them. It was now Satur- day, and on the morrow Andrew Joyce was to wome to hear his fate; a decision he vainly i imagined _could not be otherwise than favorable, but which Ida revolted from thinking of, even. The two days had wrought quite a change in her; y had transformed her from the merry, laughing into the more sedate, demure woman, yet upon whom the (lignified air sat as gracefully as the more joyous one. Bhe had resolutely kept from her father the name of the person upon whom she had, unsolicited —— all her young affections. He had not asked r opinion, and in the fact that no one save herself knew her sweet secret, she rejoiced. Only a few times bad Ida seen this ideal of whom but, like Maude Elverton, Trevlyn, it needed not days or weeks to ei 0 her whole heart, her entire will, to own this dearly loved one, master. She had gone to her own room—a sweet, tidy apartment, draped in white, and ge heed in green —to commune over the commotion she knew must occur when the morrow came. She had been in her room but a few minutes, when confused cries and a loud, ringing voice calling her name, disturbed her. Peeping from her blinds, she saw three riders. ™ Maude Elverton, Frederic bs i an her especial aversion, Helen Joyce. ide Mr. and across his animal pgcious orm. iP yi tal te e flew to the rescue; un- bolted the door, and, calling Hetty, began assisting the ladies to dismount. Maude was pale, and Helen Joyce much agitated, though she did not fail of flinging a coldly con- na look at Ida, who returned it defiantly enough. ““Miss Tressel, please be so kind as to hold my ea I dismount and help this poor: fellow own. Fred spoke kindly, and courteously grasped her hand as she came to hold Fleet’s bridle. “Ts your companion seriously hurt, Mr. Trevlyn?”’ she asked, stepping carefully to his side, and lifting the heavy brown curls, A sharp cry burst from her, and the three guests stared curiously at her. ‘*Oh, Mr. Trevlyn, he is not dead! not be dead!”’ ‘*Mr. Casselmaine is certainly not dead, Miss Ida, though your screams indicate the grief you experi- ence upon the mere possibility of the event.” He spoke sharply, and with that stern glance her self-reliance returned. “If you please, Mv. Trevlyn,” proudly and indig- nantly, ‘‘you are not the person to control any emo- tion I may etc at such a sight as that.” She lifted the heavy tress again and pointed to a dee vp Sa cut. ‘“Miss Ida, I indeed beg your pardon a thousand times. Ladies, I fear George has received a more severe injury than we imagined. Maude gazed in trembling pallor, while Helen Joyce uttered a little nervous ery. Ida alone re- nhs ane oo oS Reps t] t he strang: etty, assist the gentleman to carry the er tomy room. Ladies, walk in the patie” For his very life Frederic Trevlyn dare not disobey the cool command, and without a demur he assisted Casselmaine to the cool, airy chamber above. Restoratives were tried in vain, and at the expira- tion of half an hour the patient had not revived, and then Ida left him to Hetty’s care while she went to the parlor below. Maude Elverton and Helen Joyce were sitting at the window, and their escort walking to and fro—his my eagerly noting every changing expression of the sweet face before him. Almost abruptly Ida broke an them: Tell me, he can ‘‘Miss Elverton, your guest is no better; I think I had better send for a Papeete Maude paled a trifle; then, by some unaccount- able agency, raised her eyes full to Frederic Trev- lyn’s face. The glance was mutual, and beneath his keen gaze the rich bloom on her cheek deepened toa vivid glow, and she turned to Ida again. ““Thank you, Miss Tressel, and will it be perfectly convenient for George to remain here until Doctor Blake shall consent to his removal? You will confer a great favor.” ‘ aude asked Ida very earnestly, but not so eager as the prompt reply “T could not t of having the gentleman dis- turbed. Hetty and I can attend to erfectly well; it will be a pleasure rather than a k you seek to impose upon us.” joe Joyce’s keen black eyes smiled scornfully upon her. t is quite a romance, Miss Tress handsome young man helpless in your waited upon and attended to. susceptible young nurses falling in love with their patients, too, haven’t you, Miss Elverton?” Regardless of the pained, angry flush on Ida’s face, she went on: “At the Villa are ample accommodations for sick ple, and suitable servants to care for them. It is ut a quarter of a mile, we could easily carry him to have a ouse, to be I have heard of there.” She addressed her concluding remarks to Trevlyn. “Are you sure there are no susceptible nurses at the Villa? Possibly the handsome patient might make some serious inroads there.” He spoke with a quiet irony that nettled Helen, “Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Trevlyn, that either I or my sister meditate the ey ery design on Mr. Casselmaine or his particular friend, the irresistible Mr. Trevlyn.” Fred bowed Pha 9 gravity; then, turning to Maude, addressed her: “George is your especial property, Miss Elverton; how shall we arrange this affair?” “*T would much rather he would remain quiet and comfortable, as he is, several hours at least. Miss Tressel knows her own business best, and she says it will not incommode her any. A grateful gleam shot from Ida’s eyes at Maude, who little knew its real promptings. The trio mounted their horses, and returned to the Grange, leaving Casselmaine in the charge of Ida. Softly she stole to the room where he lay, uncon- scious and silent. By the bedside she stood, devour- ing every feature of the calm, noble face, with a devotion that could be prompted but by love alone. A thrill of indefinable joy swept over her, as she ane upon him, rte) ney, searchingly around, nt over his forehead and kissed him, while the fiery blushes spread over her face at the liberty she dared to take. This, then, was the one whom Ida Tressel refused to Greeters to her father as the only one she had ever, could ever love, Little Ida Tressel—the es humble, ace proudly beautiful girl—had fallen n love with rge Casselmaine, the rich, aristo- cratic lover—no, the betrothed husband—of haughty Maude Elverton. And yet he, her idol, had never seen her. George Casselmaine knew not of Ida Tressel’s existence, and when in his moments of yearning for the want- | ing something that should bind him heart and hand e hi he little dreamed of the pair of ~ soft brown eyes that lightened at the thought of him, or the heart that throbbed so wildly when he rode by on the shady roadside. And Ida Tressel! was not alone enamored of the stylish stranger. Another, whose money might be counted by hundreds of thousands of dollars where TIda’s was told by pennies, had concluded, that, hereafter, she and Maude Elverton were bitter rivals. Preposterous as was the idea, Helen Joyce determined to win George Casselmaine in spite of his beauteous betrothed, and often in her zeal, when Casselmaine, in friendly familiarity, whispered the most commonplace words in her ear, or assisted her to mount or dismount, she believed her end was nearer to accomplishment than she could have hoped. When Ida Tressel had offered so sincerely hospitably to keep the stranger, Helen Joyce hadr her secret in her truthful eyes; and in the rare expressive face she foresaw a rival more potent than Maude Elverton. But, Fred Trevlyn, who also was aware of Helen’s interest in Casselmaine, and who also knew of Casselmaine’s utter disregard for her, had spoiled any romantic little plot Helen Joyce might have formed, and the result was as he and Ida desired. Perhaps had Helen Joyce known, at the moment she directed her impertinent glances at the despised girl, that her old father would be awaiting his destiny at her very lips not a day later, she acted less. scornfully, But, she was in blissful ignorance, CHAPTER VI. THE UNHAPPY MOTHS AND THE FLAME. Tue ride from Rose Cottage, in the society of his idolized Maude, with Helen Joyce on the opposite side of him, was not as delightful as it might have been, and when at the open archway, the two halted, while Helen seemed undecided whether to return home with Maude or not. Fred Trevlyn decided the matter very quickly if not gellently “Good- rnoon, Miss Joyce. iss Maude and I will not come in, thank you.” s Then, touching Maude’s pony with his whip, and bowing as his own Fleet darted off, obedient to the touch of the bridle, they galloped away. It was a perfect afternoon, cool and breezy, and the buoyant atmosphere incited the riders to a longer race than the short distance to to the Grange. For several minutes neither had spoken, andthen Maude broke the silence. “Poor George, I do earnestly hope he will recover sufficiently to come home this evening.” “Then his society is so very desirable, I conclude. More so than that of any other mortal.” He laughed savagely, wondering within himself how he had dared say what he had spoken. Maude looked proudly at him. “Why should not my future husband be the near- est and dearest of all men?” Fred ieertn reined his horse close beside her, and bent his head to her ear. yes ought to be, he would be, bué you do not love m 9 Like lightning she turned upon him, “You transcend your rights as a friend, Mr. Trey- lyn; pray, who gave you your information?” But a vivid blush was slowly tinting her face, and she felt her companion’s dark, passionate eyes read- ing her own. No one told me; my own observation noted it, and my own heart taught me the secret. Maude Elverton, you are not the woman for George Cassel- maine!”’ He spoke hotly, vehemently. ““Not good enough, perhaps?” asked Maude, half in jest, partly to cover her confusion. ‘“Maude! how dare you misconstrue me?” In bitter authority—a power she recognized in every fiber of her being—he spoke, and ere she framed a reply, he burst forth again: “T repeat it—George Casselmaine is not suited to you, to your wants, or your expectations. You need not only a husband who shall lead, direct and guard you, but you want a lover, who shall cherish, wor- ship and adore you. Your betrothed can not do that; he does not love you as much as another does —one who I know sins in_ the depth of his love for you, who, ifhe dare, would be the husband-lover!” _ His dark eyes and stern face were tender and lov- ing as he bent so near her crimson cheek, so close he almost heard the wild heart-beat—the throb of purest iy doves Bo Maude thought, ‘“‘ He loves me}”’ Tt was fea L ground he was treading on, and he. well knew it. t, as stolen sweets are most en- joyed, so did Frederic Trevlyn revel in the enjoy- ak of an interview he felt was only a bitter tantal- ization, For, in the brief moments he spent in Maude El- verton’s presence, he pa forgot his sorrow, his chains, the deep gulf between him and his love. He og the sacred room at the Archery, and its con- tents; he forgot all—every thing, save the fierce, hopeless ia on for her, and, to-day, from the over- charged deeps of his heart, he had said the words that sent such warm thrills all over Maude, And yet, with the voice of conscience, duty and rudence ing so. ek in his ears, Frederie ae would not listen, but madly pursued his. rash way. He had been so unhappy—he reasoned—so miser- ably lonely until this sweet face flitted across his vision, this lovely charmer came to woo and enslave him. Maude Elverton was the first human be who ever, in all Frederic Trevlyn’s life, ge the power of awakening the master-passion in his: heart, to touch the resounding chord of love, which vibrated so fiercely, so Senay: ‘This, then, the only dream of joy he had ever: kh oe Se
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HIS IDOL, known, would come, at last, to a rude awakening. | Hie darling would marry George Casselmaine. He shivered to the very soul at this thought, and when he looked quickly up, he met Maude’s gaze, tender, almost loving, but with a half-savage smile, he started their horses rapidly ws 9 **One doesn’t care to ride slowly along this gloomy road, especially when their escort is as stupid as | yours.” Maude might have expected a far different remark | than this, so very unlike the last words he had spoken. But Maude Elverton was not the woman to let any man note such a feeling, and eagerly as | Frederic Trevlyn read her face, he detected no sha- | dow of what was passing within, and a fierce pang shot through him, half jealous that she did not care for him, half angry that he cared so much for her. “There is the Archery,” and Maude pointed to the cupola glistening among the trees. It is a wonder you are not afraid to pass such an | ill-spoken-of place, at dusk, too. Most ladies avoid. it, as though it were peopled with hobgoblins instead of human beings like myself, but not much better thar fiends, after all.” “ big Mr. Trevlyn, how you speak! Making such | sport of your elegant home, and comparing yourself to a fiend!” Maude’s answer was quickly and indignantly ut- tered, and she raised her eyes fearlessly to his. He smiled in his own peculiar winning way; arare smile, and one as rarely indulged in; one which, de- spite herself, brought a flush to her face as’ she turned her eyes away. “Then you admire the Archery, and do not think me quite a demon?” “| have considered you a friend, Mr. Trevlyn, and de that proof Ido not regard you in such a wicked ze “Then you regard me Ripa 8 Maude Elverton. Iam a wicked man, whose greatest sin is my only iy: You may well look confounded at my language, t it is true—too true.” He paused, evidently awaiting an answer, but none came. “*T know not why I am prompted to speak of these | things to you, unless my evil genius, who is ever | resent, es me on, but certain it is Tam strongly | nclined to tell you my troubles, my griefs—no, par- don me; [have forgotten myself.” He bowed yc ad strange, inexplicable lover | of hers—and, as Maude stole a glance at his stern, stormy face, she saw the fixed expression of stony ef, ov near akin to despair, that she pitied him nderly. “Mr. Trevlyn, tell me, I beg. That you are labor- ing under a severe agony of mind, I easily see and deeply regret. Please confide in me, my friend; per- haps a confidante will relieve your feelings. I think I can ee hed with you.” Unconsciously she laid her hand on his arm, and looked imploringly in his face. He turned away, by a mighty effort, for the temptation pressed him strongly. Mau e Elverton’s warm, life-giving touch on his arm; her sweet face beseeching the story he dared not tell, and could scarcely conceal! It was almost madness, yet the words trembled on his lips; had not his good angel intercepted, Maude Elverton would have heard the words her heart was so earn- estly craving, and he himself would have been deep- er sunk in sorrow and remorse. ““T thank you,” and his tones were low and gentle, “but I dare not/ You lay your hand in all confi- dence in mine, now, and call me friend. Did you know my wickedness, hs sin, you would hate me, and your hate would ‘be to me Worse than death.” ey the een emnge of unrestrained delight thrilled over Maude, but she gently removed her | arm, For a moment she was silent, then, ere she could reply, Frederic addressed her: “ As true friends, dear friends, I hope we will Five to-day. After to-day I will not meet you often. Ican not, | dare not!” With a haughty bow, Maude answered him, while the Te blood rushed to her brow. “Thank you, sir. Our roads diverge here. Good. an afternoon. She touched the lash to her horse, and bounded cane ae Grange road, but not quicker than Frederic ollowed. “No,” he said, grasping the bridle, and bringing them face to face, ‘‘we will not part thus. Listen, Maude Elverton, and look in my face. Does not your heart tell you why I say we must not meet? Does not your heart bear witness to what I dare not say, and what you dare not hear?” She did not remove her eyes from off his face, until the last words were spoken; then, with a sudden -movement, wrenched herself from his hand, so hot and trembling. ; There ensued a silence, and Maude’s heart throb- bed almost audibly. Never before had Frederic Trevlyn suggested his love so plainly, and now she thought he referred to her betrothal to George Cas: selmaine, as the impassable barrier to his love for her. Like a sudden flash of light came the thought, that her lover, her rightful lover, was not the one who wore her ring, who would call her wife, when | the summer came again. She knew Fred Trevlyn loved her, and she knew she loved him. She had | heard how cold, repellent and haughty the hand- some owner of the Archery was, and how no woman ever succeeded in winning a smile of love or word of affection from him. And from all this ice-bound sea of coldness and sternness, the love for her had come, a rushing, mighty torrent that naught might stay. She, she was the recipient of this love, the object of this passion! and the flush deepened on her cheek at the thought. “Well?” he asked, gently. es Be , a His voice, loving and beloved as its tones were, re- called her to herself, and with a fierce, almost stern bgt anys she answered him, And her answer saved i m. ‘“Mr. Casselmaine, my future husband, certainly will not object to my friend, Mr. Trevlyn, calling as usual at the Grange.”’ Was he awake? Could it be possible this was Maude, his darling, speaking so cruelly, so entirely disregardful of the meaning of his question? He looked earnestly at her, but her sweet face gave no sign of the fierce tumult within. He drew a breath of relief, and yet tinctured with exquisite grief. **T have but one request to ask. Promise me never to give George Casselmaine up. Promise, Maude Elverton! Your sacred promise alone will save me from eternal ruin!” Eagerly, wildly he scanned her face. “T shall certainly marry George Casselmaine. Are you satisfied?’ So Fei tin at variance with his words but a short time betore, when he told her George Cassel- maine could never be the husband she would need, he seemed madly delighted with her reply. ‘*God bless you, Maude Elverton! You have saved me—have saved yourself.” He caught her hand, and covered it with hot kisses; then, stooping suddenly, pressed one long kiss on her lips. “‘T shall not ask your pardon; I do not desire your forgiveness, but I will not repeat the offense—never, alas! never!” The tears sprung to her eyes, but she dashed them away, just as they paused by the Grange gate. Frederic turned abruptly away, and without a word or bow, galloped home. Almost listlessly, certainly very wearily, Maude entered the house, to apprise her parents of the ac- cident to their guest. CHAPTER VII. NURSE AND SOMETHING. In the shady, airy bedroom, George Casselmaine lay; the duane had seen him, and pronounced him not dangerously hurt, but too exhausted by the shock of his fall to venture from his present quar- ters for a while—before the next day at the earliest. Consciousness had returned, and he was scanning with interest the objects before him. He perfectly remembered the ride, and wondered, with bitterness, if his betrothed were in the house to attend upon him, or whether he were left to the tender mercies of the case gh | folks who dwelt in the house. He finally decided that some one in the dwelling was refined, for the dainty little pictures that adorn- ed the walls, the spotiess lace curtains of the win- dows, the neat muslin screen attached to the wall before the wash-stand, ornamented with the bright blue rosettes, the bouquet of flowers on the bureau, all spoke plainly that some refined taste had ar- ranged all this. A lady must have occupied the room, he further concluded, for behind the door hung a pink muslin dress (whither hasty hands had deposited it), and the lady must be pretty, for the tiny slipper by the bedside, the small gloves that the half-opened drawer disclosed, all bespoke beauty. He smiled rather scornful ay as he closed his eyes languidly, at the romantic idea of estimating an un- known person’s beauty by such peculiar tests. She might have small hands and tiny feet, and a head of softest brown hair, and wear the daintiest of tree dresses, and yet the skin might be coarse and thick, t-e eyes ugly and cross, and the figure ill- proportioned. But what did it matter to him? What need he care about the owner of the neat little room he oc- cupied? He had no right to be building air-castles an pling them with beautiful maidens whom he be d have loved with all the ardent intensity of his nature. He sighed, and thought of Maude Elverton—beau- teous, enchanting and refined, possessing every qualification his wife should possess, except the one consideration of a love that was from the soul. To George Casselmaine, a marriage without this love was a mockery to which he could not, would not consent. Not that he entertained the most remote idea of giving 2p his beautiful Maude; but he determined to grow ove her; and when the time came that he could in all truth claim her as his wife. bp marriage might be solemnized, and never till en. , Rather than learn to love, George Casselmaine wished it ae 3 have burst ys him at once. He wished, when he first saw her, the right feeling had come, and this was what his heart was starving for, the while he was nobly striving to cultivate the coy passion. His thoughts were assuming a serious import, and he was growing restless and impatient, when, sud- denly, the door opened. He was so entirely unprepared for the vision that burst upon him, that he cared not to restrain the ex- clamation that rose to his lips, and a bright smile welcomed his attendant as she blushingly advanced to his side. Ida extended her hand cordially. as “You have awakened, I perceive, sir. You feel much better, do you not?” “Thanks to some one’s skillfulness, yes; and that ‘some one’ I believe is yourself, Is it not?” Ida smiled pleasantly. “T certainly attended to you, but how skillfully I cannot say.” ** And to whom am I thus everlastingly indebted?” The admiring, withal courteous glance sent the wild blood to her face as she answered, . i wet ““T am Ida Tressel.”’ ‘- Ida Tressel!” Unconsciously his lips repeated the name. **T will confess so sweet a name surprises me in this country place.”’ : His winning smile and gentle tones were making sad inroads on Ida’s heart, but she bravely smoth- ered every shadow of her feelings. ‘““What must you think then of the title of the dwelling you are in? We call it ‘““Rose Cottage.” e “Tda Tressel of Rose Cottage! Ishall never for-~ et that. I think it is the sweetest sound I ever» ae eard.” George Casselmaine spoke truthfully, and Ida’s nile face blushed with pleasure. ¢ “‘T have prepared a light lunch for you, sir, and if you are ready I will bring it up.’” ‘“ All ready, except that I'll have some water and a napkin first, I’m rather dusty.” Ida poured from the water-vase a basin of cool water, and set it on a chair by the bed; then hung a clean, perfumed towel beside it. ' With a careless movement, George arose to a sitting posture, and essayed to turn back his cuffs, - but a sudden faintness seized him, and, his face as ° ashen as death, he was forced to lie down egain. In a moment the giddiness passed away, and look- ing toward Ida, he smiled mischievously. ‘Miss Tressel, you will pardon my presumption in daring to suggest such a thing, but really I am un- able to bathe my face.” She hesitated a moment, just as Hetty entered the room. " “Aunt Hetty can assist you,” she said, Pointing eee sable attendant who carried the tray o edibles. Geo cast an imploring glance at her which said, plainly as looks might say—he much pref ; Ida’s ministry. But, she was dumb to his glance, and, as Aunt Hetty deposited the waiter on the_ stand, was about to request her assistance. But — Casselmaine superseded her. . ‘ “Miss Tressel, if it is not too much trouble, would " you please help me bathe my face?” His eyes were beaming with a merry twinkle, and 7 a mischievous smile parted his ga Ida blushed, and then smiled, then comprehending the ludicrous situation, laughed aloud. ; Please grant me this one favor, dear Miss Tres- sel,’ P Ida’s heart beat tumultuously, but she calmed herself, and, gravely and inne G with not the faint- _ est_show of merriment, proceeded to bathe his face and hands. : As her hands ieee around the waving hair that i a curled over the white forehead, she shivered in spite of herself, How could it be otherwise? Here was her ideal, on whom she was lavishing all her heart’s affection, comparatively helpless under | her hands; his handsome face ritting oo kindly in her eyes, and his own dark eyes beaming so merrily. True, there was no suspicion of love in George Casselmaine’s demeanor, but Ida felt sure he did not dislike her, and that was a delight. So her hands wandered caressingly, lingeringly perhaps, in the thick waving hair, and she reluctantly declared her task accomplished. 3 ‘“No! you are not through‘ he asked, and Ida = ined she detected a shade of disappointment on is face,” ae Will you have the glass to see if all is Yi ? he would have gone for the little hand-mirror on the toilette stand, but Casselmaine suddenly detained her, “No, Miss Tressel,” and he caught both her hands, while a rich blcom tinted her cheeks; “no; ou shall tell me if 1 look well. DoI? Are you sat- fied with me!” “Was she satisfied?’ how that innocent question made her quiver. a hi with George Casselmaine? But she raised her lids, and glanced timidly at the handsome invalid. “T am perfectly satisfied, sir. Your hair is ar- ranged very becomingly, I think.” i i‘ is) iy for ayer, lease.”’ Aiea walk e looked earnest er eyes, so t the love-light in their depths; he tooked eagerly, and when she could no longer return his searchin glance, with a_ faint cry she buried her scarl ao in her hands. asselmaine detained one and. ‘ . ‘Miss Ida, I beg your pardon. I was cruel, bar- porepia to tax your eerste to Bene eae so ‘orgive me, ™, nurse, my e attendant will our “tom Ja! “ His smile was bright—his tones earnest, but, Ida saw not the one, if she heard the other. She on} knew that perhaps he had read, her secret in her ene eyes; and that were worse than never being ov “Look at me for a single moment, and I promise not to offend again.” He placed his hand under her chin and gently raised her face, so their eyes met. ‘ “You forgive me, freely forgive my rudeness? “ and will grant me a great favor to prove my unre-- served pardon?” a I shall think nothing of it,” she murmured, striv- ~ ing to appear indifferent. fi ‘Than you, thank you; but the boon I crave is, that you will condescend to regard me as a friend, one who ma; by friendly acts atone for this one ungentlemanly deed. May I call you my friend— will you acknowledge me yours?” - A thrill of wild el Bi filled Ida’s heart, that fluttered and throbbed in her glad emotion. With- out a pe she extended her pate Casselmaine grasped it cor , and the compact was sealed, George and Ida were to be friends, ‘ * ~ fe ae ‘ : (Se sahil ae ‘ Se i ee eet © ‘—
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ied A Ae - * Ps, IE He G' HIS IDOL. r. CHAPTER VII. A MAIDEN’S SCORN. Tue intervening days had passed, and Sunday had come, when Ida’s gray-haired suitor was to make his proposals. George Casselmaine had two days before returned to the Grange, leaving the sweet memory of his brief stay at Rose Cottage, for Ida’s solace, and carrying with him a small vignette of hers, which he had insisted on retaining as a souve- nir of the pleasant episode in his life, no less than a memento of their mutual friendship. He had gone to Maude again—only to dream of his charming nurse. _ And Ida, in a state semi-joyous, equally wretched awaited coming again; but, meanwhile prepared to meet Andrew Joyce. The long, warm autumn afternoon was slowly passing on, and Mr. Tressel and Ida were quietly sit- ting in the little vine-shaded porch, their usual place of siesta on those lovely summer-days. “*My child,’ spoke her father, ‘‘our guest comes; welcome him as becomes us.” ‘The tottering old man stepped on the porch, a foolish smile of gallant playing on his withered lips as he reached his hand to Ida, with the other clutching the gold-headed cane, without which he was powerless. A scornful expression of her face answered his salutation, and she remained silent. “* Sit down, neighbor, sit down, Ida will wheel the easy-chair up for you.”’ . Tressel darted a reproving glance at his daughter’s cold, proud face. “Never mind, my beauty. To be sure I am _ no gay yo lover coming a-wooing, but the gold in i will balance all that, eh?” is dim blue eyes sought Ida’s, but with a gesture ef disgust she turned away. : “*Tda,”’ eae her father, sternly, while Mr. Joyce endeavored to assume an air of profound dignity, “the time for silly te has gone by. iknow the object of Mr. Joyce’s visit here to-day, and he knows you are aware of it. He comes repeat to you what he said to me; he comes to hear from you what I have promised him.”’ Proudly stern, Ida listened to her father’s words and. replied by a careless nod, and a slight smile o ve Ven awect HC Paste vardt sweet Ida, I come for the express purpose of offerin ou my hand and heart; one full of gold You we one jewels for my lovely bride, the other full of love charming wife.’ wed respectfully, while a sickening shiver or ™, - ran over her frame. +e + a) ee > ae “You do not reply,” he continued gs a will add, I have the full, free consent of your er, who has further sworn to keep his word—that you should be Mrs. Joyce. When I am made happy by addressing you so, the great study of my life will begin—to make you happy, to gratify your sili a wish. Llove youfondly. Will you my e st iy rtld ah Ca ON she, “T Ng will ce m, ess by g my young life to yours; diggin A haie sie nghgior ; silen ou can use choicer e angrily Gondthanded her father. atl “Do not mind her; it is. only maiden coyness,”’ said old Andrew Joyce, endeavoring to reconcile the two. “It is not,’ she replied, sternly. ‘‘ Maiden coy- ness has no affinity with aged imbecility. When an old, decrepit. man of seventy seeks to tt ak of not a Phird his years, big h anger takes the ia of maiden coyness. Again I repeat, you had tter keep your overtures for some one more anxious for the gold and jewels you seem so de- poe” sasiceany aoe § ou a wife.” Her eyes flash ercely, and she confronted both the old men, while. old Aunt Hetty pitied her from her far-off seat in the little back kitchen. “Your father has passed his word, and he will not break it. When once I have the right to call you pepe fe will learn how kind and loving I am, and you never repent your choice.” “TI shall never repent, for I shall not commit any worthy of repentance. € father may promise -me to whom he sees fit, but, it remains for me to fulfill that promise, which, rest assured, Mr. Joyce, will never be done by me.” Mr. Tressel arose, enraged, from his seat. “ You shall be more reverent; Icommand it. You ahall tell your suitor what I have told him.” “Do not reproach me, father. I mean no disre- spect for you. I, alone, am the insulted one, who will stand up for my rights.” He A Ida, n, and let me tell you how dearly the old man loves you—” “Be silent, sir,” she commanded, imperiously, “Your language inspires me with horror, with dis- gust. You are not a man, or you would cease your peru ws importunate avowal. No man with any spirit would pursue a woman with such distasteful protestations.” Proudly and with innate dignity she looked at the bent form before her. “T have enough spirit to continue to strive for the treasure I swear I shall obtain,” he replied, angrily, elenching his fist on the arm of the chair. She gestured him away, and then turned to with- @raw to her room. A : “No, Ida Tressel, you disobedient child, you shall hear me. You dare not reject this offer.” a vs it! I dare not bestow my love upon whom I “No, Your old, infirm father, who has worked and toiled these three-score years for you, com- mands you instantly to accept your suitor, “SBy the authority of a parent, I beseech you.” Ida smiled in supreme disdain, ‘‘No earthly eA 2 WS Aleta power, nor human ingenuity is able to coerce me in this affair. I never shall, never can, be persuaded to marry old Andrew Joyce.” Like an enraged lioness she exultingly confronted her father and their guest. “One moment, if it please you, my dear young lady. MayI speak? Iwould beg to know if you have a prior engagement which is the obstacle be- tween us?” A vivid blush mantled Ida’s brow, but she did not deign to reply. Her father answered for her. ‘She loves, but has no lover, sir.” ; His sarcastic words, the cutting tone in which they were spoken, stung her to the quick, and she turned fiercely upon them, her face aglow. “Since you inform your guest so far, allow me to confess the entire truth. ow you, then, Andrew Joyce, that I do love another with all the passion _of my soul. I will die loving him, whether I am be- loved or not.” Her sweet face was lighted by the holy fires with- in, and she seemed glorified as she told her ardent love for her idol. “Poor girl, poor. girl,’’ muttered Joyce. appreciate your feelin: s—” ‘** You appreciate—you /”’ she retaliated, scornfully. ‘‘The man who is old enough to be my great-grand- father, whose youngest daughter is ten years older thanI! You appreciate!” Mr. Joyce smiled compassionately. ““Such overwhelming affection must be a fairy tale. This confession is a falsehood, then, for you told me but a few moments before you would never “T can m 4 “referred to yourself, sir, I shall never marry, unless it is the one Ilove. Ihave told you my final, unalterable decision, I shall not allow so loathsome a apcd to annoy me again.”’ With a courtesy she left the room, CHAPTER IX, THE SCORNED WIFE. Tue Quaker City had just fallen into the first sound doze on a cool, starry September night, and the windows of the elesenk bazars on estnut street were long since closed. Lights were extin- guished in the elegant mansions on the aristocratic uptown streets, save where at intervals a solitary watcher kept guard over the couch of illness. The train from New York had arrived an hour before, and the passengers reached their destina- tions. The spacious Kensington depot was occupied by but one of the hundreds that lately increased the bustle there, The one passenger was a gentleman, fall, hand- some, and commanding, who motioned to a cab- man, “Drive to Arch street, number —.”’ Tossing his overcoat within the cab, and following with his hand-valise, he closed the door, bade the driver go on, and reclined on the cushions, while the cab hurried onward. With a lurch that aroused him, so violent was it, he gazed from the window. The cab had drawn up a large, imposing residence, whose stately front frowned in unrelieved darkness. No ray of light was visible, and as he cast a hasty glance from basement to roof, a bitter smile darkened his features, : Without a word, he thrust a bill in the cabman’s cape and with coat and sachel in hand, ascended e steps. He did not try the door, for, of course, at that hour of the night every door was securely fastened, but from his vest-pocket he took a tiny key which he fitted, and opened the heavy walnut door, _ A faint light in the chandelier in the hall illumined the splendid decorations of the broad, low staircase, the frescoed walls, the statuary in the niches, the velvet-carpeted floor. Beyond the ground-glass doors, draped with costly lace, which s slightly ajar, he saw the massive sideboard, fraught with its precious weight of silver and glass. The view was a eautiful one, but it was only a quick, scornful glance he celened to bestow, and h his over- coat on the el ny rack, and leaving his valise and hat beside it, the stranger ascended the stairs. The soft Aubusson carpet gave back no sound of his footfall, and, silent and unseen, he continued way. From the door of the front chamber a light gleamed through the keyhole. To this door he went. He turned the knob; it offered no resistance, and he entered the splendid apartment. By the window, over whose plate-glass panes heavy orange-satin curtains were let down, sat a lady, deeply engrossed in reading. 3 e smiled as she read, all unconscious of the presence frowning so grimly upon her; and when she smiled she seemed transfigured, so gloriously did her features lighten. She was otherwise scarcely beautiful, though not lain. She had an oval face, and her hair was rushed gracefully off the white forehead, The cheeks wore a pale carmine tint; the lips were scar- let and haughty. Her dress was a white negligé, of es soft Indian muslin, and trimmed with cobweb aces, Upon this fair tableau the intruder gazed, and the frown darkened on his brow. She did not heed it, and read on in blissful unconsciousness. He ad- waged xepialy, and laid his hand on the book, e She started, as though Th es but when she saw him, her fear turned to delight, and she sprung from her chair. “ Frederic, my darling!’ She laid her hands on his breast, but he removed them, and led her to the chair she had just vacated. ‘“You know I dislike such demonstrations. Please discontinue them in the future.” A pained expression came over her features, but. she made no reply. For several moments they stood confronting each other. Then he spoke: “‘Doubtless you were surprised to see me so unex- pectedly; but the old excuse is again offered.”’ Clare raised her eyes a moment, looking full in his face. } “Frederic, will the time never come when peace and love are restored between us? Must our lives ever be passed in this awful mockery, ever apart?”’ She gazed tenderly upon his cold, dsome face, and a bitter smile broke over his features. “Never! Your own hand did the deed; your own heart must bear the consequences.” He smiled proudly. } Clare uttered a paces anguish. ** My heart alone, Frederic? Am I the only victim of this unhappy marriage? Does not Nee heart. ever long for the happy days by-gone? Oh, my hus- band, must I bear this load alone? Pity me, pity me, and love me, be it ever so little!” : . She raised those tender eyes, love-lit through the mists of grief, in earnest imploration. “Do not enact this scene again, Clare. Whenever I come, the tableau isthe same. Do you wonder I come not oftener?”’ . Frederic Trevlyn folded his arms as he stood. before her. “T received your letter last week, and I would. have come before, had not other affairs detained me.. Now I am here, ready to do your bidding, as a hus- band should do.” For a moment a sarcastic light gleamed in Clare: Trevlyn’s eyes, but she bowed respectfully, “T will hear my husband’s will.’ A vial of scornful indignation was centered in the - one word, and Frederic felt it, but too proud to re-- sent it, he proceeded: “T can tell you my commands in a few words, I never wish to see you at the Archery again,” An enraged blush mantled her face, and she turn-, ed proudly to him. *““You have no authority to order your we, your lawfully-wedded wife, the mother of your ld— dead and an angel pre as she be—from. your door. You dare not, you shallnot! I protest against it! At the Archery or in the Philadelphia mansion, I am mistress. Remember, my name is Mrs. Frederic Treylyn, and no human power can divest me of my rights and Poe ot ederic Trevlyn looked coolly on her, so glowing and animated, “That is false,” he said, quietly and calmly. “You wear my name, you are called my wife by the few who know us. You are truly mistress of your mansion here, for I ne it to you.. You were m wife once, Clare, my loved wife; you are my little dead daughter’s mother. I never shall forget that; and for her sake it is that I tolerate you eneneD to. hold an acquaintance with you. But beyond these chains. you are not my wife. You never shall be.” His language, though decided, was not harsh. His tone: ihoves firm and stern, were not m t. ane sare 'revlyn knew he meant every syllable he uttered. , Her cheek paled, and she trembled like an aspen. “No, Frederic! Unsay those cruel words! Re- member our early wedded life; remember how hap- py; how trusting you were then, You loved me then, my husband,” , e music, sung by the siren of the fatal rocks, her low, liquid voice came to his ear, and her beauti- ful, melting eyes gazed affectionately in his own. lare Trevlyn had charmed him once, but her time had aes ‘Never call me husband again, Icommand you!"’ he replied, almost fiercely, shaking her soft white hand from his arm, His words stung her to madness, and she answered. in her anger: ‘‘And you, whom the world thinks an enviable man, whom mammas and daughters look covetously upon—you, whose wife is disgraced, dishonored—can enjoy Fad freedom, your pleasure; can visit beau- toons atts and whisper love-words in their ears.” ‘ are ’ Frederic Trevlyn fairly thundered the name. His face ey white with an ill-suppressed passion as he proceeded: “‘ How dare you mention this subject? Remember, never another word on this matter. ‘You have not the power to silence me! I will speak, and inform you that my love, earnest though it was, can turn to hate! I can punish you, if I am what you declare you ‘hate’ and ‘despise!’” She paused to await his reply, but he re- garded her in contemptuous silence. She spoke again, now wooing and humble. “Frederic, Iam angry; I amsaying what I should not say. ag tbe me, and, oh, I pray you, love me again, Only let me be your happy wife again, and I will compass the wide earth to please you, to delight you. See, Frederic! Glare is penitently suing for your pardon and love)” She knelt humbly before him, but he motioned her away. Never, never! the hateful bands that unite us. shall remain the same; if I wear the galiing chains they shall clank around your neck also, é will not be divorced, but we are not a married pair. You shall be answerable for every hour of sorrow and anguish you have forced upon me: you shall live here alone, secluded, to meditate on your sinfulness. Remove your arms; they polluteme. We are not even friends; we are strangers.” He snatched his foot from her hand, and with a contemptuous bow, withdrew, a. ae \ aie 5 Te |
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vy . HS; 1DOL. 2 CHAPTER X., AT THE COTTAGE. GrorGE CASSELMAINE had been brought to the Grange again in Doctor Elverton’s easiest carriage. Iirs. Elverton hovered solicitously about the lounge whereon he lay, which the doctor had insisted should be wheeled to the pleasant spot in whichever room the family used for the time. Maude tended him carefully and kindly, anticipating his every wish, and enacting the tender betrothed most devotedly. Despite these attentions from every member of the household at the Grange, Casselmaine’s thoughts were too often reverting to the fairy nurse at Rose Cottage. Of Ida he dreamed, Bleeping of Ida he mused, waking, until he was terrified to find what a deep interest he felt in her—until he was grieved to learn that he loved her better than Maude. The quickly recurring days brought him his strength and wonted health, and as soon as he was able to endure the fatigue he went straight to Rose Cottage. Ida was a eee as ever, in her plain white Marseilles, and a vivid pink rosebud at the neck, and asthe bloom on her cheek deepened when he entered, it caused a corresponding gleam of joy in his own bright eyes. “Tcome to report, Miss Ida,”—he had so soon adopted the formal title—‘‘ as it becomes a thankful patient to do, Your good care did wonders for me.” He reached his hand cordially toward her. “Tam glad to hear it. Isuppose you mean the ‘bath’ when you refer to the ‘good care’ bestowed upon you?” er merry eyes sought his own pd cst f then, before the ardent, admiring glance, she blushed. “Certainly I included that. Inever enjoyed any- thing in my life more.” Ida dared not tell him that she thought the same, 80 she played carelessly with the tassel of the linen shade, endeavoring to recall her self-possession, George Casselmaine, with an effort, removed his eyes from her sweet, blushing face. “ Are nif well at the Grange?” She asked the commonplace question, for the si- lence grew awkward. ** Perfectly weli.”’ His reply gave not the least thread to another question, and she twirled the tassel desperately. “What shall I say to entertain him? how can I think of the silly little remarks with which fashion- able women entertain their guests?” she thought. Then, by a sudden inspiration, she determined to converse of their mutual friend, Maude. Ida desired to hear him speak of her for a two- fold reason. One, to learn whether he really loved her; the other, to see if beautiful Maude loved him. “TI presume Miss Elverton has proved a most effi- cient attendant during your convalescence, Mr. Cas- 8 “* She deserves credit, certainly; hut her services were in no wise preferable to that of the first nurse into whose hands I fell.”’ Vein had an excuse for reading her face again. which he did, filled with a strange joy as he noted the flush on her cheeks. “Tell me all about it,” he continued. “It is a pleasant incident to me, Indeed, I almost wish the affair would transpire again.” “There is very little to tell, indeed, except that Mr. Trevlyn. Lhe cir you into the house, and I came, with Hetty, to the rescue. Miss Maude and Miss Joyce returned with Mr. Trevlyn for the surgeon.” new light shone in his eyes, and he asked, al- most eagerly, if Maude did not remain a while at least. “She stayed until her further services were unne- cessary. She was very kind, indeed, Mr. Cassel- maine, and insisted on having you taken immediate- ly to the Grange.” “And who demurred, Miss Ida?” With more than friendly kindness he leaned near her, awaiting her answer. “Mir. Treviyn objected most decidedly, and I was only too gl to have you remain here.’ ‘The slight frown on his brow when she began to speak, cleared away at her last words. “Then, although you dared not demand that my safety required me to Bo no further, you were pleased when it was decided I should tarry with you Bs His dark, earnest eyes were looking ‘straight at ers. “Yes, I was glad, and I am glad still.” Her heart throbbed as she made this bold answer, and Casselmaine’s beat faster when he replied: “Thanks, Ida; now I know we are friends indeed.” He pressed her little hand caressingly. Ida’s pulse bounded wildly. He had called her “ /da ;” he had held her hand. Surely he did like her a Tittle; and the warm flush of joy lighted her eyes, and rendered her more beautiful than ever. And George Casselmaine, as he watched the emo- tions of her mobile countenance, grew momentarily to loving her more and more. But, while he chided himself for the love he knew he was cherishing where another should have been encouraged, he ex- cused himself with the thought that he was strong enough to burst the fetters when the proper time of decision came. So Ida, in the warmth and fullness of her heart, allowed her affections to twine about him. : They were sitting by the window, both silent. Ida gazing abstractedly beyond the little garden, and George watching her. Suddenly she seemed to pale, then uttered a little ery. - tis it that frightens you?” Casselmaine sprung from his seat, and looked anxiously around. A faint smile played over her lips as she answered: “Nothing, nothing, I assure you. I am very foolish, very silly. You will think I am affecting als. ; ie She laughed as she spoke, but the pallor of her face did not escape his eye. “You are miserable,” he returned, gravely. ‘Some object has passed the window that fills you with alarm or horror. Iam your friend, Ida. ill you not tell me?” i “T have nothing totell, Mr. Casselmaine, Indeed Iam very silly, and that will surely content you.” She looked laughingly from her bright eyes, and the brilliant carmine returned to her lips again. “‘ A special admirer of yours passed at the moment you spoke, Mr. Casselmaine; perhaps a sight of her terrified me.” ‘An admirer of mine, Ida? Who, pray?” He glanced anxiously down the road at the car- riage that was nearly out of sight. It was not the aon carriage, and he breathed freer. What would the Elvertons say to see him, their daughter’s betrothed, in such a place in company with the poor girl of Rose Cottage? ’ “Helen Joyce,” she answered, darting a merry glance at him, yet watching its effect, His lip curled contemptuously; then he suddenly caught Ida’s hands. “Look at me amoment. Do you think I like that woman?’’ His dark eyes were steadily searching her own; but she answered lightly: ‘“How am I supposed to know? She isa very fine young lady, they say.” He flung her hands away, and then threw himself down in the rocking-chair, “Tda Tressel, you are a curious girl.” ““Why so? Didn’t I answer you correctly?” “Did you answer me at all? Didn’t you ask me another question?” Ida’s gay laugh out on the cool autumn air. “Oh, sir, I verily believe you are in love with Helen Joyce, and are afraid she may hear of it. But, indeed, I will not tell her.” She peereniod her careless speech the moment she uttered it, for with flashing eyes he arose and con- fronted her. “You know that Miss Joyce has no particular at- traction for me.” ‘I spoke thoughtlessly; pardon me, and let us be friends again?” The sweet persuasiveness of her voice subdued him, and he extended his hand. “Pardon me, Ida. And now lest my host should consider me remiss in staying so long away, I must return. But promise me 1 may come again.” “Yes, come again. Rose Cottage will ever open a welcome door to you.”’ ‘“‘ And its sweet mistress a weleoming hand?” AY 0 eat almost said ‘‘heart,’? but she did not ow it. He bowed and left the house, and Ida gazed wist- fully after him until he was lost to view, CHAPTER XI. A WIFE’S LOVE. THE ie mansion on Arch street was a blaze of light. Its haughty mistress detested darkness and gloom, and for a few days past her imperious edict had been issued to the well-trained, respectful servants that as soon as the first night-shadows a every room should be brilliantly ilumi- na . Through the lace-curtained windows might be seen the fairy scene within, the long suites forming one blazing sea of light, gold, crystal. The furniture was surpas beautiful in its golden and satin ele- gance; the tables were of rich inlaid wood, the cabinets of verde antique. The paintings were most exquisite, the statuary the rarest, the numberless little articles of vertu the costliest that decorated any residence far or near. ‘ nd amid all this luxury the lone woman, who was mistress of it. all, stood, clad in robes of magnifi- cence, defiantly ae and fascinating. Clare Trevlyn been deeply wounded when her husband came to her, on that evening when we introduced her, and her heart still quivered from the fierce blows Frederic Trevlyn had struck. But she had resolved to pursue her own course, and now she smiled sternly at her lovely face in the mirror, as she thought over her plans. She stepped to the speaking-tube. “Send Esther to me.” Her melodious voice echoed down the long dis- tance, and in a moment a low tap answered her. In obedience to the silence which followed, a sign of Mrs. Trevlyn’s that she was ready to receive her servants into peg eee the door opened, and the woman summoned entered. She was a fleshy, good-looking, amiable, harmless- looking woman, whose black silk dress and neat lace cap aise her of the higher order of servants. And indeed she was, as the conversation between lady and maid proved. _‘“Close the door and turn the key, Esther. I de- sire to talk on private and important matters, which ane living must know but you and I. You under- ES) hs nh Mrs. Trevlyn nodded ipa ogg ak “I do comprehend, exactly. Iam to hear every- thing, yet know nothing.” Esther understood her ground well. “Precisely; we have shared many a secret, Esther, before I was Mrs. Trevlyn, and you plain Esther Waring—the rich Mrs. Trevlyn's housekeeper. You remember those at ke happy a Isuppose?”’ “Indeed, Ido; and all too well. How the proud, handsome gentleman came riding to the tumble- down ee to court you.” Esther's ace clouded over as she spoke. ‘He was handsome, Esther, and proud, too; and he is yet.” Mrs. Trevlyn tried to smooth the frown from her ig arom p brow. ‘*Proud and handsome he may be, yet what does his beauty count for when he treats you so shame- fully—” «Hush, Esther. I cannot allow you to disparage ce! husband’s conduct. Remember I am his wife.’’ here was a sweet dignity in Clare’s tones that fell reprovingly on Esther's ears, but it failed to quell the storm of passion rising in her breast. “ And a pretty husband he is! Didn’t he come alt the way from New York to see you, and then order me up in the middle of the oie to light up the blue bedroom for him, and yours, his by rights, as cosey and comfortable as possible?” Her voice grew loud and indignant as she ended,,. while a flush dyed Clare’s fair face. “Do not be so severe, Esther, Mr. Trevlyn was very tired, and wished a bath before he went. to. sleep. You should not judge him so harshly.” Esther laughed scornfully. “ And why wasn’t his wife’s bedroom good enough,, — eh? Don’t tell me, Mrs. Trevlyn, that that man cares for you; don’t tell me not to judge him, when every servant in the house gossips about you two. the live-long day.” “No, Esther! The girls do not mention his name,. do they?” A proud, injured look was on her face as she raised. it, tearful and flushed. “And why don’t they? They’ve every cause to, I sure.” am sure, Clare arose from her chair, and walked slowly to and fro, her eyes blinded by the hot tears that welled Sa her sad heart. Suddenly she paused before: er. “To think that the time has come when Frederic: and I are a byword among our servants! To think that he loves me so little as to conduct himself in such a manner, that people point at us and repeat that ‘ Frederic Trevlyn does not live with his wife!” Oh, Esther, it is hard to bear all this, silently and without demur! What have I ever done to merit all this agony and shame?” ; She cl her beautiful hands in an ecstasy of grief, and bowed her proud head on them. . ‘*Sure enough, what have you done? I’ll soon tell you. You’ve worshiped that man until you’ve con- cluded he isa god among men. You've slaved, and slaved for him, until he has grown weary of you, and now, while your love continues the same, his _ has waned, and in another vicinity he | faces, new charms, to divert his mind.” * Esther Waring spoke sharply, bitterly, When she. had done, Clare raised her drooping head. Ly crn a knows I love him, and God knows Iam true to sey Her passionate avowal made no impression on the. t woman. ‘But he insists you are disgraced and dishonored, . and advises you to remain here, in seclusion and re- tirement, to meditate on past offenses and future - punishment.”’ She looked triumphantly at Clare, who sat, pale and sad, like a broken oh “True,” she responded, wearily; ‘true, Frederic does not believe me when I] tell him I love him, and have never breathed a disloyal breath; but what must I do to convince him otherwise?’ ‘Do? asked Ester, sharply, ironically. ‘“‘ Why, prove yourself his abject slave by immolating your- self in his gilded cage, and humbly receiving him when he condescends to come, as a dog does its mas- ter whom he fears.”’ “Cease, Esther. This is wrong, heartless. I am heart-sick and spirit-sad. To you T come for advice, . for comfort; for, besides you, I have none else. My husband hates me, my mother is in heaven, my’ baby an_ angel! Oh, ‘Esther. Esther, 1 am very lonely! Forget I am the rich Mrs. Trevlyn; call me little Clare again, as you did when I was little! Oh, Esther, my heart is so sick!” ae Sealding tears dropped from her brilliant eyes, and the woman’s lip trembled at sight of her woeful, pitiful face. ““God help you, my baby Clare, for you have & heavy burden to bear on those slight shoulders.” ~ She wound her arms about Mrs, Trevlyn’s neck, and kissed her forehead. “Esther,” whispered Clare, ‘“‘can’t I convince Fred how innocent I am? Tell me how to win his love again! ,He mustioveme; he shall love me, for I Esther took her unresisting hand, and led her to the mirror. + eee is a beautiful woman, who can, who. shall win her husband to his rightful love.” Gradually Clare’s eyes grew soft, and her mouth, rippled in a sweet, rare smile. Her perfect form was displayed to its best advantage by the close- fitting, graceful robe she wore; and her beauty was hightened by the severe simplicity of her dress. The starry eyes were floating with their tearful splendor, and from their dark depths looked out a tender, proud light. “Yes, Esther, I am beautiful, am I not?” ‘Every one calls you so, and that must be true. which all indorse. . Trevlyn, this beauty is your weapon; you must bring your husband to your, side ain. ‘A smile played around Clare’s exquisite mouth. * Yes, I will take advantage of it. Life, wealth, pride—all, ail will I gladly sacrifice if I may once more hear my husband say, ‘ My darling, my wife!’” CHAPTER XI. BATTLING WITH SHADOWS, had elapsed since the day Frederic SEVERAL days ‘Trevlyn returned from Philadelphia, and, as usual, NOW 42 a —
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3 “after his trips there, he shut himself closely inthe Archery, receiving his meals at the hands of his walet, at the half-opened door of his private room. He had not seen any one since his return, and his face wore that stormy, anguished expression of one passing through deepest waters. The afternoon sunlight peeped through the shutters of the sanctum, where, pale and trembling, he sat, fighting another fierce battle with himself. The gray velvet curtains hid him from view, but a ¥istener in the cig rerty Sea might have heard the ,Amoans that burst from his hard-compressed lips. . “It is madness, yes, infinitely worse than mad- ‘mess! And yet, in my own strength, 1 am nothing. _-L can not—oh, ican not fight much longer against ‘this mighty power that is dragging me down, soul and body, to ruin, desolation and remorse! And yet T court the sweet temptation; I delight to revel in the forbidden joy. Weak, powerless wretch I am, ‘and still, what can I do? How shall I shut the last ray of light, dazzling to eternal blindness though it be, from my weary eyes?” He covered his face in his trembling hands, and re- mained silent, until the sound of approaching horses’ ‘hoofs aroused him. He glanced eareleney up; the least diversion was ‘acceptable that would change the morbid train of thought into whieh he had fallen. On the road, just beyond the rustic fence, two riders were approaching. One was Maude Elverton, Smiling and fascinating as she looked earnestly at the gloomy house, searching for a salutation from him, little recking. he was watching her from be- 4Ahind the closed blinds with throbbing heart and lashing eye. , Beside her rode George Casselmaine, proud, hand- ‘some, as he always was, and he, too, following the direction of Maude’s glance. They dashed on out of sight, and Frederic Trevlyn ’ breathed freer again. “Thank Heaven, she does not know my secret! No, my beautiful, bewildering Maude, you little dream of the mad, wicked love I feel for you. And, although I have almost betrayed myself, I thank Heaven the fatal truth remains unspoken in my own éurning soul.” He rose again, and tossing his hair from his fore- - head, he paced the floor in his agitation. “Tt will be happiness, unalloyed bliss for the time, to listen to her voice, to hang upon her smile, to gaze into the azure depths of her pure, innocent eyes; but, oh! when the end of it ail comes, as it must do, the remorse, the bitter, bitter wailings of _®emorse!” ; His eyes wandered to the road again. “This will never do for me! I am wasting my best ' days in sorrowing for what I can not help; wnleving ' for what can not be changed. I must engage my aaind some aia or other, or I shall go presge! And truly, haggard face and hing wild eyes eeiterated his assertion. _ With sudden determination, he jerked the crimson #assel by the door. “Tell Mrs. Holcombe to come to my room a mo- znent. I have an order for her.” The servant’s exit was followed by the appearance wf the portly housekeeper. “Mrs. Holcombe, you will be exceedingly sur- wrised, I think, when you hear that I intend re- smodeling the Archery, and partly refurnishing the western suite, on the second floor. Please set all ‘the girls to work, have every room opened and aired, and made perfectly clean.” A tranquil expression had gradually crept over his weary countenance. Mrs. Holcombe glanced toward the heavy gray velvet curtains that swept from ceiling to floor at the further end of the room. “ Not open every room, sir? Not enter that?’’ She pointed to the sanctum. “Heavens, no. I thank you Mrs. Holcombe, for reminding me. I will attend to these two apart- ments cl you may see to the others as soon as possible.” e bowed, and Mrs. Holcombe, with a kindly beam of her mother-eyes—for she loved and pitied her employer, young enough to be her son—turned #o depart. ; -Trevlyn called her again. “One moment, Mrs. Holcombe; make tig ee ions for a dinner-party on Tuesday next—a dozen couples. And be so good as to send William to me.”’ e walked to the window and closed the shutters tightly, fastening them with the heavy iron bars that he could barely lift. Then he lowered the upper sash, and raised the under one, leaving half th dow open. With the two other windows he did fhe same, and in the total darkness groped his ‘way to the gas-jet, and lighted it. his he turned far down, so that a faint twilight rabee se the apartment. For a moment he bowed head against the marble mantle, and in his. anguish unheeded words fell from his lips. i ‘*7 am building the awful barrier between me and hope, joy and love; but, I thank God, the same gulf ‘that separates me from life and light, unites me to duty and right-doing. Maude, Maude, my heart’s heloved, to-day I am endeavoring to forget you! I am endeavoring to remember another, whose name wand title deserves better treatment from me than I ‘bestow, but whose actions have widely, hopelessly divided us,”’ : He turned wearily away from the mantle, and Gifted the gray velvet curtain. ‘ “For the last time, for the last time,” he mur- soured, He aoe through, and the heavy folds closed r him, It was only a moment ere he returned. “‘*T have left a faint light burning, which sball A! BS ADO. never die until Ido! Ihave looked on my treasure for the last time as the lonely master of the deserted mansion. The next time I enter my sacred retreat, I shall be known as Frederic Trevlyn, the gay, gener- ous, hospitable host of the Archery.”’ He left the outer room, and after locking it, went to the open door in the hall. “Tam waiting,” said William, as he appeared. “T want you to ride to the residences of those whose names are on this list, and carry some notes.” He handed the man a list. ‘** While you are saddling your horse and arranging your route, I will sign the cards of invitation. In twenty minutes I will be ready.” The time had barely elapsed when Frederic ap- area at the door, the envelopes in hand, while illiam led his horse to the carriage-block. ‘* Begin with the Villa, and end at the Grange,” he said, as William rode off. “Tt is of no consequence, but I feel as if every act I did that gave no preference to her was a safe- ard,” he whispered, with a bitter smile; then, as is murmured words recalled her too forcibly for silence, he repeated her name: ‘* Maude, poor child!” He entered the house again, and again rung for Mrs. Holcombe. “Tam a great deal of trouble, I know,” he began, pleasantly; ‘‘ but will you take me through the rooms, and show me what you the most con- Metee' suite, and the most elegant guest-cham- rs 7 “Bless you, Mr. Frederic, I shall be proud and happy to accompany you. But I must confess, it does seem strange for a gentleman not to know enough of his own house to go through it alone.” “Tam a strange man, Holcombe, as you truly say. Besides my bedroom and the ground floor, [have not entered a room in the Archery for two years.” His face clouded again. “Do not let your mind run on your troubles, sir, so much, Pardon my boldness,” she added, noting his stern features. “Pardon me, my good friend, for neglecting you for somany months. As you say, my griefs oppress Re ile and under their burden [almost faint a es.” They paused before a massive oaken door, in whose lock Mrs. Holeombe fitted a large brass key. “This is the best He eae Mr. Frederic, and one in which the ident might feel proud to sleep. To my notion there isn’t America.” With a pardonable satisfaction, she pushed open the door, and splendid apartment, the prevailing color pale pink. arpet, curtains, and wall were all tinted in the same delicate shade, whil#, scattered in picturesque i ppm were every ithaginable convenience and uxury. Frederic eates carelessly at it all. “Yes, it looks very well.” its equal in “* Very well!’ repeated the housekeeper, in indig- nation. ‘It is elegant, splendid, magnificent!’ “You needn't nae Re Frederic, for I am not the only woman who gone in ecstasies over it.” ; He turned quickly toward her, a flush rising on his ace, ‘* What woman has been here?”’ he asked. “Tf I did wrong, you must pardon me; but she was so pretty, and so lady-like, and begged me to show her the house; and I could not refuse, especially when she said she knew you, and she guessed you would not object.” The blush deepened; then his face paled. ‘*Of course you didn’t let Miss El—the lady enter every room?” “Bless you, no, sir. The finest and best only, of course.” **Who was it, do you know?” he asked, a feeling of exquisite jor filling him at the thought that Maude had seen his house; begged to see it; admired it. Of course, Mrs. Holeombe referred to her, for who else pretty and lady-like in all the country but Maude Elverton? “She left her card with me, but made me promise I would not let you see it. It was a short name, like” Kate or Belle; neither of those, though.” “Yes,” he said, softly, ‘she means ‘Maude.’ Was it an Fas a rag name, Mrs, Holeombe?—an odd name?” He almost feared the answer, lest, after all, it were not the one. ““The queerest I ever heard; I never heard it be- fore or since,” He felt satisfied now—and if he only could get pos- session of the precious card, so that he might kiss the name he loved so fondly, he would find it a pana- cea in his moments of gloom and darkness. ‘*Mrs. Holcombe,” he began, gently and _ per- suasively, ‘‘I feel greatly flattered that any pons lady should have been pleased with the taste I have displayed in my furniture. But could I know her name, I would like to present her my compliments.” He smiled at Mrs. Holcombe, “‘ But I have forgotten the name, Mr. Frederic, in- deed I have, or I would tell you, seeing you would assure her how welcome she was.” ‘Most certainly I should, and invite her to repeat her tour of investigation. If I had her name—or the card,” he suggested, hesitatingly. Mrs. Holeombe’s face brightened visibly. _,. Sure enough, there is the card safe in my trunk, if Lhaven’t lost it. I'll get it for you. You'll prom- ise to be friends with her?” His heart beat ey: ** Friends with Maude? Oh, if it were only that!’ She returned soon, and Frederic saw a tiny slip glanced proudly around. It was a | pc tbbec ee her fingers as she triumphantly carried it along. His eager hands almost snatched the treasure. Naude’s sweet name, traced by her own dear fingers. He coveted it more than untold gold. This should never leave him, and in the glimmering light of the silent, curtained room below, he wouid read it—Maude’s own hand-writing. Mrs. Holeombe handed it to him. His nervous fingers took it trem- blingly, and his love-lit eyes caught the sweet name. A pale, ashen hue crept over his face as he took the coveted | ees and, without a word, he handed it back, and strode fiercely down the stairs. The innocent card lay in Mrs. Holeombe’s open a while her wondering eyes followed her mas- r’s retreating form, The name was short, sweet and sad, The name was ‘‘ CLARE.” CHAPTER X11. A SERPENT’S TONGUE. Grorae CASSELMAINE had returned from Rose Cot- e ina strangely excitable condition, and to his in- finite relief, found, as he surmised, that Mrs. Elver- ton and Maude were out driving. Notwithstandin which, as he entered the darkened lor, for a coo siesta on the sofa, a little scream from an invisible occupant startied him. “Oh, Mr. Casselmaine, I hadn’t the slightest idea you were in the house! Isn’t it provoking that ude stays so long?”’ George threw open the shutters to discover his companion. ‘Miss Joyce—pardon me; my eyes were unaccus- tomed to the twilight of the room, and I did not re- cognize your voice.”’ e bowed respectfully, and Miss Joyce laughed metrily—at what, he was at a loss to know. ‘* Here is a seat,” and she drew her skirts to make room beside her, ‘“‘Thank you,’’ he said, seating himself, with as good grace as possible, and secretly wishing it were riceless “You look remarkably well, Mr. Casselmaine, consideling your recent indisposition. It was too bad in Fred Treviyn, I think, to leave you at that forlorn, out-of-the-way cottage, with an infirm old man and a fat colored woman to wait on you.” “Treceived most excellent care, Miss Joyce, though it came from neither of the two the mention. He spoke distantly, coldly, but Helen Joyce would not admit that _to herself even. She had a task to accomplish, a Herculean task, too, and she was re- solved that no rebuffs should intimidate her. She had determined to win Geo by fair means, then assuredly by unfair ones. He little dreamed of the siege she was laying to his heart; he little dreamed of anything in connec- tion with Helen Joyce, except that she was a good- looking woman—Helen Joyce was twenty-five—dis- agreeable and tiresome. ‘Yes,’ she continued, “ you look as if some awk ward creature had nursed you—pardon me, Mr. Cas- selmaine. I do not refer to your awkward appear- ance, but that of the nurse,” Again she displayed her white, even teeth, and again, Casselmaine wondered what she found so amusing. He did not know that she considered her teeth her greatest charm. “TI dare say I am a boorish-looking fellow, Miss Joyce, in your critical eyes, but I always am that, at the best of times. “Oh, no, you are just the opposite of that, I’m She blushed, and then looked out the window. “T wonder when Maude will be home? Do you know where she went?” ‘“‘T do not know either, Probably not before tea.’' It wanted yet an hour to the supper-time, and he Sprght to discourage her from waiting. “Oh, then, I may as well lay off my hat, for I must see her before I return.” She deliberately unfastened her kids, and laid them on the mirror-stand; and Casselmaine resolved the hour should be a solitary one so far as he was concerned, : After she removed her hat and shawl, she reseated ae on the wipe ‘IT suppose Maude has gone with Mr. Trev riding? The seem quite atoaeed to each othent she remarked carelessly, yet watching the effect of her words. “T can appreciate Mr. Trevlyn’s discriminating taste in selecting Miss Elverton for a friend; she is a charmi inl,” Helen bit her lips in vexation: her arrow had fallen harmlessly at his feet. “Indeed she is,”’ she continued, enthusiastically. “Maude is a sweet creature, and we are the best friends in the world. I know all her secrets, and she all mine.” “You could not have a better confidante. I know Maude never betrays what is confided to her.” Again the cold gleam in his eyes warned her he was not falling into the net she was spreading. “T mentioned Mr. Trevlyn’s name in conjunction with Maude’s, because I know she thinks a great deal of him; a great deal, indeed. I should not be surprised if they were betrothed.” ae pages glow of anger he could not avoid mantled s face. “Miss Joyce, if you think to wrench from me any demonstrations of jealousy on Miss Elverton's ac- count, ps ome in the most impossible way. Miss Elverton considers you what you ve evidently regard yourself—her ‘confidante, she is enpeely eceived, and you have basely betrayed her.” itho e Casselmaine, if not - ut a parting word he walked proudly out q from the room, leaving her to quench her rage as best she could, ‘ . ny P42 a “2 M wlan ee Woe
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4 Cee pe cle a His) IDOL, And indeed it would be difficult to define the varied tumult of emotion that swept over her. Rage, mortification, wounded pride and love—for with all her might she loved George Casselmaine— struggled and conflicted. Her face ca dark and severe; her light, keen eyes darted fiery rays of malicious vexation, as she paced to and fro, awaiting the return of Maude, in whose ear she was so anxious to pour her poisonous words. She had not long to wait, forin a few minutes after her companion’s abrupt departure, the sound of the carriage-wheels on the gravel-walk announced the return of the ladies. Mrs. Elverton ahghted, and proceeded at once to her dressing-room, : Maude, seeing Helen’s face between the curtains, entered the parlor. “Thopel have not kept you waiting very long; have I?” Maude asked, as she removed her elegant ecamel’s-hair shawl, glancing a moment at Helen as she spoke. * Only a half-hour, chere.”’ ‘Which must have passed lonesomely here all by yourself. Iam sorry we were not home sooner.” “Mr Casselmaine has favored me with his gentle- mank Continents part of the time.” Helen spoke sourly and crossly. “Why, what is the trouble?” inquired Maude quick- ly, noting the rising in Helen’s tones, and on her i She knew her betrothed had, in some manner, offended her guest. “Nothing mentionable; pray do not allow it to an- noy you. I don't fancy Mr. Casselmaine very much, that’s all.” Maude laughed merrily at Helen’s grim visage. “Nonsense, amie, George is too thoroughly a gen- tleman to cause any lady to dislike him. You may have misconstrued a word he said, for I am positive he never speaks indecorously to any one.” “Tf he were to tell you you were a base betrayer of secrets, and accuse you of loving another person better than your betrothed husband, wouldn’t you take offense at it?” : She looked Maude full in the face as she uttered the treason. Maude’s cheeks flushed an angry scarlet, and her eyes suffused with tears, ; “Helen, Gecrge Casselmaine did not say that?” Her voice quivered as she spoke. “He did. He said he thought you liked Fred Trevlyn better than you did him, and that it was dis- honorable in you—"’ “Helen, Helen, stop. Did he dare call me—Maude Elverton, dishonorable ?” ¢ : Her flashing eyes searched scrutinizingly the im- assive pale face, so haughty and self-assured, be- fos her. The keen y eyes did not falter when they met the fierce glance, nor the cheeks redden as the lips deliberately uttered the falsehood. Helen Joyce looked boldly at Maude. “George Casselmaine not only accused you of being false to him, but he declared the disloyalty was mutual, as the pretty girl at Rose Cottage had won his heart.” Maude’s proud head drooped to the arm of the sofa, and the hot, scalding tears fell copiously over her round white arm. No complaint did she utter, no other sign that she was insulted, outraged in her womanly faithfulness to her future husband—and grandly true she had compelled herself to be, as the reader remembers— - Helen watched her tears with ill-concealed delight. “Tet me part them; let me part him and the mis- erable cottage-girl, and 1 will ag my reward, even if a half-score years pass before nhim. I will marry George Casselmaine, come what may, and he are Feats d repay me the bitter debt he incurred “Helen ” and Maude raised her face again, her eyes tearless, her countenance devoid of traces of her previous emotion, “I am ge Ege indebted to you for your kindness, and I t I appreciate your frien interest in accepting my honor as your own, for I know your anger arose entirely hea my name defamed. “Indeed it did. I am not the eke to sit quietly by, as hear any one speak harshly about my ends.’ Maude laid her head affectionately on Helen’s shoulders. “Dear Helen, I am so thankful you are such a true, fearless woman; so noble and high-principled in Speier ou do or say. George could not have selec 4 more honorable ante for his inion.” or ante has ‘ basely betrayed,’ you r. P “And the con, see,” returned Helen, playfully. ‘“ When told - Gasselmaine I should certainly inform you of our interview, he accused me of nog betrayer of con- fidence, and what lowered him still more in my esti- mation, and will, 1am sure, in yours, threatened to deny, é/ toto, every thing he said, in case you brought him before you; and not that alone, but he said he could turn the tables against me, so it would ap- ee | Z had maligned you, and he indignantly de- ended you.” ‘* Heartless!” ejaculated Maude, as Helen ceased, and stroked her hair lovingly. ‘‘Do not feel em- barrassed, dear Helen, for I Laie tively, you would never speak ill of me. And it is very har think ere should, either.” Helen did not reply, nor did Maude see the almost fiendish smile on_her haughty lips. ** Maude, will I be forgiven fi say something I fear I should not?” “Say any thing you choose; you cannot offend e ” Above Maude’s bowed head Helen’s eyes gleamed delightedly, as shethought: ‘‘ But let me ascertain . md a . 3 rom if Frederic Trevlyn and Maude do reciprocate each other’s love, and [ am on the very path J am’seeking. Then baffle me who may!” Her voice, as she began, was hesitating and half fearful. ‘“‘T must have another promise that I may whisper my Loe alge opinion—or, rather, suspicion—and not offend or distress you in the least. And that, if Lam wrong, you will love me none the less.” ¥ ann have the promise sacredly given. speak.” “Then,” said Helen, lowering her tones until they were low and liquid, ‘then, chere, I think Maude does love Fred cicheyr fame The words were few, but a vivid blush mantled Maude's face as she raised her head. “Why do you think so?” ‘ “Because I know, from good authority, that the handsome master of the Archery loves mge Casselmaine’s betrothed to idolatry; and Maude Elverton can not, for the life of her, avoid returning that love.” She kissed her tenderly. “Helen, promise never to tell a living soul that I do love him as I never shall love again.” A proud light gleamed in her eyes as she nobly confessed her affection. ‘Rest assured of that, cheve. And now, knowing you love each other, may I congratulate you that the barrier is removed? For, of course, your two- fold reason for releasing Mr. Casselmaine will direct you to break the engagement as early as possible.”’ “JT must acquaint mamma and papa with this affair, and see George myself. Of course, I shall dismiss him, for, after what_he has confided to you, I would not wish to become his wife, even if—if—”’ ‘‘ You really loved him,’’ supplied Helen, as Maude hesitated. ‘‘Remember, I caution you against what he may say of me; for, in his wrath that I said I should faithfully repeat every word to you, he un- wittingly said what. he did. So be prepared, dear Maude, to hear me spoken of very harshly, perhaps scandalously. But I trust you know me too well to credit a word.” . ‘Indeed, no one can influence me ye you; you can always believe that I am a true friend, even as I know you are.” 4 Helen pressed her hand affectionately. “T shall have to go home again, for I expect Mr. Winchester to tea; and father is very particular about our punctuality.” She drew her shawl gfe d around her, and put the dainty little hat on her head; then, when she had fastened the kids, she kissed Maude, and went away. Now CHAPTER XIV. s days had elapsed, each passing as th EVERAL days each passing as the other to the itiates of Boece Cottage—each marked by the urgent advice of Mr. Tressel for Ida to accept Andrew Joyce—each occupied in part, at least, by a visit from the gray-haired lover, who begged and implored her sweet consent. But Ida remained indignantly firm. She stoutly persisted in refusing to converse on the disagreeable subject, and the two old gentlemen had at last laid their heads together to concoct some plan whereby their darling scheme should be accomplished. The days had passed, and since his first and only call, Ida had watched in vain for George Cassel- maine’s appearance. From her whité-curtained window: any, dear that he had looked from it— she watched the shady country road, wondering why he did not come; Tee oe were there, if but for a moment, and then chiding herself with es her thoughts to dwell so continually on im. What did George Casselmaine care for her? He had said or done nothing more than any other gentleman would when he admired a . : Then she remembered, with a thrill of exquisite pleasure, the earnest gaze of his fine, dark eyes; the pressure of her hand when he bade her adieu, and the solicited entreaty that they might be friends. From him her thoughts reverted to her persist- ent suitor, whose voice even then reached her ear, and her whole soul went out in a rebellion against the wickedness of the desired alliance. Buried in thought, she took no note of the passing moments, until a sharp knock at their front door awoke her from her reverie. Hetty had already ushered the caller in, and then came to call her. “Tt is the gentleman, honey—the handsome gentleman who was hurt.” A wild throbbing of her glad heart told how welcome the news was to her, and, though her fingers trembled, she hastily made a few changes in her toilet, and went down-stairs. Near the part- opened. door she paused to still the tumultuous | beating of her heart, and collect her senses before she entered; then, firmly, yet enthusiastically, she opened the door. Casselmaine arose to meet her, and taking both hands, led her to the sofa, and then seated himself beside her. “Tt has been so long since I saw you, that I ventured to call again before strict etiquette admits. But I think I am welcome?” : “Very welcome. I wish you had come sooner.” He smiled, and took her little hand, holding it caressingly in his own. “Then I wish it heartily, too. I find my best en- oyment in Pires society, Ida, and many are the ours I would pass at Rose Cottage were I master of my own actions. As it is,my host and family claim, and very properly, a large portion of my time.” ‘** Which every other gentleman envies you for, es- pec‘ally on Maude Elverton’s account.”* “They well may, for she deserves all the praise bestowed upon her. Yet—and I suppose I should not dare speak it—I do not think our marriage will be a happy one.” He spoke absently, and his eyes were far out of the window, on the beautiful expanse of meadow- land that stretched before them. Ida shivered and started, and her cheek paled. Then to her beautiful eyes the tear drops rushed. He did not see her agitation, but he felt the quiv- one of her fingers, and he turned to her. ‘Tt should be happy, I’m sure. Maude is all you could desire, and you—”’ Her voice faltered, but pride came to her rescue. And though his eager, loving eyes were fixed on her chesaeea features, she managed to finish her re- mark. ‘*_You'are quite a favorite with her.” ; ot smiled again, but bitterly this time, as he lis- ened. “Tam glad you think so highly of Miss Elverton’s isted?”’ In his own soul he felt the cruelty of the question, and yet he desired to ascertain if she cared for him. Ida heard his question, and more calmly than she afterward thought possible. . “T did not, Mr. Casselmaine. How should I?” Her gaze was directed from him, and her fingers restlessly pulled a twig of clematis to pieces. “Tthought you were acquainted with Miss Elver- ton; she would have made it no secret.” Ida’s cheek flushed as she repried: “Tam very slightly oe with Miss Maude, but you know,she is an heiress, and J a penniless coment apt. Confidences between such antipodes would be impossible.” She spoke coldly and sp a x “Yet offer you my confidence, Ida, while I am an heir of a larger estate than the Grange.” “Taecount for iton the ground of our mutual friendship.” George read eas ona her sweet, flushed face, and it seemed he loved her thén better than life i i “T think I said my union with Maude would not be a happy one; and, as my little confidante, I tell you why. fear my heart is given to another, a less dowered maiden, but one I dearly love.” For a moment Ida’s breath came in quick spasms, and a sensation of keenest rapture thrilled over her; she raised her eyes timidly, but he was not lookin in her own with the tender, loving look she expected. He was dreamily gazing on the emerald sea without. Little did she know the superhuman effort he was making to keep her name from his lips; little did she know that he resigned her hand from his be- cause he durst not retain it. Soul of honor that George Casselmaine ever was, he would go no fur- ther than drop these hints, so vague and uncertain until a proper time should come, which in his so he felt would come, which he resolved should come. And Ida, when she met no answering beam from his far-away eyes, felt a strange, numbing coldness cree over her, A heavy gh a! settled over her, whic would not be shaken off. She made no reply, and he continued: “T shall depend on you, friend Ida, when I see this beauteous lady-love, for your interest in my behalf. es I depend on it?” is time their eyes met. His not as Ida had dreamed a lover’s ought to be, while he was t to throw all the carelessness possible in their dar depths, so false a mirror of the heart beneath. She forced a smile to her lips, and a light to her aching eyes. And Casselmaine, in the ght of his love, thought she might have divined the hidden meaning of his language. Yet he madenosign. - “Certainly, Mr. Casselmaine. Whatever I can do to serve my friends I gladly undertake.” “Then my errand is accomplished, and I shall return to the Grange. We will see each other in a week at furthest, and then I will beg your interces- sion for me with my sweetheart.” . He took her hand, and raised it respectfully to his ips. At that moment black Hetty opened the door with a flourish, and ushered in two ladies. Maude Elverton and Miss Joyce! They bowed coldly to Ida, and very haughtily to George, who addressed Maude immediately. ‘Miss Elverton, this posing is most opportune. We shall have a pleasant walk home, for I half dreaded the solitary walk.” ; He advanced to her, graceful and unembarrassed, while Helen, blushing and confidential, sat by Ida, whose face was flushed to the hue of the carnation. “Thank you: J think the sudden cna aa of so charming a passage @amour very inopportune.” Maude’s words were bitterly sarcastic. ‘“‘Miss Elverton, as his hostess Iam bound to de- fend my guest. Mr. Casselmaine i perfectly inno- cent of the charge you fing upon him.” f “ Of course; I beg you will not allow our unfortu- nate eniree to annoy you.” ’ Helen Joyce spoke in her scathing tones. Ida blushed, and Casselmaine replied: “Maude, an explanation is due you, which I desire to make to you privately. Will you accompany me tothe Grange? Miss Joyce will remain with Miss Tressel and make the necessary apologies.” His face was flushed from excitement. Maude haughtily accepted the invitation, and to- gether they made their adieux toIda, who was left alone with Helen Joyce. “It is altogether accidental that Maude and I should surprise George here. We were out for a promenade, and stopped for a rest.’ It struck lda uncomfortably that Helen Joyce should of Mr. Casselmaine as ‘‘ George,” and she told her so. ‘ “Bless us, child, doesn’t every ¢irl call her lover presume you knew an engagement ex- | i
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4 Spigcts cS ; Ee to touch his lips to my hand. ‘little cott 40 by his Christian name? Atleast George wishes me to call him so, and he usually addresses me as ‘ Helen’ or ‘ Nellie.’ ” Her viper-like eyes were fastened on Ida’s pale face, eager to read the thought that flitted across it. Ida laughed, but Helen knew it was a fearfully forced laugh. “ Why, yousurprise me beyond measure. I thought Mr. Casselmaine wa3 engaged to Maude Elverton?”’ “So he was,’’ responded Helen, lightly, folding plait after plait in Ida’s white apron; “so he is con- sidered still. But he and Maude mutually annulled the betrothal, and I think Maude will ma: Mr. Trevlyn. And George was only too glad to be re- ‘naan for he confessed to having loved me—me, Ida, isn’t it strange?—ever since he saw me.”’ A maidenly blush of modesty spread over the face of the traitress. “He seemed very ill at ease before Maude, did he not? I think it was she who corrected him for ven- es, it was Mande,”’ returned Helen. ‘She thinks he should have been more loyal tome. But I haven’t the least objection in the world. I am con- tent to know that I shall be his wife, and then—oh! the different times we will see at the Villa! Iintend to change the order of things in a style that will as- tonish my old. father.”’ The dutiful daughter nodded toward the porch where her father and Mr. Tressel sat. t “T saw him talking to your father when I came past. He comesevery day, doesn’t he? I heard him say he thought a great deal of Mr. Tressel.” da remained silent; a dreadful gloom filled her heart. She saw no ray of light in the future, no leam of hope. Everything was shut away from er, and the one glorious dream of life and love had flown forever: “T guess I had better walk on after them,” re- marked Helen. ‘I see Mr. pe coming down the road, and as he will walk by Maude, of course George will want me.” Carelessly she drew her sacque around her shape- ly shoulders, and bade Ida adieu. CHAPTER XV. ; THE PROMISE. ALonge in her own room, Ida walked the floor in silent, speechless agony. In the few hours that had ela, since she been almost stunned by the sudden revelation of George’s betrothal to Helen Joyce, her sorrow had taken the form of taciturnity. Her cheeks had assumed a haggard paleness, and her eyes a supernatural brightness. That night, after Andrew Joyce had departed, ithout seeing her, as usual, her father called her to come down-stairs. Obedient and sternly silent she entered his presence. He was kind and gentle, and took her in his arms, tenderly as if she had been a little child. “Ida, my daughter, I heard all that Helen said. God pity ous God help you, my poor child, in your i ef, He stroked her hair dow inety and with fatherly caresses, SO unusual now, in these latter days, when he had urged upon her the perpen teats of the pro- poviga se iage. Her tears, that had been sealed or the last four hours, fell in torrents at sound of his kind words, and she laid her weary head on his shoulder. sf Father, father, I loved him so—ay, i love him WwW. “But he has trified with you, my child, you see, and the best you can do will be to tear his image from your heart, and cease to remember him.” __, “T cannot, I never can! You know not what you ask. His memory can never leave me, never be effaced. Oh, father, I wish I was dead.” Her form shook under the conflicting emotions that struggled in her breast. ‘ “Not so, my Ida. This sudden, and to you pain- ful event seems to me most auspicious and providen- tial. You know to what I refer?” She started seo away from him and disen- gaged her hand from his. Do not desecrate this hour, I beg, by such an allusion. Let me bury my old love before you intro- duce the new lover.” Old Mr. Tressel wiped the tears from his eyes. “Be that as you will, my child. Mourn over your faithless—” ‘He was not faithless,” she interrupted, eagerly. “He never loved me—it is I, only I, who loved—loved unbidden, unasked, uncared for.” Her exquisite mournfulness, and the quivering of the paLid lips were pitiful to behold, and her father Le his head aside, to avoid the sight of her Like a pale, broken lily she moved about the ‘ e, followed by her father’s watchful eyes, and faithful Hetty’s glistening ones. After she had mechanicall. prepared the simple pai ol and Hetty had left them alone, she drew her foot- stool to her father’s side. ' They were sitting on the porch, in the September moonlight, cool and delicious. Quiet and fragrance from the dew-laden flowers filled the atmosphere, and the charm stole into Ida’s soul with a strange, subduing influence. She laid her head on his knee, and took his wrinkled hand in hers. “Father, we will talk this affair over; we will settle it finally, to-night. First, I will candidly tell you, 1 am utterly opposed to the marriage, and regard it at this moment as I did a fortnight ago when Andrew Joyce first mentioned it.’’ She paus: a moment, and then, finding her father evidentl expecting her to fully define her ground, continued: “TY confess, father, I loved George Casselmaine,”’ her lips quivered when she spoke the loved name, “and the knowledge of that love rendered my gray- se SE ee eee————————————————E————————e——————E————eE——— EEE ———————— ES ee ee See Tee ee ee ee ee Se SS ee ee HIS IDOL, ae haired suitor more repulsive than he would ordi- narily have seemed, by comparing him with another —so young, graceful and handsome. But now my love-dream is over, I will hear your oft-repeated reasons why I should marry Andrew Joyce. I am calm, my mind free from floating dreams of what might ean — en.”” “T told you, child, that your suitor would sell our roof over our heads the day you forever cast him off. He does not regard himself finally rejected, and has unbounded confidence in your compassion for him, no less than a proud consciousness that any woman would be proud to be installed mistress of the magnificent Villa. By the way, Ida,’’ he inter- polated, eagerly, “‘you would have a splendid chance of revenging yourself on that upstart Helen. You would ride over her head, for Andrew swears every wish of. yours shall be sacred, every request promptly nted.”’ “T would be Helen’s stepmother, and George’s stepmother-in-law,” she remarked, quietly, with no suspicion of a smile on her lips. ‘* Just so,” returned Mr, Tressel, delighted at her willingness to listen to this loved pn ign ““Mr. Joyce is old, to be sure, but finely educated, wealthy and influential. is char- acter is above reproach, his position enviable, his jewels, carriages, horses, plate, furniture and man- sion the finest far and near.” “His form bent and decrepit, his eyes dim and sunken, his hair white, his knees tottering,” added Ida, still calmly severe. “You must not expect great personal accomplish- ments in a man as old as I, Ida; but remember a younger lover could not offer the princely wedding- gifts Andrew Joyce will give you.” . . “Father, look me in the face; straight in the eyes. and tell me if itis your heartfelt wish, your mos cherished desire, to see me, young and fresh, mar- ried to that man?” She raised her face to his—her clear, calm, truth- ful eyes to his. He returned the look, as calmly, as pha “ IT speak from my heart, Ida, when I say, if I know my own soa gene I attend to my daughter’s best interests, that there is no news on earth would lease me better than to learn you had accepted An- ew Joyce for 8 as husband.’ Ida uttered a little ery as the words fell on her un- willing ears. “He will be kind to you, Ida, kind and dutiful; kind and loving.” She shivered at the last words, and raised her hands as if to beat something off. i ‘‘ Don't, father, don’t! I can’t bear to think of A solemn silence intervened; then she lifted her tearful face. “Ts this inevitable, my father? Must I bow my head in obedience to this act from which all my na- ture shrinks in horror? Oh, father, tell me I have your consent to send him away when he comes ‘ain, finally and forever!”’ r. Tressel’s lips compressed tightly, and his eyes assumed their cold, steely expression. “There is no hope, my daughter. I have sworn ou shall marry him, and I know you dare not vio- ate my sacred vow.” Ida replied not a word. Her hands fell gradually from her father’s knee, and her graceful head bowed to her breast. The bitter stroke had fallen on her, and left her in hopeless desolation, stricken and dis- pen Mr. Tressel eagerly followed up his last words. “Ida, you see George Casselmaine will m an- other. You know we are poverty-stricken i u dare refuse. You know all that awaits us both if you consent. Will you do it? May I tell Andrew Joyce my daughter ac:epts him?” ‘ ‘or a moment she stood, stony and still, her head thrown defiantly back, her eye gazing wildly down the moonlit road. Then her answer came, sounding like a voice from the grave: “Tell Andrew Joyce I will see him to-morrow af- ternoon, If after that interview he still desires to claim me, I will accept him.” She shivered, and then, staggering and moaning in her wretched grief, repaired to her sleepless vigils. CHAPTER XVI. A WOMAN’S RESOLVE. CLARE TREVLYN sat in her splendid boudoir, and ear her, her faithful companion and friend, Ks- er. “Yes, my friend, I saw his home, the very place where he lives year after year, a lonely, solitary man, and I, his wife, so far away from him. I saw the bed he sleeps in; I kissed the pillow and laid my cheek on it. I saw his toilet-case with the delicate perfumes he loves so well, his shaving apparatus— oh, Esther, was it wrong because I wept over them all?’ She bowed her beautiful h on her fair — while the stern woman opposite smiled bit- rly. “And he curses you with every breath he draws.” “Esther, no. Frederic Trevlyn does.not curse his wife, dares not! He knows I love him, and he may ridicule my weakness, but curse me—meé, Effie’s mo- ther, never !*” Her sweet face was full of wifely pride and wo- manly dignity. E “But, Esther, although I am neglected, deserted, despised, remember the cause. Remember I was foolishly angry, and would not give the explanation I should have given, which he, as my usband, could have demanded. I was wrong there, Esther.’ The plain, homely mouth parted sternly again. “Wrong to kiss that other, that handsome, noble gentleman? wrong to refuse the insolent demand . a; es F's ¥ ze , a b we re eee, ee ee aL ea ett Frederic Trevlyn made when he saw you put your arms around his neck, and lay your head on his shoulder? Vo, a hundred times, no!” ““ Your advice arises from fg he eae opinion, Es- ther. You liked my husband in the first months of our married life, I am sure.” “Yes, I admit that, for then he used you as a wife deserves to be used. Then he came from his busi- ness to his home like other men, and you were happy —until that night.” Esther’s brow contracted angrily at a memory that recurred to her. ; “Yes, I was happy until that night,” repeated Clare, eagerly, ‘‘And since then I’ve never known a moment of happiness. Oh, Esther,. you little dream of the anguish of mind I’ve endured.” “Don’t I know the sleepless nights, the restless days? don’t I remember the pleadings of yours—the + eee ae refusals of his? I think I know very well what misery must be yours.” ‘Frederic is of a jealous disposition, Fsther, and what I innocently intended as a joke has separated us forever, I fear.” ; Her plaintive tones fell on no pitying ear, for Esther Waring felt no emotion but indignation for the wrongs of her beautiful mistress and friend. _ “But, Esther, you know I am resolved to win him back again, if Tam possibly capable of it. I hardly know how to proceed, unless you, Esther, can pro- pose a plan.” ‘Mrs. Trevlyn, you had better remain just as you are, than attempt what must ultimately end in mor- tification and regret. P Clare shook her head decidedly. **No; I am determined to change the course of my life, and that immediately. Ithink to throw off the cloak of reserve that covers us, and open our man- sion to guests, give entertainments, attend parties, frequent the opera and theater, will be the mo natural as well as successful step toward the accom- plishment of my project.” “* And if the liege refuses the money wherewith to conduct such an establishment, then what?” Esther spoke ironically, and Olare threw her a se- vere, reproving glance. “You forget Iam Trevlyn’s wife, Esther, and wili not allow further harsh remarks about him, Be- sides, you remember my small fortune will main- : i e most extravagant style for two years at. east.” She arose proudly, and opened the exquisite little: case on her dressing bureau. “These diamonds alone, Esther, will bring fifty thousand dollars.” —_ wound them about her snowy neck and wrists. ; “Splendid !’? she murmured, reviewing the reflec- tion in her mirror, “Tam beautiful, accomplished, wealthy, but what matters it all when my husband does not love me— my ie husband, who refuses to hear my vindica- ion?’ Slowly she removed the glittering gems and re- placed them in the ruby velvet ete7i, and then sunk _ wearily on the damask panes. ‘“Yes, Esther,” she said, after a long silence, ‘* we will open the house, and issue cards for my recep- tion. Ifthe people think I am a widow, let them think so; better that than be a deserted wife.”” hae. she added the last few words. : ‘*T will order the dressmaker to have a suitable dress, and ha may attend to the supper-table. See - that every thing is the finest and best, and let the table be gotten up regardless of expense. Hsther folded ae the ruffled apron she was mak- ing, and silent and stern descended to superintend the arrangements. The cards were yd eg and by a strange coinci- dence she emerged from her retirement the same day, the same hour, that her husband received his guests at the Archery. : Her elegant parlors were filled with the élite of Philadelphia; her music was the sweetest heard at any previous reception; her supper the most deli- Nie her entire entertainment the most satisfac- ry. Renowned eetee were there, whom other invita- tions from other parties had failed to bring, and it seemed as if the goddess Queen herself had laid her best tribute at Clare Trevlyn’s feet that night. Flushed and handsome, yet withal dignified and charming, she moved a veritable queen among her guests, admired by all, envied by many, a mystery to not afew. Her sudden appearance created a /urore, which added to a fresh-blooming beauty, lent new attrac- tions to the lovely lady. Evidently her letters of introduction had been first-class, for the very best citizens of Philadelphia attended her levee. Thus her debut was a glorious success, and even Esther’s hard face relaxed in a smile as she saw the adulation offered to her darling. Of all the guests was one gentleman whose per- sonal appearance was strikingly handsome, who was at once the admiration of every lady in the room. He was a stranger to Mrs. Trevlyn, and a stranger to her guests, with but one exception. _ Senator Rowe had i m, as the guest of his own family. As Senator Rowe’s friend he was cor- dially received. The party had arrived late, and the hostess had not yet received their compliments. For a moment Clare was at liberty, and the handsome old gentle- man, accompanied by his wife and their guest, ap- proached her. The greetings over, the senator presented his com- anion. P “Mrs, Trevlyn, my dear madam, allow me to in- troduce my young friend and nephew, Mr. Cas- ¥ afr
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: . I L a ee ae ee? | ge aie ee ig ‘HIS IDOL. selmaine. He is just returned from Judge EI- verton’s old Grange, near New York, and I could not permit him to tarry at my house this evening while we were away. I brought him along. He is not a well man, I see by his face, and hope this visit will do him no harm.” The kindly old man rattled away as if no formality were necessary. “T am happy to meet him—very happy. His late residence entitles him to more than ordinary consid- eration, as Judge Elverton’s place is very near the home of a dear relative of mine,” Mr. Casselmaine bowed in return. “There are several residences contiguous to the Grange, which are occupied by friends of mine. I did not entirely understand your name, dear mad- am, or I could instantly divine to which you refer.” The carmine deepened on her cheek, and she low- bag her e ae boy. fins mnie? rs. Trevlyn, my boy, Mrs. Clare Trevlyn,”’ re- turned Mr. Rowe, in explanation. He raised his head, with a quick, eager motion. “You mean Frederic Trevlyn, of the Archery?” ‘“‘-Yes,’? she whispered, hoarsely, ‘‘ I mean him.” The sounding music called her away, and George Casselmaine followed her graceful figure, lost ina maze of bewilderment. Mrs, Trevlyn? Who was she? CHAPTER XVII. JANUARY AND JUNE. In order to fully and satisfactorily explain the en of Maude Elverton’s betrothed at Mrs, vlyn’s reception on the day when Frederic Tre- velyn also held his first levee, we will retrace our steps a few days, to the period where we left Ida Eins after her interview with her inexorable arent. 3 Punctual to the hour of his daily coming, Andrew Joyce arrived at Rose Cottage. r. Tressel met him at the door; they exchanged a few words which delighted them both very much, for a brightness lighted their countenances as they entered the room, and Mr. Tressel bade Hetty sum- moniIda. Pale as death, but calm and collected, she entered their presence, and gravely bowed to Mr. J once, then sat quietly beside her father. Mr. Tressel broke the embarrassing silence. “T told Mr. Joyce, my child, the message you in- trusted to me.” , She nodded gently in reply. *“ And Mr, Joyce, thinks it entirely unnecessary to repeat the extreme satisfaction, the heartfelt joy our decision has given him,’’ remarked Mr. Joyce imself, ‘‘My beautiful Ida, I am the happiest man living, for I have won the lovely Ida Tressel for my wife, the peerless crown of my declining ears. . She bowed her head, as if in acceptance of his graceful compliment. “ But, Mr. Joyce, I think when you hear what I have to say, what I sent for you to say, you will re- tract your offer, and leave me free.” Mr. Joyce rubbed his soft, white hands gleefully together, and smiled cheerfully. ‘Do not fear you will offend me, my dear, Say on, say on.” ; She raised her face to his, burning with blushes, the eyes filled with tears. “T told you once before I loved another; I tell you the same to-day. You take a heart that in none of its recesses has a niche foryou. I make this humil- iating avowal to you, of all men, because I believe you recall your sult, do you not? You give me my berty, do you not?” Her utiful, pleading face and clasped hands enamored him but the more. “IT admire, I deeply appreciate your confidential avowal, for it is a tribute to my sympathy for you, In return may your sweet confidence give me the right to ask you if your love is reciprocated?’ A vivid, ‘ul hue spread over her neck and face, even her fair hands, while her lips refused to frame the reply. At last, when she could, she spoke, low and pit- eously. “‘No, no; he does not even know I care for him." Her burning tears feli unheeded on her snow- white dress. “Then, my dear child, I see no reason why I should release you. Indeed, my great love for you will soon make up for any thing you have suffered on his account—and. you know you had better be my darling than his slave.”’ - Her heart almost stood still while he spoke. “Then you will not be merciful, and refuse to accept me?” She spoke hoarsely, and a new light, a hidden fierce fire shone in her eyes. | “No, I cannot—no, I will not relinquish my treasure.” She caught his arm, and clutched it tightly be- tween her quiveriug fingers—so tightly that he winced with pain. ; : “Andrew Joyce, if L yield, it is because I am forced to yield! forced by a bleeding heart which dare not struggle any donger | forced by circumstan- ces I blush to mention—which would otherwise drive me and ny gray-haired father homeless into the world. But, Andrew Joyce, in yielding, I_say— woe to you! I have plead with my father, I have entreated you, I have condescended to lay my poor torn heart to your view, and you refuse the balm of healing. I ce not a) you, I cannot even tolerate ou—l pray I may not hate you.” vf The words came hissin: trom between her teeth, and her form towered defiantl and. bl br a hated me to dente t would not give u 4 "ire in his aged eyes, the strange resolution in we ~~ His ou ‘ The carriage. his aged voice, thrilled her with unutterable horror, and a cry rung from her lips. “Be it as you say; but, as I say, believe, your triumph will bring you no satisfaction, no glory. In becoming your wife—no, in becoming Mrs, Joyce —I become what I never was before, a hunted woman, who has sold her pepe for a roof to sleep under; who has wrecked her whole life’s hap- iness for her gray-haired father’s sake. Andrew oyee, I hold my word inviolate; but you will regret this hour—the hour when you ever saw Ida Tressel!” Lifting her proud head in conscious dignity, she swept from the room, casting a glance of withering pip ae on the admiring old man by her father’s side. ey sat for an hour arranging the prelimina- ries to the wedding, which the entranced lover was desirous of consummating immediately. Mr. Tres- sel knew of no reason to prevent, and Mr. Joyce said the Villa would be ready for the bride at an hour’s notice. f This was communicated to Ida, who listened with quiet scorn. “Being but a tool in sume to differ from you. So the ceremony, to be quietly and simply conduc- ted, was arranged for the next ay. There were no strangers but the pastor of the little country church; Hetty was the witness, and her father gave her away. The moment the farce was over—so did it seem to her—without waiting for congratulations or her father’s blessing, she turned to Mr. Joyce: “Sir, I have preparations to make this evening before I am able to take up my residence at my future home, which will prevent my giving you or my father my com fe t will take Hetty and I till the mornin qantas to arrange my wardrobe; to-morrow, then, you may, if you see fit, call for peat 0 accompany you to the Villa. Until then, She bowed sternly, and ascended to her room, whither Hetty followed. The ag Teing tia smiled compassionately. “Let her have her own way. To-morrow I’ll come for her.” He repaired to his home alone, to return on the following day for his bride. All that night she and her faithful colored woman passed in arranging her clothing and little knick- nacks preparatory to her final departure from the home of her childhood uickly, and with a sink- your hands, I shall not pre- The hours passed all too ing heart she saw the faint flushes of the sunrise in the pearl gray east. The breakfast was silently dispatched, and her trunks strapped and locked on the sunny little porch where she had passed so many happy hours. All things were in readiness, an th her sad face turned away from the direction to the Villa, she waited her husband’s risa 8 Not long did she wait, for, before the noonday the rig ed barouche of Andrew Joyce drove grandly up to their low, vine-wreathed door, and the pompous footman, in his blue and silver-tasseled livery, sprung to assist the old man down, He was dressed in his finest suit of black broad- cloth; his ym ge cuffs and collar, his massive gold watch-chain, his ene beaver-hat met her aze, as Ida looked forth from the half-opened oor. He came slowly to the room where she sat, and extended his hand to salute her, but she drew back, and then went in advance to the door. Her father and Hetty followed the couple to the my wife—Mrs. Joyce, boys. Arnold, assist your lady in.” The footman and coachman raised their hats in omg amazement, and Arnold officiously banded er in, then held the door open to await his master. “We will drive over often, ‘Tressel; and whenever the carriage comes vacant you will understand you must return in it.’’ He shook hands with his near relative, and Tres- sel found the deed of their home in his palm. He smiled to his daughter, who carelessly nodded; to old Hetty she gave a parting glance of rateful remembrance; then her husband was helped into the bi hp. and they drove off. Mr. Joyce was talkative and pleasant; Ida stern and reticent. From his conversation she learned the marriage was still a profound secret from every one, and her lip curled with scornful contempt when she remembered the insult her daughter-in-law, two Vien her senior, had offered her, and in this hour of lighted joys: blasted hopes, she felt to revenge her for her share of her own unhappiness. ‘““T am not Ida Tressel, serene and happy. [am Ida Joyce, stern and crushed.”’ They drove up the wide carriage-path, and stopped before the open doors of the Villa. At the gorgeous curtains that shaded the plate- glass windows, the pure marble floor of the vesti- bule, the solid silver knobs and sill, she vouchsafed notaglance, She did not realize she was entering her own home, elegant and costly, but she only re- membered it was her gilded prison. At the door a portly woman met them, who looked with astonishment at the simply-clad girl beside her master. “This is the new mistress of the Villa, Mrs. Bond, My young bride, my wife.”” e housekeeper courtesied deeply, and then con- gratulated Ida. : ‘Show her to the suite on the south side, and have Jeannie sent up to wait on her. Mrs, Bon have a be dinner prepared, and tell my children I wish to see them at one precisely in my library, Do not breathe a word of what you know.’ , a ‘4 eeend received her orders, and departed to obey em. In a moment a tap on_the door announced the arrival of the maid Mr. Joyce had sent for. She was a pleasant-looking girl, about twenty-two or three, and in her blue eyes Ida found a world of ayaa “This will be your new lady, my good Jeannie, and your exclusive business is to serve her faith- fully. You know I told you yesterday I should bring my wife home soon, so you are ready to re- ceive her. Show Mrs. Joyce the dresses that were sent last night, and see that you faithfully attend to all she directs.”’ Jeannie bowed in return, and Ida acknowl his kind thoughtfulness by a frigid bend of queenly head. She started to follow Jeannie, but her husband laid his hand on her sleeve. “Tda, my dear, my wife, I have done every thing I could think of to make your home agreeable to you. I am old, child, old and foolish, and you are young, and fresh and blooming. But, as God hears me, my little frightened wife—as God hears me, I swear to regard your every wish; I swear to do all that lays within my power to make you happy and contented. My children shall respect you, my ser- vants shall obey you. My house, my purse, m: heart are yours; do with them as you see fit, All ask of you is, to bear with the old man.” ae raised her hand to his lips, and then let it fall gently. The tears oe to Ida's eyes as she followed Jeannie up the wide, broad stairs, whose thick vel- vet carpet returned no echo of their footfall. Past room after room, whose doors, half ajar, dis- closed the costly wealth of their varied decorations, she went, until, on the front of the second floor Jeannie paused and fitted the oats The polished silver knob yielded to her hand, and mistress and servant entered the spacious and ae. nificent apartment. It was every inch a bridal- chamber, and from it opened another smaller ak fitted for her private boudoir; and beyond this st another, expressly for herself, all adorned in the most luxurious manner. Jeannie followed Ida’s admiring glance, and smiled with pardonable pride. “Tt is magnifique, madame, and monsieur is ve fortunate in securing so petite and charming a wife to occupy it. ‘Will madame be so good as to exam- ine the robes, monsieur ordered yesterday? They are charmant robes; will madame view them?” e pleasant French girl unlocked the rosewood wardrobe, and laid the elegant dresses upon the bed for Ida to see. Almost confused by their number, and dazzled by their beauty, she turned them over. “These are handsome, all, but I prefer the dress I brought. Itisa wine-colored silk, and will answer very well for aninformal dinner.” rora her trunk, which the footman carried up, she took her only silk, new a few weeks before. She put it on, and the set of rich old lace her mother had worn before her in their better days. A plain, yet exquisitely beautiful set of turquoise jewelry completed Be aot te, and when Jeannie surveyed her she enth cally pronounced her “naryaite ! charmante/” CHAPTER XVIII. MUTUAL FRIENTS. THe walk from Rose Cottage to the Grange w: not the most delightful lovers’ promenade ever en- joyed. The moment Maude and George had passed be- yond the gate that led from Mr. Tressel’s littl ower-garden to the country road, she turned un- hesitatingly toward him. “ George, take your ring; I return you your troth; we are free!”’ He saw the outstretched hand holding the heavy circlet he had placed on the slender finger a few weeks before, but he glanced in sheer amazement from it to her face. “Maude, what does it mean? Why do you return me my ring, my liberty?” His eyes eagerly searched her lofty face, and she met his look. * You ask me why, George? Do you not know?” “T protest Ido not. Havel, in word or deed ”*— he almost added “ thought *—“‘done anything to call for this sudden termination of our engagement?” “Have you?” She only turned his question on himself. Despite his efforts, a scarlet hue crept to his cheek, for he remembered Ida. “There is no possible use for us to pretend igno- rance longer, orge, pit by J this love affair, You do not care for me, and you have said Ido not care for you. Be that as it may, the only alterna- tive is to annul our betrothal.”’ “You say, ‘ve that as it may,’ Maude, meaning ba regard for another. Tell me, do you desire to reak our en, vs Settee Tell me truly.” Her eyes fell before his earnest gaze, and the deli- eate color faded and then glowed on her cheeks again. He took her hand tenderly. “We are friends, the best oF friends, Maude; therefore let us, in a friendly manner, di: this subject eg 9 ou offer me my ring, thus annulling our vows, Lask you in all sincerity, in all kindness, why ?” Tis tones were low and soothing, and as Maude listened, she wondered if, after all, Helen had been mistaken. “George, I will answer you as as I am able. I think—nay, I know—you love another better than oulove me. That alone is a sufficient inducement urge me to break the engagement. Besides, you er
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iA Aa 4 42 te HIS IDOL. should be preserved from marrying the woman you in your soul believe is cherishing some one that is not yourself. These are my reasons.” ile she was speaking a new light had slowly il- lumined his dark eyes; as she finished, an angry flame burned in them. “Maude Elverton, let your accusation be your ac- cuser. You say I believe you cherish another where I should be regarded. Maude, I never said it—but, Maude, I ask—do you not ?” Her truthful eyes fell beneath his piercing glance. : Confess to me, first; your affection for Ida Tres- se. ie. He started at mention of her name. ‘*Tda Tressel! Maude, what do you know of her?” “That she is pretty and lady-like; a girl that any man might be proud to woo and win.” She followed her prompt words. by her rare smile. “George Casselmaine, Ida Tressel is worthy of you. Were she the heiress of brcad lands and a grand estate, she would be sought by the proudest of our citizens, As it is, he who has the courage to take her from comparative poverty and obscurity, and ta her on his level of influence, will never re- gret the day he does it.” aoe still toyed with her white fingers as they walked along. **She loves you, too; it is written on every line of her face. I give youyour full liberty, friend George. Now, take this ring and place it on Ida’s finger.” ‘ain she handed it to him, but he refused it. “You are generous, womanly, Maude, and I ad- mire you as I never did before. In return, may I question you as closely?” She made no reply, but he inferred from her de- meanor that Helen J he had spoken truly when Pod eo Maude thought a great deal of Frederic revlyn. ‘Let me ask, Maude, in the same charitable spirit that has characterized our interview, if you do not love, a thousand-fold more than me, the handsome owner of the marble building yonder?”’ H> pointed to the gleaming observatory of the Archery, so like a white cloud among the green tree- S aude’s heart gave a great bound, then seemed stilled to suffocation. She felt the decisive moment had come, and with her own hand she would now remove the barrier existing between Frederic Trev- lyn and herself. Not for worlds would she have broken her engage- ment with C ine had she never heard from Helen Joyce the words the reader remembers; and now that both were mutually offering their best af- fections at other shrines, she rejoiced inwardly at the knowledge. Yet the maidenly blush of modesty sprung to her fair white neck and face as the question reminded her that she must confess a love never yet asked of her, if she would answer him as candidly as she knew he expected. But a happy light gleamed in her lovely eyes, for, although unspoken, she knew Fred Trevlyn loved her. ‘George,’ she. returned, at length, after a long use, while the autumn wind sighed melodiously 7 through the branches over them, ‘‘ George, I will ac- _ knowledge it to you. Iopen my whole heart to you. -- You will sacredly guard my precious secret, will you not? George, I do love, with all my heart, all my might, Frederic Trevlyn.” ’ e held her hand and grasped it warmly. “My dear Maude, your sweet confidence demands my heartfelt answer—that, though I resign one of the noblest women living, 1 claim for my bride her I love best and fondest.” He kissed her hand respectfully, and then their embarrassment was over. “Tt is a strange affair, this mutual retreating from each other. But both of us will be happier, Maude, far happier. You with your chosen one, I with my darling Ida. Yet we are friends, true friends, and will be forever.” _ She assured him on the subject, as she, for the last time, offered him the ring. “T take it, a pledge of friendshipfrom you; atoken of love for another.” The sound of approaching footsteps disturbed them. Maude turned, and a sudden bloom on her face told George who was approaching them. Frederic Trevlyn rapidly neared them, and just as he reached them, Helen Joyce came up by a shorter route, and the quartette entered the Grange gates. CHAPTER XIX. : TEMPTED. Never had Maude Elverton been more bewitch- ingly beautiful than she appeared that afternoon and as her stern, silent lover gazed after her aceful form, his heart grew cold and faint when he re- membered her charms were not for him. The excitement of her recent interview with eee: Casselmaine had lent a happy, light to her beautiful eyes, and hightened the rich bloom on her cheek, while every pulsation of her heart throbbed to the tune of freedom to love whom she pleased. Iv her blissfulness, she felt assured that now. when Frederic Trevlyn knew George had relea her, he would fly to her side, and speak the words she was so anxious ‘to hear. His determination had solemnly been to hold no more communication with her, for he fully realized his inability to meet the fierce temptation that came upon him in her presence; and mood grew sterner and sterner every passing moment, while Maude became more and more bewilderingly charm- ing. Gusackenatag could not but detect Trevlyn’s agita- tion, and in the fullness of his heart, no less than a fervent desire to serve Maude to the utmost of his power, he resolved to seek an interview with him. | two years before, he had never opened hi A sudden summons from Mrs. Elverton to the ladies favored him in his purpose, and, without any preliminary skirmish, he at once addressed Trevlyn. Frederic had watched Maude narrowly when she left the room, and his gaze was still on the vacant spot she had occupied, when Casselmaine spoke to m: “Mr, Trevlyn, will you_pardon my seeming bold- ness if I ask you if Miss Elverton is not very dear to ou?”’ A haughty bend of his head and a fierce gleam in his eyes was the answer Frederic vouchsafed. “Do not be affronted, I beg, for, believe me, my sole object is your happiness and her own.” “My happiness and hers, Mr. Casselmaine? What can we two possibly have in common?” “That I can not undertake to say. I merely, as a true friend and well-wisher, and not as Miss Elver- ton’s lover, mention to you that I shall not stand in your way of winning her.” r A bright smile, preceded by a struggle in his inmost soul, lighted Frederic’s pale pace, and he ex- tended his hand enthiasiastioally. ‘“Thank you, thank you. You have then released her, because—because what?” he asked, suddenly. ‘“Because both our welfares demand it. Because Maude Elverton does not love me—because she loves another, and because I love another.” “* Sufficient reasons, I should say, for your actions. you must be a strange man, to not love, worship er... ‘ Casselmaine returned his glance with a smile. “You are not grieved, Mr. Trevlyn, that such is the case?”’ Msielqas rose from his chair in desperation. Never before had the temptation come so overwhelmingly upon him to cast aside the fetters that crue chained him down, He walked rapidly to and fro, torn by these violent emotions, in which the right was sure to come up. if not for a long while; if the wrong were indulged first, the right was sure to finally reign. Suddenly he caught George’s hand. ‘‘She is the star of my stormy existence, the idol of my lonely life. And yet I dare not, oh, my God, I dare not win her!’ On his forehead stood great drops of perspiration, as he wrung Casselmaine’s hand, who returned the fierce pressure in sympathetic pity. “T do not presume to refute your words, Mr. but I certainly may be allowed to assure ou that your success will certain. I will not tray confidence, even to relieve your apprehen- sions, but 1 am positive you will never regret, if you woo and win Maude Elverton.” “T know she loves me—can not my loving eyes read her heart? Did not my soul predict these longin: peu long weeks ago, when first I knew her? Sir, I have sat by, and with scorching heart and freezing brain saw her lovely hand rest in yours, no the bewildering intoxication of her smile, the glorious sunshine of her eyes. I haveseen all this, and cursed myself that I was not the happy lover of this peerless woman.” ‘His voice grew h with the storm. raging within, and he bowed his head on his ¢ ed hands, ‘*You say yours has been a loveless, lightless life; then why, when this glorious ray of sunshine comes to gladden and cheer the gloom, do you refuse to accept it? Why grope deeper into the ee et when, at your bidding, the noonday sun wil) illumine your pat oN “Oh, do not tempt me! you know not what you say ! Maude is not for me; she is too good, too pure, too holy for me.” Casselmaine heard the groan that issued from his pallid lips, but he turned coldly away. piel: not intrude further. But if Maude Elver- ton’s affections are crushed forever through your stubborn will or false pride, you will be the wretched cause,” Trevlyn raised his head to look after him, and a smile, icy and ee een on his handsome face. ‘‘ Stubborn will—false pride—oh, Heavens, if that were all!”’ From the room adjoining came the musical melody of Maude'’s voice, as her merry laugh sounded through the open casement. He listened gre i Yi; “* Why should I, as he said, cast off the last chance of happiness left to me? Why should I suffer for another’s sins?” The wayward thoughts wowd rankle in his heart, and, we must confess, found an abundant entrance there. His better nature hovered hesitatingly over him, while into his soul crept the longing for the for- bidden joys he craved. “Yes,” he said, and his ve gleamed wildly as he reviewed the scene before him. ‘I will be no fool to grope in this useless gloom, when Maude Elverton’s hand will guide me.” , He would woo her; he would kiss her as his ay heart said he would be kissed. He would pour his love-words in her ear, and listen to her murmuring avowal. And then—? ; Then he was not Frederic Trevlyn, noble, upright, honorable; he was a sinful man, deserted by his poaen spirit, led at will by his wicked human eart. CHAPTER XX. THE FLOOD TIDE. THanks to good Mrs. Holeombe’s management, the splendid apartments of the Archery were in their best condition for the reception of the dozen guests who accepted Frederic Trevlyn’s invitation. The affair was an unparalleled one in the annals of his history among them. Since his so, i cached ouse a guest, traveler or friend, and the only stranger who ever entered the marble walls had been, in the first year of his residence there, a beautiful woman of fairy-like appearance, who need not be the mystery to our reader which she was to the neigh- bors, for Clare Trevlyn, until Mrs. Holcombe’s days, had frequently visited her husband's home. It had been under an assumed name, and for brief periods, that Frederic Trevlyn ailowed her to come. After a time he had grown to distrust her more and more, and all communication was stopped. No one had invaded his privacy for many a long day, and now the families in the vicinity were re- joicing over his change of mind. Carpenters had been at work during the fortnight previous, and upholsterers from the city had super- intended several of the rooms, and now its stern, haughty owner walked carelessly to and fro in the long, marble-floored hall. “Tam thankful the Grange party promised to be present first,”’ he repeated, his attention directed to- ward the road by which they would arrive. He had been in a state of feverish excitement ever since his interview the day but one before with George Cassel- maine, and as the hour approached when he knew he would tell Maude his love, he became intolerably restless. At four o’clock they came, the dignified doctor and his elegant wife; George Casselmaine and Maude. Maude’s dress was superlatively becoming; a simple white Marseilles, with a natural rosebud at the lace collar, and asecond in the luxuriant masses of her hair. She was bewilderingly oe too, and her lover gazed by ies upon her eloquent face. “The hery is a most delightful place, Mr. Trev- lyn—just the ideal spot of mine, where one might orever pass his days in perfect, perpetual happi- ness.”’ Frederic looked wonderingly at her. Was_ it possible she had thus opened a chance for his avowal? He decided instantly as he looked at her admiring face as it viewed the beauteous objects that met them at every turn. He essayed to speak, but his language failed him, and silently he walked on beside her. They were alone, entirely alone, in his rare garden, where flowers and perfumes mingled their beauty. The air was soft and balmy; the sunshine shone Seta blue, and hung in misty radiance over the ndscape. These lovely attributes of nature were not without their effect upon the two, as, arm-in-arm, they walked along the box-bordered path. Abruptly, almost fiercely, Frederic Trevlyn loosed Maude’s arm, and stepped before her. “Maude Elverton, did you know I loved you?” e had not uttered the words, ere he would have given worlds to have recalled them. Instantly he regretted the lawless passion that gave them b and could he have done so, would have annihilat them forever. But Maude? Those ate words thrilled her to her very soul. She erage her beautiful eyes, and the rich color deepened on her glowing cheeks. Unconsciously her hand stole to meet his, and the desperate clasp a ag ae made her shiver with the pain he in- cted. “Frederic, I do know—” She laid her disengaged _ hand on his shoulder, and raised her love-lit eyes to his, so full of joyous truth. What could he do? What should he do? She was like a siren, urging him to certain destruction. Never before had his temptation taken this form— the form of Maude Elverton herself, pleading her own cause. His position was tain perilous; mo- mentarily he regretted the words his lips had Ps ae and as he regretted he loved the more. He esired now to resist the temptation, and yet seemed deter- mined to court it, Maude would be his; Maude loved him! Oh, the tormenting, exquisite agony of that: she loved him! No one could aceuse him of sin—at least until he had put oceans between them: what, therefore, hindered this blissful cup of joy being pressed to his starved lips? A calm, yet thun- dering voice in his ears whispered that he was char- terless, compassless. Why be driven about on this wild sea of passion, with no guide, no polar star? Why not listen to the soothings of conscience, and obey her dictates? hight ee a monitor whispered faeceh Maude’s eternal happiness, why blast Clare’s last hope, why ruin his own soul—all for this? “Only this?” he thought, ‘only this?” and his an- guished heart, amid its strugglings, knew that the rico g onc happiness did not lay thitherward. “ au e 1s He was interrupted by George Casselmaine, who suddenly appeared before them. “ Forgive me, my friends, for hearing your conver- sation. Although I unavoidably was compelled to be a listener, I think you both know no one rejoices more over your mutual love than I. God bless you, keep you, and make you.a comfort to each other!” Before either Maude or Frederic could reply he was gone, and Maude smiled as she saw him take the road to Rose Cottage. ; Other guests that moment arrived, and they were Ceeey to part, - “God help me/” he whispered, fervently, as he wrung ao pare, sc Sg ea te aching heart went more pity for her, the gentle, loving, trusting girl, than sorrow for himself. : wy een The greatest danger had passed. Maude left him to return to her mother, flushed and deliciously a py. He to receive his guests and maintain the onor of his character as host, — ‘iy 5 ual ey =. ~
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a gueent SiS S22 es: Good angels and bad angels had toiled for the su- vestibule—one he never forgot, and attributed it to bremacy, and, thanks to the Higher Power who ever | the fact that the woman of all women most distaste- Reaes the agonized prayer of the tempted—be that temptation great or smal!l—truth, duty, honor and nal had prevailed, and after his daily visit to the velvet-curtained recess, whither he repaired for a few stolen moments after his interview with Maude —a period Be on bended knee—he came forth strengthened, purified. CHAPTER XXI. THE REVELATION OF SORROW. GrorGe CASsELMAINE had gone to Rose Cottage, one on the first opportunity that presented, and in- bending to return before the dinner hour to the Ar- chery—to see Ida Tressel. Gone to pour forth the love he knew she would so gladly hear, and his heart bounded blissfully as he neared the vine-embowered cottage where she awaited him. What did George Casselmaine care that she was poor and of humble parentage? Had he not enough of wealth and influence for both? He would build them a splendid mansion wherever she wanted to live—and furnish it with all the luxu- ries and conveniences he could devise or she imag- ine. She loved bright, rich colors, he knew, and his heart beat almost audibly as he mentally planned the room they would ra Their room ! ah, the words lent a swiftness to his feet, and a lightness to his nf ee Darli little Ida, with her graceful ways, her modest demeanor, her piguante loveliness, would or- nament a king’s palace, much more his unworthy home, And a very palace of love, at least, he re- solved to make it, wherein discord should never come; where love and joy should reign, and he him- self be her devoted husband-lover. It seemed, as he walked along, as if he trod on air, so elastic were his spirits, and he almost feared that his anticipations were not to be realized; but he smiled away the foreboding as he pictured to him- self the scene at the cottage. He knew that Ida’s raceful form would come to the door to welcome im, and he could see the downeast happiness in her dark eyes; he imagined he heard the sweet melody of her voice, and the silvery laugh that so often floated from her carnation lips. He lived over the scene he knew would be so true, so lifelike, when he took her little brown hand in his and told her she was bride of his heart—she the one for whom he asked her intercession; and then how beautifully her eyes would gaze upon him when he placed the engagement ring on her finger. He reached the gate, at whose base the luxuriant grass was untrodden. It was very quiet, and he ced up to the fringed white dimity curtains at he eee a her Bg whither he ee ye caught her ping. e curtains were falling be- tore ies glass, an down-stairs the shutters were closed. Not a sound broke the deep stillness as he walked up the narrow path and rapped on the closed door. No one answered his summons, and with a vague apprehension of horror that Ida was ill, he went by the well-trodden grass-grown walk to the back door. On the porch sat Mr. Tressel, sleeping soundly, his red bandana handkerchief thrown over his face. He trod softly, so as not to awaken him, and en- tered the neat little kitchen. There was black Hetty, her work all done, her large, old-fashioned Bible spread on a clean white handkerchief, over her plain linsey dress. Her ee were off, lying across the ee age. Her eyes were bent on the floor, and her Randa el meekly together. Her attitude plain- _ ly denoted extreme depression of spirits. He spoke een that he might not startle her, but at the sound of his voice she arose to her feet, and courtesied respectfully. “TI would see your mistress, Hetty. Shall I find her in the oe or parlor? Never mind. T’ll go in myself.’ He. stepped over the threshold, not pausing to glance at her again, but at sound of her voice he turned toward her. ‘* Miss Idie ain’t in, sir. Miss Idie’s out, sir.” Her very comprehensive explanation brought a deep shade of disappointment to his brow. “Out, Hetty? at is unfortunate. I wished par- ticularly to see her, Will she be in soon? or stay, tell me which way she has gone, and I'll continue my walk and come back with her.” A spasm of pain crossed the old woman’s face, and she turned her head away to hide the fast-drop- ing tears. “4 She'll be gone all night, sir, ’'m a-thinking. You had better come in and rest you a bit.”’ ey w sia whe tad Ss Wht way?” “You sa e gone—w. ‘ A moan of pain issued from Hetty’s lips, but she bravely hid her emotion. “T promised I’d not tell him—and I won't,” she murmured to herself, then added aloud: ‘She went to Mr. Joyce’s.”’ : _ He started immediately, with a kindly nod to the negress, who watched him with streaming eyes. _ “Poor lamb! poor lamb! oh, Miss Idie—dear Miss Idie, how’ll she ever stan’ the sight of him!” She resumed her seat, while George walked rapid- ly back to the Villa. The distance was short, and in his restless eager- ness to see her, was soon accomplished. ps 8 way was ope and he saw, in the carriage-yard, the barouche being drawn out, for the family use to Frederic Trevlyn’s dinner-party. The house wore an unusually festive look, for the rooms seemed all open and occupied. He experi- enced a peculiar sensation as he entered the open * ree fee ful to him—Helen Joyce, lived there. He dared not inquire for Ida, for he was not sure she was there, so he sent his card to Mr. Joyce, whom he had several times met. In the lofty reception-room he waited for his host to receive him; for a brief time he sat there dream- ing of Ida, wondering if she were there, when the door opened, and Mr. Joyce entered. he astonished Usually dignified to coldness, George by grasping his hand with painful friendli- ness, **So you’ve come to con tulate us all, have you, old fellow? I thank you, thank you heartily.” George bowed in amazement, but seeing how mor- tifying his eee would render him, determined to feign perfect knowledge of the cause of congrat- ulation. and mentall resolving to cut short his call as soon as he saw da—if she were indeed there, which he rather doubted. Mr. Joyce rung the bell when he had finished speaking. Jeannie answered the summons. “Tell your lady I would be very much obliged to see her in the reception-room fora few minutes.” A feeling of provokedness prompted Casselmaine to refuse seeing Helen Joyce, the “lady ’’ he knew of the Villa; but politeness bade him meet her, with at least a show of cordiality. A light footstep sounded on the stairs, and Mr. Joyce hastened to meet her. He escorted her through the door, and triumphantly announced her: ‘‘My wife—my bride, Mr, Casselmaine.”’ George turned in astonishment. He looked at the lady, and his glance turned to stone. Slowly he raised his arms, in a mute appeal of the keenest anguish to the white-robed figure; then swaying, reeling like a ree driven by adverse winds, he fell; and as he touched her hand in falling, all the concentration of that moment of unspeaka- ble agony was uttered in the words that fell from his trem ling lips: ““ My God!” CHAPTER XXL. IDA’ S WEDDING-DAY. Tat had been a trying day for Andrew Joyce’s timid wife, when she had met, so unexpectedly, the daughters of her husband, who were older than her- In her matchless loveliness and haughty conscious- ness of superior position, she had gone down to the dining-saloon, on her husband’s arm, after the fam- ily had assembled. Helen, the eldest, Julia, the second, and Irene, — child-daughter, were awaiting their father’s en- rance. ! ed Sea ee occupied bev tag = the ea of C) e—a on very gratifying to her vanity. “Mrs. Bont haa doiasered a most ridiculous aie take in supposi our family consisted of five in- stead of four. ie c y is that plate there?” she asked, impatiently of the housekeeper, who entered the room for a parting survey of the table. “That?” she asked, confusedly, for she remem- bered Mr. Joyce’s instructions to keep the matter a bo , Oh, I think your father expects company 0-day. “What! when we are all going to the Archery?” Helen asked, incredulously. ‘“*Leastwise, my orders were to lay an extra plate, Miss Helen,” returned Mrs. Bond, shortly, as she left the room, That moment the door opened, and Mr. Joyce and Ida entered. Helen sprung in astonishment to her feet, while the other girls, who never had seen Ida before, stared wonderingly. “Miss Tressel—you surprise me! To dinner? Iam certain no invitations have been issued.” Ida’s cheek flushed hotly at this insolent speech, but her calm gaze returned Helen’s contemptuous ne, ‘Miss Helen, have the goodness to forbear your jokes in my presence. My position enforces not pai respect, but obedience.”’ Her freezingly polite wo aroused Helen’s ire still further. ‘* What impertinence! Do you presume to insult Andrew Joyce’s daughter in her own father’s house? Jam mistress here!’ Her light eyes fairly scintillated with her rage, and her voice was choked with passion. She pointed to the door, while Ida smiled in conscious superiority. “Would you insult Andrew Joyce’s wife, in her own jusband’s house? I AM MISTRESS HERE!” randly rung out her melodious voice. Helen gasped for breath. “ Wife!” she screamed, in a fearful storm of un- bridled rage; ‘‘ you my father’s wife! you, a com- mon, low—”’ “Silence!”’ said Mr. Joyce, bringing his fist down on the table till the dishes rung again. ‘‘ This is my e, whom you will respect and obey in every par- ticular. Helen, remove your seat near to your sis- ter’s. Ida, my dear, this is your proper place.” He bowed to Ida, who loftily occupied the chair Helen was thus forced to vacate. Her eyes flashing, her bosom heaving, she confronted her father. “Tf you think fo disgrace our fon by this mes- tance, you need not think J sh endure the shame, the insult! Iam Andrew Joyce’s daughter, not Ida Tressel’s slave.” She cast a anime | glance at Ida, but her father raised his hand sternly. : “Tcommand silence. Helen, if you can not be- have yourself, leave the room, Julia, follow her. Srene, my little daughter, Iam glad you are a good girl; your sisters have greatly mortified me.” ee 43, Proudly Helen and her sister walked from Ida’s presence, and she and her husband, with the ten- year-old Trene, ate their dinner in peace. It was scarcely over, when Casselmaine called. Jeannie summoned her, and, in total pacrance of the caller’s identity, she went coldly down the stairs. To her horror, grief and surprise, she recognized George Casselmaine! It was a fearfully-cruel blow to them both, and Ida thought he was dying when she saw him lying so still and cold at her feet. Darting from her husband’s side, she knelt beside him, chafing his cold hands, and her hot tears falling on his pale, grief-stricken countenance. Not a word did she utter, yet her heart was ina tumult of inquiry as to what had caused his extreme emotion. Surely, the simple fact of her marriage, — sudden though it had been, could not affect him thus; and a sudden, piercing thought—what if after all, he had loved her, and Helen had deceived er?” She w dizzy and faint at the awful possibility,,. but ed, determined not to allow such thoughts to gain ascendancy. alling Mrs. Bond, they soon succeeded in restor- ing the senseless man to consciousness. r. Joyce had been called away, and Mrs. Bond. had retired when her services were no longer re- quired. Ida knelt on the carpet beside the sofa, eagerly watching every motion of his lips. At length he opened his large dark eyes, and Ida sprung to her feet in confusion. A smile of ineffable sweetness lighted his counte- nance, 5 re Ida, my darling! Thank God, it was only a ream!’ He extended his arms, as though he would fold. her to his heart. Quickly, eagerly she looked up, the expression on: her face, as it lightened at his words and gesture, er volumes of joy, love, and even hope. But it passed as quickly as it came, and left her paler, whiter than before. “Don’t look so coldly—so coldly, Ida. You are not ill, are you?” He raised himself up on one elbow, and scanned her face earnestly. . A mighty struggle was going on in Tda’s breast. What did this mean, unless he loved her? But if he. did love, what mattered it now ? “Speak, speak, Ilda, for heaven’s sake, and tell me what the matter is?” She strove to do as he bade. but her tongue seem- ed a in Another effort, and her pale lips. moved. “T am not Ida Tressel. You—” “God! not Ida Tressel? Who, then, are you?” a i to his en a8 wildest excitement. a ‘“* Kither 1 am going mad, or you are ving me? Which is it?” = “Tam Andrew Joyce’s wife, married yesterday—”’ A fearful cry burst from his pallid lips, and he fell on his knees before her. ‘““Tda, Ida, my own! Unsay those dreadful words. Oh, darling, my precious darling, I am on my way — to win you tor my own! Kiss me, Ida, and promise:; « to be my wife!’’ He wound his arms around her neck, and drew her head to his breast. i She jeg ae to free herself, but he repaid her’ efforts by showers of kisses on her blushing cheeks. bap: & ep you to listen. I repeat, Cae tically,. Iam no longer Ida Tressel, but the wife of the host. of this house. Your betrothed is Andrew Joyce’s. daughter, Helen—not his wife, Ida.” She forced her voice to speak coldly, and instantly he released her. “Can it be—can it be? You—yovu, that old man’s. ““As God hears me, never! I released Maude El- verton, and hastened to claim you—my first, my only love—with Maude’s blessing.” Gradually his voice w sharp from the strain of sorrow, and when he ceased speaking, he bent. his face, in desolate mournfulness, on Ida’s hands. “Oh, George, George! forgive me, and pity me! Don’t for m ‘s sake, don’t!” she sobbed, piteous- ly, as he kissed her cold hand. “TL loved you, Ida Tressel, and it was the sweetest dream of my life; I shall never know another. The world before me is very dark, and the only ray of. light to cheer me is that you loved me—you were: not false.” He stopped abruptly, for the gathering tears: choked his utterance. She laid her hand on his bowed head in gentle: tenderness. ““My lot is the hardest to bear, and God alone can give me grace to endure it. But, George, give me bee blessing before you go, and then [ can better my heavy burden. I shai die if you don’t,. George, I shall die.” ; Seeks A sick, faint sensation of deepest despair filled: him as she eeased_speaking, and he did not restrain. the tears that would fall on her hand. ‘Rather let us pray our Father to help us both,, my lost, my Ida. He alone knows my anguish, and. our agony. Oh, my darling—let me call you so. -day for the last time—my lost darling, the blow is: so un sd, so fearful. This mo: ». in the supreme joy of my heart, I went forth to m you, my own; this afternoon I weep over you—the bride: wife? JZ betrothed to Helen Joyce? You know better, and are very cruel! Oh, Ida! this from — you!” ante She uttered a cry, like a wounded bird, and caught. his hands in hers. : ‘ “George Casselmaine, tell me truly; were you not plighted to Helen Joyce?” ° : ‘ Be ci tiie ek eal i Ee
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14 , & His: IDOL. of another! Ida, Ida, it is hard—it is more than I can bear!” Her heart ached for him, while, in the memory of what might have been, it bied for herself. “We will say farewell now, George; we must. Let us strive to forgive the terrible wrong that has forever separated us. Let us part—friends.”’ She extended her hands, in a silent appeal for his farewell grasp. He took them and pressed them to _ his breast. ~ “T bid you farewell, my only love, my lost dar- he : wis Be true to your chosen husband, and may d reward him and his as they reward you for this dreadful sacrifice. God bless you, my precious one a keep you, and guard you, and direct you—and me : He pressed her in his arms, closely to his agonized '~ heart, and imprinted a last, long kiss on her quiver- g ae : k- A d laid gently on his arm arrested him. It was Andrew Joyce, his eyes dim with tears. t “Young man, I heard all; I know all, and I honor } you! I am at best a frail old bark, and will soon put up for repairs forever; and then she will be yours. You deserve her; and were I not so wickedly selfish, I'd aie her up this minute. As it is, she will have to bear with me a little while—only a little while, and then all this elegance and wealth will be hers, and she’ll make you a royal bride!” Old Mr. Joyce dashed off the teardrops, and George wrung his hand in pitiful thankfulness, and, without a word, strode straight to the Grange. He ; packed a valise, and the next train bore him to his \ uncle, Senator Rowe. ; Five hours after his arrival in Philadelphia he stood in Mr. Trevlyn’s parlcr. CHAPTER XXII. A WIFE BUT NOT A WIFE, At Frederic Trevlyn’s dinner-party one guest was _ absent—George Casselmaine, whose reasons were hastily written as he left the Grange, and delivered : to the host by a special messenger. ' 7 An unexpected guest was present, being the wife of Andrew Joyce. __The surprise of the guests knew no bounds when phen f were acquainted with the fact of the sudden and secret marriage of the gray-haired owner of the Villa; and comments passed freely on her youth, beauty and grace. Her poverty and obscurity were now of the past, hence utterly forgotten; and f while as Ida Tressel she re have been ignored by the aristocratic ladies of the vicinity, as Joyce she was flattered. Ida filled her position with , exquisite dignity, and none of all the assembled ‘F Ff ig te area Maude and Frederic, and it might i Helen Joyce—dreamed of the heartrending inter- ‘view that had PrOneDlye an hour before her arrival at the Archery. Calm, dignified, pleasant and intel- t= ligent, she was a general favorite, and her gray- : ‘ests returned rather early, and among the first a ee was the f ; ret from the Grange. ; haired husband loved her better than ever. elicacy, and looked ‘he followed her to the carriage. “May I see you to-morrow, at twelve o’clock? I wish to have your exclusive company for awhile,”’ She did not see the pained expression of his noble face, or the happy blushes would not so quickly ‘have crimsoned her cheek, or the joyful light burned t in her eyes. { “Come at twelve, and I will certainly give you the ] favor you desire.” ~ She threw him a kiss, and he returned a polite ee and the footman closed the door between ; m. Maude returned to her home to dream of poor eorge Casselmaine, of her handsome lover, of ~ faithless Ida Tressel, and thanking God her happi- , : ness was 80 sure. P - ror child, she little knew what a day would bring @) Trev! re-entered the house to bid adieu to the : rem guests, and then, when quiet once more . reigned over the Archery, withdrew to his room to ' pass his hour of penance and prayer. > ' The wed -party were the last to depart. Mr. : Joyce and Ida occupied the barouche, while the daughters were escorted by their attendants. The ride was passed in utter silence, and even when the footman sprung to assist Ida to alight, not a word was spoken. Ida entered the house, and ascended to her room, a Q d thing for the night. e had arra’ every ‘or the night, ‘her bridal night, and had, by Ida’s express orders, ___ retired to the servants’ floor above. Ida entered, and locked the door after her, and alone for the first time since the hour of suspense cand anguish that had left its ineffaceable hand on ‘her hi she sunk on her knees in an agony of bit- si ‘terest grief, that, restrained so many hours, now burst forth in a fearful torrent. if A low rap at her door startled her, and, with a ' 4 “perceptibl er, she opened it. } dey stil in our visi' dress?”’ ‘ agi He gazed wonderingly at her, as she stood proudly before him. “My beautiful wife, my peerless Ida; let me bid you twice welcome to the Villa, your home, your a ato e extended his hand, but she made no response. “‘T thank you for the kindness you have shown me to-day, sir, and I will ever gratefully remember it. But to-night it is necess that we come to a full understanding of our position to each other. Shall Icontinue?”’ He gestured for her to proceed, and she began again in her low, musical tones: ““T told you, Mr. Joyce, if you persisted in marry- ing me, after I had repeatedly refused you, wee i estowed j plainly told you that my affections were upon another ’’—her lips trembled, but she forced back the emotion—‘‘ that the union could bring no triumph, no victory to you. Irepeat the same now; you have taken me; you have shown me to be your wife before the world. I am Mrs. Joyce to the world, I am their father’s wife to your children. I am the rightful mistress of the house, and as such I will be obeyed. I ask no favors, I receive none—ex- cepting one, which I ask not only, but demand in the name of common humanity.” “Speak, my dearest one, and your one solitary wish is preuted, I promise on my word,” A sudden brightness swept over her face, irra- diating every feature for a moment, then vanishing again, ‘It is that you leave me, leave my room, and con- sider this apartment mine exclusively.” She 5 eee defiantly, proudly almost. Mr. Joyce arose to feet in wonderment. ‘But, my wife, you know such a request is an un- precedented one—a—”’ “Mr, Joyce,” she interrupted, “unprecedented or not, I demand this privilege. You have two reasons for granting it. First your pledged word; second, that I solemnly declare, that, although I am your wife in the eyes of the world, once over the threshold of this room, Iam Ida Tressel!”’ For a moment they looked fully and unhesitating- ly at each other, then Mr. Joyce extended his hand cordially. “You are a noble woman, Ida. You are right, perfectly right; Iam Sonne. all wrong. Your wish shall be sacred. And now, dear Ida, let me wish you good-night.” Kindly as a father would kiss his daughter her husband touched his lips to her forehead, and left her alone. Alone with her heartache, heart anguish; and on bended knee she besought the healing of her wound- ed, bleeding heart. All through the long night-hours she watched and rayed, and when the flushings in the east announced he coming day, her heavy eyes betokened her wake- ful vigil. CHAPTER XXIV. TWELVE O’CLOCK. Tar succeeding morning passed all too slowly to Maude Elverton, whose thoughts went forward with bounding anticipations to the moment when her lover should tell her again and more freely of his love for her. A blissful light beamed in her eyes, and her voice was soft and low as she spoke. er parents knew that she had released Casselmaine, and they at first objected strongly. But George’s persuasions, united with her own request, received their reward, and she heard from her father’s lips that he sanctioned the annulment of the engagement. Mrs. Elverton was more displeased than her hus- band, and openly asked Maude if her preference for Frederic Trevlyn had not caused this disruption, Maude candidly confessed, though wit and hesitancy, that she did love Trevlyn, but that, had she not assured herself of Casselmaine’s indif- ference to her, she should never haye withdrawn. “And if Mr. Trevlyn doesn’t care for you, what ou do?” Mrs, Elverton interrogated her eruelly. ‘He does return—he does care for me. He told i yesterday ; and this morning at twelve he calls see me.” A satisfied smile curled Mrs. Elverton’s haughty lip, and she turned away from her daughter, who, st h fast-throbbing heart, awaited her lover’s com- g. At that very moment Frederic Trevlyn was bend- ing over a letter he had just written, in which the ink was still wet and fresh, Before him lay scattered many letters and notes, which from time to time he consulted; then, when he had read, began his writing again. It was a long, long letter, which he wrote, and his face indica the p: e of varied emotions through his soul as he penned each line. At times an expression of intensest spony con- tracted his features; then, that was quickly followed by a proud, defiant smile, to be as rapidly succeeded by a stern look of duty—duty that he felt he must perform, would perform in spite of any human power. ; After he wrote, he read his letter. Half through, he tore the sheet into a dozen pieces, On a fresh sheet he transcribed a line, signed his name, and thrust the sheet into the as as hastily and wildly, asif he feared he would repent. He called William and directed him to post the letter immediately. That Sagighal, he for Mrs. Holcombe. “ Are the rooms in readiness, the western suite?” “Pverything is in partect order, sir, and I think you'll be pleased with my arrangement. Will you step up-stairs and see the rooms? No—no,” he replied, hesitatingly; “I think there | blushes ° at, ores ae is no oceasion for that. But, I wish to ask a favor of you. If company comes tothe Archery—a lady -- will you exert yourself to the utmost to make her happy and contented?” rs. Holcombe answered by a glance, half- aggrieved, half-wondering. **T know you always do make everything pleasant for those around you andI only ventured to men- tion this to you, because if any one comes, her posi- tion will be a very peculiar one.” “Mr. Trevlyn, if it is your wife you are going to marry and bring home, no woman should be ane gael fee no one will serve her more faithfully than I.” A tear gathered under her spectacles, but she for- got to brush it away, in her amazement at Frederic’s conduct, } While she was speaking, a vivid blush had arisen to his cheeks, and he seemed ill at ease. A sudden idea panes Mrs. Holcombe. ““My dear Mr. Trevlyn, I am old enough to be your mother, therefore I hope you will take what Isay as an act of kindness. ere you be son, I would do just what Lam doing now, and just what I am going to ask now.” She came up closely to him, and laid her hand lov- ingly. on his head. ‘My boy, is it a wife,a good, true wife you are going to bring?” A groan burst from his pale lips as she ceased. “ Because, my dear Mr. Frederic, if you are going to dishonor yourself, ous home, your servant, I can not remain here to witness it.” He caught her hand and laid it against his hot forehead. ‘‘ Mrs. Holcombe, your honor and mine will re- ceive no stain from the guest who shall demand our courtesy. She will piace you, you will love her. I—oh, Mrs. Holcombe, if you but dreamed of the constant darkness I walk in, you would pity me— ren you would weep over me, as a mother for her eart-broken son.”’ aati A great racking sob burst from his white lips, and then he released her hand. ‘*To-day I must be ener at dinner-time. To-mor- row the lady will be with us; then I will explain more fully. Trust me, Mrs. Holeombe, trust me and bless me, and pray for me.” F She murmured a broken benediction as he bowed his proud head before her, and then softly left him one. He gathered up his scattered papers, and arranged the disordered furniture. Then he lifted the gray curtain and entered his mysterious retreat. ‘At first no sound broke the stillness; then a stifled moan came faintly from the darkness, and a voice, Aeae with anguish, fell mournfully on the still noon- air “Our merciful Father, strengthen me, assist_ me in this hour of deepest trial! enable me_to sacrifice all for duty, allfor right! and though I relinquish her who would have been—who zs—God forgive me, the light of my life, let me believe it is for the best. When I waver in my sacrifice, oh, be merciful and sustain me! When pe on in the darkness, be Thou my light! and when grief and sorrow mingle in my bitter cup, les me remember. Thy et ae it to my lips, and may I drain it even to the dregs!” ; His tones died away, like the ma pARNEE of the ont urat winds, and all was silent again, but only for a time. “Strengthen her, my heart’s idol—strengthen her for the load this day’ to fall on her beet Sik its crushing weight. Enable her to say, “‘'Thy will be done!’ Bless us all, and remember, another, another, and may I be prepared to do my duty to her.” He ceased, and for several minutes he was silent again. Then the curtain parted, and he came forth, pale but composed. The carriage, agreeably to his orders, was at the door. He took the lines himself, and drove slowly to the Grange. He was shown into the parlor, where, before he had seated himself, Maude entered, beautiful and bewildering, her starry eyes charged with the love- light of her full heart. ul! a returned safely, then, yesterday after- noon He knew he must say something, yet he dreaded to speak the most commonplace remark. “Oh, yes, Mr. Trevlyn; and you, since then, have been well, and” e hesitated, blushed, then added—‘‘ happy?”’ A spasm of pein crossed his fine face, but he Bet the occasion she offered of striking his own death- blow to hopes and joys. ca “Maude,” he said, in a hollow tone that startled himself, while she started in surprise at the sound while an undefinable fear curdled her blood and drove the carnation from her cheeks. . He gazed upon her sweet face, while his eyes dimmed with manly tears as he thought of the reve- lation that hour would make. He felt that he could die to save her the pangs he must cause, and yet his own rashness had placed him on the ground they now occupied. His bral em fiercely hot, his heart beat in frightful rapidity, while he eagerly read her pale startled tnee: then, by a mighty effort, he med himself sufficiently to speak. “Come and sit down, Maude, and listen to what I erg say; what you must hear even if it kills us th.”” He drew her unresisting form to the sofa, and then he pen jy “Yesterday I told you I loved you, Maude. To- day I come to ask you to forget I ever said it, No, you must not misconstrue my meaning,” he < , * & 7 ° ete ie Sp a ie ts ip! Sel eee, E yay
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ws, _ smother, thought he would rather added, quickly and vehemently, as a proud light gent in her eyes, and she w her skirts from ee “No, no; the truth is none the less—the love is none the less, yet, Maude, I, the most pitiable man in God’s universe, am here to beg you to forget those words, and if you can, gaia the speaker.” He brushed the great drops of perspiration from his forehead, and paused for her to speak. But she sat calm and silent, looking him full in the face. “Don’t look so, Maude; don’t regard me so sternly. When you understand it all you will pity me, not hate me.” But she did not remove her eyes, for she could not, but a softer, tenderer expression crept into their dark depths. ‘Frederic, what do you mean—are you afraid I regret your confession?” “No, no,” he returned, mildly. ‘‘ Would that you did; but oh, Maude, when I spoke those words I must ‘have been beside myself. I had no right to speak them, I ought to have been stricken dumb be- fore my lips framed them. But the temptation overwhelmed me, and I did what I to-day suffer for —what you will suffer for. But you will forgive me, won't you?” His pleading, passionate eyes looked eagerly in ers. “‘T feel bewildered; I can not understand what all this means, Frederic. If you think I do not love you, you are hae my love for you is the one dream of my life. But if you do not care for me— why—then—”’ er lips quivered, and a tear fell on his face. “Maude, Maude, you will drive me crazy,” he whispered hoarsely; his white ue trembling so he could hardl. speak. ‘ Yesterday I told you, defyin the honor that should have restrained me, that loved you. But harder than any thing I ever did, or can do, is it to-day, to tell you—oh, merciful Father—must I give her up?—yes, Maude, my lost Maude Tcan not accept that love—you must not be my wife. ie had spoken at last, and, with a faint cry, Maude reached forth her hands imploringly. Bb why, oh, Frederic, will you not let me love you and be your wife?” Her bosom heaved with the confined grief, and her eyes glared with unshed tears. He put her hands gently down. “Listen, Maude,” he answered, quietly, though every word seemed a drop of blood oozi from his wounded heart; “‘can you not guess what is the reason Iam killing our hearts?” Slowly she drooped her head on her bosom; slowly the warmth left the little hand that just touched his own. “* Maude, shall I,.may I, dave I tell you?’’ She murmured an inarticulate whisper, and he, in the mighty love he was so earnes' ay striving to ie, then and there, than cut the last chord that. bound him to her, than speak this last word, which, when spoken, effectually and forever divided them, and sent them both drifting. apart—further—further. “T know the stab I inflict, my poor Maude, but, - listen, listen, and may a merciful Savior sanctify the fist learned of his ng gy “quietly from the room, and cross to us—to you, my trusting, innocent one. . Maude, Jam married |” For a moment she sat, stiff, upright; then, slowly, mechanically, she arose, and pressed her cold quivering lips for one moment on hisown. He di not return the pressure, he dared not; then she lifted his chin with her cold hands, and for a moment steadily regarded his face. With that last, lingering, touchi eric Trevlyn, as sadly, silently, went from the house. His self-appointed task was done, and he knew God would reward them both one day. CHAPTER XXV. ; THE SECRET OF THE CHAMBER, ‘Tur guests had-all departed from the Arch street mansion; the lights were extin; ed, and Clare ‘Trevlyn and Esther were alone in the chamber of the former. Clare seemed almost frenzied at something; her _ eyes were swollen with gst and at times they darted rays of lowing fire. Now she was pacin the floor of the long : room, her elegant evening dress ‘trailing on the velvet covering under her feet. On her person the diamonds gleamed and 3.200 ene ut she was regardless of their splendor. e who, but a few hours before, had proudly smiled at her aol b plone now bowed her royal thead in misery and despair. : “Esther, Esther, to think my first attempt toward ning his love should have been the time when I Oh, why do I speak thus? I will not believe it. her, do you believe it?” Esther laughed scornfully. “Why shouldn't I? Haven’t I always insisted that Frederic Trevlyn was a , Since the days he re- fused to credit your innocence? Of course I believe it, fully and entirely, and you do, too.” Her voice softened as she finished, for a woeful mournfulness clouded Clare's face. “‘Be my adviser, dear Esther.. Not my cross, pre- judiced housekeeper, but my mother’s dutiful adopt- ed child, my loving foster-sister, again. Speak gen- please, Esther, and tell me what to do.” er te pleading — were fixed in mute ap- peal on her companion’s hard, stony face. “If you do not believe that Mr. Casselmaine has told you the truth, most certainly Iadvise you to - travel at once to the Archery and see for yourself if -your husband is paying his addresses to this young Thay.” ; Z \ we i i le The carriage stopped, and the footman assisted her to alight. The door was open that led to the outer vestibule,. and the glass doors, with their rosewood panels, 1g 4. drapery and silvery knobs, were ajar. She stepped lightly, timidly; what would be a welcome? She could hear her heart beat in tho solemn stillness; then she laid her hand on tho door-handle, Widely it opened by other hands than her own, and her husband reached his hand in dignified courtesy to welcome her. She forgot etiquette, forgot his previous coldness, v her arms about him, and springing up, she thr : lieve me, you trust me, ‘Fred, my darling, you you love me?” He gently disengaged ber clings Ariat just asa Pia (age haadas| lady entered the hall by the south oor. ‘Mrs, Holcombe, this is the lady I promised. My wife my housekeeper. The ‘ Clare’ you remember. Tacos er to her rooms, and I will come in a half- our,” He bowed not unkindly to Clare, who followed Mrs. Holcombe through the spacious halls and stair- ways to her room. ‘ 2 was the room she had visited but a few weeks efore. “Please tell Mr. Trevlyn to send my trunk as soon as he finds it convenient.”’ Mrs, Holeombe—her kind heart fullof joy that her favorite ‘* Clare,’’ as she declared she was ever since the day of her visit, was really and truly her young ee wife—hastened to obey the new mistress’s request. 2 er trunk came up immediately. From it sho selected a simple white dress, and letting down her hair as she knew he used to like it best, awaited his coming. Soon his rapid footfall sounded along the hall, and, without knocking, he entered.the room. She did not rise to greet him, but her joy shone in every line of her fair, sweet face. d He walked up to her, and smiled, * Clare, shall we bury the past? If we can not re- instate each other in our inmost hearts, at least we will strive faithfully to forgive and forget.” She took his hand and drew him to her side, and looked into his calm, handsome face. ‘As your wife, Frederic, I may say what I would not dare to, were I only a betrothed—and yet it seems very like a betrothal, this sweet, sudden re- conciliation.” She blushed in spite of herself, however, as Fred smiled a faint smile, “T have nothing to forgive, my husband, because the great love I have always borne you has palliated every thing that has occurred. But, Frederic, let me make a simple Pe that I have nev been permitted to do. May 1?” He bowed affirmatively. “Frederic, the gentleman you saw place his ar pou my neck and kiss me so warmly was my other.” An Sime PE of thankfulness lighted his face. “And judged you harshly, Clare! You are loyal and true still.” “* And loving,” she added, laying her head on his shoulder. ; He trembled, and closed his eyes a moment. “Clare, let me confess that [have not been loyal in though and heart, thought I have been in act. I have spun and wona fearful battle, and I humbl tell you that Iam but the trace of my old self. am no longer the man who could love deeply, ardently—but a trembling, sinful one, who strives to fulfill his duty.” His voice trembled, and Clare felt the shiver t Nea ace through his frame as she leaned against — m Her own face grew pallid as death. ‘** And you’ve ceased to love me, then? Oh that I had died before I heard it.” ‘ The cry came from her stricken heart. — “Truth compels me to say it. A stern resolve to do my duty—be it ever so fearful in the perform- ance—impels me to confess it to you. Yet, Clare. there is still a holy tie that binds us, a sweet bond of indissdéluble bh pe I never can forget, Clare, that you were the mother of my child.” A mist gathered in his eyes, and the mother’s heart overflowed with mingled anguish and bliss. “Come, Clare, a moment with me,”’ She accepted his proffered arm, and they descend- ed to his sacred room. He pointed to the vailed recess. : “There, Clare, is my shrine. That silent little re- treat contains the talisman that has, under God, saved me from sin worse than murder. When temp: tations so whirling that my brain reeled blew upon me, here I came, here I suffered, fought, and, thank God, conquered. Will you enter with me, and learn its secret? No mortal eye but my own ever invaded its sanctity; but vow shall enter. You have even a better right than I.” : Tremb sly she suffered herself to be drawn along; he raised the gray cloud of drapery, and the ae stood within cons ee ai ail : i was a small apartment, an e wall was hung with black velvet, studded with golden stars. But two objects occupied the room. In one corner stood an ebony table, where la: r= h sy Se ee Le ; 34h} s r % ; e : > Sty 4 ¥ Asa ~ se _ Ti ¥ — ae
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“of y, »- s L bi tf et ; if r - “Send for him, then, and let me bid him adieu.” for she, in her heart, accused Frederic il HIS IDOL. which flamed faintly awaxen taper. In the center, on a low, marble table, lay a tiny white coffin, simple and unpretending. With a bound, Clare sprung from Frederic’s arm, and knelt beside the casket, her hot tears flowing fast and copious. It was a baby tha ley there, white and beautiful asa sleeping angel. The tiny hands were folded on the little breast, and a little bare leg, plump and marble-hard and pure, was visible. The face was a perfect repetition of its father, save that a happy repose marked the features, where stern hauteur stamped the parent, -_ The thin dark hair curled carelessly over the fine pts and the long dark lashes shaded the white cheek. - ._ Clare’s sobs ceased; then she arose and looked Skt eagerly on the infant’s placid sleep. iS ge et Effie—darling! __ “Our child, Clare, is happier than either of us. - When she died, two years ago, I had her tiny bod embalmed, and enshrined very near me, for I felt the powerful tide of fate that was sweeping on to me. A good God has blessed the memory of our daughter to me, and to-day I can lay m d on her sinless brow and confess all I have done.” With one arm thrown around Clare’s waist, who roe silently while he spoke, and the other on their baby’s white forehead, he told her all. Not a word, not a syllable did he conceal, and, weet he had finished, he bent over his heart-broken e. “Clare, can is forgive me?”’ “A thousand times, yes. Only give mea little of the olden time love, only remember sometimes I am Effie’s mother, and I wi try to bearit; but, Frederic, my lost husband, it will break my heart, IT know.” ‘We will help each other on our life’s journey, and in heaven, where there is no marriage, or gi in marriage, we will reap the reward of our sacrifice.’ ‘ ae led her away, and then locked their treasure in again. CHAPTER XXVI. THE VALLEY AND SHADOW. Propite do not often die of broken hearts, and oP a said Maude Elverton was certainly fading ast. : She had never been herself since the day she had “pidden farewell to every hope and anticipation. She _ had seen Frederic Trevlyn’s wife, and had met him once. She had striven earnestly to be calm and cold, and had succeeded, but, after the interview was over her false strength left her. Her cheeks lost their lovely carnation, and her eyes gleamed with a luster that bespoke the insidi- ous foe advancing so surely, so rapidly. Every available effort of skill was exerted for her, but she grew no better, and, at last, when the holi- be drew near, she was a captive in her room. eaker and weaker she became, and on the Christmas eve she laid herself down on her costly couch for the last time. “Tf you have a wish, speak, my child, and it shall be granted, if human love can accomplish it.” } ‘or a momenta bright spot glowed on either cheek, and she smiled gratef at her mother. . _A cloud darkened Mrs. Elverton’s cee face, revlyn of the treachery that caused her gariing idol’s death. But she promptly complied with the request, and the messenger carried the note to the Archery, Frederic and Clare were sitting together, he engaged with a drawing, she industriously sewing, when the man entered. Frederic knew Maude was dying, and he felt the keenness of the blow as no one else could feel. The bitterness of his heart was increased by the self- forced knowledge that he was an indirect cause of her premature death, and yet, in the self-commun- ion he held, he knew he had’done what he could to rectify his fault. _ The messenger handed him the note. He read it _ with a visible start and a deathly pallor, and then handed it to Clare. She read it and returned it. ‘*Go, Frederic, and comfort the dying girl.” “You will accompany me, Clare?” ‘Do you desire it?’ “T shall not go unless yee go with me.” The sun was just setting when they entered the sick chamber. Maude saw Frederic the moment the door opened, and beckoned him to her, while a smile of unuttera- ble joy lighted her sunken eyes, e, with cho emotion, retired to the win- dow, where she could not b2 seen, yet where, if she chose, she might witness all that passed. ““God bless you, Frederic,” was whispered, as he et ree ide the low couch and raised her wan hand to ps. “T knew you would come at the last, and let me see a moment your dear face.”’ She passed her hand tremblingly over his features, and smiled ee tt “Your beautiful little wife loves oan dearly. Frederic—better than you love her. have ' between you, Frederic; but forget me after I’m gone, and make her lot what it ought to be—the most blessed of living women. Do it for my sake and for hers.” : Her soul-lit eyes looked in his with the most ten- der pride; then, after a long, long glance, she closed them slowly. “ Frederic,’’ she whispered @ moment later, ‘ say you forgive me.” _ “Forgive you, Maude? for what?” | “For loving you when it was wrong—when I ew you were married. But I could not help it; By » TBR te ; & a TF ee eee” : * * ~& he