Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (v. 1) (1880 03 23)
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BG ES AVES Sa eae aaa ae ce —_s a i i le a =—— THE BROKEN BETROTHAL. 2 = — vO E ESS FFE Upon the lawn in front the terrified servants had gathered around their half-fainting mis- tress, but the form for which he was searching was not there. He laid his hand upon the shoulder of a girl, who stood wringing her hands and sobbing with terror. ‘Where is Irene?—where is your young mis- tress?” At this, Mrs. Remmington roused herself. Springing to her feet, she pointed upward. “Oh! God have mercy!” she wailed; ‘‘she is there!—there !” Following the motion of that hand, Walter ol Irene standing upon the balcony far above im. She evidently saw and recognized him, for stretching out her arms, she uttered a cry that pierced him to the soul. ‘For a moment the young man stood transfix- ed with horror. Then his eyes took in swiftly all the possibilities that were left. There was no hope of reaching her from within; the flames were now issuing from every door and window beneath. Fortunately, the tower was built of rough, uneven stone, one side of which was entirely covered with ivy, the branches of which, har- dened and toughened by age and weather, were | so woven and interwoven that they were not easily Se Ne from the hold they had taken Giving a few hurried directions to the men around him, Walter tied a rope around his waist, and commenced the steep and difficult ascent. Slowly and steadily, his hands torn and bleed- | ing, he made his way upward, watched with | breathless interest by the crowd below, and who | uttered a shout of triumph as he reached the | balcony. The tower was fast becoming a huge furnace, and as Walter felt the hot breath of the crack- ling flames beneath, he saw that there was no time to lose. Drawing up the rope-ladder, he attached it firmly to the iron railmg around the balcony. Then taking a strong silken sash worn by lrene, and whose ends touched the hem of her dress, he it under her arms, and from thence under one of his, tying it so that the knot rested on his shoulder. | him b ' came | my cousin, as well as | possibly see her in such mortal peril and make | ‘*T beg pardon, sir, but my shoulder—” “T beg yours,” interrupted the other. ‘‘ Very thoughtless of me; but I know you will pardon it, in view of the emotions that—that over- power me.” Here the speaker raised his handkerchief to his eyes, apparently overcome by the emotions to which he alluded. Walter looked at him in silence. There was something so overstrained and far-fetched in this, that he felt instinctively that his visitor was acting a part, though why he should take the trouble to do so he could not even guess. Removing his handkerchief from the eyes in which there was not the slightest vestige of moisture, as Walter did not fail to note, Mr. Remmington continued: “T had a telegram from my wife last evening and started immediately. arrived only an hour since; and after hearing an account of your rescue of my dear niece from such immi- nent peril, felt that I could no longer delay in expressing my sense of the obligations under which you have laid me.” As Walter looked at the speaker he thought of the haughty manner in which he had passed pen they last met, and a faint smile is lip. “You are under no personal obligations to me whatever. You seem to forget that Irene is our niece. I could not no effort to rescue her.” *“T do not, at least, forget that I am a father.” Not perceiving any connection between what he had said and this rather unnecessary asser- tion, Walter received it in wonderirg silence. Perceiving the effect he had produced, Mr. Remmington continued: ~ ‘¢ My heart is bound up in my only son; and I tremble when I think what the effect on him would have been had his betrothed wife per- ished, and in so terrible a manner.” The change in Walter’s face was not unnoted by the keen eyes that were watching him. ‘*Of course you knew that Irene and my son were betrothed?” Walter did not speak for some moments, and then it was with a visible effort. “‘T knew that some such arrangement had been made for them, when they were children, Then bidding her cling to his neck, so as to | but was not aware that there had becn any vol- jeave his hands free, he commenced a descent | bey and formal betrothal, by them.” almost as perilous, considering the weight of nis precious burden, and his own failing strength. In looking back, Walter scarcely knew how he reached the ground, but reach it he did; con- signing the half-fainting girl to the many arms stretched out to receive her. Then the strong pressure upon brain and muscle gave way, and staggering backward, he fell insensible to the ground. CHAPTER V. THE UNCLE’S DIPLOMACY. THREE days later Walter lay on the sofa to which he had been confined ever since the fire; though none of the injuries he had received were serious, a dislocated ankle being the worst. He held a beautiful bouquet in his hand, whose fragrance was not sweeter than the thoughts it called forth of her who sent it. Every day he had lain there a messenger had come from Irene to inquire about him, and bear- ing just such a bouquet, accompanied by a note, in which she poured out all her grateful heart, in words which sounded very pleasant, danger- ously so, considering the feelings he entertained for her, and all he feared. Trene had be+n obliged to keep her room, also, but was gaining daily, as her last note inform- ed him. He knew every word by heart, but still his eyes lingered lovingly over it, reading and _re- veading it, and succeeding every time he did so in finding some new meaning. ‘‘ Tf she were only as poor as I am, and free!” he sighed, ‘‘I would woo, and win her, too, And even now—who knows?” Here the young man’s mind wandered off in one of those day-dreams; very delightful, in- deed, if one could judge from the tender and dreamy light in his eyes. He was aroused by the entrance of the porter with a card. ; He had scarcely time to see that it bore the name of ‘‘ Charles Remmington,” when the in- dividual in question entered. : ‘My dear sir, how can I thank you sufficient- ly for the great sorrow from which you have spared me, us all!” . Walter winced a little at’ the energetic shake of the hand that had seized his. He disengaged it, saying’ ‘*Oh, yes, it’s all settled; very much to the satisfaction of her aunt, and I assure you, Irene is as dear to us as any daughter could be, and we should not fancy giving her up. As itis, we shall not lose her. “But I am forgetting. half my errand,” he added, as if suddenly recollecting himself. “Irene made me promise to bring you back with me, and she will be greatly disappointed if 1 fail to do so. The dear girl has one of the most grateful hearts in the world. The carriage is at the door, and I trust you will come, if you are able.” “Tam not able.” The curtness of this reply was in strong con- trast to the smooth, softly modulated words that preceded it. _ Walter was painfully conscious of this, say- ing, in a softer voice: ‘T thank you, and her; but it is quite impos- sible for me to go to-day.” Mr. Remmington looked at the face that was now lying back upon the cushions of the sofa. ““'You are indeed looking ill. I sincerely trust that you were not seriously injured?” Disdain at his own weakness, brought back the color to that pale face. “*T have only a sprained shoulder and ankle. and these are nearly well. In a day or two, i shall be as well as ever.” Mr. Remmington had scarcely gone when Walter gave the bell an energetic pull. “Didn’t you tell me,” he said, to the man | who answered it, ‘‘ that Mrs. Stone sent for me in great haste, this morning?” “Troth, an’ I did, sur. An’ ’tain’t to be won- dhered at, aither. Three of her fourteen chil- dher is down with the measles, another on ’em has the mumps; an’ as if that wa’n’t enough throuble for a poor lone widdy, wid no one but hersilf to do a band’s turn, the babby pulls the tay-kettle over on to him, The ‘Put the horse into the buggy, Dennis, and bring it to the door.” The honest-hearted fellow looked at the speak- er for a moment. ‘Sure, sur, an’ ye don’t look fit to stir yer fut out of dures.” Walter smiled. “No matter, Dennis. Hard work is the best medicine for some diseases, and I am convinced thai it is the best thing for mine. If you ean go with me, so as to he!p me in and out, I shall do very well.” As he waited for Dennis to harness, his eye fell upon the flowers, which had fallen from his hand, as his visitor entered, and upon which he had set his foot. He held the crushed petals tenderly and rev- erently to his li-s. ‘Poor flowers!” he thought. ‘ Fit emblems of hopes that bloomed just as bright and beauti- ful, but which will bloom no more for me!” In the meantime, Mr. Remmington took his way, back to the clergyman’s, at whose house his wife and Irene had found refuge, evidently very well satisfied with the result of his visit. He found Trene standing on the steps. Her bright face clouded as she saw him de- scend from the carriage alone. ‘* Wasn’t cousin Walter well enough to come, uncle?” “‘T infer not, my dear; inasmuch as he de- clined coming. He begged me to give you his thanks and excuses.” Irene was silent, looking not a little non- plused, and Mr. Remmington continued: : ‘‘T told him, as we were going to leave on the evening train, you would be especially disap- pointed.” “Of course I can’t go without seeing him; that is out of the question. If he is not able to come here, I shall call on him. Tom, don’t put up the carriage; Ishall wa °t it Mr. Remmington looked as he felt, perfectly aghast at this proposition. - ““My dear Irene, what are you thinking of? You forget that Dr. Remmington is a bachelor, living alone at a hotel.” “T don’t forget that he saved my life at the peril of his own!” cried Irene, her eyes and cheeks very bright. ‘‘I should have gone him before but for aunt’s ridiculous talk me ‘ pr its not being proper.” ° J. “Your aunt was quite right,” was the grave response. ‘If ycu insist upon going, 1 must in- sist on accompanying you.” he ‘‘T shall be glad of your escort,” smiled Irene. ‘““Though it is not necessary, as you have just called on him, and I know very well how to take care of myself.” Mr. Remmington knew very well that Irene, however yielding on minor points, was not soin regard to what she considered a matter cf right andduty. So he made no further remenstrance, but assisting her into the carriage, took a seat by her side; anxiously revoiving in. his own mind how he was to explain to her his slight embellishment of the report he bad given her. “Perhaps Dr. Remmington did not under- stand that we were to leave tewn ¢o scon?” The eyes that were looking out of the window were turned quickly upon the speaker’s face. “He understood if you told him, of course.” “T should not be likely to forget what formed a part of yout message to him. that he did not understand it. I simply infer- red so by his response to it, which was to give you his thanks and excuses.” Here the carriage stopped in front of the hotel. Without leaving it, lrene sent her card up to Walter’s room. The messenger returned, saying that ‘‘ the doctor had ridden away half an hour before.” _ Mr. Remmington evidently enjoyed his niece’s manifest astonishment and discomfiture; in fact, nothing could ha've suited him better than the turn affairs had taken. ‘““You see, my dear,” he said, as Tom turned the horses’ heads homeward, ‘how unnecessary it was for Pets to take so much trouble; your cousin could have come to see you had it suited his convenience to do so.” It would have been better for Mr. Remming- ton’s plans had he left these words unspoken, as he saw, a little later. Trene studied his face attentively fcr a mo- ment. : ““There is some mistake, some misunderstand- ing. I shall send my adieux to Walter by let- | ter, together with the hope that I shall see him at my house whenever he is in town.” Mr. Remmington understood the italicized word, as Irene intended he should @o. His term of guardianship had expired. The position he still retained was simply his by courtesy, as he well knew; if he gained any- thing, and he hoped to gain much, it would not be by open warfare. So he simply said: ; “A very good idea. Heis notin a position to have much time at his own disposal, but I see him.” hope you will add how glad we shall all be to | Nor dol say | | } ~~.
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6 fe ee In spite of Irene’s brave words and bearing, | there was an uncomfortable feeling in her heart as she took the pen in her hand to write | to Walter. She was beginning to be disturbed by the con- sciousness that she entertained for him a more than cousinly regard. Had she not expressed more in her previous notes than she had intended, or was it maid- 4 a * hese doubts and fears imposed a constraint upon her that was visible in every line, making her note very different from any of the others. _. Still it was very kindly worded. ” She mentioned her call, and how very sorry she was to have to leave without seeing him. : oe that he would not forget his promise to , ; all on her. Adding: ‘You must remember that when I ask my friends to call on me, I ask them to my house.” | Half an hour later, Mr. Remmington tapped at the door, saying: “Tam going out; and if your letter is ready, will take it to the office.” Irene did not know why she felt averse to trusting her uncle with it; had she been ques- tioned she could have given no satisfactory rea- = son. It was ae sem a owing to the instinct if : that is said to be the sixth sense with woman. ; ““T won’t trouble you, uncle. We go past the post-office on the way to the depot, and I can mail it then.” Carrying out this programme, Irene saw, personally, to the mailing of her letter; which we are sorry to be forced to believe is the rea- son why Walter received it the next morning, a tew minutes after he had heard of her depar- ture. Walter was very glad to get it, as it explain- ed what had seemed abrupt, almost discour- teous. _ He noticed the visible constraint in it, so dif- . _ terpnt from anything she had formerly written, . putting on it his own interpretation. “She fears that I will get too much interested Tay . in her,” he thought, as he read it over for the he . twenticth time. ‘And there was danger of it. Ae, But now that I know how matters are, I shall 8 on my gcard. Call on her? Of course [ shall. She is my cousin; though she can never - bemore to me. The lectures at the hospital commence in September. By that time, I hope to be able to think of her as the promised bride af another.” 4 CHAPTER VI. ‘¢ aT HOME.” Mr. ReEMMINGTON was not sorry to turn his Wack upon Crawford. He had sent Irene to that dull, secluded town tw get her out of the way of danger, said danger wonsisting of attractive young men, who might mance to her affections. pe | ieee “‘~e things don’t always turn out as we ex- ¥ The plans of men and mice aft gang aglee.” _ As that gentleman had ample time and occa- sion to reflect upon on his journey back. He had the mortifying reflection that he could hardiy have made a worse move in the game he m was aay ing: - Had these two, so formed to interest and at- ‘tract each other, met in town where there was ao mauch to occupy the time and divert the at- tention, it would have been bad enough; but they had been thrown together for weeks in a place where they had no other society, and where everything around them was calculated - ‘to eall forth and foster the very sentiment he ‘eared. And then his rescue of her from the &ire—women were so prone to admire heroism— sould any thing have happened so unfortunate? But though Mr. Remmington inwardly chafed alder these reflections, his countenance was as _ serene and tranquil as a summer’s day. Only by a muttered word, or an angry glance, when Trene was not looking, did he give tokens of the storm that was ready to descend, at the first opportunity that offered, upon his wife’s devoted : “Well, madame,” he said, as soon as they wore in the privacy of their own room, “a pretty kettle of fish you have made of it! What is the reason that I wasn’t informed of all this billing and cooing?” ‘ST don’t know what you mean,” said Mrs. \Remmington, sinking down helplessly into a _ehair. ‘IT know that my head is nearly split- ting with the on that’s in it; and I wish, if . you have any thing to say, you wouldn’t bellow ~ 80, he said to himself on the mornin E BROKEN BETROTHAL “*T shall bellow if I think proper, ma’am,” re- , turned Mr. Remmington, in a still louder voice, secure in the consciousness that Irene’s room was at the further end of the house; ‘and I’d like to see you, or any other woman hinder me! After all that you knew, how dared you keep me in ignorance of all this love-making?” Mrs. Remmington, who was really almost ill Sho fatigue and excitement, now arose to her ect. ‘Really, Charles, if you will act and talk so outrageously, I shall have to leave the room. I cannot stand it!” 7 ‘* We'll see about that!” said her husband, turning the key to the door, aud dropping it into his pocket. ‘‘ Now you just resume your seat, and answer my questions. Didn’t I send you out to Crawford with Irene to keep her from ay entanglement? And here I find that she has been walking and riding al] around with Walter Remmington, that I didn’t suppose was within a hundred miles of her.” ‘“‘T told Irene, the first day he called, that I was afraid you wouldn’t approve of it. What else could I do?” **Couldn’t you have written me?” “You know, very well, that I hate to write, Charles. Besides, 1 was expecting you on every a You might have come when you prom- ‘*There is one thing sure, it’s likely to break up the match between her and John.’ Mrs, Remmington’s temper was a very uncer- tain one. She generally stood in considerable fear of her husband, only weakly protesting against his frequent exactions an Lan RP if she protested at all. But occasionally she would turn upon her oppressor. ‘“*T don’t care if it does!” Mr. Remmington glanced at his wife for some moments without speaking. ‘* You don’t care if it does?” “No. _ 1t’s John’s fault, every bit of it. Why doesn’t he come and make love to her, himself, instead of rere over the country for no- body knows what? If he won’t, he must expect that some other man will. Does he think that Irene is going to be shut up like a nun, until he thinks proper to claim her?” There was more common sense in this than Mrs. Remmington usually gave utterance to: and it had the good effect, so far as she was con- cerned, of diverting her husband’s thoughts and anger into another channel. “Pll attend to him, in short meter! I’d write to him to-morrow morning, if I knew where to direct. Do you know where the young scamp is?” “ AILT know is that he went away with Hen- ry Warner. He’s back again; I saw him at the ne when we got out. He ought to be able to tell you.” Mr. Remmington saw young Warner the next day, who told him that John was in an obscure village in Connecticut, as he expressed it, ‘‘ get- ting up a first-class flirtation with some rustic beauty.” Warrer could not remember his post-office address, but promised to get it for him. It is not easy for the elastic heart of youth to suddenly relinquish all hope, especially in re- gard to what takes such a strong and deep hold on it. Walter had assured himself, over and over again, that from herceforth he should regard Irene only as a cousin, that for him to cherish any thought of ever being more to her was fool- ish and vain. Yet down deep in _ his heart a faint hope still lingered, which silence as he a ha and did, was far too precious to be entire- ly banished. So it was with no little satisfaction that he found that business would take him to Concord some weeks earlier than he expected. ‘“‘T shall call on Irene, as a matter of course,” of his arrival. “She is my cousin, and not to do so would be unkind and discourteous. And then I promised to do so.” With a self-denial that cost him quite an ef- fort, he waited until the second day after his arrival, The house was on the outskirts of the town, a large, square, state] one building, standin in the midst of grounds laid out with unusua skill and elegance. It belonged to Irene, being a portion of the large fortune she held in her own right, and as Walter ascended the broad stone steps that led to the main entrance, he realized as he never had before the wide difference that lay between them, in a worldly point of view. ‘*T wonder if she will be glad to see me?” he thought, as the servant, taking his name, usher- t ‘4 . : 4 - ’ . & ie a _ ray ye) if sagt “SP } ae Lat PS ee ee ed him into a room whose elegant and costly appointments were beyond any thing he had ever seen, This question had scarcely arisen in his mind when Irene stood upon the threshold, the glad look in her eyes answering it even before her lips spoke. As she looked upon Walter, she thought of what his heart, as generous as it was brave, had forgotten, and the grateful emotions it called forth swept away the barriers of maiden- ly reserve. They had not met since that terrible night, and as Walter looked into the eyes, made still brighter by the tears that filled them, and lis- tened to those faltering thanks, he seemed to feel the pressure of the arm that clung so close- ly to his neck, and it gave a tender inflection to his voice, as he said: ‘What you say sounds very pleasantly, dear cousin—too pleasantly, I fear. That I was so fortunate as to be of such essential service to you will always be a happy thing for me to re- member, Here Irene opened the door of a small room, more plainly furnished, and wearing a more cosey and home-like air. A canary was singing ina cage that hung in the open window that looked out into the gar- den, on the broad seat of which Irene’s pet kit- ten was purring in the sunshine. “This is my favorite room,” said Irene, wheeling a deep easy-chair up to the open win- dow. ‘‘I never stay in those dark, never-end- ing parlors longer than I can help. Now just make yourself as comfortable as possible in this; and then tell me all about yourself, the good people of Crawford, and all the poor folixs we used to visit.” Thus adjured, Walter proceeded to disburden himself of all the items of news he could re- member; his memory aided and refreshed by the many questions that poured in upon him from Irene. Walter could hardly have called at a better time. Mr. Remmington was not in the house, and his wife was out shopping, so there was no interruption to the pleasant and confidential conversation that followed. Tke sunshine crept slowly out of the room until it lay slantingly upon the green sward out- side, and still Walter lingered. It was not until he heard Mr. Remmington’s voice in the hall that he arose to go. ‘* The time has sped so swiftly and pleasantly that I did not dream of its being so late.” ‘“Then I hope to see you often. I shallalways be at home—to you.” Walter’s heart beat fast as he met the glance, shyly lifted to his, and then as shyly averted. Should he tell her why he feared to do this? ‘Tf I followed my own inclinations, I should come very often, but—” The wondering eyes that were turned upon him did not tend to lessen the young man’s em- barrassment. ‘You forget that Iam a poor, struggling doc- tor, and you are the heiress of half a million.” Trene raised her hand with a gesture of impa- tience. “TI wish I could forget it! Do you know, I sometimes wish that I was born poor?” ‘*T am selfish enough to wish so too!” It was not the words, but the tone in which they were spoken, that gave them so much power and meaning. For some moments, the two stood there, si- lent, their hearts beating so fast that they seemed almost audible. Walter felt that he was treading on forbidden ground; and after a momentary struggle with himself, be said, in tones that not all his efforts could render quite steady: 4 ‘‘Trene, many times during our pleasant inti- macy at Crawford a question arose to my lips, but to which I ever had the courage to give ut- terance. It may seem strange, almost imperti- nent, but I feel impelled to ask it, leaving you to answer it, or not, as you think best. Are you engaged to John Remmington ?” Before Irene could reply, the door opened, and in walked Mrs. Remmington. ‘“*Trene—” Then, as her eyes fell upon Walter: “Dr. Remmington!—this is an unexpected pleasure.” It was very well and naturally done; so well that neither of those so inopportunely inter- rupted suspected that she had been sent in_b her husband, who had just discovered that Wal- ter was in the house. Walter gave the conventional shake to the two forefingers extended to him, and then turned to the door.
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~~ Eee THE BROKEN BETROTHAL. 7 “Going?” said the intruder, with a laugh. “Hope I have not frightened you away?” Walter had now thoroughly recovered his self-possession. ‘“Oh, no; I have greatly overstayed my time already.” Adding, with a bow to both ladies, and a parting aaa at Irene: ‘¢T will call again, at an early day. CHAPTER VIL. . THE QUESTION ANSWERED. “ ARE you engaged to John Remmington?” This question had plunged Irene into a sea of doubts and conjectures which banished for some hours sleep from her pillow. She felt like one suddenly aroused from a gee dream to the cold, harsh realities of e. Was she bound to him? She cast a swift glance backward; recalling the handsome boy of eighteen—for he was scarcely more—who kissed her lips, calling her “his little wife.” Three days before, she had followed her father to the grave, whose death left her an orphan, brotherless and sisterless. That title sounded pleasantly to her then—she even remembered some foolish pledges, on her part—hut she was such a mere child, they surely would not hold her to them? She remembered the sad hour, when, kneeling by ber father’s dying bed, she listened ‘to his last words, his solemn charge, that if her cousin sought her hand, she should not say him nay. She shuddered as she remembered her promise —under such circumstances so sacred. He had not claimed its fulfillment; would he do so? The very idea was repugnant to her. Walter’s question had done more than remind her of what she would so gladly forget; it had revealed to her, too clearly to be mistaken, not oe her feelings for him, but his for her. hough no words had passed her lips, or his, Irene knew that she loved and was beloved; and not all that she so dreaded, could rob her of the sweet and blissful emotions that this con- sciousness gave her. The bright sunshine of the following sie ert drove away many of the fears that weighe so heavily upon Irene’s heart during the dark hours. The elastic nature of youth asserted it- self. It was six months since she had returned from Europe, and John had not been near her. It was clear that he had no idea of claiming the fulfillment of that childish compact, even if he remembered it atall. Very likely he had form- ed some other attachment, which would make it as repugnant to him as to her. Walter was as good as his word. He called on Irene; in fact, he made several calls, but in came of them was he so fortunate as to find her one. It was a little curious to observe how fond Mrs. Remmington was, all at once, of her niece’s society. There were times when it seemed impossible for her to keep away from Irene. ntil at last, unsuspicious as her nature was, Irene began to see that there was some ‘“‘ meth- od” in the peculiar mania that seized her aunt whenever Walter called on her. This was a source of great annoyance to Wal- ter, who was anxious to continue the conversa- tion that was broken off so suddenly on his first call there. ; One morning he called with the intention of asking Irene to take a walk with him. He had no sooner delivered his errand than Mrs. Remmington appeared upon the scene. “Ym so glad to see you, doctor,” she cried; “T want you to tell me if you think this is a cancer?” : Walter examined the ne she extended, which had on it a small induration, about as large as the head of a pin, gravely assuring her that there was no danger of the calamity she seemed to dread. J “Ym so glad! I told Mr. Remmington last night, I felt such darting pain through it, that I was afraid that it was a cancer, or some- ber “ Where are you going, Irene?” “To put on my things. Cousin Walter and I are going out for a eral 3 " “It’s a lovely morning for a walk. I believe it will do me good to go out. So if Dr. Rem- mington doesn’t mind—” * But Dr. Remmington does mind,” interrupt- ed Walter. ‘I am going to take Irene to the top of Chestnut Hill; and, as a pbysician, I strongly object to one in your delicate state of health attempting any such feat as that.” Irene with difficulty repressed a smile at her aunt’s evident discomfiture at this effectual checkmate. : ‘* Charles will be mad enough to take my head off!” was that lady’s inward reflection, as she watched the two as they passed down the wind- ing path that led to the road. to let them be alone together a minute. But I don’t see how I was to ninder it. As I told him, it’s John’s fault, every bit of it!” Walter and Irene walked silently along the highway, turning from thence into the narrow, wooded path that led to Chestnut Hill. Irene was the first to speak. “‘T have had no opportunity to answer the sore ce you asked me, if I was engaged to ohn Remmington.” Suddenly pausing, Walter dropped the arm within his, taking a position where he could look full in the face of the speaker. “*Ts it true?” “Tt is true that there was an panel ane between my father and John’s that he shoul have my hand if he claimed it. It is also true that my father exacted a pledge from me. But I don’t believe that John has any idea of doing so.” Walter’s face grew very bright. “Then I may not only tell you of the love that has taken such full and strong possession of my heart, but of the hope that is there that I do not love vainly. Js my love vain? Answer me, Irene!” Irene blushed rosily at these impetuous words. “If I should say that Idid not love you, Wal- ter, I should speak falsely. And indeed I know of no reason why I should not deal frankly with you. But do not say anything, just now, to uncle and aunt Remmington, or to any one. Wait until I have had a talk with John, whom they are expecting now every day. Itis my belief that he has found some other attachment, and that is why he keeps away so.” “God grant it! What shall you say to him, Irene?” ‘‘T shall say that I don’t love him ; and that I do love—somebody else.” “My darling! But supposing he will not re- lease you?” “Tm not going to Suppose an hing of the kind,” smiled Irene. ‘I should be sorry to think so ill of cousin John as to suppose that he would care to marry me after I had told him — And I do not mean to do so if I can help 1t. As Irene said this she took Walter’s arm, and the two retraced their way back. As they came in sight of the house Irene, whose face had grown very thoughtful, paused. “In some respects my position will not be a very pleasant one, and I shall want you tostand by me. I don’t believe John cares for it—at least, it don’t look as though he did—but his father and mother have set their hearts on this marriage, and will be sorely disappointed. Of course they will not feel very cordially toward you, but they will not dare to treat you rudely, and you must not keep away on that account. It is my house, Me know; and you have a right to come, even if you were only my cousin.” ‘*My dear Irene, I shall come, as a matter of course; and you need have no fears of my _ hav- ing trouble with any one. I shall consider it my sacred duty to stand by you under every and all circumstances.” CHAPTER VIII. THE TWO RIVALS. OvuR next chapter opens at the breakfast- table, around which Irene and Mr. and Mrs. Remmington are seated. “A telegram from John, my dear. He is coming on the next train.” Mr. Remmington looked across the table at his niece, as he said this, but her aunt being present, she did not take it as anything espe- cially directed to her, or, indeed that particu- larly concerned her. Though inwardly disturbed, Irene had learn- ed the difficult art of concealing her real feel- ings, and her face gave no token of it. he knew that John’s ne oa inaugu- rate the conflict, upon which the happiness of her whole life depended, and that she would need, not only to be brave and strong, but all her woman’s wit to meet successfully the issue, “Pm sure I shall be glad to see the poor fel- low,” said Mrs. Remmington, perceiving that Irene was not intending to reply. John was always a “poor fellow” with his mother, though as he weighed all of a hundred and forty, her reasons for so styling him were not very apparent. ‘*'You do not say anything, Irene?” Mr. Remmington’s secret anxiety was not en- ** He told me not | _ tirely hidden by the playful smile that accom- panied these words. Irene raised her eyes from her plate. ““T beg pardon, uncle. You were saying something about John’scoming? I trust that he will consider himself as my guest during his stay in town.” , Mr. Remmington was evidently not a little taken aback by this. “‘ Well, as he is coming expressly to see you, | that would follow, as a matter of course.” Irene elevated her eyebrows. “To see me?” ‘Certainly. I hope you don’t think that he has forgotten your claim upon him?” “My dear uncle, I hope you will not give John the impression that I consider that I have any claim upon him.” Mr. Remmington was too wary to meet the issue thus squarely presented. ; ‘*My dear Irene, [ don’t wonder that you feel hurt at what seems like intentional neglect. own that appearances are against John. But I am convinced that he can explain matters to your entire satisfaction; and I think that I can safely leave him to plead his own cause.” Just here the housekeeper entered. ‘*My son will be here to-day, Williams,” said Mrs. Remmington. ‘‘You can get the room ready across the hall from mine.” Wiliams looked at Irene, who nodded. ““You can give Mr. John that room, Wil- liams.” | Adding, as she met her aunt’s surprised look: | “Thinking it high time that I should relieve you of cares and duties that are rightfully mine, I have instructed Williams to come to me for all orders in future.” This was evidently as unexpected as it was unwelcome. Mrs. Remmington straightened herself up, speaking in a tone of unusual energy and sharpness. ‘“‘T didn’t suppose a girl of your age would — care to tie herself down so. And I must say, after all the trouble I have taken—” a “ Clara!” i Checked by her husband’s warning frown, Mrs. Remmington stopped, and Mr. Remming- ton continued: ot ‘‘Trene is of age, and has a right to manage | her own affairs her own way. StillI trust that she will not forget the claims of her best and oldest friends, nor that years bring the judg- ment and experience that youth cannot expect to have.” Trene knew that years did not reli bring wisdom; but she did not care to prolong the conversation. ‘“You may be sure that I shall forget neither, uncle.” The door closed after Irene, leaving the hus- band and wife alone, who looked for some mo- ments at each other without speaking. It was evident that Irene had more character than they had given her credit for, and would not be very easily hoodwinked or controlled. It was not erie to either tosee thepower sy assing out of their hands that they had heldso : / a ios, ong that it seemed to be theirs of right, but there was no help for it. “Tt is only when John is master that you will be mistress here again,” said Mr. Remmington. ‘*‘ But we shall have to go to work very cau- tiously to secure that end; if Irene suspects Stare are seeking to control matters, all is . Ost. Cy In anticipation of coming events, and anxious. to avoid any awkward tete-a-tetes or exclusive attentions from the new-comer, Irene had in- vited two schoolmates of hers, Ida Gray and Jennie Hargraves, to Pend a few weeks with her. Also, Harry and Charles Vernon, particu- lar friends of John. So when John arrived, fancying, in the arro- gance of his heart, that he had only to see and conquer, he found Irene the center of a gay group, of which, after the first greetings were over, he was onl one, apparently of no more importance in the estimation of the young hostess than any of them. Not that Irene was wanting in cordiality or kindly feeling toward her young kinsman, but: in her words of greeting, gracious as they were, — there was a Bopue dignity that did not set ill upon her, and which effectually prevented any demonstration on his part no strictly in ac- ee with the cousinly role she had assigned A im, Without giving him time for any of the prc’- ty speeches he had been conning over, Ire:.o presented him to her young lady friends, The two gentlemen he already knew. Then the conversation became general. In a few minutes, dinner was-announced.
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pe "a 8 THE BROKEN BETROTHAL. After dinner, the whole party went riding; Trene quietly managing tbat John should be Miss Gray’s escort, while she went with one of the Vernons. In the evening, Irene had a general recep- tion. Tn the latter part of the evening, Walter came ) in, as he promised her he would do.” John was standiag near Irene when he came up to speak to her, but inwardly determined _ to ‘“cut the fellow,” as he called it, he pretended not to see him. A eee But this was a programme more easily plan- os ned than carried out. “John, don’t you see cousin Walter?” . Soft and sweet as the voice was, there was a ring in it that arrested the attention of all who heard it. The young men shook hands. John, sulkily and with an ill grace; Walter, with a certain reserve, though with the evident desire that the { affair should pass off as smoothly as possible. | Irene then presented Walter to the rest of ; those standing by, and the conversation again became general. John retreated to the further end of the room, .talking with this and that one, but still furtive- ly watching Walter and Irene. There was nothing of the lover with either; ‘they having too much good sense to make an ‘public exhibition of their feelings, had they felt privileged to do so. Still there was something in Walter’s look and manner as he spoke to ‘Irene, that aroused a fierce jealousy in his bosom. How dared he look that way at the woman that he had been taught to consider as his ex- clusive property ?—and how dared she allow it? As he stood in the inclosure of the bay w*> ' dow, his angry and resentful feelings pla’ ly visible upon his brow, his father approac..u m. The father and son were widely different in temperament, as could be eaely seen by looking into the cool, calm face of the former. _ “ Have you abandoned the field so early?” . The faint sneer in these words sent a hotter flush to the young man’s brow and a fiercer gleam to his eye. “T will never relinquish it!—not to him! What is the impudent puppy doing here? He ought to be kicked out of the house!’ “Take care that you don’t get kicked out,” said his father, significantly. ‘Remember that you are not owner here—as yet !” ne ee T always disliked the fellow, and now I hate im!” ‘‘ Hate him as much as you like—only don’t show it; at least, not until you get matters into your own hands. Every time you do, you weaken your own cause. It won’t do for you to despise your antagonist either. He’s a smart fellow; and has, what you haven’t—self-control and a cool head. You stayed away and let ; another man get a foothold; and now you have committed another blunder, and made an un- favorable impression at the outset. Seek an in- terview with Irene after the rest have gone, sand see if you can’t remove it. In the mean- _ ‘time, drive that sullen look from your face, and - keep cool.” “* Everybody don’t Happee to be an iceberg, like yourself,” muttered John, as he watched his father quietly making his way up the room to ( here Walter and Irene were standing. ‘“‘How the dickens is a man going to keep cool, I’d like to know, when a fellow is crap love to his lady right under his eyes—or what looks mar- velously like it?” The young man took his father’s advice, how- ever; emerging from his corner, he joined the rest of the company, and for the rest of the eve- | ning was as merry and talkative as he had been ; sullen and silent. Determined to see Irene a few minutes alone, John lingered until the last. But that young Jady was contrariwise minded. ie) As soon as the last outside guest had gone, ; Irene, preceded by her young lady friends, ee turned to the door. John followed. __ “T have been waitin little talk with you. few minutes?” Irene turned upon the speaker a look of sur- prise. “Tt is late, cousin; and I am very tired. Un- less what you have to say is of importance—as I presume it is not—I beg that you will defer it. I told Williams to give you your old room; I hope you will find everything comfortable. Good-night.” : John took his way to his room in no very * amiable frame of mind. gue : Se eee: ® f - impatiently to have a an you not spare mea ee ee er ee Things were different from what they were when his father and mother held undisputed sway there, and he used to pay them flying visits during Irene’s absence. e remembered how he had planned alterations in it; for, though it was a fine, stately mansion, some parts of it were too old-fashioned to suit his modern tastes. It did not look, now, as though he was to have any voice or control in anything. From all he could see and learn the young heiress had taken matters entirely into her own hands, and apparently without any more refer- ence to him than if he hadn’t been in exist- ence. His vanity was sorely wounded at his recep- tion by Irene. Not that she gave him any cause for complaint; her manner could scarcely be more courteous and kind, but then it was so cool and calm; so entirely different from what he had expected. She had not even paid him the compliment of being offended at his neglect, or even consider- ed that he had neglected her. Had she wi Bee her father’s dying injunc- tions, or had she decided to disobey them? Perhaps she thought that he wished to have them disregarded? If so, he would soon set her right on that point. CHAPTER IX. LOVE-MAKING AND LOVE-ACHING. THE next morning, Irene arose earlier than usual; passin through the breakfast-room and ae the garden to gather some flowers for the e. Her bright face was clouded. John’s rudeness to Walter, the preceding evening, not only displeased but made her un- easy, especially when she reflected on the hot, impatient temper of the offender. if she would avoid trouble, she must prevent its recurrence. True, Walter had shown admirable self-com- mand, but this might not always be possible. As she stood upon the piazza, arranging her flowers, she heard a step back of her. ‘‘Good-morning, sweet cousin.” Taking no notice of the extended hand, Irene looked gravely at the speaker. *“You treated me very rudely last evening, cousin. The mock sorrow that clouded John’s face could not entirely conceal the exultation at his heart. She had noticed the flirtation he had agi c get up with Miss Gray and been offend- i “Dear Trene, only teil me in what way, and you may be sure of its not being repeated.” Irene raised her eyes from the flowers she was arranging. “*T consider any rudeness or incivility to my guests as a personal discourtesy to me.” There was a pause; the sudden revulsion in John’s feelings choking his utterance. Irene turned her eyes from that flushed, angry face to the flowers, whose fragrance filled the air. ‘*T allude to your rudeness, last evening, to Dr. Remmington. Under this roof, at least, it must not be repeated.” As usual, anger and disappointment made John lose sight of all prudence. *“-You seem to take a vast deal of interest in him!” he sneered. ‘ The disturbed night that Irene had passed had banished the roses from her cheek; they now came back, brighter than he had ever seen them there before. } ‘*T certainly do take a strong interest in the man who risked his life to save mine!” John saw the blunder he bad committed, and hastened to repair it. “Ttis na that you should be grateful; though no man could do less, that was not a brute or a coward. I should be grateful, at least, for the life saved is very precious to me. But oh! I am_so madly jealous! J should have been there! Oh! Irene, why was I not?” The gleam of mirth in the eyes that momen- tarily met his made John feel very hot and un- comfortable. “*f really couldn’t tell you. All I know is that you were not there; and that I consider it very fortunate that cousin Walter was. There is the breakfast bell.” John followed Irene in; feeling, as he ex- ressed it, ‘‘ that he had made an egregious don- ey of himself!” e seemed fated to make himself ridiculous in the 7s of his cousin; Sa when he at- tempted sentiment, which he had always sup- posed to be a strong point with him in gaining the good greces of her sex; priding himself not & ——— ee | a little on his seductive ways and effective speeches. It really seemed to him—he chafed at the very thought—that whenever he attempted presi of the kind with lrene, she was in- wardly laughing at him, The truth was, Irene was not only quick to discern between real and mock sentiment, but had little faith in her cousin’s professions. Nei- ther did she care to encourage anything of the sort in him. John saw that so long ns Walter was a privi- leged visitor to the house, and in so much favor with its mistress, he would have to treat him, at least, with outward civility. So he decided to change his tactics. ‘*7’ll speak to the fellow,” he thought; ‘ giv- ing him a hint how matters are between me and Irene, and see what ke says.” So Walter was surprised by a call from him, at the office he had opened in the upper-part_ of the town; especially so at the cordiality of his manner. f In the conversation that ensued—and which was mostly carried on by him—John waxed ey. communicative and confidential. e referred to the fire; thanking Walter for the service he had rendered him. ‘*) hardly dare think,” he said, with emotion, ‘how I should have felt had she perished in the flames!” Walter winced a little at all that this implied, but he made no comments on it; being strictly non-committal. Nothing daunted by this, and determined to draw him out, John went so far as to speak of some improvement he meant to make in the house and grounds. ‘¢ With Irene’s approval, of course,” he added, Set laugh; ‘‘for I mean to be a model hus- n John ginnoe™ at his companion’s grave, im- penetrable face. ‘““T beg pardon, but of course you know that we are to marry—Irene and I?” ° ‘“‘T heard your father say so.” Then, feeling that he dared not trust himself further, Walter et p= the subject by alludin to a curious case of surgery in the hosbiten where he was practicing; going into all the de- tails, and from thence branching out into a mi- nute description of the cases in the surgical | ward where he was daily in attendance, and which he knew would be particularly distaste- ful to his visitor. Determined to revenge himself for all he had suffered, Walter took a malicious pleasure inin- terlarding his discourse with various Latin phrases, together with all the technical terms he could remember; to John’s manifest disgust and impatience, who soon excused himself on the plea of an engagement. ‘*He’s a detestable prig!” he muttered, as he gained the street; the disgust he felt greatly in- creased by the thought of the utter failure he had made. With this, was the uncomfortable conscious- ness that he had said what Irene might take ex- mae at, if she heard of it. ohn entered his own room, in a more thor- oughly dissatisfied frame of mind than he had ever been before in his life. ‘“‘T wonder what is the matter with me, all at once?” he muttered. ‘I seem to make a worse muddle of it every movement I make. Hither I’m confoundedly unlucky, or I’m not the won- tam kamal fellow that [ve always fancied s myself. {0 Going up to the mirror, he took a critical sur- ‘ vey of the handsome face it reflected. “Tm better looking than Walter ever was, or will be, and I have twice the grace and polish; and yet I can’t win one such smile as she gives him. Confound it! how (Seemed she blushes when he speaks to her; and how her face lights up as she talks to him. With me, she’s as cool and matter-of-fact as if I was her grandfather! And yet I never cared for any woman half so much before. Half a million, and this fine estate, are no small addition to her charms, but I believe I should be fool enough to marry her if she hadn’t a penny !” é When Walter related to Irene John’s conver- sation to him—or rather his talk to him—she smiled, and then looked sober. “‘T must say that John has disappointed me. I thought he would have the good sense to see that hearts cannot be allo to this or that one, like merchandise. 1 hoped to be able to avoid any talk, or unpleasant feeling, but he is taking so much for granted that I think I shall have to give him that little talk in private, that he’s been asking for nearly every day since he came.
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. ———— or eC Tweet = , Irene smiled softly up into those grave, search- ing eyes. ‘Are you afraid to trust me, Walter?” “Not afraid to trust you, darling; but afraid to trust to the hope that my life will ever be made so happy as your love could make it. To lose you now!—oh, Irene, I could not bear it!” There was a depth of feeling in this that af- fected Irene as no words had ever affected her before. “My own beloved! you are not going to lose me. * “But you have not promised yourself to me, Irene?” ‘Not in somany words, perhaps. But Ihave said that I loved you; and with that you ought to be content.” “But I am not.” ‘““How unreasonable! What more do you want?” ‘““T want you!” ‘You have me pretty securely, just at pres- ent, I should say!” laughed Irene, as she looked down upon her imprisoned hands. “T want your positive promise.” “T don’t like to give that to you, as matters stand just now.” : Walter had released her hands, and Irene moved a little from him, so’ that she could look full into his face. “T will tell you, Walter. It may seem su- perstitious, but this is the way I feel. I can’t think that it was right for father to exact such a promise from me, at such a tender age, when I could not know my own mind, or what I was saying. Nor can I believe, feeling as I do, that I ought to consider it binding. Still, it wasmy father’s dying injunction, uttered under cir- cumstances so solemn as to make an impression upon my mind that nothing can efface; and if Jobn can be induced to relinquish his claim, as I ras he a it will lift a heav Mia; from my heart. can see, by your face, that you think me very foolish.” “T don’t think you at all foolish. And though I must consider your conscience unduly sensi- tive on this point, I can enter very fully into yom feelings. I join you heartily in your wish hat John could be induced to forego a claim, in which there is neither reason or justice, but to speak plainly, I don’t believe he will.” eT aan sorry to say that I think John is mer- cenary.” Walter smiled. “Have you just found that out?” “Tf everything else fails, Ican buy him off. As he has been brought up with the expectation of sharing my estate, perhaps I ought to make some provision for him.” “Tf I had only myself to think of I should say give himthe whole. But that would bea wrong to you, whose rightful inheritance it is, and who are accustomed to a way of living that I could not afford, at least for some yearsto come. Do what you will, my dear Irene, with what is al- together your own; it is you, you only that I seek. John has taken pains to spread the story of your positive engagement to him. have heard it from various quarters. It is not a pleasant story for me to hear; and I trust that I shall not be kept in so false and painful a _posi- tion_a great while longer.” “You shall not be; it is not right. I am de- termined to bring matters to a crisis. But I want you to promise me one thing, Walter. You know how quick-tempered John is, and, I am sorry to notice, often rude and overbearing. On noaccount have any quarrel with him.” ‘¢You need have no fears on that score. Iam not given to quarreling; and even if I was, [ would not bring your name into anything of the sort for the world.” As the door closed after Walter, Irene raised her eyes to the portrait of her father, which Bt Sper: ‘Oh! father,” she thought, “ surely, could you have known what the future would bring forth, you would not have laid upon your daughter such a heavy cross as this! Had you lived to see this day, you could not have wished her whole life to be so wretched as this hateful mar- riage you planned would make it!” CHAPTER X. A WOMAN’S SCORN AND A MAN'S HATE. THE passion that John had conceived for Irene had grown stronger and stronger ees | succeeding day; as is often the case, the cold- ness and indifference of its object, the ver means she took to check and discourage it, add- ed fuel to the flames. Jobn had had various attacks of what he call- ed love, but this was the first genuine feeling of THE BROKEN BETROTHAL. { the kind that he had ever experienced, and it | had its usual effect upon a temperament so warm and ardent as his. Irene saw, with dismay, that he either was, or fancied himself to be 2nd in love with her. She had, also, heard of various remarks of his, tending to create the impression that : their marriage was a thing decided upon. Perceiving that it was impossible to repress him much longer, she determined to take the dilemma by both horns, and opeu the subject herself. The two were alone in the library. It was an opportunity that John had long sought; and he stood inwardly debating how he could best open the attack upon the heart he was so desirous of winning, when Irene turned upon him thus: ‘‘T was greatly surprised to hear the story you have started.” This was so unexpected that John was taken entirely by surprise. He had the grace to blush, stammering: “What story?” ‘In reference to our marriage. Speaking of it as a matter of course.” John remembered what he had said to Wal- ter, and it brought an an gleam to his eye. ‘*T can guess the name of your informant.” “Who was it, pray?” The cool, calm countenance of the speaker was in strong contrast to the flushed, excited face of her companion. “ Walter Remmington.” *“So you have told him so?—as well as Ida Gray, and a score of others? I have given you no authority, cousin John, for any such state- ment.” John had now recovered from the suddenness of Irene’s attack upon him. “No authority, Irene? Have you forgotten an father’s dying commands, your own prom- ise ‘* My father could not have meant to have his daughter marry where she did not love; and the promise of a child—for I was scarcely more —is of little worth.” The young man drew his breath hardly be- tween the shut teeth, while the veins swelled across his forehead. “Then you repudiate that promise? What your dying father so solmnly enjoined upon you, you refuse to do?” Irene was silent; a disturbed, pained look in the soft, clear eyes. ‘There was a condition?—” “That I claimed your hand—and I do claim it!” was the apenoet response. John had taken a step forward; Irene re- treating, so as to leave the same distance be- tween them. Her face was paler, but more re- solute. “T paid my cousin the compliment—and so did my father, I am sure—of supposing that he would not wish to marry a woman unless she loved him.” ‘But you will, you must! Oh! Irene! I love you with a strong, o’ermastering passion that has taken possession of my whole being, sweep- ing every thing before it! Surely love so ardent and devoted must meet with a return? Only trust yourself to me, and you will learn to love me; I will be so true, so tender, that you cannot a it!” here was no mock sentiment in this. Fierce, vehement and ungovernable as this passion was, it was genuine; and the surprise in Irene’s eyes softened into a look of pity. “Love is not a thing to be learned. It would be wrong, it would be cruel to deceive you, John; I can never love you.” ‘**But you are cruel and most unjust! You have me me no time, no opportunity. Ever since I came here—and I came expressly to see you, as you know—you have studiously kept me at a distance: you have treated meas if I wasa stranger, And now you coolly say, ‘I can never love you!’ How do you know that?” ‘“No matter how; I do know it.” “You speak very confidently.” Irene had decided to avow her love for Wal- ter, but her knowledge of John’s hasty and vio- lent temper, and her fears of bringing the two cousins into open collisign, deterred her. She would wait until be had recovered, in a measure, from the disappointment and mortification un- der which he was now smarting. After revolving the matter over in her mind, Irene broke the silence by saving. We are so diverse in temperament and feeling, John, that our marriage would not be a happy one; T feel that it would be doing youas t wrong as a a should I consent to it. ome day you will see this, and be glad that I t 9 saw it in time to prevent that saddest of all mistakes—a loveless marriage. I would you could see it now. I frankly confess that I wish you had not, by putting forth this claim—if claim it can be called—forced me into a course so repuguant tome. As itis, I am compelled to say that I cannot ratify the compact entered | into by your father and mine for the simple and sufficient reason that I do not love you, as I feel that I ought to love my husband.” John looked darkly at the speaker. ““Only one thing could make you so sure of this—your love for some oneelse?” ° The swift, bright color that surged up to the temples, was followed by a sudden flash to the eye, that would have warned John that he was going too far, had he not been so enraged by de- feat, and all that it involved, as to have no thought for anything else. ‘* You need not tell me his name, who has so basely unde:mined me. It is Walter Remming- ton! the smooth-faced, sanctimonious hypocrite! It is not the first time that his lying tongue has defamed and injured me, curse him! He will find that he crossed my path once too often! If I live to be a day older—” oe Sto \?? As Ji aM looked at Irene, he hardly knew her, such a transforming influence had those crim- soned cheeks and blazing eyes. ““John Remmington! how dare you use such language under this roof, and tome? Go!” ‘*Forgive me, Irene,” he stammered; ‘‘ the thought of losing you nearly drove me wild, I ive me a little hope—” ithout vouchsafing a word or look in reply Irene passed through the door to which she pointed, never looking so lovely and desirable as now, when she seemed further off from him than ever. ‘On my honor, I don’t know whether I hate or love her most!” muttered the discomfited man, as he looked after her. ‘‘She angers and attracts me as no woman ever did before. But whether it be love or hate, whether I win or _ lose her, she shall never be. Walter Remming=_ ton’s wife—never! never!” CHAPTER Xt. THE QUARREL. ““T TELL you, father, she has refused me, and in words that leave no room for any mistake.” Mr. Remmington looked at his son’s flushed, excited face. ‘‘And then, asa matter of course, you flew into a passion, as you generally do if you can’t have what you want the minute youask for it?” “Tt don’t matter about that,” said the young man, sullenly; ‘‘the fact remains the same.” ‘lt does matter; as any such course closes the door to any further effort. pial Sage she did refuse? I’ve known girls to refuse men a dozen times, and then marry them. A woman’s ‘No’ often means ‘ Yes,’ as you ought to know by this time.” ‘¢Trene is no such woman as that; she knows her own mind, and means what she says. You’d think so, at all events, if you’d heard’ what she said tome. She means to marry Walter Rem- a oe as I have told you, all along.” ** Did she say so?” ‘She as much as said so. She didn’t deny it. If you don’t interpose your authority, she’ll do it, too. ah SEE ““My authority, John? You very fool-— ishly! I have no authority over her. | legally of age; mistress of herself, ar she has.” “Your influence, then. You surely ought to have some. You are her nearest living rela- tive, and she will listen to you, as a matter of » urse. ‘*] shall use all the influence I have, of course; having almost as much at stake as you. But if you cannot get her to listen favorably to your suit, I don’t know how Jam todoit. You have played your cards very ill. After boasting of your success with women, you fail where suc- cess is most important. I must say that I can’t understand it. “It is all Walter Remmington’s doings! He’s been lying about me to Irene; I know it as well as if I heard it!” 2 At this moment, a servant tapped at the oor, It was a m from Irene to her uncle; re- questing to see him in the lib: 2 ‘‘Now is your chance,” said John, followin his father to the door. ‘Plead for me. Speak le i of my great love for her; remind her of her fa- _ ther’s commands, her own promise. I will wait here until you come back.” John’s patience was sorely taxed; his father was cioseted with Irene over an hour. ~ an 4 * “ ~
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10 ' Twice he went out into the haii; pausing by the corridor that led to the library; but though he could hear voices, he could distinguish noth- ing of what was passing within. hen his father at last came out, John had worked himself up into a fever of impatience and irritation which was clearly visible in the fiushed face and gleaming eyes. “Well, what is it, father? Whatdid she say? Why don’t youspeak? You were in there long enough to find out something, I should say!” Mr. Remmington’s face was a curious com- pound of disappointment and regret, in which were mingled no little satisfaction and triumph. “Can’t you ak? What success did you have?” demanded John, still more impatiently, as his father still continued silent. Remmington took a seat; John stood leaning against the mantle. “Tn some respects worse, in others better than I expected. On the whole, Irene spoke fair, very fair. She understands that her father in- tended that you should share in the estate, and is willing to make a liberal arrangement—” “‘T don’t want to hear any thing about that!” interrupted John, whose blood was now at a fe- ver’s heat. ‘‘That wasn’t what I wanted you to find out. Didshe say she would marry me? That is what I want to know!” “She did not,” replied Mr. Remmington, speaking with great deliberation. ‘‘On the contrary, if I have any knowledge of the Eng- lish language, she said she would not marry ‘you. Butshe promised to make provision for you; though only on condition that you fully and freely relinquish all claim.” “Which I won’t do!” cried John, enforcing his declaration by expletives that we don’t care to repeat. Without noticing this, Mr. Remmington con- tinued: “Of course, John, it is a disappointment to me, and it must be to you, also. But as we have no power to compel Irene’s compliance, it would be the hight of folly for you torefuse the terms she offers. Remember that half a loaf is better than no bread.” ‘*T will be party to no such scheme as that! I’m nos to be bouzht over in that way. I will not relinquish myclaim. Irene Carlton shall never be Walter Remmington’s wife! The scoundrel has laid his plans very cunningly, but he left me out of his calculation. I have an ac- count with him, and it will be settled, in short order, the first time I see him.” Mr. Remmington made no reply to this; he was accustomed to his son’s extravagant way of expressing himself, and knew that his wrath, violent as it was, was generally short-lived. When the tempest burst, whicn desolated his ‘whole after life, he remembered these words, but now he paid no heed to them. : John found himself in the open air, Driven by his angry and resentful feelings rather than any fixed purpose, he took his way up-town. e had gone but a short distance when he mov Tiarry and Charles Vernon. “Hollo! old fellow?” cried Harry; ‘‘so you were coming? The last of the boys sent us after you. We had strict orders to bring you, whether or no!” “ Bring me where?” “Why, to the club-room, to be sure! Didn’t you agree to meet the boys there at three this _ afternoon, to arrange about the excursion?” _ “So I did. Upon my honor! I forgot all about it. I’ve had some business of my own that drove every thing else out of my mind.” “Never mind; come along now. You are our right-hand man in such matters, you know, and we can’t get along without you. We haven’t decided a thing yet, not even where we shall ‘*Who are there?” inquired John, as they walked along. ‘Hid. Wheeler, Will Taylor, George Merrill, Charlie and myself. I asked Dr. Remmington to join us, but he declined.” “Tt is well he did!” retorted John, his brow darkening. ‘‘ That is, if you want me to have any an | to do with it. He’s a contemptible scoundrel, if he is my cousin; and I’ll have no friendly or social relations with him whatever.” The young men exchanged glances; they knew that there was some rivalry and jealousy between the parties, but did not dream of any such feeling as this. John continued: “You know I’ve told you about my engage- ment to my cousin Irene. It has been consider- ed as a settled thing for five years, or more, that we were to be married when she reached her majority. Well, this fellow has been secretly trying, for months, to undermine and supplant DEL \ CROKEN BETROTHAL. | mo, and so break up the match. Supposing a man skould try that game with you, Harry, in regard to your betrothed?” “Tm afraid one of us would get hurt. I’d eithe: give him a sound drubbing, or he’d give me one. Eh, Charlie?” Charlie smiled. He was older than his broth- er, and a more careful observer. He had seen enough of his young hostess to doubt whether she had ever cared any thing for John. ‘‘T should want to be very sure that he was guilty before proceeding to such extremities as that. “ He'll never fight,” sneered John; “‘he’s too cowardly. I’ve tried to insult him half a dozen times.” After the business matter was concluded John sent for wine and refreshments. He was generous and free-hearted; fond of such things himself, and willing to distribute them to those around him, which made him a general favorite. He often indulged in wine, but never to ex- cess, so that it could be discovered in his words or manner, but now, to drown his disappoint- ment and mortification, he drank freely; so much so that its effect was visible in his flushed face and Stig step, as, followed by his com- panions, he took his way down-stairs. i The club-room was in the upper part of the Clarendon House, where Walter boarded. He was then standing in the doorway of the main peers waiting for the hostler to bring up his orse, The entrance was amply wide enough for him to pass, but with a design that was evident to all who saw it, John brushed past him so rude- ly as to nearly throw him from his balance. ‘‘Was that intentional?’ demanded Walter, angrily. “ That was!” cried John, dealing him a qu'c blow in the face. Walter turned pale. Had it not been for his promise to Irene, and the evident intoxication of his assailant, he would have given him a Jes- son that he sorely needed, for he was physically the strongest. ‘¢-You will be sorry for this.” ; fe Who’s going to make me sorry?” sneered ohn. “7 will. I think that you will be both ashamed and sorry when you are sober,” added Walter, as he went down the steps, around which quite a crowd had gathered. ‘‘ You whining hypocrite!” roared John, mak- ing an effort to break away from Harry and Charles Vernon, who now interposed, ‘‘ how dare you insinuate that 1’m drunk?’ Walter stepped into his carriage and drove off; while John’s companions coaxed him inside, taking him up-stairs again. He was quite beside himself with ae “You heard what he said about being re- venged on me. And he’ll do it, too; though it will be in some way as low andsly as be is! He won’t stand up and meet me openly like a man. He’s a coward, as I told you.” The young men persuaded him to lie down upon the lounge, and he soon fell asleep. They then left him, believing that he would sleep away his excitement with the wine he had taken, and which they considered to be the main cause, CHAPTER XI. THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. Two or three days later, Walter was riding along the dusty road that led to town. The sun was sinking behind the hills; he had been riding all the afternoon, and was beginning to be conscious of being both tired and hungry. His thirsty horse sete up his ears at the tinkle of the wayside brook, where he had so often quench- ed his thirst, and encouraged by the suddenly slack- ened rein, took his way thither. A Jad—for he could scarcely be more—was resting himself upon one of the smooth, flat stones; his dust- laden garments showing that he had traveled some distance. ; Walter scarcely heeded him; his mind being occu- | pled by his cousin’s quarrel with him, which had | been noised about town with various additions and | exaggerations; the most unpleasant part of which | was, to him, the mention of Trene’s name, as the cause of the trouble. Tf you please, sir, is this Concord?” There was something so peculiar in the voice that | Walter turned his eyes curiously upon, the speaker | who, now that he had risen, looke taller and older. He seemed annoyed, almost displeased, at the in- | tentness of that gaze, which he showed by the sud- den knitting of the brows, and the lowermg to the | ground of the dark, glittering eyes. Ky “T beg pardon,” said Walter, on perceiving this; “what was it that you said?” ’ “T asked you if I was in Concord?” “You are within the limits of Concord. The town itself is straight on, about a mile and a half beyond.” “Do you know if a lady lives there by the name of Carlton?” “ A lady lives there by that name, yes.” ‘*Can you direct me to her house?” “ Very easily. You will find itstraight on. Itisa large brick house, standing back from the road, the first one of any note that you come to.” Walter glanced at the stranger’s slender form and pale, wearied face. ; “You can go along with me; Lam going right past the house.” The stranger retreated a step. “T prefer to walk, thank you,” he said, in a cold, reserved tone that forbade anything further. Walter rode along. ; On reaching the top of a hill, he looked back. The young fellow had resumed _ his seat beside the brook, whose waters were bubbling up over the stones, that formed a partial inclosure around it. Who could he be? He was a stranger, evidently, not only unacquainted with the country round about him, but the person he was seeking. Most hkely it was some one ik! help, for Trene’s wealth and liberality were well known; she was especially noted for assisting students, in strait- ene circumstances, in their efforts to obtain an edu- cation. With this thought he dismissed the matter from his mind. The young traveler watched Walter until he dis- appeared over the brow of the hill. Then loosening a small knapsack from his shoulder, he took from it some bread and cheese; and a tin cup; eating and drinking with an avidity which indicated that it was the breaking of a long tast. He seemed especially thirsty; dipping the cup into ; the brook, he drained it twice with a long sigh of satisfaction. Then removing his cap and loosening his collar, he bathed his head and face in the cool water; the ap- plication of which made the short, jetty rings of hair curl still more closely around the head. He then took a position further back from the road under a tree. The moon arose, and the solemn stars looked down; but still he sat there, his head leaning against the tree, so motionless that he would have seemcd to be sleeping were it not for the wide-cpen glitter- ing eyes, which looked straight forward, as though they saw something else besides the tranquil scene before them. At last he arose, and strapping the knapsack to his back, went on in the direction Walter had indi- cated. He walked very rapidly, and without paus- ing, until he came toa house, the lights of which could be seen back of the trees that surrounded it. The grounds were inclosed by a high wall, the gate of which stood wide open, disclosing a broad, wind- ing path, lined with trees. The young man stood irresolute; it looked as though it might be the place, but be was not sure, A tow-headed, bare-footed boy was perched upon a post opposite, whictling Yankee Doodle. ‘Can you tell me where Miss Irene Carlton lives?” “T reckon I kin,” responded the lad; ‘‘she lives in that house over yander. ‘*T live there too,” he added, with a consequential air; ‘‘ma’m is Miss Carlton’s cook.” “Is she at home?” “T guess she is. That’s her room, on the east fiazy, where that light is. There ain’t never no igl.t there when she ain’t tew hum. ‘Air you locking fur work?” added the boy, em ing at the knapsack, which, small as it was, coked too heavy for the slender shoulders. ‘“ Be- cause if you be—”’ “Tm net looking for work,” interrupted the stranger; ‘‘I have as much on my hands, now, as I ean well attend to.” “Short as pie-crust,’? muttered the urchin, as he ‘looked after the stranger, who, walking swiftly past the gate, disappeared in a curve of the road be- yond. In the course of half an hour, he returned; passing through the gate, up the avenue to the house, After looking carefully about, he took his way ed the room on the east piazza, spoken of by e boy. It was a warm night, and the light streamed — brightly through the lace folds of the curtain that draped the open window, and which descended to. the floor. Within was Margie, Miss Carlton’s maid, a prety vain, shallow-hearted girl, who was amusing hers during her mistress’s absence by trying on the con- tents of her wardrobe. , She had arrayed herself in a rich purple silk, trim- med with costly lace, and was standing before the mirror admiring its effect, when she heard a step back of her. She eee a shriek as she saw the youthful- ness of the intruder. “ “Goodness me! boy, what do you want?” _ “Pardon this seeming intrusion, lady,” said the stranger, in a low, sweet voice, in strong contrast to. that s , wiry tone; ‘‘my business is urgent,” Margie looked at the intruder from top to toe. Making no doubt but what he was one of the many recipients of Miss Carlton’s bounty, she said, with a toss of the head: pot: “Tntrusion, indeed! I should think it aas an intru- sion! If you want food or lodging, why don’t you go round to the kitchen door?” The teat lifted his head proudly, while a dark’ flush crossed his cheek. “Tam no beggar, Miss Carlton. If I were I would pie before I would touch a morsel beneath this roof!’ The girl smiled. ‘ That she should be taken for her mistress gratified the vanity that was the ruling passion of her nas | } zt
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- would let the slow years bring him the THE ture; she perceived that her visitor had never seen Miss Carlton, and she determined to keep up the il- lusion. rand, and then go,”’ she said, ina tone that was in- tended to be very stately, but which was, really, nothing but a compound of pertness and insolence. The stranger took a rapid, comprehensive survey of the speaker, his eyes dweiling the longest on her face; with the curiosity and interest there was min- gled a deeper feeling, though of what nature it was not easy to tell. : While he did not, in the least, doubt her identity, it was evident that she was not at all such a person as he had expected to see. : ‘“‘T have come to give you a message of warning that you would do well to heed. Are you engaged to John Remmington?”’ , “Supposing Iam? How dare you have the impu- dence to come here and ask such a question as that?” cried Margie, who began to enter into the spirit of her role, and, indeed, to quite overact her art. pa I mean no impertinence, lady. I have come to prevent the committal of a great wrong. I am Jo- | seph Harmon, the brother of the woman he should marry, if he marries any one—if there is any honor Tf you will read these letters you will see that I speak truly.” : 4 Half-frightened at the turn affairs were taking, Margie took the letters that were held out.to her., She could not read writing very well, but by making out a word here and there, she saw that they contained declarations of the most ardent love and devotion. “Mr. Remmington was 0 amusing himself,’ she said, thrusting them back into his hand; “as gentlemen will, when girls are so silly as to believe ‘em. Your sister ought to know that they never mean no good to girls in her condition.”” The young man shut his teeth tightly; the heay- ing breast and the swollen veins across the fore- head alone gave token of the fierce battle that was going on within. “ And this is your answer to the broken-hearted, desperate, maddened woman that this man has so terribly wronged?"’ ““You may tell your sister, from me, that it serves her right for being so silly, and that I hope ‘twill be a lesson to her!” said Margie, sharply, who was beginning to tire of the part she was acting, and to fear that she would not find it an easy thing to rid herself of her strange visitor. ‘‘ Now that you have got your answer, go away!” ie nD spite of all I have told you, you will marry im?’ “Of course I shall! Who and what's to hinder me?” _ It was now nearly time for her mistress to return; and the girl was fearful that her little masquerade would be discovered, and which she knew would most likely result in ousting her from her present snug and comfortable berth. “Why don’t you go away, asI told you? If you don’t go fastanily Til send for a constable, and have you arrested!” The stranger approached the open window through which he had entered, and then, turning round, con- fronted the speaker. * John Remmington seeks you for the wealth you will bring your husband; it can be for nothing else. If my blood and brain were made of cooler stuff, I unishment he merits. As it is, I wish you joy of your hus- band!” - There was something in these words, and the dark look that poopapenes them, that sent a sudden shiver through the girl’s veins, and it was with a feeling of relief that she listened to his retreating footsteps. Pies! think the fellow must be crazy,” she muttered | : as she hurriedly divested herself of her borrowed plumes. ‘‘Goodness me! how his eyes did glitter, and how wildly he talked. There wa’n’t the least bit of sense in what he said, but somehow it made me feel sort of all-overish. I’m glad he's gone. I hope to goodness that he won’t come back again. Miss Irene would be mad ea te if she knew what I had done. Nobody saw him but me, and I won’t jet on to her that he’s been here.”’ So when Irene returned, half an hour later, she found Margie clad in her own proper habiliments, sitting demurely by the window. “Did you get tired waiting for me?” she said, with es Toh, em : no, mem. Margie stood back of her young lady’s chair, un- coiling the heavy braid of hair, when Irene suddenly said: “Margie, do you know of any one ” calling to see me, this evening; a young man, or lad, rather—a stranger?” . 3 “No, mem. Was you expecting any one? “Dr, Remmington told me that he met a lad on ‘the road about gundown, who looked asif he had traveled a long distance, and who inquired of him the way to the house.” “Thain’t seen nobody, mem. P’raps the house- keeper would know.” CHAPTER XIII. A STRANGE SUMMONS, AND STRANGER INTERVIEW. Tae next evening, as Walter entered his office, after a hard day’s ride among the rocks and hills, *.yhere most of his patients lived, he found a note on luis desk. a AS it was a hasty scrawl, so blotted as to be almost _ illegible, but after considerable study, he made it gut to run thus: ‘ , “Dr. Remuincton:—Come to the house known as the ‘old Stone place.’ There was reither date nor signature. On inquiry he found that it had been left by a boy about two hours before. Walter was very tired, and then it was the evening that Irene held her weekly receptions, and he was counting on being there; so the impulse was mph upon him to defer answering the summons unti morning. But on recurring to the note again he decided to go. ‘*Tt is evidently some one in pressing need of my professional services,’’ he thougbt, as he thrust the note into his vest-pocket; ‘“‘and if itis a matter of life and death, to-morrow may be too late. I shall | have time to run into Irene’s for a few minutes after I get back.” . What was called the “old Stone place’’ was a di- lapidated story and a half house, situated on a lone- ly road, nearly a mile from any other dwelling. Jt was very old, one of the very oldest in that part of the country, and had not been inhabited for many a day. *One must be wretchedly poor to seek shelter in | such a place as this,’’ thought Walter, as he tied his and Suibisedathe world: which 1 .sometimes doubs: | “ones °° the broken tence. Not aray of light gleamed from the windows, in which searcely a whole pane remained. A curious feeling came over Walter as he walked up to the door, which was partly ajar, and hanging only by one hinge. “Tf Twas arich man I should be afraid that this was a plot to rob and murder me;” he said to him- self, with a half-smile. ‘‘ Blessed be nothing!” Pushing open the door, he found himself in a low room, whose bare desolation was clearly revealed by the bright moonlight that fell through the curtain- less windows. Seeing a Seeroreh of light beneath a door opposite he opened it. As he did sohe was confronted by a figure which emerged from an obscure corner, while a voice said, in a tone of deep, concentrated feeling: “So we meet at last!” Then, as the speaker’s éyes fell upon Walter, he started back, adding: “Who are you? and what do you want?” To say that Walter was surprised at his strange greeting is to say little. On looking more closely he saw that it was the stranger he met on the road, whose countenance and singular appearance were indelibly stamped on his memory. As soon as he could collect his thoughts, he said: “T am Dr. Remmington. I was led to suppose that there was some one here in need of my pro- fessional services. The stranger turned a sharp, inquiring look upon the speaker. * Are pe Dr. John Remmington?” “No; I am Dr. Walter Remmington. I have a cousin by that name. He studied medicine, but never practiced it. So he was never called doctor— at least, around here.” “Tt was John Remmington that I wanted to see.” The stranger retreated to the window, and stood leaning against it with a wearied air. The unnatural flush had faded from the face, and its pale, dejected aspect aroused a gma) of sympathy in the kind heart, which never failed torespond to the 2 pen of suffering humanity, in whatever form it might come. “You are looking ill. I am a physician; it will afford me a real pleasure to be of service to you?”’ “T am not ill; and you can be of no service to me, whatever!” Then, as the speaker’s eyes fell upon Walter, he added, in a softer tone: ’ “T thank you, sir, but my malady is of the mind— a sick ee wounded heart. Have you any medicine or such?” “Only the Great Physician can heal that,’ was the grave response. ¥ The stranger folded his arms tightly over the heay- ing breast. : ‘Js there any such Being! allow wrong to triumph, and the innocent and help- less to be trodden under foot?” ‘In the language of one far wiser than I, ‘what we know not now, we shall know hereafter.’ ” The be hra b looked at Walter; there was some- thing in his face that inspired confidence, and which had a calming effect. upon the nervous excitement evinced by every look and gesture. “There is one thing that I must know; and know- oe no matter now! You say that this man— Jo m If so, why does He n Remmington—is your cousin. Is he going to Irene Carlton?” . ter was so astonished at this unexpected ques- tion that he remained silent for some moments. “T should not like to express any opinion on that point,” was the cautious response. . “It is so re- orted. The effect of these words upon the stranger was still more s' . Raising one clenched hand up- ward, he cried: . : ell he does, he will be perjured, perjured, per- A feeling of intense sympathy touched Walter’s heart as he looked upon that pale face, on which there was such an expression of anguish ahd de- spair. “Be calm. If this man has wronged you or any one belonging to you—’’ f “Tf this man has wronged me!”’ interrupted the stranger, rising from the knees upon which he had flung pl self. ‘‘ Why wait I for further proof? It is enough! enough!” After waiting a moment, Walter resumed: “The information you seek cannot properly come BROKEN BETROTHAL. ' from me. Is there no other way by which I can Don’t fail, or delay; it isa : | matter of life and death.”’ j “What do you want then? Make known your er- | serve you?” y what was evidently a hard struggle, the stranger had regained at least the appearance of calmness. “There is. Iwant to send a message to John Remmington. In what way can it most safely reach him, and with the least possibie delay?”’ “t expect to see him this evening. If you think you can trust me, J will take it to him—or, at least, see that he gets it.” “T think that I can trust you. Well would it be for John Remmington if he were as honorable as I believe you to be. I want you to tell him—” “Stay!” interrupted Walter; ‘‘I cannot give your message verbally. You must write it.” The stranger turned to the table, which was the only piece of furniture in the room, with the excep- tion of a broken stool. On this table was a candle, whose rays were flick- ene in the draught of the broken pane, near which it stood. He took a pencil and envelope from his knapsack, but. searched it vainly for paper; not the least scrap was to be found. Observing his perplexity, Walter took a note-book from his breast-pocket, and tearing a leaf from it, - gave it to him, Then walking to the window, he stood there, musing on his strange adventure, and the dark mys- tery that surrounded his new acquaintance. yho was he? and what was the nature of the wrong whose very memory seemed to goad him to desperation? That John was passionate, selfish and self-willed he well knew, but deliberately and basely evil he had never believed him to be. “The letter is ready for you, sir.” As Walter’s eye fell upon its superscription, he started and then smiled. “Tf I did not know to the contrary, I should think it my own handwriting.” Then, as he caught a side view of the face of his companion, a sudden thought flashed upon him, “Were you ever at Deering, Connecticut?” The stranger turned his head sharply. “Why*do you ask me that?” “T taught school there once, and—your face look- ed familiar.” ° “*T was never there.” Walter was turning away, when the stranger’s voice again arrested his attention. \ “One moment. Have you a sister?” Walter shook his head. ‘*T am not 'so fortunate.” ) “That is as it may be. If you had, and she was wronged, her heart won, and then trampled under foot, would not every drop of blood in your veins cry out for vengeance against him who so cruelly wronged her?’ Walter raised his hand upward. “*Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, and 7 will repay.’ Whatever may be your wrongs, put far from you such thoughts as these; they will onl bring upon you fresh trouble and suffering. Mind. I do not say that you may not seek their redressal: that is another thing. I will see that your letter reaches the person to whom it is addressed. In the. mean time, if I can serve you in any way, I will do so. You know where I am to be found.” © When Walter reached Irene’s, it was late. After paying his respects to his hostess, who was the center of a gay group, he looked around for John. He was at the other end of the room, talking to Miss Gray. The cousins had not spoken since their unfortu- | nate encounter on the steps of the hotel. John was inwardly ashamed of his violence, though he was too proud to own it; trying to justify himself in his- own eyes, and in the eyes of those who witnessed it, by seeking to make it appear that he was the injured party, in which he was, to a great degree, successful. 4 Walter did not believe that John would have made so unprovoked an assault upon him, had he not been one still he did not care to present the letter himself, so he asked Harry Gray, who was passing, to take it to him. ) Desiring to note its effect upon him, he then race himself in a position where he could watch im, unobserved. When Harry gave it to John he was crossing the room. Walter could not see his face, as he read it, but he noticed that he did so twice. Then, putting the letter into his breast-pocket, he said something to Harry, who immediately looked toward the place where he had stood when he gave him the let- ter. On perceiving this, and feeling that if John wanted any information as to how the letter happened to pass through his hands, he ought to have , Walter emerged from the corner, where he stood, to where he knew he could be readily seen by him. } As soon as John’s eyes fell on him, his face flushed hotly, and he walked toward him, with a step and manner betraying strong excitement. When he reached the middle of the room, as if suddenly changing his resolution, he paused, going to another part of it. John remained only a few minutes later. The two Grays were standing near the door as he passed out. “Going?” cried Charlie. “Don’t forget our ex- cursion to-morrow. We shall have to be up bright and early!” : “Oh! I sha’n’t forget that,” was the gay retort; “T wouldn’t miss it on any account! If the sunset x — to-night is any sign, we shall-have a beauti- | day.” :
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~ * 12 THE BROKEN BETROTHAL. How little did the speaker think what that day | Horror of horrors—his crimsoned hands were drip- would bring to him! Harry Gray noticed something peculiar in John’s look and manner, and his mind instantly adverted to the letter. He mentioned the incident to his brother, adding: ‘‘Something’s up. Did you notice what_a queer look John had? Dr. Remmington was that ’sort of afellow, I should say it was a challenge.” ‘Tt would be sheer nonsense to suppose that,”’ said Charlie, whose temperament was less excitable and imaginative. ‘‘ Besides, it don’t follow because the letter came through him, that he was the writer of it.” “The ‘eerie: was in his handwriting, I’m Ositive ! never saw such a change in any one’s face as there was in John’s when he read it.” “Most likely it was something relative to their rival claims to the hand.of our fair hostess. Johnis desperately in love with her, And so is Dr. Rem- mington; though he has a different way of showing it. Sheis a charming woman; and the man will be very fortunate who wins her.” “That she is! And John is a downright good fel- low, as generous and open as the day! He deserves to win; and I hope he will!”’ “T don’t know about that,’ said the elder brother, after a thoughtful pause. ‘I like John; he has a great many good points about him. And some others that are—well, not so good. Itell you what it is, Harry, what we men call good fellows, and who are, ina certain way, don’t always make the best husbands. I can’t say, if Miss Carlton was my sis- ter, that I’d want him to win.” “‘T like bim the best, at all events,” persisted the other. ‘And I think it very mean in Dr. Remming- ton to try to undermine him in the way John says he has.” “T don’t imagine that there is any danger of that on either side. Miss Carlton is not a woman so easily blinded. She will take which of them she likes best—and perhaps neither. It is none of our business.”’ vieaietes CHAPTER XIV. A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY. . AN unaccountable feeling of depression weighed upon Walier’s heart, which made the mirth and music of that gay assemblage jar harshly on his nerves, and he left very soon after John did. He had gone but a few rods when he missed a bunch of keys that he always carried with him. It contained not only his room and office os but the one that unlocked a desk containing valuable papers. ; . j e remembered hearing something drop from his ocket when he was in the old deserted house. He had looked, but the light being dim, had discovered nothing, and thought he was mistaken. It must have been the missing keys. There was no help for it; tired as he was, he would haye to go back for them. Fortunately his way home was past the road where this house stood, so it would not take him much out of the way. With these thoughts, Walter turned down the rough and narrow road that led to the “old Stone lace.” When near, though not within sight of it, he was startled by the loud report of a pistol. sas Walter’s horse was young and spirited; giving a snort of terror, it began to rear and plunge ina manner not a little dangerous in the steep and rocky place where he was. : : : \ After he had succeeded in calming him, he lis- tened. Not a sound broke the solemn stillness that reigned ~ around, Loo cautiously about him, he strained his eyes veins to discover any movement in the road be- ond, 4 Then, with a reassuring word to his horse, Walter went on. . The moon was partially obscured by a cloud, but the outlines of the house were plainly visible, amid the blackness that surrounded it. As Walter looked he saw a figure eme house and run down the walk to the road, Whoever it was must have heard the sound of his e from the ~ horse’s feet on the stony road, and which sounded ln tal very distinctly in the silence. re As it reached the road, it paused as if irresolute which way to go;-then suddenly turning, ran swiftly down the hill in an opposite direction. Walter’s horse now demanded all his time and attention. As though it scented some mysterious horror in the air, it began to back; plunging from side to side. not even the application of the whip could make it go forward. At last Walter dismounted, and ta him by the bridle, tried to lead him up to the house, but he could not induce the animal to move one step in that direction. At every fresh effort he reared upon his hind legs, trembling in every limb, his flashing eyes and dilated nostrils showing the terror that had seized him. Pitying what he could see no adequate cause for, Walter fin turned the horse round, securing him to a tree at the side of the road. He then went into the house, the door of which stood wide oy en. On entering the first room, he saw a dark pool of something oozing from beneath the door of the one a ones out of it. j On gastep forward, his feet slipped, and in t to save himself, both hands came in contact with a Mies slimy liquid, and which had the sick- ening odor f fresh blood! Spring’ng to his feet, Walter turned to the window, e € ee ah a ee gt ts _ Ale pd nn Se a ly ping with gore! Struck dumb and motionless with terror, he stood for some moments trying to collect his scattered thoughts. Some dark, horrible deed had been committed. Murder or suicide?—which? | Shaking off the benumbing horror that oppressed him, Waiter pushed back the door of the adjoining room, which was ajar. Upon the floor lay the body of a man. alter approached nearer. At this moment the moon burst out from behind a cloud, revealing to his horror-struck vision the white, rigid face of John Remmington! + earing open the vest he placed his hand upon the eart. Though the body was still warm, there was not the faintest motion there; he could have been dead only a short time, but dead he was! What was to be done now? Go to the family of the murdered man with the terrible tidings? Ag ais the magistrates of the foul murder that h en committed in their midst? This was what he ought todo. And yet— , Supposing his story was not believed? Suppos- ng— His heart grew sick as he thought of John’s fatal quarrel with him, and the terrible position in which he might find himself. The murderer, whoever he was, had fled, and might never be found. Unless he was, suspicion would surely fall on him. Why should he tell of his discovery of the body? What good would it do? Would it not be better to leave the discovery of it to some one else, rather than put himself in such mortal peril?” Picking b the missing keys, which he found under the table, Walter left the house; his mind a con- fused medley of doubts, fears and conjectures. He finally came to the conclusion that he would say nothing about it. atal mistake!—and still more fatal consequences that sprung from it! The gray dawn was breaking before Walter fell asleep, and then he slept very heavily. The bright sunlight was streamlng into the room when he woke, woke with that vague feeling of hor- ror, which weighed like the remains of a nightmare upon his spirit. e would have thought his strange experiences of the past night to have been some horrible dream, were it not for what he saw around him. The cuffs of the linen duster, that was lying across a chair, were dabbled with blood, while spots were on various other parts of it. And when he went to draw on his boots, he found that the soles were crim- soned and the instep splashed with the same horrible stains. With a sick feeling at his heart that no words can describe, Walter covered his face with his hands. He shuddered as his thoughts reverted to the paeety, thing that was lying in the old, deserted ouse, the sightless eyes turned up to the bright sunshine. Had they found it? If not, when would they? Oh! that he had had the courage to have told ! But now it was too late. After doing the best he could to remove the tell- tale marks from his clothing, Walter went down to the deserted dining-room. Eben, the waiter, was noted for his news-gathering proclivities, and his willingness to disburse the same to whoever would give him a hearing. : Walter saw, with a feeling of relief, that his face wore its usual inane expression, when nothing was going on, to use his own words, ** worth mentioning.” Walter never encouraged his propensity to talk, not considering that he needed any. Now he said: “ Any news, Eben?”’ 4 f “Nothing worth speaking of, sir,” replied Eben with a doleful shake of the head. ‘“ Dretful du times these. There hain’t been a murder, or an elopement, or even a marriage, of any account, for1 don’t know when!” Eben said this with an injured look and tone, as though he considered it in the light of a personal rievance, and which would have provoked a smile rom Walter at any other time. ~ Now, all he thought was, that nothing had been discovered as yet. Hastily swallowing a cup of coffee he ordered his orse. He had partly promised Irene, the night before that he would join an excursion up the river that ha been the subject of much talk and anticipation for the last fortnight. Now he felt that he dared not risk the ordeal to which it would subject him. As Walter stood by his horse, adjusting some por- tion of the harness, he saw Charlie Gray crossing the road toward him. ‘*Good-morning, doctor. So you are not going to | our excursion? But, good heavens! how pale you | are looking. Are you ill?” For the first time, Walter was conscious how pale and haggard his face must look, and it did not tend to calm his uneasiness at Charlie’s unexpected ap- pearance. : “T am not feeling very well; I have had a good deal riding about to do of late.” Charlie stared at him for a moment, and then said: “Tm looking for John. He promised to be on hand the first one this tad oe and hasn’t putin an appearance yet. I thought hat perhaps he had come down to the hotel for something.” “T haven’t seen him,”’ said Walter, mPlying more to the look and tone than to the words. ‘‘He may be about the building somewhere.” Young Gray passed into the hotel, and Walter ‘ . at © oul J eee | » . sade OS Z Cry oe 2 “3 ¥ ‘ = ee ee ee a ee ae eee err ———_— —__. rode away; scarcely “aad to allow himself to think until he found himself in the open country, with the town far behind him. John had been missed. The next thing would be asearch, And then!— How vividly did his imagination portray the wide- spread horror and consternation, the grief and anguish that would follow! CHAPTER XV. FOUND DEAD! Partiy to put as many miles as possible between him and the scene of that dark tragedy, and partly to drive away the pace thoughts that oppressed him, Walter visited some patients in a rough and mountainous district, several miles from town. On his way back he stopped at a farmer’s for a bowl of bread and milk. He had taken nothing since morning, and was too faint and weary to pro- ceed further. The farmer’s wife bustled about, placing upon the table a brown loaf and brimming pitcher of milk, ef which he partook more heartily than he had believed it possible. : he sat there one of the farmer’s sons drove into the yard. By the parcels of groceries in his wagon it was evi- dent that he had been to town, and Walter looked curiously at him as he entered. “Here’s the Herald, mother,” he said, tossing a paper into the old lady’s lap, who was knitting by the window.” - “Anything stirring in town, Jake?’’ inquired Walter, as he rose from the table. “They’re makin’ a tarnation rumpus “bout a young chap that’s missin’,” said Jake, ‘ His mother is in highsterricks, an’ nigh about the hull town out lookin’ fur him, J should say. There wouldn’t be no sech fuss if 7 should turn up missin’, hey mother?” ‘Who is it?” inquired the old lady, whose placid face looked as if ‘‘ highsterricks ’ were something of which she had no personal experience. “John Remmington. You ’member him, dad?— that wild, harum-scarum fellow that we saw at the tavern down to the ‘ Corners.’ ” ‘Yes, I remember him,’ responded the farmer, who was sitting in the doorway, nee a harness; an’ I don’t remember much good of him, nuther. By all accounts, it won’t be no great loss if he ain’t never found,”’ Walter's heart had grown pier tender toward his dead kinsman; his sad, untimely fate making even his faults sacred. : He turned quickly toward the speaker. ‘““No—no! sir; you should not say/hat / My cousin had his faults—as who of us have not?—but he was a bad. And there are hearts that are bound up in im.’ nrg speaker’s voice broke a little at the concluding words. A kind heart beat under that coarse, fustian jacket. ; : “ oScuse me, sir; I forgot he was a relation of ours.” “ He is the son of my father’s brother; and IJ sheli be very sorry if any harm has befallen him,” said Walter, gravely. Then turning to Jake, who was making a vigorous onslaught upon the substantial lunch that his mother had set out for him: ‘ “Had they succeeded in finding no trace of him?” ce They hadn’t when I come away, "bout two hours The old farmer looked at the pga troubled face, wich had grown so old within the last twenty-four ours. ‘‘Mayhap the young chap’s hid himself away, just fur a lark. Don’t you be none afeard but what theyll find him.” ‘“He has not been found,” thought Walter, as he rode on. In spite of all the excitement, comments, and pi suspicions it might arouse, he wished it over Ww. ‘ He could not endure the thought of the body lay- ing there another night; and the impulse was sen upon him to go to the nearest magistrate and te him all he knew. He had to go past Irene’s. As he came in sight of the house, he saw a crowd of ple approaching it. four stalwart men walked in front, bearing a stretcher. Well did Walter know what it was that was lying so still beneath that white covering! Then, as he thought of Irene, and how coward it was to leave her alone at such a time, he urged his. horse forward, | ; : By the time he reached the gate, which was wide : open, the crowd had passed through it, and out of pant, and flinging himself from his horse, Walter 0 owed. The house stood back from the road, on an emi- nence, and as he reached the top, he saw Irene and several others standing on the steps, trying to pre~ vent Mrs. Remmington from going down to the crowd below. As soon as Irene saw Walter, she ran down the steps her face pale and her eyes dilated with horror.. “Oh! Walter, this is dreadful! dreadful! My poor aunt, it will kill her! Don’t, oh! don’t let her go down there!” With pale face and disordered attire, Mrs. Rem- re bo stood upon the steps struggling against the detaining arms that were thrown around her. **Letme gal she shrieked. ‘ John is hurt !—some- thing has happened to my boy! I will know the meaning of this!” And breaking away, she rushed down the steps,
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. ti EK pushing through the crowd that surrounded the murdered man, just as Mr. Remmington drew away the sheet that covered him. é For a moment she stared wildly at the white, rigid ace. Then she threw herself down beside it with a shriek that curdled the blood of all who heard it. “Who has done this? Dead! dead! Oh! my boy! may port it cannot, cannot be!” ere shriek after shriek came from the lips of the frenzied mother, until unconsciousness came merci- fully to her relief. Pressing through the horror-struck crowd, Walter raised the head of the fainting woman, until it rest- ed against his knee. The wretched father stood looking at the son he so idolized, like one benumbed and speechless by the magnitude of his woe. e now sprung forward. ‘‘Murderer!” he cried, hoarsely, seizing Walter firmly by the collar, “how dare you come here? Have you come to gloat upon your victim? to wit- ness the agony of the hearts you have bereaved? ‘Friends and neighbors,” added the speaker, turn- ing round and stretching out his hand toward the hushed and wondering crowd, “I call God and you to witness that I denounce this man as the murderer of my poor boy!” With her face almost as white as the dress over which her fair hair floated like a vail, rene now ap- proached, Ja; ne her hand on his arm. This terrible thing has turned hae: brain, uncle; you don’t know what you are saying.” Mr. Remmington turned his eyes upon his niece with a look that she never forgot. “T know what I am saying but too well, as you will find. And I know, too, that it was to win you he did it! But he shall not go unpunished. My poor boy shall be avenged! 1 will have vengeance, ven- geance on his murderer!” These were terrible words for a man to listen to, however innocent he might be. Walter’s face was very pale, but there was meither fear nor anger there. e strong pity that had taken possession of his soul lifted him above all fears for his personal safety. “God pity and comfort you, sir,’’ he said. ‘If those dumb lips could speak, they would tell you how innocent I am of bringing upon you this great calamity.” Walter turned away as he said this. Irene was just back of him, and he paused as he saw the mute appeal in the tearful eyes that met his, “Tt will be better for me to go now,” he whispered; “T can do no good, but rather harm by staying. Dr. Pratt is here, and will do all that is necessary. In the mean time, if you have any thing to commu- nicate, write me.”’ As Walter passed through the crowd he could not be unmindful of the suspicious glances that followed m. Harry Gray was standing near. As Walter met that openers aneetoning look, there instantly flashed upon his mind the letter he had sent by him to John the night previous. His heart almost stood still with terror as he thought of all that might be inferred by it. Could there be any thing more unfortunate than the network of circumstances that surrounded him? CHAPTER XVI. A WOMAN’S FAITH. Wirx all the pomp and circumstance of woe that wealth gives, John Remmington was laid away ‘tin the house appointed for all the living.” The funeral was in church, and very largely at- tended; curiosity drawing many thither who had taken little or no interest in him while living. The coffin, an elegant thing of rosewood and satin, was literally covered with floral offerings, and which filled the church with their fragrance, Many curious eyes were directed to the pew set apart for the ‘‘mourners,”’ and which was vacant until just before the services commenced. There was a strong sensation as Irene came in, leaning upon the arm of her uncle, She was in deep mourning, which hightened, by contrast, the pallor of her face. The change that the last few days had wrought in the bereaved father touched with pity the heart of every beholder. His face looked as if they had been years instead of cays; his head was bowe” {his step weak and tottering. rs. Remmington was not present; she w.s lyi - in adarkened chamber upon the bed from which she never arose again. 7 Contrary to the general expectation, Walter was there. He satin his own pew, it being the church where he regularly attended. Two ladies were in the pew when he entered, who immediately arose and took another seat. Walter took no apparent notice of this; ta a seat in the further corner, so that the rest of it could be at the disposal of any one who wanted to oe, it. ( After the services, opportunity was given to all who desired it, to pass up one aisle, past the altar, where the coffin lay, and down the other, so as to ob- tain a op a bac of the deceased. ? After the larger part of the crowd had surged ast him, and out the other door, Water walked up 10 where the coffin stood, looking sadly upon its oc- cupant, unmindful of the curious eyes that were watching him. Never, in all the glow of health and life, had John Remmington looked so handsome as when he lay in his coffin. The face wore that peaceful and se- rene expressicn, observed in all those who die sud- denly from gun-shot wounds. Every trace of pas- sion and excess had faded; the refining hand of death had spiritualized it, as nothing else could. John was a favorite in the community. His frank- ness and generosity made him liked even by those who saw, with pain, the grave faults of his char- r acter. While he lived there were fathers, thoughtful, clear-sighted men, who shook their heads at his wild- ness, saying, ‘‘that it might be well enough for John Remmington, but if he was their boy—”’ But now all this was forgotten. Struck down in their midst by a violent death, in the flush of his manhood, they remembered only the genial and better part of his nature. As is usually the case, their wrath and indignation against his nyirderer were in proportion to their grief and ge for his victim. The dark cloud that was lowering above Walter’s head, in whose shadow he walked, whichever way he turned, soon burst in all its fury. On the evening of the day of the funeral, as he was reading an article in the local paper, commenc- ing with the cheerful inquiry: ‘Why is the murderer of John Remmington still é Yee to walk our streets?”—two men tapped at s door. Perhaps Walter surmised their errand, for he look- ed from one to the other without speaking. The elder of the two stepped forward and laid his hand on his shoulder. “You are my prisoner; I arrest you in the name of the State, for the murder of John Remmington.” If the officers had anticipated any excitement, or resistance, they were disappointed. Walter turned a little pale, but his countenance and bearing were as composed and steady as though it was simply a professional summons. “sy Pray be seated; I will be ready in a few mo- ments.’ The officers remained ena Sod the door, while Walter made a few additions to his attire. “Now I am ready.” * Please hold out your hands.” The young man’s face flushed deeply. *“That is not necessary. I give you my word of honor that I will not try to escape.” ‘“*T have no discretion in the matter,’’ was the cold response. alter said no more, but as he felt the toueh of the cold iron upon his wrist, overcome with shame and humiliation, his head sunk upon his breast, while a faint moan came from his lips. ‘*Pray, don’t give way, sir,” said the younger man, whose heart was touched with pity at the shame and anguish so Wenat depic upon the face of the prisoner. ‘‘ We have a carriage down at the door, and with this cloak around you no one will notice it.” In spite of the precautions used, quite a crowd had gathered around the hotel steps, and a storm of pe dio and hisses greeted Walter when he came out. " Pat Maloney sat upon the box. He was a fast friend of Walter’s, and his warm Irish heart was up in arms at the demonstration. ‘“Ye ought to be ashamed of yourselves, so ye had, to be afther condimmin a man before he’s thried, even! It’s not I that’ll belave it of him, at all, at all! Sure an’ didn’t he attind the ould woman an’ me sister’s three children, an’ nivir a cint would he take? He’s a jontleman, an’ ye’re a set of dirty blackguards! If it wasn’t fur l’avin’ me hosses, ee down an’ give ye somethin’ worth howlin’ ‘ur J And shaking his whip in the face of the nearest of the crowd, Pat drove away. Walter heard the heavy clang of the door of his narrow cell close upon him with a feeling of desola- tion that no one can realize except those who have passed through a similar experience. But after the first shock was sed, he experi- enced almost a feeling of relief that the worst had come, and that there was, now, no more necessity for concealment; he could tell all he knew in regard to what was almost as much a mystery to him as any one. t was a terrible position to be placed in; no one could realize it more fully than he; still he could not bring himself to believe that he could be convicted of so grave an offense—hung for a crime that he never did. The most nful Bou in connection with his trouble was Irene and the sorrow that it would bring upon her. That she loved him he knew; the consciousness of her love had made him very happy: but would it Stand the test of such a terrible ordeal as this? Would she believe him innocent, in the face of so many dark and suspicious circumstances? Questioning his own heart, it responded yes; she would have the same faith in him that he would have in her, under like circumstances. His heart whispered that she would come to him, or send him some cheering word. But when hour after hour dragged its slow length ne and no tidings reached him, his courage began ail. At last a note reached the prisoner in his lone cell and Walter’s heart told him whence it came. It was so blurred and blotted as to be almost illegible. It ran as follows: “Dear Love: I have been ill, but am better now. Keep up good courage. I shall see you soop, very soon. TRENE.”’ This note had been a good while on the way, con- sidering the short distance it had to come, and bore marks of having been tampered with; but Walter was too overjoyed at the sweet assurance that it conveyed to think of aught else. + » BROKEN BETROTHAL oe He had not had time to read this precious missive more than a dozen times, when the door opened, ad- mitting a lady, whom he recognized even before she threw back her vail. pee, he advanced eagerly toward her, his face a ow. “Oh! my darling! how very good in you to come!” Irene had hitherto been rather shy in the expres- sion of her love; but now the sorrow and compas- | sion that filled her soul swept every barrier before them. Throwing her arms around him, she burst into ars. “Did you think I would stay away from you? that I could do so? Oh! my love! my love! never were you half so dear to me as now!” Walter was strongly moved; holding the sobbing girl closely to his heart, he said: “Let Fate do her worst now! scorn, imprison- ment; the prospect of a shameful death, these I could bear, but not the loss of your love. The bare yee Hd that perhaps you believed me guilty of the terrible es preferred against me, at times nearly drove me wild. But now I am repaid for all, can bear all. But tell me, darling, with all this terrible array of evidence, has your faith in me never once wavered?” Trene was as truthful as the eo “To be quite frank with you, Walter, there was a time when I thought, when I feared—” Here Irene paused, as if reluctant to put her thoughts into words lest mal should wound hin ‘ Walter gave her a reassuring smile. ““Go on. You need not fear tospeak. That you think me innocent now is all that I ask.”’ Trene returned that smile with a look full of confi- dence and affection. “T thought, I feared} at first that you had quar- reled with John, shooting him in anger or self- defense!”’ “As God lives! I never saw my poor cousin alive after I parted with him at your house, on the eve- ning of the night he was murdered. I have only to reproach myself for the concealment of all that I discovered a couple of hours after leaving 7% and which no one can regret now more than I. But I meant it for the best. At that time, indeed, it seem- ed dangerous to do otherwise.” Walter now proceeded to give Irene a fnll account of what the reader already knows, to which she lis- tened very sttetey asking, on its conclusion, a minute description of the mysterious stranger. “Tt is ve singular,” she said, breaking the thoughtful silence that followed. ‘If this young fellow is not the real criminal, that he had some- thing to do with the murder is very clear.” Then Irene told Walter of a singular letter she had received a day or two before its occurrence; warn- ing her, if she married John Remmington, that she would repent it to the latest day of her life. Unfortunately this letter was destroyed, though she remembered that the name signed to it was Joseph Harmon. Having no knowledge of the writer, and no idea, at that time, of marrying her cousin, she had not mentioned the circumstance to any one until now, though the singularity of its tone and purport made a strong impression on her mind. One thing struck her forcibly, that was the strong poner tae| of the handwriting to Walter Remming- on’s. The reader will remember that Walter had noticed the same resemblance between the handwriting of the mysterious stranger and his own, and which had seemed like the similarity often seen in the hand of pupil and teacher. n comparing notes, it was evident to Walter that the writer of this letter and the stranger that had crossed his path were one and the same person. But this did not tend to clear up the dense mys- tery that surrounded the whole affair, and which baffied all attempt to unravel it. It elicited nothing of importance but the name, and even this might be an assumed one. But the elasticity of youth is wonderful; under the charms of Irene’s presence, the influence of her cheering and hopeful words, especially the love that spoke so clearly in every look and tone, Walter's spirits rebounded against the weight which had borne him to the earth. And, though after Irene’s departure, something of the old depression returned, especially when he thought of the fearful array of evidence against him, the recollection of all her love for, all her faith in him, gave him courage to look his troubles stead- ily in the face, seeking some way of escape, not for his sake only, but for hers, whose heart, whose life was bound up in his. CHAPTER XVII. A MAD MOTHER, I was met, on her return, by a message from her uncle, who had preceded her afew minutes, and who was impatiently waiting to see her. He arose excitedly at her entrance. F ‘Can it be possible that what they tell me is true —had I not seen your carriage in front of the jail I could not have believed it -that you have been to see the guilty wretch whose hands are stained with the blood of my Si boy?” Drawing herself up to her full hight, Irene looked seenty into the flushed and angry face of the speaker. ‘No, uncle, it is vof true. I have been to see Wal- ter reg KS my betrothed husband, accused of a crime of which he is as innocent as you or I!” “Girl! your betrothed husband is lying in the un- timely grave to which this man sent him! It was to win you that he committed the deed which has left me childless and desolate! But he shall not gain hig ‘.
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33 2 - ™~ a. ? a * ayes ) eh ee: hung will be the happiest of the few remaining days that are left me!” The shocked, indignant feelings at Irene’s heart were plainly visible in her face, but her eyes soften- ed as she looked upon the bowed head of the speak- er, grown so white in the last two weeks. — ‘Uncle, you have suffered so terribly, your loss is so cruel, that I cannot bear to add to your sorrow by reproaches, however harsh and unjust I may feel your language to be. For your own sake, I wish you would lay aside this bitter, unchristian spirit, a spirit of hatred and revenge, inexcusable if all that ree allege be true, and which can only give added itterness to your cup of sorrow. I would stake my life on Walter’s innocence; though I own, and so does he, that there are circumstances that tend to fix suspicion on him. Of one thing you may be sure, uncle, that dear as Walter is to me, if I be- lieved he had done so cruel a deed, no matter how great the provocation, I would give him up at once and forever.” *“ Who else could have done it? Who else would? With this one exception, my poor boy had not an enemy in the world. That Walter Remmington bore him ill will is nosecret: that he threatened him, can be proved by a dozen witnesses. Why he hated him, why he killed him is clear to every one but you, who will not. see it. I repeat it, it was because he stood in the way of his winni you, and with it the is he coveted, that John was thus foully dealt with.”” - “Uncle, you are laboring under a great mistake. Walter had nothing to gain by John s death, had he been so wicked as to wish or seek it. My heart was . always his, as he well knew. I have called him my woe husband; he was as much so _ before ohn’s death as he is now. In Pledging Walter my _ hand, I exacted from him not only the promise that our engagement should be kept secret, for a time, but _ that he should claim, in public, only such privileges asI could accord toafriend, It was out of respect to your feelings that I did this. I knew how bhapeee 1.4 you had set your mind on my aa th John, and wanted to give you time to be reconciled toit. Iwas, also, desirous of making some provision for John and yourself, as a compensation for your disap- a gal What a great mistake this was I now eel. “The mistake you made was in disregarding the solemn promise made to your dying father. Had ou kept this pease this dreadful thing would never have happened. But it is too late to think of this now. son, my only son has been foully murder- ed, and T only live to avenge him! I give you fair warning that I shall leave no stone unturned to Bee ied meted out to his murderer the punishment he merits.” “God grant you may be successful! You will not labor more earnestly to that end than I. I have a double incentive; to mete out justice to the real crimi and to clear the innocent. I think that I have a clew that will lead to both.” Mr. Remmington lifted the pale, haggard face that was bowed upon his hands. RH at do you mean? What have you discov- ered?’ » “TJ do not like to say more now, uncle; at this - juncture it would not be prudent. But this I will say, that I have the name and desc iption of the real ¢ , and believe he will yet be found.” __ Mr. Remmington regarded his niece attentively for a moment, and then turned his eyes gloomily away. fs is some lie, I suppose, concocted for the occasion. Walter Remm ngton is the real criminal, and nothing you can say will make me believe to the contrary !”” Irene made no reply, feeling how worse than use- less any further words would be; only the discovery - of the actual murderer would convince him of his error, and to this end she determined to direct all her (rR With this resolution in her heart, she went up- stairs to her aunt’s room, who had been carried there insensible on the evening of the discovery of the body, and had not left it since. mie met her yey ees y pat Laude ow is my aun e e asleep “No, ina’aa. She’s very restless and sort o’ flighty like. She’s been asking for you *bout every five minutes since yds been gone.” Irene passed into the room where her aunt was restlessly upon her pillow, a strange and anxious look in her eyes, as they wandered around the room, There had never been a great deal of sympathy between the two, they were too widely different for that; but as Irene looked upon the pale, worn face, a feeling of tender pity smote her heart. “Are you feeling any better, aunt?” she said, touching her lips to the hand that was lying on the counterpane. Mrs. Remmington looked attentively at the speaker. x don’t know. Ifeelstrange. You look strange. Your uncle came in a few minutes ago, he looked strange; so does everything and everybody.” “Twould not mind it,” said Trene, in very much the tone one would use to a sick child. “But I do mind it,’’ was the impatient response. Mrs. Remmington regarded her niece suspiciously for a moment, “Why don’t you answer me? You hadn’t any thing to do with it, [hope? If you have driven the oor boy away, I will never, never forgive you! as it your uncle that was telling me that you objected to marrying him? Of course that’s all nonsense, Irene. You can’t break with him now, at this late day. Besides, why should you want to do so? Where will you find a finer looking young man, or one better-hearted? I know he is a little bit fast; but a good, sensible wife will cure him of all that; after he’s married he’ll settle down and make one of the best husbands in the world. I don’wsee what you can have against John. There’s many a girl that would be glad enough to get him.” It was terrible to Irene, knowing all that she knew, to listen to this. “T wouldn’t talk any more about it now, aunt; wait until you are better.” “But I must talk,” said the sick woman, sharply. ‘* And how do you know that I ever shall be any bet- ter? I don’t know what has come over me. I never felt as [feel now. Something tells me that this is my last sickness, that I shall never leave this room until Iam taken out in my coffin. And that is what makes me so anxious about your marrying John. My mind would be at rest if I knew you were his wife. I don’t see why you can’t be married now as well as any time.” Trene, rising ““Will nothing stop her?” eae from her seat, who began to feel t endure this a great while longer. The nurse now approached, with a spoon and vial. ‘It is time for her to take this. Dr. Miller said I was to give it to her once every two hours, and of- tener if she got restless and excited. “It is something to quiet her nerves and make her sleep,’’ added the woman, as Irene took the medi- cine from her hand. Irene was alarmed at the wild glare in her aunt’s eyes, and her strange, rambling talk, and knowing what the medicine was, and its effect, poured out a double dose. Lind Remmington took it, exclaiming in the same reath: “T'don’t want to sleep! Iwouldn’t sleep for the world; lest I should dream again that horrible dream. Did I tell it to you Irene? I dreamed that I saw John lying dead upon the Jawn, cold and white, his eyes staring out upon me from the partly-closed lids, and his garments all dabbled with blood. A crowd of solemn-looking people were around him; and voices kept booming into my ears: ‘John is shot! he is murdered!’ I shrieked in my agony and terror; bursting through the crowd to where he lay. ““Then I awoke, and found myself here.” Mrs. Remmington turned her wild, glittering eyes upon the Jere agitated face of her companion. ““ Why do you look so at me, Irene? It was only a dream—terrible, indeed, but only a dream! It was not true—who could shoot John? Why don’t you speak, why don’t you answer me?”’ Irene burst into tears. Mrs. Remmington ghee to her feet. ‘““Tremember if all now!” she cried, in tones of t she could not Geen, concentrated horror. ‘It wastrue! I didsee my oy lying out there upon the grass! Is he there still? Let me go! I wil! see!” It took the united strength of Irene and the nurse to keep the frenzied woman from flinging herself from the window. Shriek after shriek now resounded through the house, bringing Mr. Remmington and the doctor to me scene, who were consulting together in the li- rary. The et ba was too fierce and terrible to last long. Though pale, and trembling in eyery limb, Irene remained until the poor sufferer was lying up- en the pillow in the deep stupor of the strong reac- tion that followed. She then went to her own room, for the rest so greatly needed. But many times, in the years that followed, did the recollection of that wretched mo- ther struggling in the arms of those two strong men return to scare her in her midnight visions. CHAPTER XVII. A STRANGE BRIDAL. Rev. Mr. Goopspren sat in his study by the open window, alternately revolving in his mind the sub- ject of his next sermon and watching his two little Ss ee who were sporting in the garden be- neath. He was a white-haired, venerable-looking man, whose countenance bespoke a goodness and benigni- ty which made it very pleasant to behold. He was aroused from his pleasant train of reflec- tions by a gentle tap at the door. ‘*Come in.” N The door immediately opened, admitting Irene, “Thope I am not intruding. The hall door was oped, and finding no one in the sitting-room, I came directly up.” . Taking Irene’s hand in both of his, the good old | “You did quite right, my dear, | man led her to aseat. Iam very glad to see you. Mrs. Goo po is in the garden, I think.” As Mr. Goodspeed looked more attentively at his visitor, a serious expression took the place of that “TI feel as if you all were hiding something away | pleased and friendly smile. from me. Why did John go out of town without let- | ting me know, or telling where he was going? He never did such a thing before.” Trene was silent. tragedy, beneath whose accumulated horrors the . brain had given way, had been mercifully permitted to pass from her mind. Tt would b> a useless crucl- i : ie ' : o ¢ t+ was evident that the terrible | “You are looking pale and thin. No wonder, no , wonder, my, poor child! Yours is indeed a dark and | heavy sorroWw!”’ That compassionate look and tone were too much | for Irene’s self-control; she struggled silently, but | unsuccessfully with the emotions that overpowered h ry, then bursting into tears, she sunk down upon 4 in her happy childhood, sobbed forth: “It is heavy indeed; far heavier than you think!" The kind-hearted old man was greatly moved. Fe had known Irene from a baby, except when she wes abroad, had seen her almost daily, and she seemed like one of his own children. He laid his hand tenderly on the head of the sob- Ne “The Lord comfort thee, as He alone can. ‘He loves whom he chastens,’ and ‘does not willingly afflict or grieve the children of men.’ You surely hele not forgotten where to look for aid and com- ort?” Irene had sobbed herself into comparative eae ness; raising her head, she smiled faintly into those mild, compassionate eyes. “T should have profited very little by all your in- structions, if I forgot that.” “You have been much in my mind of late, I called yesterday, but you were out, How is your aunt to-day?” “She is more quiet. But Dr. Miller gives us no hope of her recovery. Nor can those who love her wish it. John was her idol; and the wakening to the knowledge ot her loss, with all the terrible cireum- stances attending it, would make life too burden- some to be endurable.” “Poor woman! Whata warning itis to us of the danger cf disregarding the divine injunction, ‘Make not unto yourselves idols.’ ” 1 Irene assented to this, but it was evident by the far-away look in her eyes that her thoughts were elsewhere. ‘** Papa Goodspeed, I have come to ask a strange thing of you.” This was what Irene always called him when a child. The old man smiled. ‘It will be a far stranger thing, my daughter, if I fail to serve you to the extent of my power.” “You know that it has been a settled thing be- tween ts two that, when Imarried, you should per- form the ceremony.” Mr. Goodspeed looked uneasy. ‘‘My dear, is it well to harrow up your feelings by such a reminiscence as this?” ‘‘Thave come to ask you to redeem that promise.” Mr. Goodspeed was so shocked and startled by these words that he could not speak. fad the Icss of the man he had always considered as her future husband turned ler brain? If so, there was no trace of it in the soft, clear eyes, in which there was a look he had never seen there before. Trene continued: “T know what you think, what every one else thinks—but you are wrong. John would never have been my husband had he:lived. I could not do him nor myself so great a wrong as to marry him when my heart was another’s. My hand was pledged to Dr. Remmington three weeks before John’s death. And now that he is suffering this most undeserved shame and sorrow, and seemingly every heart is closed against him, I wish to redeem that pledge.” “ You astonish me beyond all measure!’ ‘‘And shock you as well. I see that plainly. Do | you remember the high terms in which you spoke to me of Dr. Remmington scarcely a month ago?” “T remembcr not only that, but my astonishment and sorrow when I learned the suspicious circum- stances that connect him with his cousin’s murder. Even now, I can hardly believe it possible.” “Tt is mot possible! He is innocent. T will prove to the world my conviction of it before the setting of another sun! And you must help me to do this.’ “My child, don’t be hasty in the matter, Con- sider, what will the world say—the world that be- lieves him guilty—if you take such a step as this!” Irene arose to her feet confronting the speaker with flushed cheeks and kindling eyes. “What care I for the world? dfy world is in the narrow cell where lies the husband of my choice. I promised to be true to him through good and evil report, and I must keep my vow.” ‘No man can honor and appreciate the noble sentiments ion utter more than I, but can you not be true to him without becoming his wife, at least until this dark cloud has passed—if it ever does?” “In no other way can I be to him all that he needs at this trying, this terrible hour. In no other way ia 1 prove to the world how truly I love and honor m. I have to get a stranger to perform the marriage ceremony. You hopiked me, when an infant, you have been my paige guide and teacher from that day to this, and it seems most fitting that you should officiate when I assume one of the most sacred of all human obligations ; and I did not think you would refuse me.’ Trene’s voice faltered at the concluding words, and her eyes filled with tears. j The kind-hearted old man was evidently greatly disturbed and troubled. “‘T have not refused you. But your request is so strange, so unexpected. This is a serious matter, dear child, and I must have a little time to think it — over. I will have a talk with the young man; and then, if I can bring myself to believe it right for me to do so, and you sti desire it, I will comply with your request.’ Trene’s carriage was at the door, and in a few min- utes the two were on their way to the jail. The good old man was a frequent visitor to the | "jail, and Mr. Brown, the jailer, to whom he was well nown, exper enced no surprise at seeing him. On his making known his errand, he took him to Walter’s cell, while Irene passed through the a al reception-room to the back part of the building, where the jailer’s family lived, with whom she was cen the nos friendly terms. . a, - * ® « . : < PES a on Kis ies dash Sab 4 ng A Na ign Se eee will be his wife before the day closes, even if a a
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in num t tar oe ." Mr. Goodspeed was with Walter over an hour. When he returned, he found Irene with the young- est of the jailer’s children on her knee. Putting the child down, she stood up on his en- trance, Mr. Goodspeed’s countenance indicated strong emotion. ; ‘Strange and inscrutable are the dealings of God with the children of men! Ihave had a long and confidential talk with Mr. Remmtington; he has told “me all the particulars of this mysterious and unfor- tunate affair, and I must believe him to be the inno- cent victim of a combination of circumstances the strangest that ever came to my knowledge. I feel it my duty to tell you, however, that the evidence against him is strong, and if you take the step you contemplate, the consequences may be more pain- ful than you imagine.” Trene’s cheek cer slightly, but her voice did not falter, as she said: ““T have thought of the dread alternative to which . you allude, but it does not deter me. His widow I may be, his wife I must be! I would sooner be Wal- ter Remmi m’s widow—widowed by a death so horrible—than the wife of onl living man!”’ “Tf you feel thus, my daughter, forbid that T, or any one, should stand between you and him. The Father of mercies keep far from you so great a sorrow, or, if come it must, give you strength to bear it.” It was a strange bridal, and that dark and narrow cella still stranger place in which to solemnize it. But never did more true and loving hearts take upon themselves its solemn obligations. ** Unti! death do us part!’ There was something in the tone in which Irene ronounced those words that sent a thrill to the ‘hearts of those who heard it, and Mr. Goodspeed felt his eyes moisten as he looked upon the two be- ‘fore him. What had the future in store for them? As he pronounced the benediction, the rays of the setting sun streamed through the high, narrow window ~ falling brightly upon the bowed heads and clasped ‘hands of t e newly-wedded pair. Irene looked up, smilingly, into her husband’s eyes. . See! my beloved: the sun blesses our union! Let us accept it as a happy augury of the joys that are in store for us, when these dark and troublous days are ended. Said I not,” she added, turning to Mr. Good- speed, ‘‘that I would be Walter’s wife before the ‘setting of the sun? No one can gainsay the right of the wife to stand by her husband’s side, or separate her from him,” “Whom God hath joined,’’ was the low and solemn response, “itis not in the power of man to put asunder!” ‘ CHAPTER XIX. AN UNEXPECTED WITNESS—AND HOW IT ENDED. Tue morning arose brightly and clear that was to give to our hero life and liberty, or a cruel and shameful death. During all the weary weeks that intervened, Irene had worked untiringly in her husband’s behalf, searcely allowing herself time to eat or sleep. She had retained for him the ablest counsel that money could procure, who labored untiringly to be ibd the dark mystery that shrouded the whole affair. Mr. Cameron, the chief and ablest of these, three r, was strongly impressed with the convic- tion of his client’s innocence, as, indeed, were nearly all who were bronght into the immediate sphere of his influence, though there were strange and suspi- cious circumstances that it puzzled him as much as bg | one to reconcile with that belief. e was not slow to perceive that every thing de- pended on — the mysterious stranger who had vanished as suddenly as he appeared, and who had kept himself so secluded from observation while he stayed as to elude the general notice. ut the most Meer and thorough inquiry was able to elicit little that could be of any practical use. A man answering to his description, had called at a farm-house on the outskirts of the town for a drink of milk; another had seen him sitting by the road- _ side. Another, having occasion to go by the old, deserted house where John was murdered, a few nights before it occurred, had noticed a light ‘at one of the windows. As it had the reputation of being haunted, he hur- ried past with all possible speed, and had forgotten the dreumstance altogether, until reminded of it by the tragedy that followed. The strong, and indeed fatal resemblance between ‘Walter’s handwriting and that of the letter the stranger had intrusted to his care, together with the indefinable feeling which he had, at the time, that he had seen him somewhere, induced Mr. Cameron to make inquiries in various directions. Walter had zone writing-school in several of the towns adjoin e college where he graduated, In one of these a family had lived by the name of Har- mon, who had children of an age to attend, but they had moved away, no one knew whither. The advertisements, and liberal rewards offered, elicited nothing. who answered them were either impostors, or those who believed that they had seen some one answering to the description, but who, on investigation, proved to be quite another rson. PTioueh ever thorough and earnest in all that he did, Mr. Cameron took a more than usual interest in this case. His long practice in the criminal courts, with all its attendant familiarity with sin, and the THE BROKEN ste Re a suffering that ever follows it, had not hardened his naturally kindly and sympathetic nature. No one brought into personal contact with Walter could fail to be impressed with the truth and in- tegrity that had hitherto characterized all his deal- ings, and the courage and cheerfulness with which he bore the hardships and discomforts of his posi- tion, the good-sense and good-feeling he evinced awakened an interest in Mr. Cameron’s heart tha strengthened with every succeeding interview. At first, in common with many others, he believed that the prisoner had committed the deed in the heat of passion, and under strong pr_vocation, ad- vising him to plead ilty to manslaughter, as the wisest course he could take. oo COU ne see, yourself, Dr. Remmington,”’ said the lawyer, at the conclusion of their first interview. ‘how strong the evidence against you is. I should fail todo my duty by you if I did not counsel you to this. If the court accepts this plea, as I think it will, itcan only sentence you to imprisonment, prob- ably for life, but then you stand a good chance of bei geen out, after a time. On the other hand, if you plead not guilty, the chances are that peg ang be called to suffer the extreme penalty of the law.” Young and full of life, all that this implied sent a shiver through Walter’s veins; for a moment, as the dread vision of the scaffold flitted before his men- tal gaze, his courage faltered, but it was only for a moment, *‘T honor you for your frankness and re | to duty, sir; nor do I take any exceptions at all to what your wordsimply. As zou say, the evidence is very strong against me; and were I in your place, I should, no doubt, take the same view of the case that youdo. ButI cannot plead guilty to a lie. If L live, it must be with no such a upon my name as this. If I die upon the scaffold, as die I may, I shall die protesting with my last breath my inno- cence!” It was not these words only, but the look and tone in which they were spoken that carried with them such strong conviction to Mr. Cameron’s heart. “You may be certain that I shall make every effort to save you from so terrible a fate, and hope I shall succeed.” ‘‘God grant you may; for thereis one ’’—here, for the first time Walter’s voice faltered—‘ whose life is bound “R in mine, and on whose heart. your failure will fall like a crushing blow!” The lawyer’s subsequent interview with Irene deepened to painfulness the interest he took in the case. Her youth and loveliness, and, above all, the heroic devotion with which she clung to her husband in his evil fortunes, aroused a strong feeling of admi- ration in his heart, mingled with pity for the sorrow that he feared was in store for her. There was something sublime in the faith that Irene evinced, not only in her husband, but in his acquittal, grounded as it was on her trust in a mightier Power than man. id Mr. Cameron, in order to prepare her for the worst, suggest any doubt as to this, she indignantly repelled it. ‘Walter is innocent,” she would say; ‘‘God would never permit so monstrous a wrong as this!” Mr. Cameron had felt, all along, that nothing could clear his client hut the discovery of the real criminal, and as all the efforts he had put forth had failed to lead to the discovery of the slightest clew, he by no means shared in these sanguine anticipations. So far as he could learn, the murdered man had had no enemies that would be likely to commit any such deed. Even those who did not approve of his course, in all respects, spoke of him as a free, gener- ous-hearted young fellow, a little wild, but in whom there was nothing bad. In addition to all his other discouragements, he had to breast the tide of public opinion, which, from the first, had set ee. against his client. This, together with the deep interest taken in the case by all classes, was very apparent the first day of the trial, it taking the greater part of it to impannel a jury. é murder, and all the arenes mysterious cir- cumstances that surrounded it, had n the one absorbing topic of conversation for weeks previously, and the court-house was crowded; people coming for miles around to witness the trial. There was a profound hush when the prisoner entered. Though somewhat paler and thinner, those famil- iar with his face did not see in it the change they had anticipated. He met unblenchingly the many eyes directed toward him, though there was scarcely one among that Fouing crowd who believed him innocent, as he well knew. Not that there was anything defiant in his bearing; he looked as he felt, like a man seriously impresse with the awful position in which he was placed. _Irene accompanied her husband, taking a seat be- side him. Her romantic marriage, which had been blazoned Lb Biss papers from one end of the Union to the other, together with the surpassing beauty, that was supposed to be the powerful incentive to the crime, made her almost as much an object of interest as the prisoner. ere was atime when Irene would have shrunk from an ordeal, so painful to.a proud, sensitive na- ture like hers, but now there was room for only one thought inher heart, and that was the danger that menaced the being dearest to her on earth. _ The crowd behaved like all other crowds under similar circumstances; they pushed and elbowed each other to obtain a nearer view of her, comment- ing upon her dress and anpearance in tones quite audible to her ears. But Irene scarcely heeded it; her mind was entircly absorbed by the great drama that was being enacted, and which was of such ter- rible moment to her. Or if, at times, some demon- stration more unpleasant than usual forced itself eal her attention, it aroused only anxiety lest it should wound the heart, with which her own beat in such strong and tender sympathy. Irene was hardly conscious of the full weight of the evidence against her husband until she heard it so solemnly rehearsed in all its details from the wit- ness-stand. What gave it additional weight was not only the good character of the witnesses, but the Pieters reluctance with which many of them testi- The encounter between the prisoner and the de- ceased on the steps of the hotel, had been witnessed by several; and though John was clearly proven to be the aggressor, the unfortunate language used by Walter bore very hardly against him, Young Vernon testified to receiving the letter from the prisoner and giving it to the deceased. This let- ter was produced in court, being found on the bod of the murdered man; the crimson stains upon it causing a thrill of horror to run through the veins of the dense crowd. : The signature and concluding part of it were torn off, but it was evidently a stern and imperative de- mand that he should meet the writer at the old de- serted house where the murder occurred. As we have before stated, the handwriting was startlingly similar; and when the note-book was roduced from which, as the reader will remem- er, Walter had torn a leaf, and it was found to fit exactly, a murmur ran through the court, and not a person in it, with the exception of the devoted wife, whose confidence in her husband’s innocence never once faltered, had any doubts of the prisoner’s guilt, To counterbalance all this Mr. Cameron had ~ to bring forward except abundant proof of the pri oner’s strict ervearene Indeed, the many instances that were related of the tenderness and goodness of his heart, especially to the poor, among whom he had a large hh es constrained people to feel that his love for his beautiful young wife, combined with his fear of losing her, had, for the time being, sub- merged his whole nature. In no other way could they account for the act so entirely at variance with his whole previous :ife. The accused was allowed to testify and speak in his own behalf. 4 Very carefully did he go over the whole mass of the overwhelming evidence against him. He went back to the time when he first- saw the mysterious stranger on the road; he related minutely his first and second visit to the deserted house, his reasons for going thither, and all that he saw and heard, “It is my sincere and solemn conviction,” he said, in conclusion, ‘‘ that this pre ah whoever he may be, committed the crime of which T am accused, : nd for which I have to suffer the awful —— ae | blame none of you for believing me guilty. oan but acknowledge that the evidence, though purely circumstantial, is strongly against me. But the Searcher of all hearts knows that [I am innocent; and to Him *’—here he raised his hand upwar —t commit my cause!” The prisoner’s youth, his fine personal appearance, the earnestness and solemnity with which he ap- peaied to Heaven in attestation of his innocence produced a visible effect upon the audience, if no the jury, and many an eye moistened as they thought of the probable fate of the speaker. “4 Mr. Cameron’s plea in behalf of his client was a masterpiece of oratory. Mine: ignoring facts, he confined himself to a strong an the feelings, with the hope, as he afterward acknowl- pea of modifying the result that he felt was inevi- e. The power and pathos of this ap forgotten by those who heard it. There were wo- men among the audience who sobbed aloud, while the jury looked one at another, as though inwardly querying if there were not some way of avoiding the hard duty that was set before them. With the summing up of the judge and instructions to the jury the case rested. The jury were out only half an hour, and the grave look upon their faces, as they filed slowly ne] showed what their verdict was, even if it had no been a foregone conclusion. The foreman’s voice faltered, and his eyes were wet with tears, as he said: “ Guilty, with a strong recommendation to mercy.” being. all these terrible hours of suspense, of al- ternate hope and fear, Irene had sat beside her hus- band, her left clasped in his right hand. i a unselfish heart thought of him, and only. As these words fell like a heavy knell, upon her ears, she Sear ee silently, for some moments, a ed the deadly sickness that overpowered her. hen bending her head, she whispered: “Co e! beloved; we shall not long be parted!”” A scornful and derisive laugh broke the solemn hush of that crowded room; falling like an electric wie upon the nerves of the excited and wondering ong. It proceeded from a woman, who pressing through the crowd of officers and lawyers, now stood within the bar. Mounting the witness-stand, she threw back her vail, revealing a face, so young, and yet so old, so fair, and yet with a wretched, despairing AS rg ees upcen every feature, that made it terrible to ook upon. i Those black, glittering eyes, flashed around a look that was at once scornful and defiant, . Another laugh, and still another, burst from the ips. Then stretching forth her hand, she cried: “Tt is time that this wretched farce was ended. al were not soon x og h earnest appeal to . ie 4 f iv. e ty , side 4 es Sap ae | = % eee pare ——
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oe 16 LHE BRIE ieee are ) innocent man to deatb! it was 7that shot John Remmington!”’ The prisoner, whose manner had betrayed strong agitation, now sprung to his feet. “Tt is the mysterious stranger! Saved!—thank God! thank God!” The woman’s eyes softened, as she looked upon the face of the speaker. “You are right; I am the stranger whom you met in that old, deserted. house, and twice before that. You were kind to me; and hard and cruel as my heart has grown, I could not see you perish because of that kindness. Besides, life is nothing to me now rk The witness now turned her eyes upon the judge, and from thence to the jury. ‘**T have been here every day since the trial com- menced. All that the prisoner has testified to is true, of which I can furnish ample proof; though you ’—here she pointed to the prosecuting attorney —** have styled it, ‘an ingeniously-constructed story, ‘to save himself from punishment.’ I wrote the let ter about which there has been so much dispute and pay elie it, as he has told you, on a leaf torn rom his pocketbook. It is not strange that our handwriting should be similar, for he taught me the first characters that I ever attempted to form. “The disguise I wore you will find among some bushes back of that old house. ‘‘ With this *—here she drew a pistol from beneath her cloak—‘‘I took the life, a thousand times dearer tome than my own. God knows I meant not to do this; but his refusal to do me justice, the taunts and reproaches that he Reape’ es mF head, mad- dened me. A moment later, I would have given nl just judge! oh! wise jury! you have condemned a _ worlds, had they been mine, to recall the rash act.” After a moment’s pause, the witness continued: -. &Thave come forward to clear the innocent, to deliver up the life that is forfeit. But it must be in my own way. Iwill die as he dicd. ThusI cheat . the gallows!” A sharp report rung through the court-house, and with the blood gushing from a wound in the chest, Josie Harmon fell forward upon the floor. There is now little more to tell. Walter was honorably acquitted; the truth of this ae A sopran being proved beyond the shadow of a oubt. The tide of public opinion now turned so strongly as to almost take the form of an ovation; but Walter turned from all the testimonials of renewed_confi- dence and regard that were lavished upon him to the one faithful heart that had believed him inno- cent when every one else deemed him guilty. “Said I not,” cried Irene, in reply to Mr. Good- eed’s heartfelt congratulations, “that the God, in whom you taught me to trust, would not let me trust in Him vainly?” The good old man’s eyes filled with tears, “ According to thy faith has the Lord dealt with thee, daughter. To Him be all the praise.” Mrs. Remmi n died a few days egies ced oblivious, to the last, of the bereavement whose shock occasioned it. Her husband survived her only ashort time. He did not w Gnesi until he had seen and acknowledged thé injustice he had done his nephew, and reccived many kindly offices from _ his hands. dase Harmon’s self-inflicted wounds did not prove atal. She was duly tried for the crime she confessed to Corprettsing, being acquitted onthe ground of insanity. . She was removed to a private asylum, where she . maintained at Irene’s charge, who often visits er. sponge very wild and ungovernable, at times, under kind and skillful treatment her malady has subsided into the mildest, though most incurable type. Phe dark tragedy, which made a shipwreck of her whole life, has passed forever from her mind. Every Ca at sunset, she dresses her head with ribbons an flowers, saying: ** John is coming to-night.”’ Taking a seat by the window, she watches and listens, until the nurse who has charge of her says that it is time toretire. Thenshe placidly lays them aside, saying: “ He will aaa Siuse to-morrow.” And so the A re on. And what of ter and Irene? : They are living in their beautiful home, surrounded by loved and loving children; happy in each other, and happy in the happiness they are able to impart to all around them; remembering their dark days only to enhance their gratitude to the Giver of all good for all His mercies, THE END, - The Sunnyside Library. 1 Latua Rooxs. By Thomas Moore........... 10¢. 2Don Juan. By Lord Byron... ...... ‘r 3 Parapise Lost. By John Milton ............ 10e. KE. Sir Walter Scott... ae For sale by all newsdealers, or sent, postage paid, on receipt of twelve cents for single numbers, double numbers twenty-four cents. 98 William street, N. ¥ ADAMS, VICTOR & CO., Publishers, | A Fifty Cent Novel for Five Cents, | WAVERLEY, LIBRARY. COVERING THE FIELD OF LOVE and SOCIETY ROMANCE, {1 Tue Maskep Brine. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 2 Was Ir Love? By Wm. Mason Turner. 8 THe Girt Warr. By Bartley T. Campbell. 4 A BRAVE HEarrT. Arabella Southworth. 5 Bessiz Raynor, THE WorK Girt Wm. 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BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers 98 William street, N. ¥. e THE Half-Dime Singer's Library 1 Wxoa, Emma! and 59 other Songs. 2 Caprain Curr and 57 other Songs. 8 Tar Garnsporo’ Har and 62 other Songs. 4 Jonunny Morcan-and 60 other Songs. 5 Pun ae You Wirn A Frater and 62 other ongs. 6 GEORGE THE CHARMER and 56 other Songs. 7 Tar Bette or Rockaway and 52 other Songs. 8 Youne FELLAH, You’RE Too FREsH and 60 other ngs. 9 SHy Youne Giru and 65 other Songs. 10 I’m THE GovERNOR’s ONLY Son and 58 other Songs. 11 My Fan and 65 other Songs. 12 Comin’ Toro’ THE Rye and 55 other Songs, 18 Tae Rotuickine InisHMan and 59 other Songs, 14 Otp Dog Tray and 62 other Songs. 145 WHoa, CHARLIE and 59 other Bones. 16 In rHis WuHear By anp By and 62 other Songs. 17 Nancy Leg and 58 other Songs. 18 I’m THE Boy THAT’s Bound To Biaze and & other ngs 19 THe Two UrpHANS and 59 other Songs. 20 WHAT ARE THE WiLD WaAvES SayinG, Sister? and 59 other Songs. 21 INpIiaNaANT Potiy Woe and 59 other Songs, 22 Tue OLp ArM-CHAmr and 58 other Songs. 23 On Conny IsLanp Bracn and 58 other Songs. 24 OLp Simon, THE Hotr-Corn Man and 60 others. 25 I’m in Love and 56 other Songs. 26 PARADE OF THE GuARDs and 56 other Songs. 27 Yo, Heave, Ho! and 60 other Songs. 28 Sede» NEVER Do To GiBir uP So and 60 other ongs. 29 nae Bonnets OVER THE BORDER and 4 other ongs. 80 Tae Merry Laveuine Man and 56 other Songs. 31 Sweer ForGET-Me-Nor and 55 other Songs. 82 LereTie Basy Mr1neE and 53 other Songs. 33 Dr Bango AM DE INSTRUMENT FOR ME and 53 other Songs. 84 Tarry and 50 other Songs. 85 Just ro PLease THE Boys and 52 other Songs. 36 rae oN ONE IN THE GuTTER and 52 other ongs. 87 KoLoRED Kranks and 59 other Songs. 88 Nit DEspERANDUM and 53 other Songs. 39 Tue Girt I Lerr Benrp Mr and 50 other Songs. 40 "Tis put A Lirrie Faprp Ftower and 50 other ag 41 Prerry WHILHELMINA and 60 other Songs. 42 DANCING IN THE BARN and 63 other Songs. 48 H. 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