Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (v. 1) (1880 04 13)
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No. 22. VOL st-Class Copyri og a i esses eo eo eee ees «We AVE! §2.5U a year. ih ij 3 a IBRAE N Copyrighted in 1880 by BEADLE ‘AND ADAMS. April 13, 1880. PRICE, 5 CE Hi {| ‘Nts in ee r : wh . i MY i i a il cn By the author of “Alone in i i y NN ht LA ah i i MN i {i WH It] nih | iH 1 i isis | aa HN ca . t ee = AZ the World,” ““Qlifton,” ete: CHAPTER I. THE ME ETING. Tue place was an old-fashioned country house up the North river, and more picturesque and home-like than it is easy to describe, tion of the building had been erec A. por- ted soon after the Revolution, and that had been added on to at different periods, unfil it made up en i i 1 i) 3 iT i i \ | i " aul a HA u nt eA \\ SN) Wei Via \\\\ SS a oe aa \ : : Tat irregular structure, linked together, as it were, by balconies and bread verandas, covered with luxuriant vines that, in the summer time, mace it as picturesque as an old feudal. mansion. The grounds were extensive and filled with fine old trees, leavin pleasant openings here and there, from whence glimpses of the beautifu river could be obtained. Although it was late in the autumn, the vines yet kept their leaves, in masses of rich crimson and yellow, while the garden, at the back of the house, was still bright with broad patches of color from the last autumn blossoms, where great :lusters of chrysanthe- mums threatened to outlive the snow. The interior of the mansion was at once quaint and stately. There were broad halls ending nowhere in particular, rooms jutting out im unexpected places, and all so cheerful ond pleasant, with such an air of ovis ae NTS eet
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ie 2 fore deserting the lovely spot for so many long months. A carriage had driven up the winding avenue, and @ lacy, who kad descended from it, stood on the piazza, mal:ing a varicty of inquiries of the old serv- ant v7ho had opened tho door, “An you do not know when Mr. Meredith will return?’ she asked, disappointment trembling in her yvcico, which was widely at variance with the coldness of, her face. “T co not, ma’am; not for several days, I think.” “ And you can not givo mo his address?” “hics LIabel might know it—” “Who is she?” asked tho lady, quickly. The old man looked a little surprised at her abrupt- ness, but answered it with the courtesy of an era almost extinct: “Mr. M-redith’s daughter, madam.” “Doughter—his daughter!”’ __ “Qh, there she comes, madam,” he added, point- _ ing down the avenue. ic lady turned sharply, and saw a pleas girl, mounted on a beautiful chestnut horse, dashing up the winding road. The lady stood watching her, while the man descended the steps; and indeed it was a picture that might have attracted a person even moro preoccupied than she appeared. Tho girl had checked her horse, and leaned toward the servant, her cheeks glowing, and her oe eyes fall of a soft, lambent light, that kindled her face into a beauty that was positively startling. “Oh Joscph,” she exclaimed, “I have had a splendid ride. ‘‘FWlash is quite beside himself with spirits this eee Tho scrvant spoke a few words to her in a low tone, which madc her pause and glance in surprise toward the lady who stood so pag fs Soak el her. She sprung lightly off her horse, before the serv- ant could assist her, and, gathering sy folds of her riding-skirt walked up the steps. The lady had not moved, and mado no effort to come forward to her, nor did she return her graceful salutation. ‘scomed to be nothing personally connected with the young girl which moved her—only as if she wondered how any human creature could look so brilliant and licht-hearted. ~ “Joseph tells me you wished to see papa,”’ said tho young lady, advancing toward her: “I am el ho is not at homo. iil you walk into the uso?” The lady followed her in silence, and they entered a little rec ption-room off the hall. “T can not tell when ho will be home,’’ continued the girl, blushing a little at the stranger’s continued scrutiny. . Theso words seemed to recall the lady to herself, and sho said, in the same peculiar voice: “T wiched very much toseehim. Doyou knowhis address?” “jndeed, I donot; Isend my letters to the address of his pariners; be is at some hotel in the city.” “Can you give me his partners’ place of busi- ness?” Tho girl gave it. “Lot mo write it down,” she said. ‘‘ Pray be seat- bee ger ee while I find a pencil.” Tho lady sat down, still watching tho girl while she looked about for the writing materials, which had beon mislaid with the usual heedlessness of a young erson. ‘i “Tan sorry to have had to search so long,” she said, handing the stranger the card on which she had written bright ae ewe a er pebontdgg it a peg ook the paper, and again her eyes me those of her hostess wich the samo wistful expres- sion, “What is your name?” she asked, suddenly. “ Woabel Meredith,” she replied. “T thought Mr. Meredith had only a son.” Tho girl colored more vividly than before, . “Ho died many years ago, madam,” “TIave you been living here a long time?”’ “Ixcept when I have been at school.” She answered the questions ah 9 8 there was something in the lady’s manner which precluded the - ‘possibility of taking offense. , ¥ ou are now how old?” “Tighteen—at least I shall be in a few days.” “Tighteen!’’ murmured the woman, ‘It’s a long back—a long way back.” ““Youlook very tired,’’ Mabel said, noticing how the white lids drooped over the w eyes; ‘won't you lay off your shawl and take luncheon with me?” “Tem not tired,” she answered, almost impatient- ty. “Tow do you pass your lifa?’’ she adde ““Jndoed, I can hardly tell you. I fear I am really idle, but Iam very, very happy.” “O11, yes; you live in dreams yet. Not quite hteen—it’s a whole life back.” no spoke those last words to herself, but Mabel eaucht their import, and looked at her in astonish- ment, “J fear you are not quite well,” she said. ‘‘I wish I coull persuade you to rest before roing away.“ “When you have lived eighteen years more will, perhaps, know that there is no such wo ES aor the stranger. , *g quick fancy was excited by the lady’s strange manner and speech, and she was too much of a visionary not to give way at once to, the train of thought called up. ed thought by that time people wanted to rest,” fhe said; “that thy were of excitement and longed to be quiet.” ou as e address, with another blush and a. ‘dreams be—an The woman smiled bitterly. “And is that any reason for finding it?’ she asked, ‘Child, when that day comes you will learn that it is no more answered than a prayer for death.”’ “Ts life so hard?’ Mabel asked, wonderingly. ‘I have read so—I know that people are unhappy. Sometimes I almost wish for a great trouble, to take me out of my dreams.”’ ‘* What sort of dreams?’’ she questioned. “Thardly know. Iam restless without reason. I a very happy, but I am often sad without knowing Ww ” ‘The old story,’ sighed the lady. ‘‘ Keep to your dreams, child; they are better than life, far better than any pe you will find in the hereafter.” She turned her proud face away and folded her shawl about her, in preparann: for her departure. ee shall I tell papa called to see him?” asked abel. “Tt is no matter; I may find him in town: I am gen ae at once.” **There will be no train along for an hour,’’ Mabel said, ‘‘I beg you will wait here instead of driving over to the station.” The lady threw off her shawl again with the same listless manner. “You sing,’ she said, with a return of her former abruptness; “‘ will you let me hear you?” “Certainly; but how did you know?” “By your face, of course! Sing me one of your happy irl’s songs.” abel seated herself at the piano without hesita- tion, and sung a peeming old ballad that was a favorite with her father. Her face was turned from the woman—she could not see how those pale fea- tures contracted and then softened under the in- fluence of her fresh young voice, ‘and the exquisite melody of the song. Once the woman threw out her hands with an feta Sette as if to check the sweet sounds then they fell heavily into her lap, and she leaned back in her chair, motionless as before. “My father likes that song,” Mabel said, turning from the instrument; ‘that is why I chose it.” “He likes it?” repeated the woman. ‘I heard that years ago. It is an old-fashiohed melody. How came you to sing it to-day!” ' 7 — sorry if it has pained you,” replied Mabel, timi ens Yittle more or less does not signify,” returned the woman, ‘I thank you very much. I should like to see the house, if you are willing,” she said, after a pause. “It is a noble old place. Mabel caught at the idea with satisfaction; she was beginning to be embarrassed and troubled. They went about from room to room, and Mabel noticed that the lady seemed to be familiar with the apartments, but with that rare delicacy which made a portion of her character, she asked no questions. n the library, the woman paused for a long time walking up and down before an oval window, filled with plants. She tred softly, and with an anxious ies ae one might walk near the grave of a beloved rien ‘*Do you like these rooms?”’ she asked. “Very much,” replied Mabel, “but papa seldom comes here.” “Why not?” “T don’t know; it is not mete so light and cheerful as the others—perhaps that is the reason.” Again the woman smiled—smiled as some stern warrior of old might have done in his dying agonies, “Come out into the grounds, the air of this room is stifling,’’ she said, with a struggle. Mabel opened the window, and they descended the steps. The lady glanced toward a summer- house at the end of the walk they had entered. “Let us gO back!’ she pci hoarsely; *‘ come back, I say!” ; She seemed conscious of her strange manner, and made an effort to control it. “I beg your pardon,” she said, ‘“ but I am cold— the pin is damp, T think.” She was trembling from head to foot, and did indeed seem perishing of cold. Mabel led the way back to the reception-room, and the two sat down before the fire. “T have been here an hour,” said the lady, glanc- ing e Amd clock; a I will go aire AMEN ope you will come c , feelin, a stealign konastag te tes with her singular guest. : a re here again!’’ she repeated. “It is not ely. - Then Ishall never see you. The thought makes me sad. I don’t know why, but it does.” ‘““Who can tell? You will not spend your life here—people always meet, eepectaliy when it gives them pain.” “*T hope we shall not part forever now,” returned the girl, earnestly; ‘‘ indeed I do,”’ **You hope so? Thank you, child, thank you! What will hap a Before boc ty ps phe 6 happy songs, an e ¢ BS gf all i t be unhappy?” you people mus un Mabel asked. _ ““When we meet again you shall answer that question yourself,” said the woman; ‘“‘cling fast to your happiness—it willloosen from your grasp every day now.” ‘ here was something inexpressibly pathetic in her tone, which brought the tears to Mabel’s eyes. Mi And you cry,” said the woman. ‘While that ower is left, never call yourself unhappy. Good- y now—I am going away.” These last words were not addressed to Mabel—the girl knew that by the way her mournful eyes wan- cered about the room, 3 Good-by,” she said; ‘‘I hope we shall meet ain.” The lady murmured some unintelligible wor looked again in her face with that wondering, wist look, then, without any other farewell, passed out of the room and the house. Mabel followed her to the outer door, and stood watching her as she entered the carriage. Once more their eyes met—it seemed as if the stranger would have spoken, but the horses started off, and Mabel only caught the sorrowful glance. She turned back into the house, oppressed and troubled, as if a heavy cloud had suddenly come be- tween her and the bright day which, an hour before, had filled her heart with such animation and glad- ness. CHAPTER II. THE APPARITIONS. Ir was a eo parlor in a quiet hotel; so com- fortable and home-like that one would easily have forgotten the Wandering Jew sort of feeling im- pressionable people are wont to experience in such ces. Although the dusk was gathering heavily arcund him, the occupant of the room had not called for lights, but sat over the smoldering fire, as he had been doing for more than an hour. He was a man past middle age, and occasionally. when a sudden gleam shot up from the dying em- bers, it exposed a worn, pale face, which had evi- dent grown hard from the effects of long-concealed rouble. Gradually the fire died out, and the room darkeén- ed; but the man did not stir, Twice aservant had tapped at the door; but the summons remained un- answered—he had not even heard the sound. He was @ man to whom such utter prostration of will was uncommon; but that night so many memories had taken possession of him that he could not break from their hold, and after the first struggle he had yielded passively to their sway, consoling his pride with the reflection that there was no human eye near to observe and SE ety upon his weakness. That iron pride had been the ruling principle of Anson Meredith’s life—it had stood between him and all that would have made the happiness of his early ears—it had made him sacrifice the best hopes of s later existence. It was his bane now. He was not lamenting these as he sat there, in that gath- ering gloom. He was a disappointed, heait-sore man; but hedid not blame himself for the trouble which had come a him, There was nc softening in his heart. Twelve years before he had given his decision in a case that might have made any father’s heart tremble, and never once since that time had he wavered in the resolution which had shaped his loveless life. Even that night it was not feelings of weakness or self-reproach which bound him; he was only reviewing the past as one walks among the graves of his kindred—he would not have chang- ed any thing, or given life to those phantoms of past affections if it had been in his power. A clock on the mantle struck eight, but the sound did not arouse him. The room was very dark now. only the outlines of his figure could be distinguished by the dull light of the street-lamp, which quivered against the window, There was a step in the ball, an impatient knock, when the door was thrown quickly open, and somc. one cried out: “T can’t stand knocking here—I am tired out. The deuce! The room is like a dungeon! I say, Markham, are you asleep?” t Mr. Meredith started to his feet suddenly, as it some one had dealt him a blow; he stocd for a mo- ment gathering his faculties, like a man rudely wakened from an unpleasant dream, “Confound you, Markham!” exclaimed the intrud- er, closing the door and stumbling about among the furniture; “can’t you speak?—I can just make you out moping over the fireplace. I'll rouse you up, ov we'll know the reason why!”’ “You have made a mistake in the room, sir,” said Meredith, quivering from head to foot, he scarcely knew why, and resenting this intrusion, although it was evidently unintentional. “Well, I like that!” returned the stranger. “If you want tocheat me, you mustn’t speak in your natural voice—you’re a ycoor actor, ay boy.” **You are in error, sir,’ resumed Meredith, stern- ly j ‘the person hod are looking for is not kere.” ‘Just wait till 1 can get this door open a gO as to have some light, and I'll teach you to lay these shabby tricks on me, old boy,” exclaimed the other, laughing in a peculiar, reckless way. : There was something in that sudden merriment which startled Meredith egain—he shrunk within himself, smitten by a sudden realization that the in- truder was known to him! “Who are you?” he cried out, quickly. ‘ What do you want here?” His voice had grown heavy and hoarse, ashe made. a step forward to open the door, A broken exclamation died on the stranger’s lips. “T believe I have made a mistake,” he said. ‘I bes: you to excuse it, sir—but it’s Mer 4 distr—ridiculous, mean,”’ and he laughed out again in spite of his ef- forts to be grave. “Open that door!” exclaimed Mr. Meredith, in a. hurried, excited manner, which those who knew hin: best would not have recognized as belonging to that oe gcaaaaaiiaaas man. ‘‘Who are you? I will how!” ““C. Montgomery, at your service,’ returned the
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we eo a ae cally bringing her face back to its forced calm... || ———— ee _THE BRIDE OF AN ACT other. ‘‘ As for the door, I will open it with pleasure, - when I can find the knob. As he spoke, the young man threw the door open, and stood in the entrance, “T have already explained, and apologized for my intrusion,’’ he said, haughtily. Mr. Meredith moved toward the door. As he did so, the stranger turned, and the gas-light from the hall fell full upon their faces. For an instant both stood in silence, the elder man breathing heavily, and straggling with himself—the younger with the smile still upon his face, and an apparent determination to have out the scene with unconcern which cost him terrible pain to assume. . “How dare you come here?’ exclaimed Mr. Mere- dith. ‘“ How dare you?” eal have already told you that I entered by mis- “1. do not believe it. You meant to intrude.on me. If it ever happens again I will see that the laws pro- tect me.”’ “Do not threaten me or I may forget myself, sir. T have no desire to cross your path. have not for- gotten—I have not forgotten!’ ““T do not know you,” interrupted Mr. Meredith, recovering his composure, and speaking with icy de- liberation. “I speak as I should to any stranger who ae conducted himself as you have been doing to-night.”’ “T came here, sir, by mistake; I have apologized. Your insulting ianguage does not disturb me, and never shall.” “Unchanged!” muttered Mr, Meredith. ‘ Un- changed!”’ “Yes, sir, unchanged; except that, like yourself, I have grown harder and more unforgiving.” “More reckless and wicked, you should say,’ Mer- edith returned, bitterly. “So be it; call it ey any name you please—we both know whom to thank for the cause.’ “Your own evil disposition and heartless nature.”’ The young man clenched the hand that hung at his side, but restraining himself by a violent effort, he spoke again as if determined to irritate the other by his calmness: “This little interchange of harsh words can do no good,” he said; ‘‘ with your permission I will re- tire. “Go, andremember what I have said! You must not again insult me by Pf ape! presence—if it happens, I will treat you as you deserve,” “Twelve years ago I told you that no threats could terrify me. am not likely to have grown weaker since. I trust that we may never meet again. If we do, it will not be my fault. I leave you to all the pleasant reflections which must possess you, and I go back to the life you have made for me.”’ “You made it for yourself—when the bad ending comes, remember that.’’ “T shall remember, as will you—those who have to judge will know where the blame lies.” e turned from the door—paused an instant, and the two men looked full at each other, the one hard as iron, the other with a proud, defiant expression, which gave his handsome face the look of a fierce, ii Spirit determined to resist and struggle to the eee “Gol” repeated Mr. Meredith; “go!” he young man walked deliberately across the hall and disappeared down the staircase, turning once more to give back that look of stern defiance. When the sound of his footsteps had died, Mr. Meredith staggered back against the wall, cold and bata as if exhausted by some violent physical ort. “The last time!’ he said, in a low but fully dis- tinct tone. ‘TIT have only seen a ghost—the shadow came before him.” As he spoke these words, a hand was laid upon his arm and a voice whispered: re tg it grieve you to see another, Anson Mere- He was so overcome by the emotion of that inter-. view that he did not even start—he raised his eyes | and saw that a woman stood before him, looking | into his face with an appre of yearning sadness | that might have touched a heart of’ stone, ; “You ! he muttered lgpking down into the | eyes lifted toward him with ch eloquent: appeal; | « “you here?” ee | pea Peet, in the same land with you—how could I help ” - She had entered the hall just as Montgomery dis- appeared, and stood for an instant watching Mr. Meredith, when he gave way to that strange weak- | ness, The man’s face changed as he looked upon her; his eye brightened, his lips began to close tenderly, ; He entered his room and motioned her to follow; hted the chandelier and placed a chair for her in nee, Deep feeling held mute, | “You did not e me,’’ she said. * “T don’t know,” he answered, yaguely it would | not, me to see the dead themselves come wu to-night. But the ae zea is driven away, ani ou are come. I am thankful.’ , “Have they haunted you?” she asked, in a sort of | wonder. “These spirits have been about me so many years that their faces are more familiar than living crea- tures can be.” She rose from the chair in which she had seated herself, and walked several times up and down the room, clasping her hands hard together, and gradu: _ was a woman of middle agé, but the face was . beautiful still, only so le and sad that it might | have belonged to a statue. Still, the unquiet glitter | of her eyes betrayed the inward fover of a soul in painful unrest. cel’ fo th “T came to see you,” she said, suddenly returning to her chair, and sitting down with her face partially turned from him. Mr. Meredith did not speak, and after these words she was silent for several moments. Her hands drooped slowly into her lap in a way which indicated the attitude was an habitual one; her eyes looked oe toward the expiring fire, and she seemed, for the instant, to forget that she was not alone. “‘ Ashes,” she muttered; ‘‘ nothing left but ashes.” She was thinking of her life—one could see that, by the mist that stole over her restless e es, the mouth quivering slightly, then growing still. But for that you might have thought her sadly moraliz- mg over the white ashes at her feet. ‘You came tosee me,” Mr. Meredith said, after best her in silence. “Can I aid you in any thing?” oe did not look toward him, but bowed her head ently. - “I don’t wonder it surprised you—I feel as if we had met in another world.” “Tt is another world,” he said, slowly. “Yes, and Iam only a poor, hunted spirit, that has strayed out of the old one—your own thought, you know. I shall not trouble you long. I don’t know why I came—I want no help—you could not ive it to me, if I did—I wanted to see somebody that longed to the past.” “Has any new trouble overtaken you?” he asked, kindly. ‘‘ You know I would Lie ab he: if I could.” “Never mind, never mind! e each agreed to bury our own dead—that’s a good many years ago, Anson Meredith.’’ “T cannot bear this to-night,” he said, and his sabi shook a little; “I have been greatly dis- turbed.”’ “Who left:you as I crossed the hall?” she asked, abruptly. — . , a shrunk from her question, and put out his and. “Don’t talk of it—you heard me say I had seen a ghost. One never trembles at the sight of a ghost, —e it is the shadow of something once very ear.’ “And Icame just after! I have been looking for Nes several days—I did not know that you were” ere until this momert. I came to this hotel this afternoon, and heard your voice by accident—now I will fo away.” “When are you going?” “To-night, probably. I have found you. I only wanted to say one thing to you—I don’t know why; you can’t help me.” ‘What is it, Eleanor?” “The old name—I haven’t heard itin so long—don’t call me that again. It is like striking a blow at a tombstone.” She threw herself back in her chair, and moaned with a passion so at variance with her former sad tenderness that it was painful as a death-cry. “Tell me why you come here so suddenly,” he said again. She rose to her feet, stretched out her hand, and half whispered: “T come because my child—his child—is alive.” Meredith started from his chair, and they stood looking at each other with a sort of vague fear, the woman repeating several times: “It did not die; it did not die. God has been very merciful or very cruel to me, but my child is ali "e— I am searching for it. That bad man who has gone to his last account, has left no trace but the le fact that my child is alive.” CHAPTER I. THE SHADOW OF THE PAST, ‘“ AND you can give me no assistance?” “Indeed, madam, I do not know which way to turn J am astonished beyond measure by your revelation.” ‘“‘ Never mind that—I want advice.” . i “ Can you think of. no —_ who would be likely to Know any thing about the matter?” “One old woman—Margaret Hawkins; but she may be dead, now.” ‘‘T do not remember her.” a“ No ad {uc¥ou *have' no’ clew toward finding her, if she be | ‘Not the slightest. It is years since I have been in this country. I have only just arrived now.” “We can advertise for her, Mrs. Mitchell; it is our only el ‘* And if we hear nothing?” ‘Let us hope for the best—it is all we can do now at os Rican I will think this over to-night, and at- tend to the advertisement,” The lady rose from the office chair where she had been sitting, and stood before the old lawyer. “Mr. Meredith,” she said, “I have no home, no name, no friend, unless I may eall you one—” “T have always been that,” he interrupted. “Yes, you were kind to me even then; how you worked to save me,” she said. ‘I need not tell you what my life has been for these long years. Weaker women would have died, or gone mad—I could do neither, Think what it must be to me, after all this time, to hear that my child is alive—alive, and I can find no trace of it.” The woman’s voice rose to a wail; for an instant it seemed as if all her wonderful self-control must desert her, but she conquered the spasm, and again seated herself. . . “ And all you know is contained in this unfinished et iverything! “I taly ‘Everything! Imet this Mrs. Eastman in I ‘ I did her a service. I suppose she had heard my story, She sent mea note and a package of unim- por.ant papers that belonged to him savine thas ~* ter her husband’s death, she had found them among his documents. tor, Idid not look at them. Ilocked up the pack- age, and it was only a few weeks since that I opened it. Icanuct tell what impelled me. I shrink from all allusion to the past, more and more, every year. I found this torn letter in his writing. I don’t know for whom it was meant, but it said that my child had not died—but that I never should know it, never see it again.” She broke off with a dry sob, more painful than tears. Mr. Meredith looked at her, and, worldly man as he was, accustomed to scenes of grief and all manner of exhibitions of feeling, his heart was touched. guar have been a most unfortunate woman," he “Tt is too late to think of that, now,’’ she answered. “Part of that terrible past was of my own causing, but of the sin and shame they heaped upon me, I was innocent, ”’ ‘““Many people always believed that,” he seid, soothingly. “Who believed it?” she exclaimed; “ you, perhayas —the man who knew my innocence—but who berice you two? A woman who is accused is disgraced. Civilization has no mercy. My worst enemies were women; how they hated me! I feel their sneers burning in my heart yet.” E She broke off with a shudder, but when she spoke again, her voice had taken a deeper tone of anguish. “Twas a woman, ard all that suffering I had to bear alone! Iwas afraid to face the light of day, lest I should mect familiar eyes whose coldnees would remind me cf my shame. During all these years I have had no human being to care for, Ibad steeled my heart into quiet, and now there comes the tidings that my child was then glive.” “You must be courageous, now,” he said, kindly: “think how nobly you have Lorne—”’ “T was desperate, then—sullenly content—I had no hope. But now—my child—all that time my child was living!” Tt was a hard task, but he must remind her of the time that had clapsed since that letter was written. “I would not willingly pain you,” he said, “you eae tos but I must warn you against too much ope. “You need not—I know how mad it is. The child _ may have died aft r—I see what you mean. Havel not thought of that? Put suppcse she lives, end F find her! I must tell her of the cloud that has blackened my name for years; that I have lived an outcast, deserted by my friends, disowned by my kindred ! Could she come Lack toa mother like a “She would believe paps crete will do so now. Indeed, Mrs. Mitchell, cng since [ would have ad- vised you to return to tuis country. People have half forgotten that time cf trial; many will believe you now.”’ “And pity me!’ she cried, ‘‘No, not that. Ihave borne everything elsc—not that! If to-morrow I could call back those false fricnds, I would not do it. I do not say this bitterly, but I want rest, rest. The sight of them would be like living over those terrible years again.” “T can understand that, in a measure.” “Don’t talk cf it,” she broke in; “you mean kind- ly, but it is like the thrust of a dagger.” She said it so quietly, but with such a rush of ny under the ice of her voice, that it was more pain- ful to witness than an outburst of despair, ‘Shall you stay in New York?” asked the lawyer, after a pause, during which he was seeking for some words with which to break the silence. “For the present, to see if we hear from this adver- tisement. Spare no cfforts; try every newspaper in the country. At least, I have money.” _ “That has ever been a sort of consolation to me," cried. “Sometimes I was sorry for it,” she raid, with a sudden fire: “‘I wished that I had teenyoor, Hard, —— ey, and labor would have kept me from o ; ‘ “You have traveled a good deal?” he asked, more from not knowing what to say, than for any other reason. “T have been everywhere, I have had no rest—ne home. The moment I reached one place, I was wild to leave it. Often and often have I spent days and nights in journeys without aim—huniying or only heeanee constant motion was the only relief I eould 3 ae: ht cies Pate maps er cal ared, the story of m ‘ace Was sure to follow. Could I foal snyaet inh position to be scorned and cast aside? Sometimes I found some oor wretch even more unfortunate thanI, I could elp her as far as money went, Jearp words of comfort to give?’ ** Poor, poor Eleanor!” ; The old lawyer said the words unconsciously, not thinking cf the present, but looking back into the pes ears agone, when he saw thet lone woman a righ » happy girl, whose future seemed full of joy and brilliance, It was difficult to realize that the worn, pale woman, with the spent agony of sucha terrible suffering always present in her face, could be the same, “T know what you are thinking,” she said; “ it does not seem possibly! I feel as if that young person had died, and Iwas her ghost, doomed to wander through an eternity of pain.” “Heaven is over all,”’ he w red,. “ Ay,” she said, bitterly, “and far off it ist’ God forgive me, but J have grown so herd thet some- times I doubted His mercy. I felt as if Twas evreod alike by Heaven and wee You know he was Mitchell’s execu-- but where was 1 to | A 7 —
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% f re 4 “Where can I find it?’ This news has kindled the old fire in my heart. When I think that my child may be alive—oh, help me, do help me!” Ail her self-control gave way; she dropped her head upon the table with a passionate burst of dry, hard sobs. Even then she had no tears. When he made an effort to console her, she quieted herself, and again looked up. ‘ “JT know,” she said; ‘‘patience, resignation; I know. Iwill go away, now. I do not often give way like this. I never did before, exc-pt in soli- tude.” “Twill come and see you to-morrow.” *“And you will think—you will devise means—you are so wise, so clear-sighted.” “All that is in the power of man to do, shall be done, Eleanor. I promise you that.” * And T believe you. be ga She drew down her vail and hurried out of the offices, so shaken that even her habits of endurance could not longer support her in that agony. ; CHAPTER IV. FATHER AND DAUGHTER. Mase. Merepitn found her home brightened by a subject of thought after the visit of her strange est. It was singular how completely the face of that woman possessed her memory—how the sound of her voice stole through the day-dreams in which every new event was woven. Mr. Meredith had not yet returned from the city, and the fair girl had ane the time of his absence up to dashing rides m the morning, and tender reveries as the night drew on. She was seated one ee in ment, on the ground floor which library, lost in one of these vague, bright dreams. She was leaning back in an easy-chair, her head supported on her hand, and her eyes wanderin slowly about, as if following the course of the gold- en sunbeams, She had nothing to do but dream. The sun wh‘ch ripens the pomee anaes in a Southern zone is not more fervid than her nature; yet, with all, there was a winning .Aipbatceeas about her which won every heart—a wild outpouring of affection toward those whom she loved, which rendered her very faults lovable. The elements of a noble soul were there, but unformed and orderless as _ the treasures of some voleanic isle. Thus organized, her solitude was alldreams. She was dreaming as she sat there then, One saw it in the far-off look in her eyes, the srailing, visionary sadness which dimpled her beau- ttful mouth. The door that led into the hall was quietly opened, and Mr. Meredith entered the apartment. His step! Mabel sprung up—the dreamy expression died from her features, and they kindled into girlish joyous- ness, “Papa!” she exclaimed, going forward to meet him, and throwing her arm about his neck with a movement full of grace; ‘“‘I am so glad you have come back. How could a pleasant apart- opened out oF thie yon stay away so long? I have half a mind to punis you dreadfully!”’ ‘What shall it be, Mabel?” he returned, with th pe pleasantness habitual to him; “come, de- cide.’ “This!” she said, laughingly, raising her face to his, and pressing a shower of kisses upon it. THE BRIDE Oran py ts my 8 elis can hold pou enthralled, I shall be eontent,’’ she replied, gayly. ‘‘ But I don’t like that word; it rin lata boner me of those poor Salem wretches that Miss Granger used to make me read about, How stupid it was!” .“ What name would please you?” “Oh, I like the one you gave me long ago; it is mine by right. I wm your princess, you know!”’ x a very tyrannical one, too.’ * But is the tyranny unpleasant?” “Would I dare acknowledge it? You are too ab- solute for that.” “How gay you are to-night, en I hardly re- cognize you! I know that you have been thinking of something very pleasant, which you are dying to tell me, so don’t keep me in suspense!”’ ms Psy my princess, it is my turn to play the ty- rant.” é “But you haven't the heart; then, too, you would be punishing yourself almost as much as you would me, by keeping your secret.” “Do you ever get lonely here, Mabel?” he asked, suddenly, and with more of his customary gravity. “Lonely, papa?” , “Yes; you need not be afraid to tell me. If it were so, it would only be natural.” “‘T could never be lonely where you were, papa,”’ she replied, unhesitatingly; ‘“ but sometimes, when you are absent, I do. so long for your return!” He drew her toward him in silence; there was a tenderness'in her half-playful manner which touched m.,. ’ “Since Miss Granger left us I have no-companion, you know, when you are out of the house.” “True, my child! But have you heard lately from Miss Granger?” “Not dong anes She is with her brother in Mississippi, ing care of his children—that is her proper element; and there, doubtless, she will re- main to the end of the chapter, unless some good- natured planter be smitten by her. But tell me, why do you ask all these questions?” “Because I felt, how lonely it must be for you here. IT am not a very lively companion—”’ a “Now, papa, don’t slander yourself; I will not hear 2 on.’ et wish to devise some means by which you may have more society, more pleasure,’ ** Don't tell me you think of procuring me a com- panion—I detest the very name! I have read novels enough to know all about the race. Why, she would make me the confidant of more love affairs than ever you dreamed of, and persuade me that the first handsome coachman we saw was a prince in disguise! ‘No, no, thank you, I am very well asI * But that is not what I meant. Would you like to down to the city and spend the winter? It is e for you to see something of society and the world.” “Papa, are you in earnest?” “Of course. Would you like it?” She Glapned her hands, with the ringing laugh of ildhood. : “Should I like was a little girl?” “To my certain knowledge you did, miss; and I suppose you would like the sugar-plums society has to offer in the shape of compliments and adoration.” it? Did I like sugar-plums when I id There, I think you have sufficiently atoned: for ‘Will I receive them, papa?”’ your fault! Sit down now, and tell me what you “T fancy there could not be two opinions upon ve been doing,” vi ‘of that subject,” returned he, almost proudly. “TI She forced him gently into the chair she had left, | imagine that a child of mine would not be entirely ane sinking to a footstool at his feet, clas her hands over his knee with a childish grace which was ‘ Anaepreselbly beautiful, and made one of the chief f ‘Nothing more than that? How commonplace! pig ections. . - . you. Truly, what were you thinking about?” oh 2A her changeful manner. oe close’ eredith looked smilingly down upon her; his face brightened, and every glance told how that young creature had twined herself about hat have you been doing, Mabel?’’ he asked. :; “*T hardly know, papa; I fear almost nothing all, though I have been busy every moment.” 1} “A satisfactory account, certainly! You must have a decided genius for doing nothing if you can “oecupy yourself day after day by the means.’’*” .‘ a are laughing at me, are you? » Well, papa, I at have been busy. I read a little, practiced, w ¥ played with the dog, and then—” Hy 77 RS) at then?” “T was thinking—” ve “Indeed! You must have been at a loss for,em- ployment, if you were forced to think—really, Tpity _ “Twasn’t thinking of any thing— $1 COt some person, then?’ Pies “) ven in his playfulness, the worn man looked un- easy; he had so guarded his dove in his inmost heart that the bare idea of her seeking other shelter would have been terrible to him, you thinking?” he said, a little ' 4 ae whom were ekly. at You won't be angry if I tell you?” “Am Tever angry with you?” od eo ' “No, no, I will do you justice there! Well, then, - if I must tell you—” / “Now for this weighty secret!’ ? hi Grang h Do go am ch ed Pp pause; “‘are you tired _ “It was of—yourself!” she said, with a joyous;| ‘Jaugh, and flinging her arms eri. Aor ate neck, ; dhe forced him, by ber childis mont such as he seldom indulged in. ‘“* Are you sat- isfied now, papa?” : / ‘tT am satisfied that you are a darling!” Why not call me witch orfairy?” = MNT ane crown teo tall to be a fairy, but TENA Ha ae +! t4 nhs gayety, to: merti-. 1 Rh : ‘ » ra kind papa!” neglected in the crowd, especially when she has a face like this.” ° ‘Don’t flatter, papa. But won’t they take me for a savage, I know.so little of the world?” “A savage! You, my princess!” , “Very true! But then you know there are prin- cesses in the South Sea Islands.” , ‘** At all events, they will find you a regular canni- bal where hearts are concerned.” “But, seriously, papa, are we to go to New York for the winter?”’; + “the “Tf you like the idea. I have a house there va- cant. Every thing can be made ready in a week.” “But shall you like it, papa?” _“ Whatever, makes you happy must always be Rien to me, my child. You will find it very easant, I hope; as for me" ° ** You do not finish.” ’ » ‘ When.you have reached my age, you will learn that contentment is about all one Hopes for.” “T do not like the quiet of contentment; it seems dull and stupid. Llike excitement. I think I should enjoy society.”’) «1+ ' is but natural i age,” he replied, ab- sently. His thoughts had gone where hers could not follow—back into-the past, that past_of which he human. being. But there are moments in the lives of the proudest and the stern- est, when memory—that officious herald, will ob- trude itself, and there is no escape from its bitter reproaches. : silent,” Mabel said, after a “A ‘little, but it will soon ‘You are growing . Then you are pleased with the arrangement i propose?” She kissed his hand with a humility of affection unusual: to her, murmuring softly: : “You are very kind to me, papa, very kind.” # By au deserve it all,” he replied, ‘all, my good child.” “If 1.do vex you sometimes,” she said, playfully. “That one can pardon, you atone for it so will- never spoke to. any ... He stooped down and kissed her forehead, while a centile. expression stole over his features. - . ~ od wahentind $99 Pn a ES SASS “RE EES ES SE en ne eee ee ee ee ee eee ee ence eee ee ee ee a ee eee ee N ACTOR. He left her to her youthful dreams of coming happiness—left her to seek the solitude of his chamber, where, upon the threshold, met him ever those phantoms of a shattered life, which haunt the gt of him to whom Fate has denied the chief of uman blessings—peace. CHAPTER V. WHAT CAME OF A BOUQUET. Iv was an apartment in a fashionable hotel front- ing on Broadway. The glow of a warm sun bright- ened the curtains, which were gathered carelessly back from the casements in heavy folds, and cast a rich glow over the breakfast table, where a young man was seated. Notwithstanding his great personal heathy, there was in the face of the young man a worn look, which gave an idea of more unsettled habits than was really the case. But late hours, constant excite- ment, had left traces on his features which would have po remarked by a refined person with regret. he room in which he sat partook of the unrest revealed in his features—every thing was rich and oa ama but crowded together in wild confusion. ooks, aan ince fencing-foils and boxing-gloves were huddled together upon the tables, or scattered over the floor; under the sofa was a delicately embroidered slipper, the mate of which had perhaps been left in some similar room a hundred miles away, and beside it a pile of soiled tg of every tint, some mateless and others in tatters, as if they had been torn from the hand in haste or passion. In short, all around him was costly, lu ous and particularly uncomfortable; but he sat in the midst of this confusion as if it were his natural element, though every thing about his person was spotless in its purity. The dark curls which clustered about his forehead had been flung carelessly back by some impatient movement of the hand; his dressing-gown, of crim- son silk, damasked with gorgeous flowers, was draped carelessly about his form, the heavy cord which should have confined it at his waist partially torn away and trailing over his chair. His mood seemed each instant to change; now his manner was listless and languid—he leaned back in his chair, stirring with his spoon the foam on the cup of chocolate beside him; then.some sudden thought would rouse him, and a look almost of tender regret would pass over his features, to be in turn suc- ceeded a dissatisfied, impatient expression, pain- ful to witness. Nor did it seem that it was an unwonted emotion which caused this state of feel- ing, but the changeable manner natural to his character. As he sat there, a servant entered noiselessly, and, seeing his master lost in thought, began quietly to arrange the furniture, and create a little order amid that luxurious confusion. He was interrupted in his task by a sudden call from the young man: - “ What are you doing there, Henry?” “Putting things to rights a little, sir,” replied the man. . His master caught up a boxir rgtove which lay at his feet, and flinging it with well-directed aim at the servant’s head, said, laughingly: “Be off, or you will need setting to rights yourself. Bring me a cigar, me etits knew I wanted one.” The man bowed and went out as noiselessly as he had entered, evidently too much accustomed to such scenes to feel any astonishment. In a few moments he returned, bearing in his hand a bouquet of flowers, which pervaded the whole room with their fragrance. He presented it in silence to his master, who made no movement to receive it, but turned half away with a gesture of impatience. “What do you bring those here for?’ he said; “you know I hate flowers in the morning. shall be under the necessity of breaking your skull, my a fellow, if you don’t quit bringing me. these things.” ‘*But they are left for you, sir,’’ expostulated~ the servant. : “Put your foot on them in the anteroom; go and see on your own account the fair ones who send them—do what you like, but don’t bore me.” “T think there’s a note tied to the ribbon, sir.’’ * Read it, and be hanged to you. ‘Answer jit, too, if you like.” ‘ ; “The flowers are very pretty, sir; it seems as if they spelled a name.” ‘Give them here, you fool. You are never satis- fied unless you can make me do something un- pleasant.”’ far 3 He rag out his hand listlessly, and took the ouquet. ; “Come, that’s rather pretty,” he said, with a yawn, “ but the perfume’s too strong. It. does spell a name, I believe. E—s—Estelle. I would wonder who that is, only it’s too much trouble,” There was a tiny note thrust in among the Sal soms; he took it, tore it open, and glanced careless- ly over it. ; “You have forgotten an old acquaintance. These poor flowers will tell you her name, their bearer her address, which you will forget, if you do not follow him before to-morrow.” Ps: ver prettily worded,” he said, glancing again at the flowers, ‘! but the idea is not original. Here, take them away,” he added, flinging the bouquet carelessly down. ‘‘ Who brought them, Henry? “A servant, sir.” “Well, ask him the lady’s address, and any thing evhon he wicaene: the an his former careless attitude, and up when the domestic returned. man sunk back in did not even look
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* / , = oe =. ey a eae ~ aes es THE, BRIDE OF ied CoS va “There is her address, sir; I wrote it down, but | serious strain; the woman’s consummate art aided theflady’s name he pretended not to know.” ‘“Who cares? Get along with you and bring me that cigar.” The servant brought a package of Havanas upon a silver salver, and placed them, together with a small lamp of antique workmanship, upon the table by his master’s side. The young man selected one of the cigars, twisted up the perfumed note which he held in his hand, thrust it into the fiame, and Iin- died his cigar with it, then allowed it to fall upon the carpet and writhe itself to ashes. An hour after, he summoned the domestic again, ushing carelessly aside a pile of cards, notes and etters, which had lain since the preceding day dis- regarded on the table. “Get my things ready, Henry; I am going out,” he said, rising, and flinging the end of his cigar down among the papers. ‘Hurry yourself, for it’s getting late.” When he was dressed he left the chamber, and de- scended into the street, sauntering carelessly along, and replying with nonchalant grace to the greetings from acq tances as he passed. He entered a ho- _ tel near one of the upper parks, and giving his eard to a servant, said, with a fatigued sort of smile which the man did not observe: “Take that to No, 13.” In a moment the servant returned and motioned him to ascend the stairs. He flung open a door up- oa the upper landing, and ushered the young man into a handsomely-shaded parlor, from whence a curtained recess gave entrance to a small boudoir. A lady, seated in the inner room, half rose as the stranger paused upon the threshold. A slight blush came to her cheek, a triumphant flash to her eyes. She moved forward a step as he advanced, extend- ing her hand, and saying, in a low voice, which seemed tremulous from hidden feeling: “You appear, Mr. Montgomery, to have forgotten an old acquaintance; pardon my having troubled you to come here.” He bowed over the delicate hand with easy gal- Jantry, while his eyes wandered furtively over the speaker’s elegant form. “You mistake,” he said. ‘‘ Had I known that you were in town, I should have ventured to pay my re- spects before now; P ha I am glad thatI did not; it would have deprived me of the happiness of receiv- ing your note.’ ‘he lady motioned him to a seat beside the low chair into which'she had sunk. “You have not forgotten how to flatter,’ she re- plied. ‘‘I thought it was the atmosphere of Paris Which inspired you formerly, but now I perceive it was ius, nothing less.” “The same inspiration—your beauty,” he said kissing her hand again, while across his face assed an expression which might have revealed that he was endeavoring to recall some confused memory. His quick eye caught the name engraved upon the cover of a volume which lay beside her, and the doubtful look forsook his eyes, leaving only a gleam of grvtified vanity in their depths. “You know well, Mrs. Eastman, that the mortal who has been blessed with the sight of an angel has lost the power of forgetfulness.’ : * Poetical as ever!’ she exclaimed with an assumed laugh. ‘But you know I never did believe you. Tell me, what did you think when you saw the flow- ers, and what did you do with my silly note?” _ “T thought a new Eve had sent me a cluster of blossoms from her Paradise; the note I laid next the heart which had become the shrine of a blessed memory.” — : x two whole years! Whatfolly! You have been too much pecupicd since then; the laurels “which were budding for you have sprung to full blossom.” : “But it was the sunlight of your smile which fostered them,” he said. ‘‘Isit only two years since I mop your It has seemed to me a century.” _“T have heard of = continually—every where orn i caressed. Oh, how delightful to be fam- us! “T never thought so until your lips repeated the word; henceforth, fame will be sweet to me.”’ “Tf one ever knew when you were in earnest,” she said, shaking her finger Pastolly at him; ‘‘ but you have such a torrent of pretty words at your command that it is impossible to know what your real ig igi}? fe gured on my tongue,’” he said, laughing at his own quotation, yet with apparent earnestness in his voice. “<T fear me both are false,’ ” she continued, laugh- ing in turn. ‘*+Then never man was true,’” he murmured, taking her hand in his. “J don’t think I ever can believe you,” she said, without attempting to withdraw her hand, but en- deavoring by her manner to lead the conversation back to its former playful tone. “ Don’t make any rash vows, for you will be sure to break them.” | be! not deny that, for I made one long since which I found myself unable to keep. “And that?” a “Mo forswear your presence—it is too dangerous. ‘What a thing to tell a lady; where is your gal- lantry?” ~ “Tf a man were blinding himself by looking at the sun, would you not warn him to turn away? “Not if he had eagle eyes, like yours. * But P ated resence dazzles the heart; there is no escape from its power.” ‘ “Why, then, like a wise man, resign yourself to te— “Tf fate would only prescribe some relief.”’ ‘Who knows—wait and see.” The conversation dropped insensibly into a more | her in drawing it off the dangerous bounds it was oe As he sat there, so full of life and brilliancy, Montgomery hardly appeared the same man who, in the silence of his chamber that morn- ing, had sat looking so listless and world-weary. There was fire in his eyes, passion in his tones, and an unnameable fascination in his presence—a sort of magnetic power, which only a nature of wonderful strength could have resisted. A clock in the anteroom chimed the hour. Mont- gomery started, as if in surpris2. “So late?’ he said. ‘* Way did you not send me away?” “You are not so modest that you can be at a loss for the reason. You do not imagine that having" once captured a prisoner, I feel disposed to set him immediately at liberty.” ‘You know well that I shall not be at liberty even when banished from your presence.” ‘*Banished! You won’t consider it necessary to wait for a summons to return?” “A message like that of this morning would almost repay me for the pain.” * Then, if you grow very tired of waiting, come to- morrow and remind me of it.” ‘‘T am sure your memory will fail otherwise. Now I must £0 back to poor, stupid reality.” “ And I have visits to make—stupid, is it not? An old acquaintance has arrived here for the winter, with his daughter, so I must play the agreeable. She is sure to be tiresome—girls always are, but Mr. Meredith makes such a point of my paying her at- tention that I can not refuse.”’ ; The young man did not stir; the smile faded from his features, leaving that sickly white about the mouth which so surel betrays strong feelings, and a betrayal from which no person of acute natural sensitiveness can ever free himself, in spite of all the lessons that worldly knowledge and raf teach. i e com was ape im be knot of ribbon upon her —_ and the change in his face passed without re- mark. ‘*Don’t you agree with me?’’ she said, without raising her eyes. “Undoubtedly,” he returned, with a start. ‘You can never be wrong.”’ ‘* Mr, Meredith himself is a splendid man—not so young as he has been, and fearfull dignified, but very pleasant, nevertheless. Do you know him?” “What? know—”’ “Mr. Meredith.” Peg! should I? New York has been my home so ittle.”’ He had regained his composure somewhat, but the color would not return to his cheek, and the smile on his lip possessed a fearful bitterness. “ The say his love for his daughter is little short of idola' ef - ‘“Indeed? He has no other children then?” ““No; it seems to me that he did have a son, too; dead, J believe. Yes, I remember now, he is dead. Nobody ever speaks of him—something painful con- nected with it, I faney.” “*So he has centered his whole heart on this girl?” “Utterly. The intense affection of a nature like that must be a great bore.” The young man did not hear this; be had gone to a table to take up his hat, and his face was turned eHow ld is thi lady?” h th ow 0 this youn ?” he inguired, wi assumed indifference. Ho you happen to know her exact age?” ‘* What a question! Well, seventeen or eighteen; will that answer?” , The young man drew a hard breath. “Yes, that will answer. Thank you.” “*You know I do not believe one word that you have said to me this morning.” oy Then I will stay here until I have convinced you.” “You are a dangerous opponent; never at a loss for devices.. At least you may bid me good-morning before you go,” He took her hand, and bent over it, then looked into her face with those splendid eyes. “T have found a new Olympus,” he murmured “but there is only one goddess—the rest have fled in despair at her loveliness.” Before she could make any oppositio her sree toward him, and, with a g exquisite that the action appeared hardly attempted to press his lips to her forehead. She started back with a sudden exclamation, but the flush on her cheek was vivid. “Do you expect to make your peace after that?” she said. te Forgive me.” “No,” she said, retreating. now.” ‘““Not until I am certain that you have forgiven me.”’ issimulation he drew try so audaeious, ‘ “You can take leave “Dare you hope it?” . she only hope audacious things, therefore I expect at. ; “Come to-morrow, and I will tell you that Iam angry.”’ When Montgomery found himself alone, eve trace of gentle feeling left his countenance. His forehead contracted beneath the pain of thought, and his whole face betrayed the awakening of some smoldering passion. He walked rapidly on, heedless of the eager crowd brushing alike rudely past friend and stranger, till he gained the solitude of his own chamber. He flung down his hat, and paced the room with uneven strides, under the influence of some strong emotion which forbade all rest. “Do they hope this?” he muttered, through his | amusement.” ACT shut teeth. ‘ Let them beware! I am not wholly | powerless yet.” Once his servant entered, but stole away without . speaking, awed by the expression of that face, and knowing too well his master’s moods to intrude when he found him thus. CHAPTER VI. MABEL’S NEW FRIEND. ‘““Mapen! Mabel!” It was Mr. Meredith’s voice that called, and the girl sprung to her feet as the door opened, and he entered the apartment where she was sitting. She saw only that a stranger was with him—an elegant, aristocratic-looking creature, whose every move-. ment and gesture was full of grace, for before she could move forward, the lady was by her side, and had thrown one arm caressgingly about her waist, saying: WAR, I need no introduction here. I should have known her from the Gescepeks although, glowing as it was, it fell far short of the reality. But per- haps to youl am astranger, Miss Meredith?” “Not at all,” Mr. Meredith answered. ‘\A friend of papa’s can never seem a stranger to me,” Mabel replied, irresistibly attracted by that winning manner. “Thanks; then we shall have no trouble in becom- ing acquainted. I detest being on ceremony and vis- iting people who keep me off at arm’s length.” She kissed Mabel’s forehead, and threw herself upon a sofa with the easy grace which characterized all her movements, motioning. Mr. Meredith to. seat himself beside her. ‘So you have really unearthed yourself,” she said, gayly; ‘come out of your den to live like a Christian once more. My dear young lady, we can not thank you enough, if it is to your persuasions that we owe is restoracion.” : ‘“As- merry and wild as ever,” Mr. Meredith said, smiling. : ‘Precisely, my dear friend; and the worst or best of it is I shall never be any thing else. Vive lu baga- telle / is still my motto.” “You are fortunate that nothing occurs—”’ , “Now don’t finish that speech, I know that it was going to be a moral one, and I hate moral lectur don’t you, dear Miss Meredith? How prim thai odious ‘ Miss’ sounds—I hate it.” ‘Don’t put it on then,” said Mabel, laughing. , “May I call you by yourname? Mabel, isn’t it? I like that; it makes me feel at home at once.” ‘*Tam so little accustomed to hearing any other name, that it sounds strange to me, so pray call me Mabel, Mrs. Eastman.”’ . angered, if you will say Estelle.” “The compact is complete,’’ Mr. Meredith said, laughing, ‘‘I think you will get on famously.” ““You may be sure of that,’ returned Mrs. East- man. ‘You must acknowledge that I am not me- chante, and I should not be human if I could resist the language of a face like that, But explain to me what your plans are for the winter?” “Ido not know that we have any,’’ Mv. Mcredith replied. ‘‘I wish Mabel to be introduced into the world—to be as gay and have as much enjoyment as possible.” “Your position in society will secure her that,” re- joined Mrs. Eastman, *‘ and I shall be delighted to do all that I can to make her winter pass pleasantly. I am not matronly enough to be her chaperone, and love dancing and attention too well; but, at least, I can be her friend, if she will permit me.’ “ Look at her face as you speak; is that answer enough?” vy sweetest I could have. You hardly look like an American, dear, yet you are so beautiful that I should know at once you were one.” “Then your residence abroad did not make hg lose all admiration for your own country?” Mr. Mer- edith said. . ‘“Oh, no. I have toomany painful recollections~ connected with my stay there, pleasant as it was, for that.” we heard with much regret of your husband's death— “Do not speak of it,” she interrupted. ‘‘I can not bear the thought; he was my best friend—moi like a father than ahusband. But what a wild thing Iwas when you s w me, I think I shocked you sometimes, did I not?” “ae grace like yours, as if the thing were possi- “At least I shall do so no more; J think my spirits are all gone;”’ and she a a little sigh, which might be real or assumed, it was impossible to decide which. “Are you fond of amusements, dear?” she said, as if wishing to change the conversation: “of the opera and theater?” , ‘ ‘She must not be!’ exclaimed Mr. Meredith, with a violence so unusual to him that his listeners were startled. ‘‘No child of mine, and no person over whom I have any control, shall ever enter a theater.” _ My dear sir,” returned Mrs. Eastman, sooth- ingly, snark you have none of those idle, anti- quated prejudices against the stage?” “I can not argue the subject, madam, but I repeat, Mabel shall never enter a theater. I am willing to procure her every amusement, comply with her eneuieat wish in every other respect, but there I am determined; theater.” Mabel’s cheek colored with sudden passion; never beSore had he addressed her in a tone of command, ina her proud spirit revolted at what she deemed its yranny. “This is a strange decision,” she said, endeavoring to speak calmly. “‘I like plays very much and am certain that the theater would ‘be my favorite she shall never set foot inside a be : ‘ i. »* ‘
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—_— = fy ad - ae 6 SE EEE peichnpeipen pseehcfinkiiage “Mabel!” His voice was stern and harsh, but ehecking himself, Mr. Meredith added, in a more natural tone: ‘‘ We will tal of this another time. Excuse mec, Mrs. Eastman, I have a deep-rooted aversion to this thing. It is no idle prejudice—you will overlook it, Iam sure.” “Oh, of course. I have too many whims of my own not to respect those of other people.” Mabel made no remark, though a: pirit of opposi- tion had been roused in her which would not easily be quelled. *“} must leave you now,” Mr. Meredith said, rising. Pray become acquainted with iy little girl as fast 9 possible, Mys, Eastman, for I expect you to like er, “T shall need no persuasion,”’ she replied. When he had 1 ft the room, Mrs. Eastman drew her seat to Mabel’s side, and put her arm about the girls waist with caressing tenderness, “Now we will have a long chat,” she said, gayly; “but tell me, first, what is there in the word theater to make such a tiger of my old friend?” *T am surotcan not tell. Some unwarrantable rejudice that people sometimes tako without cause, fancy.” “ Never mind, dear, don’t be annoyed by it.”’ “But Lam certain that I should bo charmed with & play. Fancy, I have never even been in a theater.”’ ‘Of course you would be charmed; but we will 1ade him out of this whimsical resolution, never ue ear, “T donot believe it; you little know his unyield- ing firmness when he has once made a decision.” Just so with aJl men, my child, Stupid animals, the best of them! But there’s one consolation, we are not women for nothing; we can outwit the sagest of the sex without difficulty. You shall see a play— that Iam determined upon.”’ “T could not bear the thought of deceiving my father, but—’’ “You don’t wish to be treated like a baby—of course not. Leave it all tome. I'll arrange every thing for you, and we will have our own way in the end you may be sure.” TE ig little enough; one might be allowed that,” returned Mabel, laughing, and for the moment gn aside the vexation caused by her father’s words. “You must have an immens'ty of shopping to do, ray dear. I shall help you, my taste is perf everybody says so.” ‘Papa has ordered me a variety of things from Paris, but I have still much to purchase.” “Shall we devote to-morrow morning to the busi- ness—iwhat an odious word, it makes me think of a man’s ledger.” “T shall be delighted if you can accompany me.”’ “Tam at leisure until half-past three; you can eall for ine as early as you like.’ “I should be certain to come.” “Thanks. But I must run away now, for it is tate, _ and Iam going out this evening.’ bs “You will not cine with us?” _ “Don’t ask me—it breaks my heart to refuse you, aoe veel I must tear myself away. I shall ex- pect you to-morrow.” “Without fail.” “ Au revoir, then, mz bel/e. What beautiful eyes you have, to be sure! Iam glad you are a blonde; if you had had the misfortune tu be a brunette, I should have hated you; as it is, we contrast well to- gether, as a milliner would say. Au revoir.” With another embrace, and a flood of pretty oa the giddy woman hurried away, leaving abe! entranced by her winning manner and appar- ent frank-heartedness, f CHAPTER VIL MABEL’S SURPRISE, ~~ SsveraL days passed, during which Mabel saw Mys. Hastman dn pena and began her acquaint- sce with the gay wor d of such glowing fancies. ; But there was nothing in the vapid emptiness: of our new-world society to please a girl like Mabel. The admiration of the butterfly adorers who crowd- ei around only wearied her, and the attraction she fit for Mrs. Eastman was owing to her disregard of tue thousand petty rules which regulated the con- cact of those about her. ‘ Mahel was walking alone one morning, thinking over the occurrences of the past weeks, and wonder- - ing at the feeling of unrest which would not be appeased even amid the gayety and excitement of her new life, There was a vague want in her life, which had no name, but each day it row stronger, forcing itself more resolutely upon he:, until, a idmes, it seemed to the girl that a great change was coming over her—that fate was about to take up the vhreats of her destiny and fling them out in far different paths from those which she had before trodden. ‘hen she repressed the idea, with a smile «4 her own wild fancies, and strove to find relief from thought in the amusements which made up the existence of those about her, but in vain. 4 chime of bells, at peed with the tones of an organ, came swelling on the air from a neighborin chureh, and Mabel, attracted by the melody, ascend- e I the steps and entered the building. It was a day of ceremony in the Mother Church, and the smoke of ineense rose from the altars, where gorgeously roved priests were performing mass, The sunlight nee in through the windows of stained glass, taking a thousand fantastic hues, and playing over the floor like molten flame and gleaming rainbows. . Vhen mass was over, the crowd of kneeling worshipers arose and passed out of the church, leav- ing only here and there some earnest. devotee hel a in meditation. aes which she had formed. to which the scene had given rise, and began walk- ing up and down the aisles, regarding the pictures hung in the niches of the altars. She ee a nook where the light fell purple and dim across. a painting which attracted her attention from its } ear gs ce to one that hung in the library at her ome, Standing before the painting was a woman dressed in black. The face was turned away, but there was something in the stranger’s attitude, as she stood bending slightly forward, her hand concealed under her cloak, which seemed familiar to Mabel. She moved forward. Atthe sound of her footseps the lady started; she turned quickly, and her eyes look- ed full into the face of the girl. ‘ Mabel uttered an exclamation of surprise, and stood regarding the lady in astonishment. For an instant she remained thus, unable to recall when or where she had known that face. Then, recollection came back; it was the stranger whom she had seen in her home on the Hudson. With the natural impetuosity of her character, she extended her hand, exclaiming: i “You told me that we should meet again, but I did not think that it would be here.”’ The lady looked at her in silence; her face ex- Pee pr neither astonishment nor recognition, but at he sound of that glad young voice, a slight quiver shook her frame, as if there had been somet in its tone which moved her. ‘You do not remember me,” said Mabel, sorrow- Peo **T knew you immediately.” The lady r her hand like one enjoining silence, in order to recall her wandering thoughts. The sad light in her eyes softened a little; her lips half i “7 in a smile, and she allowed Mabel to take her n “*T recollect you,” she said; “the voice is the same, but you are changed.”’ “It is the different dress. I have not changed so much.” The woman looked at her in silence. “Tt seems so strange that I should meet you here,”’ continued Mabel. ‘It was merely by acci- dent that I came into the church. One would almost think there was a fate in it.” “No!” returned the lady, rai “Do not say that; it is a terrible word. It was chance, mere chance.” ** At least, Lam much obliged to the chance,” said Mabel, ‘‘for I have so often thought of you, and longed to see you again.” “To see me—you longed to see me!” said the wo- man, in a voice which struck painfully on Mabel’s ear, there was something so unnatural in it. “You asked me then if Iwould remember you—do you recollect it?” “Did f? Oh,I daresay! You sung to me, did you not? Can you sing that song now?” “T do, sometimes, but if makes me sad, since the day it distressed you so.” ae pane you were sorry for me, but you are not unhappy ?”’ : “No, not that; but it seems to me that I have not been so happ since you left me.” ** And why?” : “Tam so restless without any reason. I want to. know why I live—what life r is; and I can find noclew! It seems to me that time will come when the question shall be answered; but now. every thi so misty and indistinct, that I do no know which way to look.” . She spoke rapidly, without pausing for thought. There was a power in that woman's presence which impelled her to speak. All the eager questionings which had hey troubled her, rose in a torrent her lips—one of those inexplicable sensations which sometimes, at the sight of a :person utterly un- known, agitated Mabel. It seemed to her that she ag s to that.stranger, without restraint, of all e from every other human being. “Can you tell me oo this is? Will the clouds pe ph away? Shall I find an answer to my de- mand?” While she spoke the i ping stood motionless, looking in the l’s face ast had been the echo of her own heart. ‘Tell me,” repeated Mabel,” shall I find an an- swer?” | j “To what?” “What is life—what will m: ‘* What is life—do you ask that? If the wanderer of the Holy Writ still walks the earth, he asks daily of his own soul the same question! Your future!— o not ask that; if will come soon enough.” “But I lack something. I want—” “Well?” “A change—I don’t know a eee do; something to think about. Everybody is kind to me, but life seems so useless, sO uneventful.”’ “Poor child, asl et tL A GL ae eae “Can you not tell me what todo? I have thought of you so often, and it seemed to me that if [ could only see you again you would be able to tell me all that I can ask of no one else.” “You thought that? Why should you have done so? You did not know me.’ ps ee I could not feel so; it seemed to me that I known you so a long time.” “Know me? no, no; you never did, Ade never can, knowme. What could I tell you—nothing. Goyour ways, child; follow the course which is marked out for you: let the future take care of itself; it will be here soon enough.”’ i nei turned to move away, but Mabel caught her an : ui not go yet,’’ she said; ‘I want to-talk to ou. $ She spoke with an cernest solicitation which made ee oY future be?” Sh ie ild wee hes which she had so carefully hidden. that impatient voice the woman pause. Mabel had lived so entirely aloof from the world that the thought of her imprudence m thus addressing a stranger, did not even occur to er. “I can do you no good,” she returned, sadly. “God help me; I have no power to aid any human being. I do not_ know how to counsel you. The very kindnesses I seek to confer, turn to misery on the heads of those I strive to aid. Go home; be content to take life as it is. I have heard that there be those to whom it continues tranquil and undis- turbed. Pray to God that it may be thus with you.” She broke from Mabel’s grasp, and would have hastened away, but again the young girl’s pleading voice made her pause. “Then we shall not meet again?” ‘*Why should we?” ° “And I must 4 back to my home, unquiet and restless as ever. Is there no one to answer me?” ‘*No human being can. Men call on Providence, but Providence is often silent. They fill up their little sum of existence—suffer, moan, pray—and then die. What comes after, we know not. But I donot doubt —no, no, thank Heaven—I do not doubt. The an- ie are sometimes deaf to our supplications here, ut I do believe that beyond the confines of this prison house they will listen to us. Take that for your consolation, if it be one. I have no other to offer. Farewell.” Before Mabel could speak or move, the woman walked {rom the spot, leaving her there alone. CHAPTER VII. THE FIRST STEP. ‘Here I am again, you see, Mabel! Now own that you are heartily tired of my daily visits.” _ Beige) only want me to flatter you; I shall say no g ” . ‘How impolite! But then you know that you are a savage—beautiful, but still a savage,” returned Mrs. Eastman, sinking herself to a couch. “I am tired to death, and ran -— from my rooms to es- cape the people that woul keep flocking in upon ene here rated net ‘: a ou see,’ sai abel, lau my politeness would have been wasted. You cekcanreieeias that ou came here only because you were bored at ome.”’ ‘But I had another reason. I was dying to see y “ee Ah {71 “Now do be serious—nonsense is my forte—don’t attempt it. But I really have something to tell you, I showed you, the other day, some criticisms of that young actor who is turning all the women’s heads.” “What of him? You excited my curiosity so strongly that I have done nothing since but search the newspapers, to learn more about him,” ‘“‘He has a benefit to-night, and Mrs, —— plays with him—only fancy!” i “Tt will indeed be_ onl fancy,” replied Mabel, ime 5 men shaking her head. ‘I would give the ld to see him; but it is useless to think of it.” “T would give ten worlds rather than stay away! But can’t you persuade this obstinate papa?” “You could as easily move a rock! I ventured to der of it again the other day, and for the first e in his life he was angry with me.” 2 “What did he say?” ‘‘That while I remained under his roof I should never enter a theater.”’ : “What odious tyranny. I did not think he had been such a Turk!” “T can do ety but submit; I.would not offend ‘But you are not a child, my dear. him for more than I can express. Why do you # allow yourself to be treatedlike one? Men are born ~ to be ruled—husbands or fathers—remember that;. and you may as well govern all of the sex that ecme in your way, as a preparative for married life. To think of your miss only stops here a fortnight longer. ine nothing like him—a perfect. Apollo. Such a voice—such eyes, and the way he makes love! Oh, my. darling, I pity you!” ; ‘ Let us talk of something else. It only vexes me to remember of what delight I am deprived.” “ After all, Mr. Meredith might not care so much as you think.” ou can imag- But he has expressed his wishes clearly,” said. Mabel; “I can not act a to them.” “Quite right, my dear; beauti practice is another thing. Duty and. affection are ee aa 0 words—they have no significance in this rapid age. ars. € R I should not like to forget them,” ‘ ** But you must go tothe theater. My heart is set j 1 y onit. Ishall die if Iam disappointed. “It is impossible! Papa would never consent; I dare not even mention the subject again.” Don’t, then,” “ But what can I do?” DET y “Go without, tg ip Fie,-you will never be a woman of the world if you go on in this manner.”’ “If he were to know it he would disown me. Papa can be stern, I tell you.” ed, He never need ne it. tiy eae ty ey ea nor purse up pre mouth—i qui too rake to give forth sermons. You can go to the heeter and he be none the wiser; nothing more easy. ** Would you have me tell him a falsehood?” “What a word, little barbarian! Of course not; I only ask you to do something much more difficult fora woman—to keep your own counsel and hold your tongue. I will tell him that you are going to spend a ae evening with me, and will perhaps stay all night, as 1 am ill. Don’t frown; I shall be if | am disyppointed! TI have a box at the theater, and we will go quietly there. get neatly stowed away u that play! Why, Montgomery. iful in sentiment, but —
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‘THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR. ee £ behind the curtains, and return as decorously as the most fastidious could desire. Now, what is there so frightful in that?” : “‘ Nothing, I suppose: but I dislike to do it.” ‘Nonsense; remember what you miss if you allow these idle scruples to influence you, and they will speedily be forgotten. No more words; go and + dress, I will see Mr. Meredith, and tell him that Lam going to run off with his princess.” “J cannot do it, Mrs, said Mabel. “Now, my dear, don’t prove a coward, or I shall vee you! Dress yourself, because I am here with the intention of taking you home withme. I must be back in half an hour, and believe me, I have no intention of going without my lady-bird.” __ Mabel would have expostulated, but her friend silenced her with a kiss, and hurried out of the room to seek Mr. Meredith. Mabel began to dress in great irresolution, her mind filled with a vague sort of trouble, which she could not drive away. , In a few moments Mrs. Eastman returned, laugh- ing merrily, and exclaiming, as she entered: “Victory! victory! Hurry! hurry! Your re- doubtable dragon melted like wax in the sunshine of my smile. The day is ours!” '* fo did not consent to my going to the theater?” “Of course not, you little goose. You don’t sup- pose I ever alluded to the thing! No, my dear, I put on my most sanctimonious face, assured him that I was dying of headache, and wanted to take ou homo in order to read me a hymn. But where Agnes? Ring for her; don’t stand there so stupid.” ‘What spirits you have!’’ exclaimed Mabel. “Of course I have; it is my profession. Here is Agnes. Now dress, and don’t speck to me till you are ready to go, for I wish to read.” She sat down and took a novel from the table while Mabel’s toilet was going on. The misguided girl looked pale from the conflict within between inclination and duty, but she had been too utterly spoiled by indulgence to pause now! ia * Atlast!”’ exclaimed . Eastman, flinging down her book, as Mabel rose from her seat; “ready at last—palo as a lily, and just as beautiful!” She burried her away, without;(giving her time to relent. They met Mr. Meredith in the hall, but Mrs. Eastman would not be delayed beyond a pas- ing salutation. ‘**Good-by,” she said, kissing her hand to him as he assisted them into the carriage. “I'll bring our princess back safe, never fear.”’ They drove off, and the charm of her companion’s conversation soon banished from Mabel’s mind the anxious doubts which had beset her. Mrs. Eastman did not again mention the theater; she was too wily a diplomatist to endanger her cause by further discussion. When evening came she dressed without a word, badc her woman make the necessary alterations in Mabel’s attire, and drew her into the saloon, where a gentleman whom she had before met awaited them. | Mabel was given no opportunity for remonstrance and almost before she realized it, they were seated in a carriage, and whirled swiftly away. When they drew up at tho brilliantly-lighted en- tranco of the theater, Mabel sunk back in the seat, tremblin in every limb. ; ’ ‘ **Don’t be a baby!’’ said her friend, in a whisper; _ “*Thate weak people. Do bravely what you make up your mind to do—hesitation is ridiculous,” bel descended from the carriage in silence, me- chanically accepted the arm their cavalier extended, and entered thelobby. She heard a tumult, which seemed to come from afar—was conscious that they were passing through along gallory. In a moment a door was flung open, a glare of light burst upon her, an outburst of music, and she knew that they stood in the theater. “Sit there,” Mrs. Eastman said, pushing Mabel gently into a seat, where she was screened from the sight of the audience by the heavy orange-colored curtains. ‘You have a good view of the stage, and are as safe as a dove inits cot; asfor Livingston here, he is as innocent as one, and ready to swear that he never saw you in all his life.”’ Mabel laughed gayly. Her eee rose; a, strange excitement took possession of her, and she Sg Na her fears, her remorse, and gave herself up to the intoxicating pleasure of the moment. One of the most celebrated tragedies in the English tongue had been selected for that evening’s enter- tainment, and the theater was crowded with eager spectators, gathered to witness the efforts of the two dis inguished performers of the evening. The opening scenes were listened to with breath- less eagerness, and when the young hero of the night trod proudly down toward the footlights, in sight of that vast throng, the shouts of applause which greeted him were almost deafening. They died away at last, and his voice rose clear and powerful, yet with a sweetness in its tone which moved the coldest heart. i Mabel leaned forward, heedless of the eyes which might be bent upon her, forgetting every thing in the spell flung about her by that presence. t As the play went on, and the actor gathered up his full stre Mabel’s interest grew more intense, Several times her companions addressed her, but she did not heed or turn Per gaze, but sat fascinated. _ Suddenly the heroine appeared upon the scene, amid the tumultuous greetings of the crowd. But soon Mabel forgot the woman, so deeply did her interest center that man! She could not have turned her eyes away had life depended ty it. She watched him as a fascinated bird might the serpent who is charming it to death. At length she seemed to attract the performer’s attention. Several times he glanced toward the box, astman, indeed I cannot,” ER RE ORE SY Ret SS. So a SE SE AR Se ne ee en ee ee se a a ee and had Mabel been watching Mrs. Eastman, she would have seen the quick smile which shot over her lips, and the gesture of greeting she made. The curtain fell upon the last act, shutting out from the girl’s sight the glorious world wherein she had reveled. “Come, Mabel,’ exclaimed Mrs. Eastman; ‘‘ come back to life—the play is over. , “You were charmed, were you not?’ continued her companion. ‘Is he not spendid? Did I say too much—isn’t he an Apollo?” Mabel made no reply. Those words irritated her, and she turned impatiently away; but ber com- panion did not remark it. The crowd was so great that they were forced to wait for some time in the box. Mr. Livingston had coe to order the carriage, and Mabel, heedless of ay er friend’s presence, stood bewildered by the ' _wondrous vision which had just passed before her. Their cavalier appeared at last; but it was not until Mrs. Eastman had twice repeated her name that the girl started up. “You are bewitched, Mabel; don’t deny it. You will go theater-mad.”’ They passed into the crowded lobby, and in the pressure of the throng Mabel lost her hold upon her companion’s arm. As she looked around, frighten- ed at her situation, some one drew close to her side, took her hagd gently in his, while a voice, which she recognized only too well, said, gently: “Pardon me; your friends are only a little in ad- vance, but you will be crushed in this crowd.” She made no reply—she had no power, but allowed him to lead her passively. on. Once she raised her ee oes, met his, and those dark orbs flashed as they had done through the passional scenes of the ek She knew him—it was Montgomery, the actor. CHAPTER IX. THE SERPENT IN THE GARDEN. THE morning after that meeting, which was to have an influence upon her whole destiny, Mabel sat alone in her chamber, recalling every expression of that changing face, every tone of that voice, whose accents had sunk so deep into her passionate soul, filling its dreams with vitality. She was aroused by the entrance of Mr. Meredith and started up in sudden confusion, feeling almost that he must read in her face the thoughts which filled her mind with a delicious unrest. There came, too, the recollection of the deceit which she had practiced toward him, and the bitter self-reproaches which succeed a first act of treachery toward a be- loved object, made themselves felt with new poign- ancy. “Did I startle you; child?” he said. ‘You look terrified. Did you leave Mrs. Eastman better?” ‘‘She is quite well,” Mabel faltered. ““You have come back just in time to wish me good-by.” “What do you mean—you are not going away?” ““T am obliged to leave town fora week. I did not know it myself until late last night.’ ** And do you leave me behind?” “T must. It is too late in the season for you to travel. I shall not be gone long.” Mabel sunk back in her seat, unable to analyze her own feelings, She felt almost a sensation of joy at the thought of his absence, and again a pang of re- proach wrung her heart at her own ingratitude. “You need not look grave,” he said, in his kindest voice; “you must persuade your friend, Mrs. East- hare to stay with you and prevent your getting onely. , “Oh, no!” exclaimed Mabel, unwilling to add to the wrong she had committed by placing herself so entirely under the influence of the woman who had plreany, counseled her so badly. ‘‘I shall not be very onely.’ “T thought you had taken one of your violent at- tachments for her?” ““Yes, oh yes, she is very kind, but she may not like leaving her rooms—”’ “T will answer for that. I shall drive by her hotel, and give her yourinvitation. Youmay be certain of ek ae within an hour. Now, good-by, my child, good-by Mabel threw herself into his arms, with a gush of irrepressible tears. vp ist Spon e she said, as he soothed her with ad quiet indness; ‘I don’t think I’m fit to be left one.” “‘T will trust you; there are few in the world to whom I could say as much, Good-by.” He gras Bone: and Mabel gave herself up to the painful reflections which his presence and affection- ate words had aroused. But she was not allowed much leisure for the indulgence of those sad fancies; Mrs. Eastman’s voice sounded on the stairs, bringing her back to the duties of the hour. **Here I am, my dear,” she exclaimed, openin the door; ‘‘I could not refuse Mr. Meredith’s aprea. to my sympathies for beauty in distress. But how 2 hs find yourself after our last night’s adven- ure “Don’t speak of it! Oh, Mrs. Eastman, I have done wrong!” ‘“* Now, don’t play the evap I beg; it is not at all in your line. ake all the good re.olutions you please for the future, but don’t go into a Jeremiad over what is past.” “What spirits you have! Do you never feel sad?” “1? What a horrid question! Of course not! But come, my dear, don’t starve me to death in this bird's nest of flowers—I could eat no breakfast with thinking of your distress.” ** T will order luncheon at once—” “Do so; and the carriage after. Ihave no fancy for being mewed up in the house this lovely day.” { 4 fbr ee Sein San en SSS Se Ee ne eee "see She turned away humming a song, and Mabel with a sigh for her broken dream, resigned herself to the idle amusement of the morning. Toward dinner time they were sitting in Mrs. East- om apartment, when a servant entered with a card. “Show him up,” said that lady, glancing at the name with a smile; and as the man went out she turned to Mabel. “You never would guess who has called. I have the most delightful surprise for you!” Mabel was so engrossed in her own thoughts that t she hardly heard the words. Mrs. Eastman fluttered away to a mirror; then composed herself in a pretty attitude on the sofa. Just then the door opened; Mabel glanced toward it, and her heart seemed to cease patina was Montgomery. ‘ She heard the gay words of compliment with which he addressed Mrs. Eastman. Then her own name was spoken: ‘“Mabel, dear,” cried her friend, ‘‘ pray come out of the clouds. Tam presenting Mr. ontgomery to ou. Youracting left her quite dazed—she has been in a dream since last night.” | * So have 1,” he murmured, as he bent toward the young girl. | Bee way these words recalled her presence of mind. “T have to thank Mr. Montgomery for assisting me last night,”’ she said, in a voice whose composure made her wonder. “Was it he who extricated you from the crowd?” asked Mrs. Eastman. ‘‘ Why didn’t you say sot” ‘““Probably she was not certain until now,”’ he re- plied, before she could speak, keeping his eyes full upon her face, and noting how the crimson,bloomed into her cheek. “Now, be good enough to sit down between us, and make yourself agreeable,” said Mrs. an, gayly. “You have destroyed the possibility now, if there had been any,” he said, laughing, but taking the seat she motioned him toward. “Don’t play the modest,”’ she returned; ‘it would be your one unsuccessful part.”’ “Please do not use those words,” he said, brush- ing his hair back from his forehead; “let me forget the stage for a little while, if I can.’ Mabel caught the sad expression which ¢ame over his features—he had struck the key-note by exciting her pours sympathies, **Do you mean to tell me that you do not like it?” returned Mrs. Eastman. “I shall not believe you; will you, Mabel?” “Tt seems to me a strangely fascinating pursuit,” she answered, in a low voice. ‘“ Ah, Miss Meredith, you only see one side of the picture—that before the curtain. You know nothing of the hours of discouragement and loneliness—the sense of misappreciation of the man, even by those. who profess to admire the actor.” It was the same deep, rich voice which had wiled — her heart into that beautiful dream on the previous night, and it made her pulses tremble again. : ‘To me it would be perfectly intoxicating,” said Mrs. Eastman; “I think there is no fame an actor’s—it is so real, comes so closely home.” “ And is so evanescent,” he added. we “What difference does that make? It is much better than having people wait till one is in the grave before one is appreciated.” He shook his head and made no reply—his eyes wandered again toward Mabel, and then the lids drooped sadly over them. “Do you know,”’ pursued Mrs. Eastman, “that this child never was in a theater until last night?” Mabel colored painfully, and made an appealing gesture toward her friend, at which Mrs. man only laughed. “We have a secret,’’ said she, “and Mabel is afraid 1 sball reveal it. I have a mind to do so.” \ “Ah, then we shall have one in common,” he ex- claimed, in that impulsive way which appeared oe: to him, and which was so irresistible; “tell it, I beg. “Do not, Mrs. Eastman,” Mabel entreated. 5 “T wonder which I had better oblige,” said she. “You are safe, Mabel, in having it told—this creature is so wild and willful himself that he will only ad- mire oan the more for your naughty, escapade. “Please let her tell me, Miss Meredith,’ he added; **T shall be less afraid of youif I quite perfect.” Mabel still pleaded, but Mrs. Eastman loved mis- chief too well to remain silent. “T must tell,” she exclaimed; ‘I must! The truth is, Tran away with her last nig it. Mr. Meredith would kill us both if he knew we had been to the theater.” “TI did very wrong,” Mabel said, feeling tears of mingled shame and vexation rising to her eyes, _ There was a peculiar smile on Montgomery’s lip, which neither observed. “Tt is hardly worth repenting,”’ he said; “it was a mere frolic.” : “But I assure you, Mr. Meredith would not look on it in that light,” said Mrs, Eastman, unable to re- sist her pleasure in teasing. “He has the most fear- ful aversion to the theater, and thinks actors—oh, dear me, out of pity for you, I won’t tell you whap he does think of them.” f Again Montgomery smiled that bitter smile, which changed the expression of his face so entirely. ‘*T do not blame any one for those prejudices,”’ he said, after a moment’s silence; “‘ perhaps they are natural, but I think, Miss Meredith, if you knew oe of my profession, you would not share in em.”’ ““T do not,’ she said, hastily; ‘‘indeed, I do not.’* He spoke very seriously then of his art, and every find you are not ee ee:
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» = er 8 - » . - gain wounds that would never wholly close n. ' needle. word found’an ‘echo in Mabel’s mind. She forgot | }-er penitence in listening—forgot everything but the beautiful dream which had so suddenly dawned upon her undisciplined mind. “I shall only think you believe me on one condi- tion,’ “ And what is that?” asked Mrs. Eastman. “That Miss Meredith promises to accompany you shall! Make her promise, Mr. Montgomery.” I can only add my entreaties to ycurs. 1 have no riglit to do even that.” “Tf you don’t £0, Mabel, P'll be cross for a week,” said Mrs, Hastman. ‘I won’t hear of a refusal.” They both pleaded with her until her scruples uite gave way, and she promised to accompany rs. Kastman to the theater that night. “Now you talk like a sensible girl!’ exclaimed Mrs. Eastman. ‘At eighteen one doesn’t choose to be treated like a baby.’ f **The usual mistake of parents and guardians,” said Montgomery; “they call tyranny affection, and are astonished when their charges rebel.” Mabel was silent, but for the first time it seemed to her that her father was unjust and cruel. Then she ceased to think about him, and shut her ears to the self-reproaches which began to come up. Mont- gpmery oe speaking again—talking in a poetical way which could not have fail-d to produce an ef- ‘foct upon a girl of her age and peculiar ignorance of the world. **) have outstayed my time,”’ he said, at last, rising to £0; “wou should have sent me away.” ‘ **Oh, you have not wearied us much,” she replied, Jaughingly; ‘‘“has he Mabel?” . “Tf you Iznew how precious this hour will be to me, ‘you would easily forgive,” he returned, and Mrs. Hastman reccived the compliment as intended for and “ ‘herself, but Mabel caught a quick flash from those wonderful eyes which went to her heart like a sud- den dawn. “You may come again and make your peace,” said Mrs. Eastman, in her easy, coquettish way, as she held out her hand to him. He bowed silently to Mabel, and went away, but to the last she felt his eyes upon her, as if he could not keep his gaze from wandering that way. “Tsn’t he a wonderful creature?” cried Mrs. East- aman; when tne door closed behind him, “TI didn’t tell youl knew him, because I wanted: to astonish ou. Now we’ll have dinner, and then dress. Don’t ook so forlorn; make the best of everything; that is amy philosophy.”’ bel made no answer. Alas, she was not re- proaching herself—she was not even trying to ac- count for the new feelings which had come over her. She was only dreaming wildly, and content to float forever down the sunny stream upon which her un- '_ guided bark had so unexpectedly drifted. “And now for the Duke!” exclaimed Mrs. East- ‘man, when the servant announced the carriage. “Come, my beauty, it is time to go.” In Mi same inexplicable mood, Mabel suffered her to lead her away, and again drank in the light from the eyes whose influence had already become the controlling power in her life. CHAPTER X. + THE AWAKENING. Eneanor Mirceett sat alone in a room of the house which she had taken when the restraint of a hotel became insupportable to her. Those who, for s) many years, had been harshest in their condemnation of the woman, ht have pitied her, had they seen her in that hour of solitude and self-abandonment. A month had elapsed since her first interview with Mr. Meredith, and not a step had been gained. The discouragement which had come over her seemed harder to bear than all the suffering of her st life. ae strange existence it had been; one_more ane blighted and misjudged, it would have been impossi- ble to conceive. The wretched woman had started for America, and in her perplexity and madness had sought out Meredith on her arrival. With no effect; he could give her no information; all either ed by the meeting, was a reopening of the ola C) there she sat in her lonely house that day, brooding over all these things, wondering how much longer she could bear that intolerable suffering and sus- pense, and what other trials life could have in store. Even to be certain that her child was dead would have been a relief; but to think of it living, wn to womanhood, and never to have heard her mother’s voice, or even her mother’s name! The horrible un- certainty of the fate she i da have met; the agony ‘of knowing that both t live for long years to ‘come, and she never be able to find the slightest trace of her child. Probably no life could produce an instance of more utter wretchedness. Mr. Meredith had made every search which his in- genuity could suggest—no such child had grown up -among her husband’s family—no trace, anywhere he turned. : Eleanor was living quite without friends or society, except when he came to see her, and of late it had been only painful to meet even him, so that she had pad even had that break in the monotony of her ex- ence, ; How she had Hes her time, she eould hardly herself have told. She could neither read nor use her She dreaded going out, for this return to her native country brought all that past so vividly _ to her mind that she could not believe it had been “almost forgotten by old acquaintances she might chance to meet, Repose was torture; she used to walk for-hours through the parlors and hall, back and forth, back and forth, until she was forced to rest from sheer physical weakess. not sleep; she would lie staring blankly before her, wondering onl or death would come. If she fell into a broken slumber, it was only to dream of her child, always hear it wailing feebly for help—putting out its little hands to her—and when she tried to grasp it, some terrible shape would snatch it away, and she woke ia} wild cries, and drops of agony on her fore- ead. She had seated herself now, quite worn out from sleeplessness and fatigue, too weak for the moment, even to feel acute suffering; nothing was left but the dull, heavy pain which follows the first sharp pang of a wound. The door opened and Mr. Meredith entered un- ennouseed. She did not look up, or pay any atten- ion. ** Eleanor,” he said, softly, for the old lawyer had fallen into the habit of callmg her by that famihar name; ‘ Eleanor!” She looked up, languidly. “Tsit you?” she said; ‘*you are very kind to come; sit down.” s He drew a chair to her side and took one of her hands in his own, shocked to see the change which had come over her since they parted. “* Are you very weak to-day?” he asked. ‘* So tired,’ she moaned; ‘ oh, so tired!” “Teame to talk with you,” he continued, “ but you must not be agitated.” She snatched her hand away, and for the first time looked full in his face. In spite of his: habit of disguising his feelings, and the restraint he was paras ee: himself, she knew that something had — ‘ “You have news!” she gasped; “‘ tell me—quick— quick or I shall dic.” Her face grew so ghastly that he was psig in alarm, but she grasped Lis arm with a force of which she did not apnear capable. 1 Tell me—this is worse than death—any thing else.” He saw that the most abrupt announcement would not be as dangerous for her as that suspense. *T have received an answer to the advertise- ment,” hesaid. ‘ Margaret Hawkins’s grandson has been to'see me.” She leaned a little forward—her lips moved—at last she whispered: “My child! my child!’ “Thave no news of that, but Margaret is alive in California,” Eleanor leaned back in her chair, white and still; she had not fainted, but she was powerless an rigid as if stricken by catalepsy. He brought wa- ter, bathed her face, and forced herto swallow a few drops. Aftera while she came to herself like a per- son recovering from a long swoon. ‘‘Tt’s over,” she said, her voice growing firmer; “Tam strong now.” **You had better lie down a little,” he said; ‘I will wait till you are able to talk.” ‘“No, no, lam well,’ she exclaimed, forcing back her strength in a way that was wonderful. ‘ en can I start?” ae almost thought her mind wandering for an in- ant, Start?” he repeated. ““Yes—when does a steamer sail for California?” ““To-morrow—we will send a trusty messenger.” “Send!” she cried, “Are youmad? Secure my passage at once. I go to-morrow.” ** But you are not able; you could not endure the journey—” had ooey re to live unt: can bear this?” ‘But a messenger would do as well—” “You torture me! Don’t argue with me—don’t lead. Let me a must go! I should die here. hink of me sitting in this room for weeks, perhaps months, waiting—waiting!” He saw at_once that it would be worse for her than any. hysical fatigue, and ceased his dissuasions. ““Where is the man?” she asked. ‘* Why didn’t you bring him?” “He is waiting in the hall. Iwas anxious that you should not see him at first.” She motioned him to call the stranger, and he obeyed. The man entered—a respectable, clvil-look- erson. ng ou are Margaret Hawkins’s grandson?’ she asked. “Yes, ma’am.”? *“You know she is alive?” ‘Here is a letter I got only the other day, from my Lh ma’am; you can see what it says about er.” She took the letter from his hand, and tried to read the ere he pointed out. ‘*Tt’s all black,” she groaned; “read it—read it.” Mr. Meredith leaned over her shoulder and read it to her, she eer {ec tel all the while, as if it Ww. was visible ho ch she could not let go. “ Where is it dated?” “Marysville.” ** And only a month old. Ishall find her alive—I know I shall. Oh, my child, my child!” The man told her all he could, and Mr. Meredith motioned him to go pyar, “The reward,” she said, suddenly remembering; “pay him. Make him happy if we can. It is a good thing to be happy. I almost feel it.” After the man had gone, Mr. Meredith forced her THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR. to lie down wpon the sofa; but she would only do se- | on one condition, that he should send at once to the But when night came, she could | **No,-no. Ihave tried that. You never must.” steamer. “T want to see my ticket,” she said; ‘‘then I shalt | feel that I am going, surely going.” how much longer before madness | she! yet will try to sleep, I will arrange every. thing for you. me) Morgan will go with you, of | course?” as she had last seen it, almost an infant. She would | She nodded, so he rung for the housekeeper, a | faithful woman who had been with Eleanor for sev- eral years, and explained to her the reparations that were to be made. She had undertaken too | many long and hurried journeys, while in her mis- tress’s service, to be surprised, and promised that everything should be in readiness by the morning. “Take care of her,” he whispered, pointing to Eleanor. ‘I shall be back very soon.” Though a hasty oe was in preparation in that house, everything was quiet. You heard the opening of drawers and eee trunks up-stairs— the quick rush of feet, joint sobs and low exclama- nor. : Her locked hands fell apart, her lips began to quiver. ‘“* Anson,” she said, and the hidden tenderness of years gushed out eloquently in that single word, ‘ Anson, have you come to me at last?” Meredith moved across the room, his features be- — gan to tremble, his step was hurried, he took the two ands that had trembled apart from each other, and gathered them lovingly between his own. ** Eleanor, look in my face.” She lifted her eyes, those dark, wild eyes, full of inquiry. ’ The old look,’ he said, gathering her hands tighter; .‘‘ the déar old look.’ She cried out, smitten to the heart by a pang of exceeding joy! ‘“‘Anson—Anson, what is this? Have I gone mad?” “Eleanor, I have had a struggle. Since the night we met so unexpectedly I have had no rest, no pow- er to resist the new life flowing in upon my darkness. In my first youth I loved you as man never Joved woman, and now I walk over the ashes of half a life- time and say: Eleanor, I love you yet as man never loved woman.” She fell to the floor, wound her arms about his knees, and bowing her head, began to weep. He reached down his hands. to lift her up, but she caught them to her lips, and kissed them. “And you still love me, Eleanor?” She stood up, pushed the black hair from her tem- ples, and looked in his face, “Love you—love you? Oh, if I had words—oh, if I but had words to say how much.” He took her in his arms then, and kissed her on the forehead and the quivering mouth. ‘Eleanor, we are both free. Let us put the old life, with its hard duties and bitter anguish, quite away. You and I have crossed the desert, but I hear the tinkle of cool waters and see gleams of: young grass. The down-hill road may be short, but you and I will travel it together.” She understood him, but through the very out- break of her happiness a thought caine flashing; ‘* My child—my child! I had forgotten her!” n His arms loosened, he looked down upon her ten- erly. ‘We will look for her together, Eleanor.” She withdrew herself from his arms, and sat down wearily, The remembrances of a sorrowful life came slowly back upon her—her anguish, her odious mar- riage, and su darkly above all, her disgrace, “No,” she said, with weary tenderness, ‘this must not—can never, never be! How should I dare to bring scornful eyes on you?” “T can afford to defy them, Eleanor.” “And you can give me up now?” “No, no, cannot. It is you that must doit. You must shun me, and save yourself from the conta- gion of my evil name. Great heavens, that the mighty temptation should fall upon me here and now!’ ‘*“Bleanor, this is madness.” “No, no; it is love—great, holy love.” “But this is no way doubted me.”’ “T did—I did!"’ “Will you re prove it. In my youth you at the wrong?” “*No, no; in this I atone for it.” He went up to her, and took her hand. “Eleanor, listen to me. You are feeble now—”’ “Yes, very feeble.” “Timid, confused. Let us talk no more of this to-day; take time. I can trust the heart that has loved me so long. I cannot stay in the same city without seeing you, for no schoolboy was ever so weak. But for a day or twol will goaway. Com- a yourself, darling, think Kindly of me, fling off he morbid idea of disgrace, and when I come The yearning tenderness in her eyes checked his ech, and it ended in a gaze that carried the eloquent words into the depths of her heart. She saw him moving toward the door vaguely, as if he Wi? ge rage a bape uA 3 ‘ en the woman who had been up-stairs came in, her mistress had fainted. bis ‘ es Eleanor slept that night as she had never slum- _bered ~‘nce her youth, with her white hands folded
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eo THE BRIDE OF AN over her heart, and a smile of ineffable softness on her lips. She arose in the morning very grave and + quiet, but still with a brooding es upon her face. “Yes,” she said, when the old lawyer came, and would have dissuaded her from the journey, ‘‘T must go. It is doubly necessary now that I quit this place; but have no fear for me—I go with hope.” When the sun went down, Eleanor Mitchell was beyond the sight of land, drifting away toward that new country to which her strange fate was leading her. CHAPTER XI. THE TEST OF LOVE. Atmost three weeks had elapsed since Mr. Mere- dith left the er 9 To Mabel they had been more replete with excitement and change than the whole of her previous life. She hardly recognized herself as the ming girl of the past year. She had sprung suddenly to the maturity of her woman- hood under the new influences which surrounded her. She remained only a few days with Mrs. East- man, longing for the solitude and freedom of her own home. Montgomery visited her constantly, and as he was unkown to the servants it excited no remark. When she left Mrs. Eastman’s she had de- termined never to see him again, or even to trust herself at the threater; but the resolution had been of brief endurance. He besieged her in her walks, he wrote to her, and at last won hari g opr nd to visit her at her house. She knew now that he loved her—he had told her so— and this new affection had made up the beautiful but feverish life of those weeks. He met her self-reproaches with exquisite sophis- tries; he made her vow that if it came to a decision between giving up him or parting with her father, that she would marry him at once. It was a mingled feeling which inspired Montgom- ery. He loved her, that was certain; but his nature was so proud and impetuous, that it was danger- ous to depend upon that affection, however engross- ing it might be. e would have gladly married her at once, but even her romantic impetuosity could not bring her to take that step, without an effort to obtain her father’s consent, and he now looked eagerly for- ward to Mr. Meredith’s return, hoping that some outbreak might occur which would separate the father and child. Of their frequent meetings or engagement Mrs. Eastman did not even dream; she believed that Montgomery was rather fascinated by herself, and was sufficiently well pleased to keep up a sort of flirt- ation with him. She had rapidly recovered from her short-lived fancy for Mabel, and it would only have needed a knowledge of the truth to have turned her feelings into a respectable degree of hatred, which ht have proved dangerous to the girl. ‘he days flew by, and Mabel ceased to take any note of their departure, so wholly lost was she in the mazes of that first bewildering passion. Mr. Meredith had written to say that he should re- turn by the end of that week. Mabel had mies a feeling of regret when she read the message, then an hour of.keen self-reproach when she reflected upon the wrong she had done. é et, after all, the girl was more to be pitied than blamed. She had been left with her heart and fancy so untrained and undisciplined that nothing could now effect the work but real and poignant ean that In the tyranny of his affection, for it had been thai Mr. Meredith had neglected those important coun- sels; he had not studied the girl’s ter, and was ee egy of the real strength it possessed. Prop- erly directed, it would have made her a splendid wo- man; as it was, her very abilities would probably ome jead her into trouble and unhappiness. She was selfish from mere indulgence; at the same time, she was capable of any sacrifice for those she loved. At present, her whole soul had so centered upon that man that all her self-abnegation would have been in his favor—the love and protection of the past weighed as no’ in the 2. She was sitting in the lbrary, after reading Mr. Meredith’s letter, and while she was still yielding to the reproaches of her conscience, Montgomery was shown into the room. He went toward her, took her hands, and looked down into her face. ‘““My bird looks sad,” he said; ‘‘what has hap- 39 Phe held up a letter, while the great tears rose in net Fvom papa,” she said. “ Oh, Charles, what’ will he say to me when he knows the truth?” Montgomery frowned; in his egotism he felt wronged even by her grief. “Oan you ae any affection in comparison with mine?” he asked. “You know 1donot. Butifeel to-day how wick- ed it is of me to deceive one who has loved meso well, He will be here this week.” ‘Phen there will be an end of our meeting. Have you ks ap of that, Mabel?” She on’ y answered by a look. ‘** And how will you endure it?” * “T can not tell. "Oh, I am very wretched. “Wretched while I love you? Have you forgotten how often you have told me I was dear to you? Have you—’ “ Don’t reproach me—please don’t. Ican not bear it. Only tell me what to do, Help me, instead of adding to my distress by such cruel words.” “Heaven knows I would not willingly pain you, Mabel, but what can I say? You will vot listen to my advice. There is only one course open to you, if you do indeed love me, and desire to be happy. ti arm about her waist, and drew her toward him. “Are you growing afraid of me already?” he whis- pered. ‘Oh, Mabel, listen to me. What right has any one to come between ae and your cay «Sarr Is not a wife to forsake the world for her hus- band? Once married to me, there is much more hope of that man’s granting you his pardon, if that is necessary to your peace.’ ““TIt would be, indeed it would! I should be miser- able to think he had ceased to love me.” He drew his arm away, and his brows gathered in a frown. *‘ Ah,” he said, ‘“‘I was mad to think I should ever find a love like mine! See, Mabel, I would give up every hope on earth if it could bring xo8 happiness, yet you hesitate to dare for me even the displeasure of a tyrannical man.” “But he was never tyrannical with me—indeed he was not.” ‘Because you never thwarted his wishes—the mo- ment you do that you will feel how harsh he can be. Has he not deprived you of the rational pleas- ures of your age—not even allowed to enter a thea- r= ’ “Oh, but I think he must have had some strong reason for that prohibition—it was not like him.” Montgomery smiled meaningly. “Only one of his whims; but it is useless to talk of these trifles. The time is coming when you must choose between your father and the man you have sworn one day to call your husband.”’ “Oh, itis hard, very hard,” she murmured through her tears. fi *“Then you do not love me.” She laid her hand tipon his arm, and the piteous entreaty in her face silenced even his selfish re- proaches. “But how will you decide—for decide you must? He will discover the truth, and a decision will be forced upon you.” ‘I think if he knew how I love you, how good erat you are, he would forgive us,” she said, aintly. “Never! I tell you he would see you in your grave, rather than allow you to be my wife. He prides himself upon never gto his resolutions— it is that obstinacy which has made his life so deso- late and solitary. ** But he has been so loving, so kind to me! I can not think of him as hard.” “ Always that one answer! If you can, give up your life to him—sacrifice yourself and me! I have told you all that you are to me—you know what my eA has been. ave me, and I shall drift away rom every hope that makes existence worth having. Do this, I say, and when it is too late, break your heart in unavailing remorse! You will have done a wicked thing. You will have ruined the man who loved you; but if you choose, let it be so; and years hence tell me if you have been repaid for the sacri- fice.’ She was bhi sim so wildly, and her tears did not flow without terrible pain, that he was forced to soothe her. He held her to his breast, murmuri endearing words, until she grew calm again, in listened to his persuasions and plans without a word of remonstrance, or a thought of the wrong she was doing. Suddenly there was a sound of voices in the hall, which made Mabel start up in affright; but before either could turn or sp the door was thrown open, and Mr. Meredith entered the apartment. He saw them both; his astonished eyes took all inat a glance. Pale and stern, he moyed toward them. saying in a terrible voice: “You here? I warned youl” Montgomery returned his glance, and kept his arm around Mabel, when she would have s k from his embrace. “Let go that girl!’ exclaimed Meredith. ‘‘ Mabel, quit that man, instantly!’ : She did not speak—she was almost fainting. Meredith put out his hand and forced her away. She sunk into a seat unable to speak, looking at both those infuriated men with a wild terror in her eyes. “Leave this house,” said Mr. Meredith, “ or I will have you put out of it.” “T will go, undoubtedly,’ answered the young man, “but that young lady goes with me.” a hg what does this mean? What is this man ou She could not utter a sound, but sat pale and frightened, looking L ehegee on her father. “She is my betrothed e,” returned Montgom- ery. "Meredith was silent for a moment, then he ex- claimed: se § understand this; you have done it to wound me—me.”’ Montgomery smiled—that cold smile which came so seldom, “Mabel,” continued Mr. Meredith, struggling for composure, “I will forgive you everything, if you promise never to see this man be gt ‘**T can not,” she moaned; “oh, I can not.” “Be careful,” he said, slowly; ‘you do not know what you are doing! { will ‘forgive you—I, who never forgave before. Make your choice.” sate forgive me, forgive me!’’ she cried, passion- ately. = will—I do—only tell this man to go.” *Mabel!”? whispered Montgomery. She raised herself in her chair asif forced by some power which could not be disobeyed. ‘I cannot,” she exclaimed. “‘ Any thing else—I can not.” “Do you know who he is?” questioned Meredith. “A nameless wretech—an actor—a—” a © pad SE ED SS Montgomery turned upon the unhappy man. ** Are you satisfied?” he asked. The proud man turned away. That pale oat girl was the last object in life to which he coul eon He would not relinquish her without another trial. * Mabel,”’ he cried out, suddenly, ‘‘ hear the truth: that man is dishonest, dishonored. She only stared at him, wondering if she had sud- denly lost her reason, while Montgomery stood be- fore his accuser, perfectly calm. He would have suffered eternal torture, rather than betray the agony those words gave him. “Twelve years ago,’’? pursued Meredith, in the same unnatural voice, “I expelled him from my— me sir ontgomery started forward. ‘‘ Hold, sir!’ ‘“*Mabel, this isfalse! That man always hated me: he made my life a torture. If I had been as wicked as he says, it would have been his fault.” ‘*Dishonorable!’’ gasped Mabel; ‘‘ dishonest!” “Once again,” cried Meredith, “I command you to leave.” “Not without her,” answered the young man. Meredith turned to his daughter; his face was pale; his voice trembled. ““T have no more to say,’’ he continued, relapsing into a stony coldness. ‘‘ Decide now and forever, Go with him or give him up.” The young girl raised energy. “T cannot give him up,” she cried, wringing her hands wildly; “it would kill me! Let me plead for et for my sake, forgive him; for my sake, save him—” : “ Stop, Mabel!’ exclaimed Montgomery. “I will not forgive him. The wrong is on my side. This man never shall have my pardon. You forsake him orme! Your choice!” ‘“He is my father,” she almost shrieked, ‘“‘remem: ber that.” . She stood between them, wringing her hands and imploring them, with frantic words, but they re- mained unmoved as two statues under the passion of her speech, so different, and yet so like, in their hardness. ‘*No more, Mabel,’ exclaimed Mr. Meredith. ‘I will uot hear a word more. Leave this house, young man!” . Montgomery turned toward the girl. ‘“Come, Mabel,” he said; ‘* come.’’ ; She did not stir; Mr. Meredith extended his hand. “Come to your father, Mabel.”’ She hesitated still, her poor heart wrung with ter- rible emotions, torn with contending love. ‘*Mabel, my wife!’’ whispered the young man. With a low ery, she flung herself upon his breast. AB I must go with him,”’ she cried; “I must go with m. Nota Sy of emotion escaped Meredith. He seat- ot himself quietly, and waved his hand toward the oor, “Take her away,” he said; ‘‘I could not curse you or her as you have cursed yourselves.”’ Montgomery drefy the shivering young creature toward the door, but she broke from his hold, and rushed back to Meredith, flinging herself at his feet, and clasping his knees with her arms, $y herself with despairing “Only forgive me! I will give you my life—every- thing—say that Oo forgive us.” : He lifted his white face, and his voice came clear and distinct: ““T do not know you—I do not know him.” Montgomery came forward and raised her from the floor; she fell back in his arms ble, and he bore her from the house. Mr. Meredith sat there, motionless, till night came on. The last blow had fallen, but he did not relent. Once he muttered: , “Eleanor! Eleanor! all forsake me now; will you St, aoe ? Ay a bid all. ‘i seal ere he sat, hopeless, solitary. rly wro and at the same time culpable and unjust. Tire had nothing left for him now, but he would meet this last pe a as he had encountered former ones; it t crush him, but he would die and make no ae Twilight gathered and filled the apartment th its gloom; there was no sound t ‘hout the house, e servants below knew what had happen ed, and sat together conversing in mysterious whis- pers while their master kept his vigil in the darkness. CHAPTER Xi, THE WIFE. Mase found herself in the house of a clergyman, where Montgomery had driven on leaving Mr. Mere- dith’s dwelling. e had offered no resistance—she hardly understood his ei See a of where they were going, or the reason therefor. eat He led her into the parlor and seated her by the fire, for she was shivering from head to foot. “'T will come back in a moment,’’ he said. She clung to his hand, as a drowning man might grasp at a straw, murmuring: “Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!” “Tt is only for an instant; darling. I want to speak to the clergyman.” “The clergyman!’ she repeated. ‘“Yes; he will marry us at once. Are you fright- ened, Mabel? Do you repent?” ‘ She shook her head, with a smile. - ' “Not that; but it is so terrible. My father—my father!”’ ¥
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‘%. 10 “‘ Never speak that name again, Mabel,” he said, sionately; ‘‘I never wish to think of him hence- orth.”’ She only shuddered, and cowered down toward the fire. **Tell me,’ he said, ‘Shave you decided—would you go back to him—would you leave me?” He knelt down by her, and laid her face upon his | shoulder. “Speak, Mabel.” y “T have decided,” she said, brokenly; ‘‘I will be your wife.” He forced her gently back in the chair, took off her bonnet, and smoothed her hair softly as a woman could have done, and left the room. Mabel’s mind was in such utter confusion that she could not have told whether she was left alone for moments or hours. She was only conscious of a troubled whirl of thought like the rush of waters, without being able to settle upon any. Many times she repeated, in a despairing sort of way: ““Wather! father!’’ But she hardly appeared to realize the meaning of her own words. After a time the door opened, and Montgomery re- turned. “The clergyman is coming, Mabel,” he said, lift- hér out of the chair with the tenderness a mother might have given her child. is face was allaglow with triumph, and though his eyes turned on her with a love which was beauti- ful and sincere, the smile with which he had parted from her father still lingered upon his lips. “Come, Mabel,’ he whispered, ‘‘be brave; my own now—all my own.” The minister entered, accompanied by a couple of the members of his household to serve as witnesses, and the ceremony was performed which joined that you pee for all time, and in violation of many Gacecd ies. The rite was over, and that reckless man folded her to his heart with infinite tenderness. That in- stant his whole being was given to love. ‘*My wife! my wife!” The words came upon his lips with a force and reality which no eto word or occurrence of the day had done. She forced herself to grow stroug— allowed him to put on her bonnet and shawl, and to ead her back to the carriage. ‘Where are we going now?’’ she whispered, as they drove away. : ‘“Home, darling—home at last!”’ : So Mabel was married, and the new life she had made for herself bas se For several days Montgomery was at leisure, and every moment was devoted to his wife. His love for her was real and intense. For the time her happi- ness was complete. She forgot the past, the fu- ture—the whole world was centered in that bewil- dering bliss. CHAPTER XIil. THY ENCHANTRESS DISENCHANTED. Iv was Mrs. Eastman’s reception-day. The suit of rooms she occupied at the hotel was filled with that luxurious twilight which a woman who studies ef- fects of light and shade knows so well how to pro- duce. She had been unusually anxious that morn- ing, and arranged the ornaments with her own hands, finding it very difficult to satisfy herself with the result produced. With this woman, beauty, in all its exquisite forms, was simply an instrument. She had no genuine love for it, bué studied its vari- ous combinations as a man becomes acquainted with the tools that are to turn his time into gold. The lady was very glad to keep a man like Mont- omery—handsome, accomplished and famous—in far train of admirers. Indeed, so far as she had a heart, it went to this young man. Frothy and frivo- lous as were the compliments which passed between them, a current of deeper feeling ran underneath, on the lady’s side at least. Butit was not for him she arranged those purple easy-chairs, and filled the foreign vases with flowers. It was not for him she swept down the masses of amber-tinted drapery over the windows, allowing the light to creep in through waves of frost-like lace. It was not for him that she contrasted those shining braids of hair with crimson berries and leaves so bright that they seem- ed freshly dipped in running water. The dress of rustling silk, and that cobweb lace that shaded her neck, were intended to entrance a richer prize than the young actor, who was, as she said, a splendid chebtine every way, rnd what a pity it was that such men could give neither position or wealth in re- turn for the adoration somany women were ready to lavish upon them. Indeed, it was not exactly at her reception that she cared most to receive young Montgomery. He was a charming person to know, but not to introduce—people had such unreasonable prejudices about the stage. 0, no. It was altogether a different person for whom Mrs. Eastman completed that elaborate toilet, d filled her rooms with flowers. She had chance that morning to see Mr. Meredith going up from the railway station, and fancied that he would come with his daughter, when page ik a lady made her usual call. With all her frivolous romance, the widow had a firm it to business, and Mr. Meredith was the most wealthy and unincumbered person in her circle of friends. It was this consideration which led to the very intimate acquaintance which had s up between this scheming woman and Mabel. Give a sharp, handsome, scheming woman of the world a domestic foothold in your household, and ten chances to one the widower or bachelor who presides there will accept his destiny without an idea that he has not chosen it from the first. But there was a single drawback to Mrs. East- man’s scheme. Meredith had once loved with his - whole heart and soul, and this is a sort of passion THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR. © > from which one does not recover easily. The man who had loved Eleanor Mitchell was not likely to fall back to the level of Mrs, Eastman. But Mrs. Eastman was ignorant of these import- ant facts, and imagined herself to have made con- siderable headway in her project of aggrandizement. So she opened her day with unusual ‘brilliancy, and, flushed with a consc.ousness that all her luxurious surroundings must have the due effect, flung her rooms open. Mrs. Bastman was very soon a troop of gay visitors thronged her rooms. She was in unusual spirits that morning, and the life of the circle. “The strangest thing has havpened!” exclaimed a@ new-comer, as soon as he had finished his saluta- tions; ‘‘ have you heard it?” 5 No, no!” cried Mrs, Eastman, ‘‘ we are famished for news. ‘Tell us it at once.” “TH give ros three guesses,” said the visitor, “and then ’ll wager you don’t hit it.” **Somebody has proved an honest politician,’’ said Mrs. Eastman, and there was a gereral laugh at the gentleman’s expense, in which he joined. “Not yet?” he said; ‘ try again.” ; opular in society, and “Do tell us, you provo creature!’’ she ex- | ing to himself if Mrs. Eastman remembered a variety claimed. of little perfumed billets with which she had favored pe Montgomery, the actor, was married last | him in times gone by. night.’ — rs, Eastman grew pale; you could see it even in APT XIV. that rich light. ver = : “Nonsense !”’ she said; ‘I saw him yesterday morn- THE ENCHANTRESS IN BLACK. ing.” 1 Mrs. EAsTMANn, even in the midst of her disappoint- ‘I can’t help that; it’s true. Look at the es er | ment regarding Montgomery’s marriage, began to for yourself. He ran off with that beautitul Mabel | tie un. the broken threads of her calculations anew, Meredith.” ; : with her first waking whongnte Her great object Mrs. Eastman still wore a smile of unbelief. had been rather advanced than otherwise by the un- ““Lexpect Mabel here every moment,’ she said; prepeeges marriage of Mr. Meredith’s daughter. “wait and hear what she says to the report.” he rich man was now alone, shattered in his affec- “T doubt your seeing her. But bring the paper.’’ | tions, open to sympathy. Mabel’s place was empty Somebody snatched a newspaper from the table, | in that almost regal household. Who should fill it? and called: The lady rose up in bed, and looked at herself in an “Here it is! ‘Married—Charles Montgomery, to | opposite mirror. The reflection was not satisfactory; Miss—’” it seldom was before the first toilet duties were ac- Mrs. Eastinan snatched the paper, and glanced over | complished. the advertisement. The lines whirled before her ““No matter,” she thought, falling back on her pil- sight, but in a second there came the recollection of | low, ““I have manner, style, tact, everything that the curious eyes that were upon her—anything rather | insures success in this world. These will stand me than endure their ridicule. instead of paar, which, after all, is full of blunders. She burst into a merry laugh, and allowed the | I wonder if he will cal to-day; if not—” paper to fall at her feet. ‘ A clock in the next room chimed a late hour in the - “Upon ay word,” she exclaimed, “that is the | morning. She started up and began to dress hur- most exquisite joke of the season. Fancy Mr. Mere- ney. dith’s rage.”’ ; “He is an early riser. He may come at any mo- Everybody laughed, and with the usual heartless- | ment. What a droneI am, and so much at stake, ness of idle people, began speculating upon the | too!” chance of reconciliation, and making merry over She rose hastily, rung for her maid, and. com- what affected more nearly than any other act the | menced her toilet. She was very difficult to please lives of that young pair. that morning—as is so often the case, the poor ser- ““Mr. Meredith never will forgive him,” said Mr. | vant had to pay for her mistress’s nervousness Osborne, the gentleman who brought the news; ‘‘he | excitability. ats: is a very obstinate man.” Dressed she was at last, and, her chocolate taken, “Dreadf ! returned Mrs. Eastman; ‘you | she went into her pretty morning room, to await the might as well try to move Mont Blanc as change | arrival she so anxio expected. Several visitors him.” came, but not the one she desired, and when dinner- “*T pity the foolish girl,” some one said; ‘‘a more | time arrived this close calculator was forced to ac- fickle, heartless man than Montgomery never lived.” | knowledge that for once she had been mistaken in “Think of living in ei tragedy all the time!’’ her anticipations. Mr. Meredith did not come near **Let us hope he won’t beat her,’ said Mrs. her either for information or sympathy. — man, with another laugh. _ But while pondering the matter in her mind that She sat there calm and smiling, to all outward a night, and trying to devise some scheme which would earance, but ber hands had clenched themselves in | place her once more in communication with him, she er lap till the lace handkerchief she held was torn | recollected Eleanor Mitchell. Some time after giv- in a dozen places. ing the package of papers to her in Italy, she had “It would not surprise me if he left her in six | discovere_ others of still greater importance to that months,’ said Mr. Osborne. unhappy lady, but through indolence and forgetful- Mrs. Eastman looked up with a peculiar smile: ness she had never taken the trouble to seek for Mrs. ‘Give him a year!” said she, ‘“ give him a year,” Mitchell’s address, in order to send them to her, More visitors entered, and the group broke up. In her anxiety for some excuse by which she could There was no relief for the woman—she must sit there her allotted time, exchan ing deyghin looking brilliant and gay, while pa oe mortified vanity and pride were tugging at eart. yee There was no time to think even when the re- ception was over; she was going out to dinner—from there to a ball, and had only time to dress, in a state of wild, almost unendurable excitement. It was almost morning when she reached home. She dismissed her maid, witha feeling of satisfaction in being able to speak ill-humoredly to some one and sunk to an ottoman by the smoldering fire, an with both hands locked over her knees, fell into a train of bitter thought. ‘ She looked wan and, tired in the gh stly fire-light; she was alone, and there was no necessity for school- ing her face any longer. Her fingers knotted them- selves together, and her brows contracted, as she looked back upon the past weeks. Never had her vanity received a shock like that; and, more than all, such fragments of a heart as she had left were wounded to the core. She really loved Montgomery, and believed him completely the slave of her attractions. Not that she would have married him; even if another match had not aroused her ambition, no affection would have induced her to run any risk of losing caste; but he was the idol of the day, petted and flattered, and it had been very pleasant to have him follow her with adulation so many were eager to wrest from words, e while the her. = “That little baby-faced thing! she exclaimed. “To think of my being so deceived!” She quite overlooked the fact that she had deceived herself, and her anger against Mabel, who was per- fectly innocent of offense where she was concerned, by far exceeded the irritation she felt toward Mont- omery. . ““T will be revenged before I am a year older!’’ she said, aloud, rising from her chair. ‘‘She has left her home, and such a home—never on this earth shall she return to it. There, at least, I will reign!” She partly arose, and caught sight of her face in the mi_ror over the mantle; it looked so worn that sne turned her eyes away, and sat down shivering. She crept to bed. Sleep came, and she carried with her into her dreams the evil thoughts she had indulged during that lonely reverie. . Mabel seen her then, she might well have trembled for her new happiness, She had made a dangerous and pape pier foe, Montgomery and his young wife left town sudden- ly, and in the Southern city to which his profession led him, Mabel received a long letter from Mrs. Eastman, chiding and praising her in a breath, re- proaching her most for not ‘having confided in one who loved her so dearly. Mabel gave the letter to her husband. ‘‘Isn’t she kind; I’m sorry now that I did not like her better.” Montgomery smiled. He probably had a clearer insight into the feelings of the writer than his young wite; but he offered no remark. “You will be certain to meet her somewhere,” was all he said, as he laid the letter down, wonder- carry out her plans, she recollected that Mr. Mere- dith had known Mrs. Mitchell, and was in scme way connected with the trouble which had wrecked the poor woman’s life. She would go to him with those papers and ask his advice; nothing would be more natural. It was, for her, a very early hour the next morn- ing when Mrs. Eastman presented herself at Mr. Meredith’s house. She was shown into the library, and sat down, with a beating heart, to await the upshot of her scheme. Probably her plans were. vague, but they all centered upon one point—to put forth all her powers of fascination, and bring Mr. Meredith within their control. He came in, colder and sterner-looking than ever. This last great trouble was to be borne in silence, as all others had been. Mrs. Eastman knew the man with whom she had to deal, and attempted no com- monplace sympathy; she said nothing upon the sub- ject, and did not even mention Mabel’s name; but she managed, as an artful woman can, to make her sympathies felt. “The servant said that you wished to see me on business,’’ he remarked, rather perup ey, but mak- ing an effort to be cheerful; “T thought that was a word you did not admit in your vocabulary.” “I do not,”’ she replied, feeling more at her ease; “it was advice I came for. You know what a fool- eee creature I am, Mr. Meredith—such a child. He was too sore, too sick at heart, to pay any at- tention to those childish ways, and grew impatient of them. “ Any advice that I can give will be cheerfully of- tered," he said. ‘ What dia you wish to consult me abou ? She felt a little annoyed. Stillit was something to have seen him, and made him understand that she felt for him in his affliction. She must trust to her own tact for more. “T was sure of that whenI came to you,” she
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a ee eee ee said; “you have always been a kind friend to me— so kind.” ¢ He bowed only. He could not talk commonplaces that day. ; *« Besides that, it seemed as if you were a proper person to consult here. You know the y con- cerned much better than I.” ‘ He waited for her to continue; there was evident- ly to be no opportunity for a display of her his- trionic abilities, so she was forced to go quietly on with her business. “Some time since I met a Mrs. Mitchell in Italy,” she said, quickly. He started then—it was only for aninstant; before she looked toward him he had recovered his com- osure, “Thad found among my husband’s papers some letters which concerned her, and I gave them to her, poor thing.” ’ ; : ‘So she told me,” he said, with a slight quiver in his voice.” “Then you have seen her?” she asked. tell me her address, perhaps.” ; “T do not know that, but Ican probably obtain it from her lawyer.” ‘Tam so glad—so very glad!” “Tave you any communication of importance to make her?’’ he asked, with more interest than he had before exhibited. “Yes! yes! The other day I was obliged to hunt over a box of dusty papers for my dreadful lawyer, and Icame upona packet for Mrs. Mitchell. It was pa Iam sure; you know how people talked tok ow “T know; but please go on! These papers—”’ “Would, I think, be proofs sufficient to reinstate Lo anigtlet even in the opinion of those who were hardest against her,” He rose quickly. She was fairly startled at the change which had come over him. “You have those papers?”’ he asked, aul At that moment something flashed upon her which she bad not dreamed before—if the pepers had been left at home, poor Eleanor Mitchell would never have received any benefit from them. But for once craft had outwitted itself. Mrs. Eastman had put them in a pretty little affair, half purse half reticule, that she might give them into Meredith’s own hands, and so be remembered pleasantly in his mind in contrast to the troubles about him, as a woman eager to render kindness to a suffering sister. The reticule had fallen open on the floor. Mr. Meredith could see the papers, for the golden clasp had been unloosed in the fall—there was no help. ** Here are the papers,’’ he continued, hurriedly. Mrs. Eastman could utter no denial; she could only allow him to pick up the pretty receptacle and draw out the package. He partially opened the envelope, then closed it * You can ain. met T have no right to look at them,” he said; “they must be seen by her first; but have no fear; they shall be placed safe in the lady’s hand, if I travel over the earth for it.” “Tf you will give me her lawyer’s address,” she said, quickly, “I will take them to him.” "; Let me do it,’ he replied. “I must find ltr. Every hour’s delay is one of agony to Eleanor.” She repeated the name in angry surprise. “You must have known Mrs. Mitchell very inti- mately,” she said. G i “I did, very intimately, at one time, but it is long o. I can not thank you enough for having brought those papers. make more than one heart happy.” Mrs. Eastman’s eyes looked eagerly toward the ackage—how her fingers tingled to once more get hem within reach! “* You feel very deeply in regard to it,” she said. “And well I may! have never been free from trouble on her account. She is a noble, wronged woman. Mrs. Eastman, you will have done the work of an pase, if these papers set her right with the world—freed even from the shadow of reproach. It is a wonderful,wonderful blessing.” “T am glad to have been the means of bringing you a little happiness,"’ she said, in her softest voice. “Thank you; God bless you!” he replied, earnest- ly. “If this be true, you have indeed brought me great happiness—the safety and peace of the only woman | ever did, or ever shall love,” He held the papers close and turned away for a moment. The room whirled with Mrs. Eastman; in her mmoriifieation and r i e, it peered aa if she must faint, then an ere. She rose from her seat, pale raft through the artificial tint that dyed her 2 Roy but Meredith did not notice it. His own nature was too deeply stirred. He took her hand and wrung the delicately gloved fingers with passionate violence. His proud lips quivered; his eyes shone. “You found me a Solitary, hopeless man, betray- ed in my affections, every way without a hope, al- most without a wish; my home desolate, the past a cloud, my future a blank. You leave me vigorous with a new expectation. Oh, lady, lady, if you but knew what happiness these eee hart bring to persons who have not deserved their hard fate, you would indeed recognize your own angel work. Some day. when Eleanor takes her place by my side, we li thank you for this together.” ¢ Mrs. Eastman wrenched her hand from his clasp, her lips grew pale under the smile she had forced to them, but she made a graceful acknowledgment for his thankfulness, and left the room, crushing the pretty reticule in her hand till its frail clasp broke. CHAPTER XV. SHADOWS, Srx months had passed; it was now June. Montgomery ha If they are what you suppose, it will. again returned to New York to_ play his last engagement for the summer, and Mabel accompanied him. They were alone in their apart- ments that bright morning which made even the dull streets ‘of the city beautiful, and seemed to pro- mise peace to all the earth. Montgomery was lying wi aye the sofa, idly smok- ing a cigar, and watching the wreaths curl into fan- tastic shapes above his head. He looked a little worn and harassed, although he had lost none of the proud, manly beauty which was his peculiar charac- teristic. ? Mabel sat by the window, her hands idly crossed in her lap, unlike her old industrious and active habits, and her eyes wandered listlessly about, kind- ling into sudden anxiety when they rested upon her husband. The change in her face showed the alteration which had taken place in her life. She looked older, more won and more beautiful, but the dreamy peace which had so softened her features in those girlish days was gone forever. lor the first two months after her marriage, she had _ been perfectly happy; but from that time the shadows began rapidly to obscure the sunlight in which her heart had started with a new She had begun to realize how cruel she had the father who had cherished her so tenderly. In the southern cities where Montgomery had been fulfiling engagements, his poor young wife had been very lonely, and depressed by a sense of her own selfish conduct. She had left her father in utter solitude of heart, to find herself more solitary still. In every place he visited, Montgomery found him- self among a set of idle young men who had former- y been his c mpanions, who absorbed his time and won him into forgetfulness of the fair girl whose destiny lay with him. Mabel went often to the theater, for his ge still possessed for her its first charm and power. It had been his habit, when the erformance was over, to come to the box for her; ut one pie after wailing until the crowd had dispersed, she was obliged to send him word that she was waiting. The messenger came back with the information that Mr. Montgomery had left the theater. She went home and sat expecting him until day broke, fancying allsorts of terrible things, and work- at into a fever of anxiety that made her quite ill. When he came home, very late at night, she did what any young girl would have done under the cir- cumstances, wept bitterly, and irritated him beyond endurance by her grief, He was impatient with her, and after he had fal- len asleep, she sat watching his noble form in its re- | Sa almost ready to believe that the whole might ave been only a bad dream. Poor Mabel had plenty of time for reflection, which almost deepened into remorse, before she had been six months married. Perhaps her greatest curse was that she still loved her husband devotedly, but in her solitude the old love for father and home came back with such bitter longing, that even then and there, regrets grew strong and tortured her. It does not always require some Peat moral convul- sion to punish wrong-doing. ittle things can ac- cumulate into retribution. So, roaming from city to city, spending nights and days in railroad cars, and never, in any instance, having even the semblance of a home, that deli- cately nurtured girl saw the joys of her married life fast verging into those coarse common-place ways of existence that are worse than poverty a thousand fold. Never staying in one ce long enough to make a female friend, she had no asso- ciates, and in her utter isolation, the poor wife had lenty of time for those bitter eee which deep ove alone saved from being utter misery. All this was, in a great degree, consequent on Montgomery’s ie aay The very genius that he threw into it absorbed him, and in the passion of his mimic love, he sometimes forgot the sweet and ure happiness which might have been so real. Ma- el had not considered this when she so madly left her gag reste home to be the wife of a popular actor. Poverty she might have put up with cheer- fully, little as she had ever known what it really was. But this fantastic life among trunks, spangles and stage-effects, almost disgusted her. True, she loved her husband, and he loved her—she did not doubt that—but it was a hard trial for a sensitive, delicate girl to be dragged through the coarse de- tails of stage business every day of her life. He had the excitements of his profession; she had noth- ing but its coarse realities. No wonder that she al- most withered away! Stil, Montgomery was good to her when he had time for a moment of domestic quiet. But it was useless to conceal it, when her own pale face so clearly developed the paimful truth. Poor Mabel was reaping a wild harvest of trouble for her dis- obedience and sin. ; ‘You seem very silent this morning,” Montgomery said, suddenly rousing himself. She smiled patiently. 3 “T thought you were busy thinking over your new part,” she answered. “Do you suppose I always have such nonsense in By head? aches badly enough without that.” “Can I do any thing for you?” she asked. “T suppose that is by way of heaping coals of fire on my head for coming in late,” he said, with a careless good-nature; ‘it won’t do, my dear, so don’t trouble yourself to try it.” he was glad to hear him speak so pleasantly; usually, after having performed an arduous task, he came home in a sort of dreary silence, that was wont to end in an outbreak of temper. hile she was wondering what to say next, fearful of disturbing him either by her words or her si- pone, the servant entered. Mrs. Eastman wished to see her. ' Mabel started up really delighted. She had never seen Mrs. Eastman since her marriage, and she had so few friend , that her coming was welcomed as a relief to the not too light-hearted wife? Was it welcomed by Montgomery? Mrs. Eastman entered, as gay in dress and blithe in spirit as a Southern bird. Her grace, her manner, and her subject-mat- ter of communication—all were commissioned to work her woman-of-the-world’s charm. Montgom- ery received her, at first, : omewhat coldly—Mabel warmly. Ere long, Mrs. Eastman opened the way to the actor's heart by pretty compliments, cunning- ly-devised criticisms, deftly-planned stratagems, and Mabel beheld, with some concern, the power which her visitor possessed over the man whom she, as a wife, could not command. An hour flew by quickly, when the visitor rose to go. She pressed Mabel to visit her, as of old, giving promise of gay times and change—just what Mabel most needed; still, the esr 4 wife felt ill at ease under the pressing offers of the dashing widow. In her heart a dread—a fear—a sense of danger, never before there, Lecame a palpable thing. Mrs. Eastman departed. Montgomery soon rose to follow, offering as his apology, that he was re- uired at the theater, as 1ehearsal hour had come. He passed out, and soon was on his way down roadway. Was it by chance or by design that Mrs. Eastman’s carriage stood before him ere he had proceeded a half-dozen squares? Was it fate which impelled him to enter the vehicle, and, with the fas- cinating woman, to drive away from the city up to the great park, where several hours of uninterrupt- ed conversation might ke had? The poor wife would have trembled to the tread of the horses’ hoofs, and her tears would have faJlen eas agonizing showers, had she known that the temp was, indeed, at her spells. CHAPTER XVI. CHASING AFTER A HOPE, Anp Eleanor Mitchell, during all this season where was she? A few miles back of Marysville there «stood an humble ranch, the property of two brothers, who had come thither from the Atlantic States. It was the place that Eleanor ae Margaret Hawkins lived there with her grandsons, and this woman held Eleanor’s last hope in her hand. From the hour that she landed in San Francisco, Eleanor had taken no rest. During the voyage, she pet pores up re ha rine rr begin onary Lorn of ever; silent, enduring, pass er days in pac the deck, and her anh in eo - Leas subdue the wild thoughts which darkened about her. Once on sore, nat tee fortitude appeared to give way. She woul she was on her road. Evenin her feverish absence of mind, her old be act ig ma where others were concerned, did not desert her. Sheinsisted upon her faithful attendant remaining behind, but Morgan would not hear of it. “Tf you cen bear it, ma’am,I can,’ was all she said. ‘‘Lain’t a-going to see you start on such a journey without me, and that’s all there is about it; so don’t say another word.” So they started. In after years Eleanor wondered how she lived through those days; they were worse than all she had before endured. It was late in the afternoon when they reached Marysville. Eleanor was within three es of her destination. She crouched down in the seat, shiver- ing with dread, pressing her hands hard together, and .making every effort to cling to her senses, which seemed deseiting her, She would have given worlds to shriek madly. She had an insane desire to syring from the carriage and rush away on foot, but then she crouched lower and lower, muffling her face in her cloak, and feeling the hot fever of one intense desire coursing faster and faster through her veins. ey An exclamation from her companion made her raise her eyes—they were driving up to the ranch. The carriage stopped before the entrance, and all the inmates of the house came swarming out to re- gard the unusual sight. : There was an expression of such terrible agony in a face, that Mrs, Morgan seized her hands in right. A Pe Let me speak,” she said. ‘‘We want Mr. Haw- ns.’ ; “That is my name,” answered a.man, coming up to the carriage in a state of utter astonishment. “Your—your—” Eleanor gasped, but she could | not utter another syllable. “Your mother lives with you,” said Mrs. Morgan; ‘“we want to see her.” The man turned away his head, and the woman, who had also come up, put her apron to her eyes. “She did live with me,” he said, ‘“‘but she died more than a month ago, Did you know my mother, marm?’ Eleanor sprung to her feet with a shriek so thrill- ingly painful that it was echoed by half a dozen voices. “Dead!” she cried. ‘‘No, no, not dead!” es fell back again, helpless, but terribly con- scious. “Help me to get her in the house,” pleaded Mrs. Morgan, earnestly. ‘‘She is sick. e will pay you a eee thing.” ey carried Eleanor into the house, and placed her in a chair, everybody running in a different way for ~ pe Ag know what, as people always do when ened. eanor beckoned the man to her. She must ae endeavors to — hear of no pause, no hind- | rance. The instant a conveyance could be procured, _ | | | | w ** +3 : i { f . ‘as 1
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eas pert this. * speak at once—she knew a few moments of con- sciousness only were left to her.” “Tam Mrs. Mitchell. Did your mother ever men- tion me?” “Yes, yes,’ exclaimed the woman, before her husband ould s eak; ‘tshe talked about you when she was sick. She lived with you once.” “ Yes; and the child—did she speak of the child?” “ Jim would know,” said the woman, turning to her husband. ‘Jim’s got all her papers.” “ Papers!” cried Eleanor. ‘‘ What papers?’ “We don’t know, ma’am,” said the man. ‘ Mo- ther was old and queer; she wouldu’t talk only to Jim. There was something about you she told him, but I never could get a word out of her.”’ ‘Where is your brother?” asked Mrs. Morgan, “Call him at once, for the love of Heaven, call “ He sailed for Amsterdam the week after mother died,” answered the man. ‘He only stayed here for her sake.” 5 There was another shuddering sob, and Eleanor Mitchell fell senseless upon the floor, ‘That last shock had been more than she could bear at once. Mind and body had given way at last. They raised her, and laid her upon a bed. When she recovered from that, deathlike swoon, she was raving in a brain fever, which held her in its grasp for many long weeks. When the fever had spent its fire, it was long be? fore her strength came back; but from the first she fastened upon one idea, to which she clung tena- ciously. She would go in pursuit of that man, if he was anywhere upon the face of the earth—she must find him. She had no hope now; she found there had been one in her heart before, but the mad anx- iety was there in all its force. She must learn her child’s fate—she could die then—she asked nothing Long before any one, to look at her attenuated form, would have believed her capable of the slight- est exertion, she took her way back to San Iran- cisco, and the first ship that sailed bore her away, still accompanied by her faithful attendant. CHAPTER XVI. MOTHER AND CHILD. Ir was winter again—more than a year since Mabel left her father’s house; a year in which had been crowded so much excitement, and such varied ex- periences, that the very months seemed like years, as she looked back upon them. That had been an anxious, miserable summer, after meeting Mrs, EHastmanin New York. Bitterly had the woman. repaid her for the wrong which she __ » eonsidered herself to have received at Mabel’s hand, She gained for the time a great influence over ' , Se ep ae pe “But you can not go Tete she said, anmouay, Sf 3 . his habit o ontgomery, fleeting of course, but peseut from yielding to excitement of any kind. With it all, she kept up a semblance of affection for Mabel, which at last became utterly loathsome to its object, although she bore in silence, lest she should estrange her husband still more from her. It was winter now, as I have said, and Mabel was just recovering from a severe illness, looking thin and pale, but more lovely than ever, as she leaned back among the cushions with her tiny babe nestled close to her heart. More than ever, since the birth of her child, had Mabel reflected upon her conduct to her father, and still more terrible seemed to her the estrange- ment and feud between them. “Tf he should ever live to hate his child!’ she said to herself, again and again. ‘Oh, that would bea harder punishment than I could bear. _1f the child, in conte ears, should turn on me, as I defied him, how co bear it and live?” The very thought was insupportable, and yet it would recur with the pertinacity with which an idea will fix itself upon the mind of an invalid, Montgomery had been kinder and more gentle with her of late, and she was very grateful to him; her proud spirit was so subdued, and the duty she owed as a wife was so strong in her mind, that she welcomed back his attentions with every evidence of patience and affectionate kindness. While she sat there watching her baby in his slum- ber, whispering to him, ec over him, like a bird, her husband entered wit usual impetuosity; calling out: “Mabel, Mabel!”? 3 She put up her hand, warningly. “Don’t wake baby,” she whispered. “Oh, is that Lif hon diay box asleep?’ he said; ‘“wpon my word, you make a very pretty picture.’ Hasan in high spirits, evidently somewhat exci- “T haye just got a telegram from Richmond,”’ he said; ‘‘ they want me, at once.” “Yes, Lcan; I didn’t tell you, bat I quarreled with Old Bond, last night, and broke my engagement. I shall start to-morrow.” ‘Oh, no, no,’ she pleaded; ‘‘I can not travel yet —the baby could not stand it,” . **T should think not,” he said, laughing. “I want rou to stay quietly here, like a good child. I shall back in two months, at the furthest, and I shall make a great deal of money.” “You won’t leave me?’ she said. ‘Only wait a week—lI shall be able to travel by that time.” ‘“* My dear little puss,”’ he said, sitting down beside her with his old endearing manner, “it would be. ee for you to attempt to go—you must not do it. ‘But I can not stay alone here,” she said; “you know I have no friends, no acquaintances.” “Are you reminding me again that you lost all those by marrying me?” hea asked, sternly. “You knowI did not mean that—I never say or THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR. think such things—you know Ido not!. But think how lonely I shall be!” ‘““Why, you will have baby for company—little prince, that he is! Besides all the rest, Mabel, I want money, confoundedly.”’ fs But you have made so much during the last ear— »“*There, there, don’t preach. I must go, and there’s no use groaning. lam going to be good and stay at home more, after this tri am indeed.”’ ee you would,’ she ventured to say, ‘for baby’s sake,’ ‘*Oh, yes, baby shall be rich, and_have no occa- as to wear the buskin. I half wish I was out of She shuddered at the bare idea. Every thing con- nected with the stage had become so distasteful to her that any allusion to it, as associated with her child, was very painful, ‘*T think you ougnt to be in bed, Mabel.” “No, I feel quite strong to-day. But you were not in earnest—vou will not go to-morrow?’ “*T must, Mabel—this is really childish! We must live; this is too good an engagement to throw aside for a whim.” ‘It is not a whim,” she said; ‘‘ you know it is not. I ought to go with you on such a journey. These times are perilous, and I should be with vais “Upon my word, one would suppoee was a child that could not be trusted alone,’ he said, in an irri- tated tone. ‘‘I wonder I ever got along at all, before I married you!” * Don’t harsh with me,” she said; ‘please don’t!” “There, there, be a good child!”’ He stooped over, and kissed her forehead. “Now don’t entertain this foolish idea of peril,” he said, looking at the baby, as a man always. does as if he were some uliar piece of machinery tha might get out of order at any moment, “Tf you would only wait a week—” ‘““And so lose the engagement—sensible, tainly!” ‘* You have offers enough here.” “But none. so good as this, you know that your- self. Now, Mabel, it is of no use to say any thing more about the matter—I am going to-morrow.” She knew that to argue further would be worse than folly, sag only end in his parting from her in anger. he choked back her tears, as well as she was able, saying ouly: , “At least, mayn’t I come as soon as 1 am able?” “Tt would be the hight of folly; I shall be ready to come back by that time.” There Mabel would not wholly yield. “T shall uot promise that you will not see me,” she said. He dismissed the idea as quickly as possible. “You will stay here,’ he added; ‘‘the house is very comfortable—the weeks will slip away before you know it.” She shook her head, sadly, but further words were worse than useless, *T will do the best I can,’ she said; ‘‘ but oh, Charles, when those Southern men come about you, think of your child. The times are so full of excite: ment, oh, I pray you be careful; be wise; be true to vonmnelts an ipouy future !”* indge,”” he auta am going as steady as a ju ” he said; ‘never fear forme, Richmond is wild with excite- ment, and that is just the reason they want me. Theaters always prosper in such an atmosphere.” He left. her soon after to make aia toa By for his journey: and she was forced regard it as a matter settled beyond the possibility of change. He did start the next morning, and Mabel was all alone. That very day she happened to take up a Richmond paper which her husband had left in his room. It announced the arrival of ‘‘ Mrs. Eastman and a brilliant party who had come to share the fortunes of the State, and to enliven the capital with their presence.’? The journal fell from her hands— she grew faint with the sickening jealousy that came over her. Her tation threw her back again, and for several days she was quite ill. ee kept up her courage but the sight of her child. ithout that, she could gladly have turned upon her pillow and She besieged the doctor for permission to start, and he, at last, feared the excitement she was labor- ing under would be worse than the fatigue she might endure, and some weeks after she set out herself upon the journey to the South. The air was filled with the wild alarums of war, but what were these to the war of emotions going on within her heart? She would dare all—even her husband’s anger—to be with him again. cer- CHAPTER XVIII. THE TWO WORLDS OF HUMAN LIFE, ANSON Merepira was living in his lonely house in the country; he had retired there soon after his rup- ture with Mabel, and had hardly left it since. A long, dreary year it had been to him, solitary desolate man! It was hard for his pride to support him, then; this last blow had crushed him more than all the troubles which had gone before. The hope which Mrs. Eastman’s papers had inspired was dying out. No news of Miss. Mitchell had reached him from any quarter. The old house was fuller than ever of painful recollections, yet he could not bear to leave it. There he lived, day after day, thinking of his blighted youth and Eleanor; of the girl whom he had so idolized and indulged, and who had repaid his affection with such duplicity. Mabel had been to him the last heart anchor. That, too, had given way, and without affection, life has but husks and ashes for the proudest man on earth, ; Twice Mabel had written to him without her hus- band’s knowledge; but when Meredith saw _ her writing upon the envelope, he had burned the letters unread. Aitter that there was no fresh occurrence to throw him back upon the past—nothing but that dreary living on from day to day, hoping against hove, that time might restore Eleanor to her friends. One morning, while seated in his library, he heard a carriage drive up to the door. Visitors rarely came now, for he had been resolute in his determination not to receive any one—he almost dreaded the sight of a human face, and used sometimes to wish for a refuge in some vast Canadian wilderness, beyond the sight and sound of man. ‘Presently the door opened, and his servant en- tered, saying: “T beg your pardon, sir, but there’s a lady says she must See you.” “T can’t see any one,” he answered, abruptly; “send her away, whoever she may be.” “She is here, sir,” said the servant, in a confused way. The intruder pushed past him, and entered the room. ‘* Anson Meredith,” she said, “it is I—do not refuse to see me.”’ He started up, exclaiming: “Pleanor! eanor!”’ “Yes, yes, here at last!’ she said, hurriedly. ‘ ig was deadly pale, and shaking from head to oot. “*Sit down,” he said, gently, ‘ you look very ill.” “Well now,” she said, ‘Iam well now.” “What has happened—what—oh, Eleanor, it was cruel to leave me ignorant of your movements.”’ ** Anson!” She sat down; a great joy shone through her pale face as she repeated: ‘“‘ Anson, many years ago you adopted a child—a little girl; so young that she could know nothing of her own history—” He made a surprised gesture, but she checked ‘Listen to me—let me finish! You brought her up as your own—I thought she was your own. think you loved her; I saw her here once, The child—the child! You know I was searching for mine. Ihave journeyed far, I have endured every thing—but 1 have found my child!” ~ A strange terior crept overhis face. He cid not try to interrupt her; he sat perfectly stiil, with that expression of pain deepening on his countenance. Call her,” she caid, rising ex. cdcnly; ‘ quick—be quick, Tell her— Why do ycu look so—don’t you understand? Anson, that child you took was mine— a ree daughter?!” is only response was a groan. She caught his arm and clung to him wildly. ‘“What do youmean? Whereis she? She is not dead--my child isnot dead? Speak to me, Anson. speek to me!”’ ‘“Eleanor, that child left me a year since. She is married.” : She fell back in her chair with an exclamation of thanksgiving. “You frightened me so!’ she said. ‘‘ Where is a ys rake me toher! Married or single, she is mine. ““T don’t know where she is; I have never seen her fince. She married a bad man—against my will - and I cast her cff.” “Cast her off—my child!’’ she said, bitterly; “and you cannot tell me where she is? J “*mand her at: your hands—give me my child.” He was startled at her agitation, and tried to calm Cis ** You will easily find her,’ he said; “ her husband is well known.” ‘What is his name!” - : “He calls h mself Montgomery. He is an uctor— a celebrated one, if you think that betters it.” “He is , dauglter’s husband,” she said. She paused suddenly, drew her hand across her forehead, repeating, ‘‘ Montgomery—Montgomery—an actor. What did I read this morning? Where is the paper? Give me a morning paper!” He took the eee from the table, and handed it to pois She looked hurriedly down the page, and cried out: “Tt is the same! He isin prison; he has been ar- rested asa Northern spy—as a man dangerous to the rebel government!” Meredith snatched the paper from her hand, and read the paragraph. “Tn prison!” he exclaimed. my son!’ he looked at him in a bewildered manner. “You know him; you—”’ “T tell you it was my son—disgraced, dishonored, for twelve long years, but still my own son—who married Mahel!”’ ‘God help you!” she said, ‘‘ you are more wretch- ed than I.” He did not answer; he sat for a few moments. stunned by the shock. Then he exclaimed: 4 i him go. I do not know him—he is no kin of; mine 7 “Anson! Anson! I tell you heis my child’s hus- band—he must be saved!’’ ‘ hr chose her fate—I warned her of his char- acter. ‘* And because she thwarted your wishes you cast. her off! My poor child.” oi " “You are mad, Eleanor; I bear no blame in this thing. Never was aman so wronged and outraged as I have been.” “You can tell that to a woman whose life has been what mine has—you, aman! What wasyour trouble compared to mine? Would I ever have disowned ‘“My God, my son— | my child? If your son had been the most infamous i 4
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ll THE BRIDE OF AN wretch that ever breathed, you should have clung to him—saved him.” **T did allin my power—” But my child—my daughter!” “She has started for Richmond, where he has heen playing.” “She is with her husband—her mother will go too. Oh, thank God, [have found her, I can a:d her; she will love the poor unknown mot er who has sought her so long. My child—my child!” __ “God help me!” he groaned, “1 have no child.” Elsanor lid her hand on his arm. : “* As you value your soul’s peaco, save my child’s husband! Put oF this prido; itis unworthy. Come with me—he shall be saved!” __ He shook off her hand, and said, coldly: “You don’t know what you aro sayint, Eleanor. I believe that man to have been guilty of a paliry crime.” *No!”’ she exclaimed, ‘‘my daughter’s husband would never commit a crime! If he was guilty, what matters it?—he is your son—yours—mine too, now.” All the strong pride of his nature rose up to aid . the man then. : ““T will not lift my finger,’ ho said; “I do not know him. Iwill not go before the world and ac- knowledge that criminal as my son.” “This is cruel,’ she cried. ‘‘Twelvo years ago! Why he was a boy then—a mero lad.”’ “lis very youth made the offense more hideous Ye he said. ‘*Do not blame me till you hear all. His last act whilo with me was to commii a forgery; can you wonder when that came that I cast him off? Hoe was sixteen years of ago—older than most men » of twenty.” : * Aro you certain that ho was guilty?” “There was not a doubt.” “ Guilty of that, and her husband,” sho muttered. “You may be certain that ho was guilty.” **Tlow readlly you believe it,” sho exclaimed. “A boy might have committed even afault like that, and still been reformed; you mado no effort.”’ “Tt could not have been done, Eleanor; no mortal could influence him.” “But he was your son,’ sho repeated; ‘‘ho was your son.”’ “ Even if he was, I could not consent to bear his disgrace.” Phe old pride,” she interrupted; ‘how well I re- © you theic?”’ Then her whole manner changed. Sho looked at him in an earnest, pleading way, and her voice would have gono straight to a heart even moro firraly guarded than his. ** Anson, by the Caroma of that past--by all my suffering and my wrongs, [implore you to help mo! Think whet my lifo has been. Thero is one toe be- fore me, will you not aid mo to grasp it? Oxy pu our pride away; no matter what wronss you _mcy fave endured, they are nct equal to mino, and I for- ave. Your own son, Anson, your own! Think cf “a as a little child—would you havo believed then thatany crime or sin could have separated you from hin —_—= = x he He made a gesture entreating silencc, but she would not heed. Sho had taken his hands in hors— she was half kneeling before him, and oven in the midst of his troublo and agony ho was startled to rco how much cf tic old look stole over her faco when sho spoko of her child. “You do not caro for the world now, Anson— neither its praise nor blame—vwo skall both coon be old. On, will you leave mo childlcss?—for the blow that falls upon your son’s honor will strike my . daughtcr’s heart!” Eleanor! T[leanor!” e old namc—tho dearold name! Oh, Anson. come with mc—Ict them bo happy! If you will not _ listen to your own heart, then for my _ e€2alzo, for the Eleanor cf 01d, listen—oh, Anson! Arson!” ’ “Sho turned abrupily away, end welcod several times up end down the room, then 45 abruptly came back aud sct down near him. _‘* Tcl mo if you loved my child,” sho said.“ Oh, if you new how sweet the wor. scunds now.” *Lleanor, I never dreamed ti:l now. thet she was your child, or why my heart went out to her so ten- derly. She was a little thing, who could not know her own history, but there was somcthing in her voice tuat made my heart’yearn toward her at the first sight. It was the old ‘love for you, hewn down, ’ trampled out, but stc ping up fresh oat grecn in my ’ affection fer the child. I understand it now. BE:- cept yourself, Eleanor, I never loved anything as I] A loved that child.””’ tana xcept me! Did you, then, Ilcvo ms so much?” “T Joved you then, Llove you nov, better than my own Lfo, better than my own soul,” The woman gave'a faint moan, her form her oyes grew picteia ng shrunk away t sling and frightene me “NOW Anson, now,” she murmured; ‘and all that . [ terrible mountain of disgrace rising between us, th frec, and yet so miserably chained.” **You will not refuse me again, Eleanor? ' * Again and again, Anson. If you turn from a sou whose faults may have been only those of youth, how much more would my ci:grace cling to you. There was a great strugg.e in the proud man’s neart. His bosom heaved, his eyes grew black with intense excitement. 16 Oe, “Eleanor, I will forgive him! For your sake, I will forgive him!” She took his hand and kissed it; but when he . would have drawn her closer, she shrunk back. ' Allat onee a pent of lightning, caine to his d>ooped from sick | to life? He moved from her, and opened a cabinet. His hand shook as it turned the key. The papers rattled against each other as he brought them forth. “Eleanor, my Eleanor, read these. They are Mitchell’s papers, and relate to you.” : : She stood motionless. Something told her ‘that her fate lay in those papers, but a misty darkness came over her vision, and she could see nothing. “Road them, Anson, read them. I can not.’ “Let us read them together,” he said, tenderly. “Sit down by me, Eleanor, and we will read them- torether.”’ He drew her to a sofa, and. sat down by her side. In one hand was the papers; the other rested upon the cushions that wt ine her. She did not ob- corset Every faculty of her nature was in a wild tumult. ‘“*Read—read!”’ she gasped. Iie opened the first paper, and held it toward her. She pushed it back. “T can not—I can not!” The strong man grew ashamed of his thrilling nerves, and began to read. The paper had been hastily written; the sentences were abrupt, the language broken. It had been folded and sealed, but there was no address on the outside. In her eager haste, Mrs. Eastman had not observed this particular pane, and the seal was unbroken. What had she cared for the sister woman whose very life lay in the balance? But for her own selfish pur the package would have rested still in one o worn-out traveling trunks. Had she chanced to open the sealed packet, it would never have reached eanor Mitchell. It was addressed to Anson Mere- dith—that is, in the inside—while the entire package had Mrs. Mitchell’s address upon it. The executor had not been able to find Mrs. Mitchell’s address, and soit chanced that the aire de fell into Mrs. Eastman’s hands, among other papers, after her husband’s death. We have pdr Ment o with the other documents inthe package; they are not ne- cessary to an explanation with the reader. CHAPTER XIX. LIGHT IN THE NIGHT. “ Anson Mrrepiru,” thus the paper ran, “I have hated you while living, but death is stronger than hate. hen he commands, truth follows. I hated you, aud why? For two reasons, the strongest that uman nature has to give: You stood between me and my interests; yeu stood between me and the only woman I ever loved., We were cousins. Your mother was my father’s sister. Her wealth, which should have gone into our family, for she had promised this, was, at the last moment, swept up by our father, and became yours. I hated you for this. By my aunt’s injustice you became enorm- ously wealthy. was a pauper, for my father lost everything, and had'no rich wife to fall back upon. “Wo were much together, for you were not above ties gear a poor relation, Sometimes you were ioeral, giving me money, and no doubt expecting ratitude. You never got that. I looked upon the undreds you doled out, as my own. What call was there for gratitude? “At the same time, and a the same person, we were introduced to Eleanor Nye. You loved her. I am not to this time sure that she loved you then. TLe creature was so shy and Pde that it was impossible to get at any secret of her heart. I think she did love you then. I am certain that she did afterward. But she was not for you. The property th=t should have come back to us you had; but that young girl—you never got her! That thought gives mea grim pleasure even now. Istrive to conquer it, but. can not. You made a confidant of me—why not? I concealed all the feelings that raged within me, You never dreamed of my love of Eleanor Nye till she became my wife. How was it done? This is the wey: I found means to insinuate charges against you that would have made any woman shudder; ‘such charges as no refined woman could speak of, even to ask an explanation. Not direc.ly, but through such channels as were available. The poleon worked. But you had enrooted yourself in er heart more firmly thanI supposed. It took time and great ingenuity, Had you remained near her nothing would have separated you. I managed that you should be compelled to go away. You wil remember the time. - You were engag then; spite _of all, she had accepted you. Icmiled at that. You went, but was to write every weck. You had ob- taincd me a clerkship in “the post-office. Your letters never reached the lady.. I read them. mong my accomplishments was that of. imi- tating almost any handwriting at sight. Yours was not dijdicult. I have a way of opening en- veicpes. without harming them. The letters reached her in the right envelope, with the genuine postmark, but the contents were mine. She Ww aie. I could mark’the progress of my work, day y day, in the sadness of her eyes, in the mournful tones of her voice. At last the decisive letter reach- ed her, You had changed—absence had proved how superficial was the passion which you had thought Ses her ad convinced you of this, would be a married man. “This was the letter which reached her, wretch! her face haunts me now—so pallid, so like & wounded doe! Had I loved her less, or hated you less, that look must have disarmed me. But I went on. She was ill, very ill, fora time. 1 was near her. She seemed very grateful—so grateful that I, like a | fool, thought that it was the love of a heart taken in rebound, “Just one month before 4 her came home we were In another week’ you Pocr face; he remembe Mrs. Eastman’s package of | married. Poor girl! she had never got her strength, apers. What if they indeed Bontained diy Vindica- | and seeing the ke gear om love which a word on Hs which would give the woman before him back i ier could turn into misery, remembered what she > ‘ Po J ee 4 * es. = a oe ra.” ' make _ wish to injure the youth: it was not in _ ture to dislike any thing so bright and | dent, without trade or Fecine. The Jove with which you loved another | 138 had suffered, and so in gentle pity married me. This sufficed for a time, but love demands love. { was not a man to content myself with pity, so when the deep passion within me received no answer, I grew harsh and exacting, She bore it all in proud — You were at home again, but avoided er. To you she seemed treacherous, unworthy of a i i me she was coldly dutiful, still I loved er. “ At last, when we had lived together many years, she discovered the treachery of my conduct. “Thad forgotten to destroy your letters, and she found them. A terrible scene followed. You had been long married to a proud creature like her; no expla- See was*possible; root and branch, I had torn up er life. “Sh> left me. There was nothing in this that gave her a right of divorce, but her property had been secured to her by a wise guardian, and she had that power over me. I took her child, an infant then—we had lost one before that—hoping that the bereavement would bring her back. It wounded her to the soul, but she would not come, would not look upon me or speak to me. ‘““ When I saw that nothing would do, that she had determined to ignore me forever, the evil that was in me aiose firm and strong. She had resolved to abandon me. Iwould no abeve her. The haughty ride which lifted her far from my reach should be rought down. ‘IT sued her for a divorce. I brought that proud and sensitive creature into open court. I hired wit- 9 gmat gril such can be found—to swear away | her goodname. The court did not believe them, the jury did not believe them, but a thousand news- | ey ers had sent the record abroad. I lost the Sed : ut my object was accomplished. The hau ty ; a which had rejected me was ground to the dust, — et that woman was as innocent of all wrong as the child I had wrested from her bosom. 7 “I say this to you solemnly, Anson Meredith, say it on my death-bed. “My wife left the country, and went I never knew where. Twice she sent to inquire after her daugh- ter, and her lawyer came to me about it, but I told him the child was dead. Times went hard with me after that, and at last I was driven to ask aid from you. It was awarded in the form of a clerkship. A clerkship from you to me! Oh, how I hated you! Tiow that hate throve and took fresh bitterness ever pay? ““My child was an incumbrance to me. blessing to you. Why was it, I asked, should be surrounded with wealth, and love, and wn honors, while I was poor and forsaken? The old story over again. Do what I would, the di ropor- , tion in our fortunes remained. I a bankrupt every way; you. These bitter thoughts had their ac- tion too. ‘““Your son was a noble, manly youth, impetuous and rich in talent, Lut a child of prosperity; he was. reckless, haughty and impulsive, also restive under restraint, wonderfully tenacious of his earepek i honor. His love for the proud father who oa e him home and position was deep and true. “T wanted money, and still thirsted for rere You will remember that I had a remarkable facult of imitating any specimen of renmanship, It was a natural gift, improved by aimless practice. heart, he went forth into the world, J “What could he do? What can am young man, educated to expect a fortune, fread sensitive, ar- profession, do in a selfish yourson a — that you teh : i ; i ] 1 ’ / | 1 | : \ } : 4 . world like this? ; ; __ “He had genius, and I craftily led it into an excit- ing channel. His first idea of the stage came from : me. He was too honorable, too upright—I could not a villain of him, no one could have cone that, but I made him what was sure to wound you almost as deeply, an actor. This satisfied me. I had no uman na- j ood, but 1 knew that the greater his fame, the deeper your de- testation of his profession. So he went his way into world, wounding you at every upward step, y “T had money now, and could shake of your mer: cantile patronage. You were a widower, childle: for the son’s disgrace, secret as it was kept, killed *s 1
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“them. They were so accustom 414 THE his mother. Isaw you wounded to the heart. My work was done. But the child, always an incum- brance, what could I do with her? She was the sole link by which her mother might be drawn back, and must be cared for tenderly. A thought came into my head. You should be induced to take her under your roof. There she would be certain of protection and culture. I would keep proofs of her identity, and claim her or notat pleasure. I went to the good country Pet who had the child, and took her away. You were at your country place, mourning the dead—desolate, as they told me, and so misera- ble that I almost pitied you “Tt was a lovely moonlight evening, the dew fell heavily; the lawn around your house flickered with leams of silver in the moonlight. Under the sha- ow of the great forest-trees on the left, I stood with the little girl. She had seldom seen me, and knew nothing of her mother. I told her, pointing to the great house gleaming in the moonlight, that it was her home—that a gentleman living there was her own father, who would love her dearly, and give her a great doll, and plenty of playthings, at which her bright eyes danced in the flickering moonlight, and she clapped her tiny hands in sudden glee. “There was alight in the library window, which opened to the ground, and I saw you sitting within, I pointed you out to the child, and bade her go up to the window and knock on the glass, and call out— ‘Father, father, let me in!’ She was a bright little thing, courageous and lovely asan angel. Thoughts of the doll had inspired her. With an eager laugh, she broke from my hold, and darted across the lawn. Her little feet sunk in the grass, and she went off noiselessly. An instant Isaw them flitting over the gravel walk, then her fairy-like shadow darkened the window, and I heard a sweet voice cry out: ‘ Fa- ther, father, let me in.’ “You came to the window and opened it. I could see your face—it was pale and haggard—so haggard that I did not grudge the gleam of animation that came over it when you saw my beautiful child standing in the moonlight, with her golden hair afloat, and her pretty hands uplifted, calling you ‘father.’ I knew the word was a mockery, and so endured it. “You took herin. I saw her sitting on your knee, and felt no pain when she held up her mouth to be kissed. It was an assurance of her safety and com- fort. You were questioning her. I knew that, but it did not trouble me. What could she tell? That she had always lived with two old people who were not her parents, and that a man almost strange to her had brought her she knew not where. There was no disturbance about the house, and I conjectured that ‘ou had taken the little stranger in quietly, and wouid eep her without question or explanation. Satisfied of this, I went away, but came back to the neighbor- hood more than once to be sure of my child’s fate. “Twas told that Mr. Meredith’s little daughter had ust been sent home from some distant relatives of er mother’s, and that since her arrival the house had become more cheerful. She was a sweet child, they said, and a great comfort to the stricken man. “*T was free now to follow my wife. She should know that her child was alive. but never see it or learn of its whereabouts, unless her resolution to ig- nore my rights was given up. I went, but could not find her. She must have been traveling under an- other name. All over Europe I weut, searching for her. Then to California, but in vain. I am dying now. Ina little time all will be over. It has been a cruel sickness, and in the dim, sleepless nights I have had a weary time for thought, for a he re- morse, During these long, long nights, I have writ- ten this. If it can undo any of the wrong I have perpetra may God speed it. Atonement I can notmake. ButIam alone here with my God, and He knows how my poor heart aches to set these bt, right. If my wife is ever found, tell her it was love more than revenge that urged me on to the crime that re her tome. For my child—but Ican not. My strength fails, the pain of coming tears aches in my eyes—I can no longer see the paper. AH MITCHELL, bs Valley, California.” t was read through, at first breathlessly, then wi with slow, cautious scrutiny. They did no speak much, for those two hearts, severed so long trembled beneath the great joy that beat nst to restraints, t happiness crept back to them timidly. It a there. ut one great fact stood out luminous before them. That letter had lifted the black cloud of re- proach from Eleanor’s name, The friends she loved would cling to her from certain knowledge, not from to Moredith folded th placed it under his : ‘0 e r, and p under doahttes tis heart. rien fa drew her to his side, and looked down into her glowing face throuzh a cloud of tears. They did not fall—manly tears sel- dom go off in a heavy rain—but their brightness shone upon her with a boly illumination. The d her hands with @ twas of her child. She was clasped her hands with a joyous sob. ** Heis innocent, all that is noble, this man who is your son and my daughter’s husband.” “T have wronged him terribly—thrown him into a way of life full of temptations,” said he, with pain in his voice. ‘And if he has sometimes yielded to them, re- member, Anson, who it was drove him forth.” “T wil Eleanor. Heaven knows how deeply I de- plore my harshness now.” “You will go to him at once. You to your son, I to my daughter. No matter if war and danger block the way, what impediment can keep us back on an errand like this? Our children are in danger.”’ “T will go with you,” he said, brokenly. wa & iy ‘“We | prepared not only te comfort but to will make one great effort to reach our children, ni There is danger in that, but we will be to- gether.’ “* Dleanor.”’ ** Anson.” “Before we go on this journey which is to redeem La pay and mine, there is one thing to be thought re) b “What is it, Anson?”’ “You and I must have a vight to travel together before the whole world.” She began to shiver. His arm was around her, his cheek touched hers, yet she trembled like a girl. ‘To-morrow,’ he said, “‘ before we sail, Shall it be to-morrow?” “Yes,”’ she said, gently, ‘‘ let it be to-morrow.” CHAPTER XX. THE ANGEL IN THE PRISON, In one of those miserable prisons which have fes- tered - from the bosom of our country during the war, Charles Montgomery was confined. It was a dark, ill-kept room, gloomy and uncomfortable. The tramp of a military guard beat against the avement outside night and day. The gloom of eath hung about the young man. His engagement at the theater had been broken up. Hour by hour the excitement had increased, until even the thea- ters were deserted. All men breathed the fury of madness. Then the enraged mob began to cry for victims. Looking around, the actor was “‘spotted ” asa Northern man. Though no word has escaped his lips, yet he was felt to be a Unionist. He was waited upon by a committee; but all the pride and determination of his nature came to his defense, and he only too fearlessly expressed himself to his inquisitors. The result was his arrest as a spy, though none better than his accusers knew how baseless was thai charge. It sufficed, however, to make a Unionist feel the rebel power, and that grat- ified the rebel public. But there were secret as well as public accusers seeking his ruin. Among the most dangerous of these vas Mrs. Eastman, whose presence he had vot sought, and whose perfumed notes he had left un- answered. Whatever folly previously may have essed him, the last ert of his wife had given Em a new conception of his relations and responsi- bilities. He had begun to comprehend one cause of his wife’s sadness, and loving her more dearly than ever since the birth of her child, his better nature awoke to the cruelty of his admiration of a woman so much her inferior. Perhaps the sacred infiu- ences of paternity had something to do with this for, waking or sleeping, that lovely picture of Mabe and her child haunted him, as if she had been one of Raphael’s Madonnas, and he a devout Catholic. It was true, Mrs. Bastman had come to Richmond because at that time it held forth promise of a gay season, and, like many other ambitious women she hoped to profit by a state of war. Montgomery’s engagement had been her powerful attraction; not that she meant any thing seriously wicked, but what trifle of heart she possessed really had been his long before his marriage with Mabel, and it was leasant to absorb his attentions. That was all. rs. Eastman would have married Mr. Meredith without love. Indeed, the reader knows she had plotted for it, and done many contemptible things to accomplish it. But she would not have married Montgomery, had he been single, with love, because it was not in her nature to sacrifice any thing for another, All this did not render her the less bitter against the young man when he came to Richmond, and visited the hotel every day without even calling on her. This woman was on intimate terms with many of the Southern chiefs. Montgomery was an im- pulsive, outspoken young man, He was arrested on the general charge of being an enemy of the South, and stood a fair chance of being summarily dealt with as a Northern spy. There was trouble in store, if not danger in this. There was plenty of time to think of his young wife and her pretty babe, whom he might not see . There was time for sad re tion too. the follies of a homeless and aimless life swept down bg him in a series of dark memories. A father himself, he began to think tenderly of his own father—to realize how undutiful his very inde- pendence had been. What was it, after this craving for anaes, this hunger after excitement? Then came the recollection of his young wife, and that was the bitterest g of all. Filled with these bitter reflections, he heard the heavy bolts drawn back, the key turn in the lock, and a lady entered. Before he could move, her ~ were about his neck, her voice crying, ro) rosy ; ‘‘My husband—oh, my husband!”’ “ Mabel—Mabel, how came you here?” “T reached here last night. They told me every thing. I could not see you until this morning. How dreary it is here.” “Not now, Mabel.” . ‘But you are innocent; be have done nothing.” ‘*Before God I have not, bel. I love my coun- try, and my whole country; that I have said, nothing more, “Then we can bear it, Charles, we can bear it.” He was completely unmanned, and, as he strained her to his breast, the great tears fell like rain upon her upturned face, ‘*T did not deserve that God should send me such an angel,” he said. Mabel was the first to grow composed; this terri- ble blow, instead of weakening her, had brought out all the latent energies of her ¢ epee and she’ was tes La -- aia oes BRIDE OF AN ACTOR. ‘*T have seen the commanding general, Charles,” she said. ‘‘ He will inquire into your case,” ‘Mabel, I have no friends here.” Fa Se me one thing; may I send for my /u- er?” ‘“* He would not come, Mabel.” “He would—he would. He must be human.” “‘T tell you he will believe me guilty of some im- rudence of word or deed—of any thing that will ustify him in keeping away.” ‘But he will not think so. He is rich and powe"- ful. Let me send.” “*T would rather pass my life in prison, Mabel,” he exclaimed, with a return of the old —— ‘For the baby’s sake, husband. Ileft him asleep. Oh, if you could have seen him you would not hesi- tate. For the boy, Charles.” He did not speak. His chest heaved, his eyes dilated. Even in that moment of self-abasement he could have borne the most cruel sentence rather than have yielded. “*T ean’t do it, Mabel,’ he said, hoarsely, “I can’t do it. Go away—leave me to my fate.” ‘“‘Charles,” she cried, “if you do this tte ou will be a murderer. You will killme and our child.” She pleaded, not wildly, but with a smothered passion that was more powerful than tears could have been. Beforeit the prisoner’s stout heart melt- ed—yielded as a great cloud passing away before the arisen sun. : “Mabel, one word before you send. This man is my father, nct yours.” ‘*What—what!”? her eyes opened wide, her white lips my slowly. ‘““He sent me from his house when I was a mere lad charged with forgery.” “But you were innocent?” ** As our child, Mabel.” ‘His child and I noi! Driven from home! My husband! Oh, Charles, Charles, then I wild send; he shal save you!” He shook his head, but made no answer. “ And you can love me still so much as this, Mua- bel,” he said, at length, ‘‘after all the grief I have caused you?” “No, no,” she broke in, ‘‘never that. I did not blame you. We shall be haypy yet. You do love me, Charles.” ““Mabel,”* he said, solemnly, “if I leave this place, my whole life shall be spent in proving it. I see myself now asI really am. No wonder punish- ed me.” “You are not to think that—you must not. Only have patience—it will only be for a little time.” He did not cloud her hopes with further fears, but, as he looked at her, and thought how precious freedom would be, a still deeper glc_m and despon- dency stole over him. She remained with him for several hours, and only tore herself away then that she might see her babe, and by some messenger send away word for help in her great want. When she had gone, he threw himself on his bed to wear out the long night as best he could, and count the hours that must elapse before her return on the morrow. CHAPTER XXII. A REVELATION. Mase hurried back to the hotel, and up to her room. She flung open the door, to behold two per- sons, a man and woman, bending over her child. They turned as she entered. With a cry she threw herself into Mr, Meredith’s arms. “Father, father!” She could articulate no more. and for the first time since the great calamity had come upon her, she fell down insensible. When she came to herself, Mr. Meredith was bath- ing her_ forehead, while the lady held her in her arms. Mabel looked wonderingly in her face, and recognized the stranger she had twice-before seen. “Ts it you, also?” she asked, faintly. The woman made an impetuous movement, but Mr, Meredith checked her by a look. pty —_ ‘‘Are you better?’’ he ed. “Can you sit up, Mabel?”’ “Yes, yes, lam quite well now. Father, you have come to save him—you have come to save him?” ““T have come to do all in my power, Mabe’. Te save him or to die with him!” ‘‘Father, he was innocent. He never wronged you—never!” Eleanor had released her child, and was leaning against the sofa, hiding her face in the cushions. She dared not look up lest she should shriek out the secret that was upon her lips, and Mr. Meredith had warned her how fatal the consequences of any sud- den pts ag might be in Mabel’s state of excite- ment, “ Can you give me the particulars?” he asked. She told him all that she knew. “T will go at once,” he continued. ‘Mabel, you must rest, for the child’s sake.”’ : “JT will—I will,” she said, with a return of her old ee gl “T leave it all to younow. You can save ™.’ “Tam certain that Ican. Imay have good news for you when I return.” She did not answer. She knelt down by her ebild, and they saw by the motion of her lips that she was pra; . Neither stirred till she rose again. She was quite calm now, and went up to Mr. Meredith, and said: “T ean wait now; I am content.” Mr. Meredith saw Eleanor’s appealing eyes upon his face; he knew the torture she was suffering.“ “Mabel,” he said, gently, ‘‘ could you bear a sur- prise? It has nothing to do with C ories.” “Ts it trouble?” she asked. ‘‘ More trouble?” “No, my child, joy and hanniness.”’ j
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THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR. Eleanor took a step forward, her eyes were fixed full on Mabel, but she did not speak. “Do you know this lady, Mabel?” “T have seen her twice: she was ver “You owe it to her that Iam here—” *‘ God bless her; but—” “You never heard of your mother?” he said. “ No, no;” she looked wildly from one to another. “Mother? What do you mean by speaking of her?” “That is your mother, Mabel.’ in With a joy in which the wish of a _ lifetime found vent, Eleanor caught the young mother in her arms. No word was Yi oore for many moments; only low sobs from Mabel and muygmurs from Eleanor dis- turbed the stillness. “My mother—my mother!” Mabel at length mus- “ My child—my child!” Mr. Meredith laid his hands upon theirs. “ And my wife, Mabel, my honored wife. Remem- ber that, fnen you kiss her. She will explain every thing to you, Mabel. Iam going for Charles. may hope now.” e went out and left them together. It was a full hour before they could tall, except in broken words full of love and tenderness. Then Eleanor, with her child close to her heart, told the story of her life, and Mabel began to realize that this great joy was not a dream. “*Godis very good to me,” she said; ‘‘so much new happiness when I thought that I was utterly de- serted.” “There shall be no more trouble,’’ Eleanor said. oS we shall have happiness now. God will give it us.’ ““He will save Charles, I know he will. Oh, mother, you must love him—he is so good, so noble. cena may think him wild and reckless, but it is not true; he is so kind to me.” “Darling, I do love him. I trust in him. We will go away from every association of his old life. Ho will take back his father’s name, and become the pride of his father’s house.” “Oh, mother—mother!”’ At these words the baby-boy woke, and lay re- garding them with his great blue eyes full ofa sort of vague wonder. Simultaneously they rose and bent over him, a new tide seemed formed between them from the maternal instinct in either heart. “We is our child, mother,’ whispered Mabel, through a gush of tears that filled her voice with tenderness, . “And our grandchild,” answered Eleanor, gather- ing the little fellow close to her bosom. CHAPTER XXII. THE DIVINE CONSUMMATION. Cuar.Les Montcomery was sitting in his cell. Ma- bel had not, as yet, been near him that morning. He had lost the little glow of hope her previous day’s visit had given him, sinking back into a de- spondency deeper from the temporary rise of spirits he had experienced at her coming. * She is afraid to come,” hesaid to himself. ‘She kind to me.” You 7 has only bad news. If she would only come and tell ye. I’d rather bear the worst news than this sus- pense. Oh, Mabel—Mabel!” As if in answer to his prayer, the door was opened, and Mabel rushed toward him, her eyes streaming with tears, but with such a joy in her faco that it took his breath away. “Mabel!” he gasped. “You are saved!” she cried, ‘‘saved! Oh, my “husband!” He could not believe her words; he repeated them with a feeling of stunned surprise. ““Saved—saved !”” “They are here—all here,” continued Mabel, ers forgetting the caution she was to havo display: ho are here? What do you mean?” “Your father. Shall I tell to come in? Will you see him now, Charles?” He could not speak. Iv the revulsion of feeling which came over him, it seemed as if his heart would burst. Mabel went to the door and beckoned; in an in- stant Mr. Meredith was in the cell,’ followed by leanor. Charles could not stir. His feet felt chained to the floor. There was an instant’s pause, then the father and son fell into each other’s arms, and, in the burst of repentance which each heart felt, all the old pride and sternness went out forever. “My boy—my boy!’’ he exclaimed. “If you had only ken at the time—if you had said you were not guilt ” “No more than mine, Charles, but it is all over now. We will begin a new life from to-day, and this dear child shall be another bond between us.” He drew Mabel toward him, and Eleanor followed. “See, Charles,” Mabel said, through her tears, “this is my dear mother. She will love you for my sake. She is our father’s wife, too. Charles looked at them in speechless wonder, Mr. Meredith hastily explained the mystery, telling all in a few words, ending: “‘I know that she may be was my folly and madness, father, I know content in ing her child again to your care; you will be faithful to the trust.” “ With God’s help,” he answered, fervently. Eleanor laid her hand in that of her new-found son. ; “You will not separate us?” she said. ‘‘ You will come home, and let us live in the great flood of joy and peace which has at last crowned our way.” Mabel threw herself upon her husband's bosom. “Will we not all go again to the dear old home?”’ Tf there had been a lingering shadow of pride or disobedience, it vanished before the sunlight of those ! tearful but beaming faces. transported. His ey 3 seemed fixed upon the far away. ** Home!” he murmured, as over his fine features Charles stood like one oe sees ey 2 which indeed geen bore ° ove and light. “I will go home; we wi go ie home; and we shaJl grow good and great, as God Speakers : bs designed us to grow.” BEADLE AND ADAMS have now on their lists the fot His words came slowly, distinctly, like one making | lowing highly desirable and attractive text-books, a revelation to the invisible presences around him. | Prepared expressly for schools, families, etc. Each Never, in all his career on the stage, had the actor | Volume contains 100 large pages, printed from clear, wrought so divinely with words. !t wasa moment | 9pen type, OT the best collection of Dia- of joy, which must have thrilied the angels whose | logues, Dramas and Recitations, (burlesque, comic wings fluttered over that group, where Hates were | 20d otherwise.) The Dime Speakers for the season buried and Loves were resurrected in great glory. of 1880—as far as now issued—embrace twenty-three b agrena ae scsi ‘‘T wonder how people feel who are unhappy?” | 3+ American speaker, ECR OR eee ee said Mabel, one day, as the group sat on the deck of | 2 National Speaker. La Ep gp Ble ag the steamer bearing them down James River, under | 3: Patriotic Speaker. 15. Komika’ es For Schools, Parlors, Entertainments and the Aj m 4 Original Minor Dramas, — ateur Stage, comprisin Comedy, Farce, Dress Pieces, Humorous Dielogue and Burlesque, by noted writers; and Recitations and Readings, new and standard, of the Th celebrity and interest. Edited by Prof. A. ell, DIME HAND-BOOKS. Young People’s Series. BEADLE’s Dime Hann-Boors ror Youre Prorie cover a wide range of subjects, and are especially adapted to their end. They constitute at once the cheapest and most useful works yet put into the market for popular circulation. Ladies’ Letter-Writer. Book of Games. 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