Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (v. 1) (1880 05 04)
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The Only Young Peay $4.ou a year. Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., as Second Class Mail Matter. Copyrighted in 1880 by BEADLE AND ADAMS, May 4, 1880, NO, 25, -¥onry, PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST,, N. Y. PRICE, 5 CENTS. > Soon SOT TES PES ene So Cam ET 1S ES SREY RR SC TS : acs ~~ | a f -_ : / a. = i IT WAS THE HAND OF AN ACCOMPLISHED PLAYER ON THE KEYS. ( . Devon, with an intensity that made all nature silent ana languid asa 0) a Schoolmistrass “4 Nk Her Dntold Sacral, lady and gentleman, with loosened rein, rode slowly under the arching “ } ’ trees of a winding country road. io i Both i young mais ae ongene ae lady tall, with a commanding BY AR SOUTH WORTH. , clear, olive complexion, and well-cut features. * we eet _—_—. | he gentleman, a year or so older than the lady, bore sufficient like- ness to her to show relationship, only he was fairer, and had a pleas- CHAPTER I. anter expression—that is, aéinily: oe at the present moment his ace JEALCUSY. were dark and knit; while the lays lips were curled with a sco 1 Ir was high noon of an August day. The blue sky was unbroken by a | smile. A glance was enough to see that something had gone wrong be~ . «loud, while the sun shone down in one of the prettiest portions of North | tween these two. ré ie <P es x ‘ 5 om aa = eh \ J a ; » a6 < p , 4 eee . A a ee ale a as — —s ~n.
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3 2 The lady’s looks were directed Aitignt in front. The gentleman rode near the hedge, striking ‘at the yet unripe blackberries with his riding- whip. “So, then,” remarked the lady, the first to "break the pause, and resume the war of words, “it is your full intention to marry this girl?’ “IF by ‘this girl’ you mean Miss Hthel Wangban, Clarissa, such, most certainly, is my intention,” was the reply. “ Most agreeable news, Duke, for your mo- ther, who expected—what wonder?—better things from you.” 4¢ Pray, coz,” broke in the gentleman, irrita- bly, ‘‘ was this ride proposed by my mother, that she might benefit by your cross-question- ing?” “Tf you choose to forget your own position by such an alliance, Duke,” remarked the lady, with a slight shrug, ‘‘do not forget ours. My aunt would not stoop to roundabout schemes to arrive at that to which, I suppose, a straight- forward question to you would instantly have received an answer.” * You are perfectly right. She had but to ask to Jearn the truth. I am not ashamed of it,” was the quick responses. ‘I love Ethel Vaughan. Sane is the most beautiful, the most amiable woman [ have ever seen, and most as- suredly I shall marry her, it” “Well, the condition?” asked his cousin, as he paused. “Jf,” continued the young man, gravely, “ Bthel Vaughan will marry me.” ‘Marry you!’ And in real amaze, Clarissa turned toward the speaker. Then she burst into a. laugh, which, though scornful, and a trifle hard, sounded musically in the still, simmer air. “If she would marry you!” she repeated. * As if sho, the village schoolmistress, would refuse!” “She might,” remarked Dake Sterndale, curtly; for, to his misery, ha was conscious shat Eshel Vaughan had almost done so al- ready. ‘ All women arenot alike. There aro some who have too much self-respect to schema for, and sell themselves for title or position, putting love out of the question.” Azain his cousin’s looks turned upon him, sharply searching. Had he divined her secret—that it was her vory affection for him, her desire to ba mis- tress of the Hall, that made her so vindictive toward BHchel Vaughan? His exoression a: yiswered her in the negative. {ndeed, Marmaduke Sterndale was one of the Joast conceited men going. * She is a paragon, no doubt,” remarked the jady, mockingly. © in my opinion—yes,” was the calrn reply. “No woman more fitted to be the mistress of Sterndale Hall,” “ Duke, you are infatuated—mad!” broke in “Clarissa, her scorn replaced by sudden vehe- mence. ‘ What are this girl’s antecedents? You are utterly ignorant respecting them.” ‘“‘And am equally indifferent. It is suffi- cient that she is the orphan daughter of a clergyman, and is now without kith or kin. ‘Therefore, in marrying her, { should have the ‘satisfaction of knowing that I should not after- ward be annoyed by either poor or disreputa- ble relations.” “Yes, if Ethel Vaughan might be trusted.” “{ could trast, or should not wish to wed » ‘“Have a care, Duke!” ejaculated Clarissa. “The earth does not produce weeds more quickly than a wealthy marriage, poor rela- tions.” “Thanks for the warning, cousin,” smiled the young man, with placid confidence, ‘‘In the present case, I am quite willing to take my chance.” “ Vay you never repent it,” remarked Cla- rissa, with difficulty keeping the rage agitating her from appearing in her voice. The words had risen to her lips, and she had spoken, but was far from feeling them. a ni TT ONLY A. SCHOOLMISTRESS. oS see EY Sea eS eee If her cousin Duke carried out this piece of absurdity, as sbe termed it, from her very heart she hoped he would have cause to repent it, and very bitterly. As if to end the conversation, which for her had so little charm, she touched her horse sharply with her whip, and took the incline they were ascending at a gallop. Reaching the crest, however, she again slackened speed, and a pang shot through her heart as her gaze rested on the scene before her. At the foot of the hill, on the banks of a love- ly lake, which reflected it in its silvery bosom like glass, stood a castellated old Hall—gray and ancient as the trees that extended their hoary branches, lichen festooned, near. Barons and Templar knights might, at one time, have feasted in the long hall connecting the east and west wings; warders have watched from turret and tower; or cross-bowmen sent many a deadly bolt at an advancing enemy. But for the last. two centuries it had been the property of the Sterndales—a well-born, influ- ential country family, whose last direct male descendant was represented in the person of Duke Sterndale. The latter’s father had been twice married. His first wife he had wedded rather to please his parents than himself. Duke bad been the sole: fruit of the union; when Mrs. Sterndale, a year later, fell a victim to diphtheria. The widower had remained one for eighteen months, after which time he had wedded his first and, it was said, his only love—his cousin May. The issue of this marriage was a daughter, who, to the parents’ grief, died at the age of nine. Mrs. Sterndale, whose affection had been passionate and intense, felt the blow the most keenly; while a feeling of jealousy long had reigned in her breast against Duke, as if it. had been a wrong done that he should survive while her bright darling had perished. She, in a measure, outgrew this injustice, but could never entirely overcome it; and when her favorite sister, Mrs. Harfield, died, she adopted the sister’s daughter, Clarissa. The girl filled a void in her heart—a maternal pride and craving that her step-son would never have been able to satisfy. With Clarissa Harfield it had been very differ- ent. Brought up with Duke, she had looked up toand, loved him as an elder brother; but as she entered tue charming period of maidenhood, she had become aware of an affection for bim even surpassing that. When he was at college, the Hall was dull— depressing; when he came home, it was para- dise, Her love, as her hope, had been fostered by two circumstances—the secret desire of her aunt for such union, and the kind, almost chiv- atric, attention of ber cousin. Beautiful, accomplished, universally ad- mired, Clarissa felt small fear but that her af- fection would be returned, and the Hall which was then her kome would remain so throughout her life. This bright prospect had, however, been sud- denly darkened by the appearance of Ethel Vaughan, the newly-appointed village school- mistress. All in a hurry, the elderly lady who had held that post for fifteen years bad had to re- sign through illness; ‘and, all in a hurry, the rector had been recommended, and had been glad to accept, the services of Miss Vaughan. But Eaglehurst was rather taken by surprise on Ethel Vaughan’s arrival, as was the rector himeelf, who, a good-natured man, had gone to meet her at the railway station, He bad bad some experience with village schoolmistresses; had seen them of all descrip- tions, so was prepared for mucb; but certainly not for the graceful creature who descended from a second-class carriage onto the platform, and glanced with a helpless, bewildered ex- pression, as if in search of some oue or some- thing. The slight ies was attired in a plain black cloth toilet, which made the fair complexion and golden hair, looped up beneath the black hat, yet more refined and dazzling. The features were exquisitely formed, and despite the nervousness of her present manner, there was an air about Miss Vaughan that de- noted one well-educated and used to good so- ciety. The rector, on his part, was a trifle nervous, as approaching, with raised hat, he introduced ! himself. ‘*T decided to meet you, Miss. Vaughan,” he remarked, explaining his presence. ‘‘I thought you might feel strange.” “Thank you, sir—oh, so much!—for taking the trouble,” answered the schoolmistress. ‘1 did feel rather bewildered. The place is new to me, and not well lighted—is it?’ “No. We are economical of gas in Eagle- hurst,” laughed the rector, looking down at his. companion, more and more perplexed. What, he mentally queried, could have made one of her evident position, and with her youth and beauty, select such an existence as a coun- try schoolmistress? “T understoad, Miss Vaughan, that you were over twenty,” he almost unconsciously blurted forth. “T am twenty-two,” she replied; ‘‘but do not look nineteen, every one tells me. It is because Iam so fair. It is much against me as a teacher; but 1 hope, sir, you will not think so.” “T? Certainly not, my de—that is, Miss, Vaughan. Our mind and capacity must be judged by our years, not our looks.” Nevertheless, as the rector escorted the new schoolmistress to her new home—a red-brick,. cne-story building, with whitewashed walls, neat and trim.as a Quakeress—he felt very much like a man who had made a mistake, and was ignorant as yet of its extent. ‘A great deal too pretty, and too young,” he reflected. governess.” Almost nervously he had introduced Ethel Vaughan to her future home, as if it were any thing but worthy of her. “There is one of the elder girls—Bridget: Jepps,” he said, ‘‘ who will act as your servant,. Miss Vaughan. A nice, handy lass; and— and ”—with a glance round the plain, rather frigid little sitting-room, with its Seriptural prints and texts—‘‘I hope you will like it. 1 trust you will not be dull.” “Thank you very much. I know I shall like it, and am certain not to be dull,” she an- swered, “On the contrary, I feel I shall be: very, very happy, if I can but succeed in giv- ing satisfaction.” And the rector would have fully believed: the assertion had he seen the expression of ex- ceeding joy and yeace that came over Ethel Vaughan’s features when alone, and heard the “Indeed, not at all like the usual ' murmured words, ‘‘Thank Heaven 1 feel safe — }. —refe at last! trace? No one could find me here?” But the rector saw and heard none of this, which certainly would have added to his doubts and perplexity. ‘“I wonder,” he pondered, as he went, his hands clasped behind his back, up the road to, the rectory, “what Eaglehurst’s opinion will: be respecting this matter?” Eegleburst’s opinion, after its first genera). surprise, proved diveise. The most generous: felt compsssion that one so- evidently a lady should be so reduced. The ungenerous regard- re ed such a “‘ yerson” es Ethel Vaughan burying herself in so humble a capacity at Haglehurst asamystery. The scandal-mongers declared there was something dark about it, and de- manded of the rector what character he had received with her—what were her antece- dents? The clergyman rather curtly told all he knew. She was the orphan daughter of a cu- rate, bad neither kith nor kin, and had been recommended to him by a highly respectable Government training school. Surely, I bave destroyed ro) an
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ONLY A SCHOOLMISTRESS. ) But Eaglehurst had yet further to be aston- ished. The schoolmistress was expected to know music enough to act as organist and teach the children to singin the choir. Conse- quently, the first Sunday was always one of curiosity to the congregation. Feravalarly was it so on this occasion. A breathless silence reigned in the sacred edifice when the hymn was given out. Then the organ pealed forth; the young teacher’s and her pupils’ voices rose; the hearers gave a Could those rich, full notes come really from their old organ? Was this the old, hum- drum, monotonous hymn to which they had been accustomed? It was the hand of an ac- complished player on the keys. It was the accent of a cultivated voice that led the sweet tones of the children in their hymn of praise. The mystery naturally was increased four- fold. Who could the new schoolmistress be? But, after all, it proved not much more than a nine days’ wonder. Ethel Vaughan’s quiet habits, her retiring disposition, soon won their way, and Eaglehurst got used to the slight, girlish figure, always clad so neatly in dark stuffs, with plain linen coller and cuffs, that went through the place so unobtrusively, ful- filled her duties so thoroughly, and was ever ready to do a kindness to any one. Three months, however, had not elasped bo- fore a rumor was circulated which made tha young girl again the subject of conversation. This was no less than that Duke Sterndale, the squire, was seriously in love with Ethel Vaughan; and for once, at least, rumor spoks truth. Duke Sterndale did love her, and was quite ready to avow it, as he had done, to his cousin Clarissa, during their morning ride. All the above came rushing back in bitter remembrance to Miss Harfisld, as she gazed witb contracted lip, and fury in her hears, as the old Hall, and its reflection in the mirro-- like lake. She, Ethel Vaughan, a village aehbotll 3- tress, a nobody—at least, a mystery—the mis- tress of Sterndale! Yes, a mystery, and a suspicious one, sug- gestive of hidden evil. There must, Clarissa felt assured, be some grave cause why one so accomplished should accept so humble a part in life. “Oh, if. I could but discover this girl’s se- eret—for I am certain she has one! If I only could!” she reflected, as once again she in- ereased her speed, and, almost heedless of her cousin, rode to the Hall. She only halted on reaching the broad stone steps of the latter, where a groom was in at- tendance to take the horses to the stables. Clarissa had never felt so angry with Duke, and would have preferred the servant’s aid to dismount; but the young squire was too quick, and she too proud to show her temper by re- fusing his assistance. “Are you coming in to luncheon?’ she asked, coldly, as she gathered up the long skirt of her riding-habit . “No, thanks,” he answered. ‘‘I should have small appetite, and, I fancy, little wel- come. I will leave you to confirm my moth- er’s—fear, I think you termed it; but I shall be back to dinner.” So saying, he ran down the steps, and cross- ed the grounds in the direction of Eaglehurst. Clarissa Harfield, watching him, bit her red, ripe lips until the blood almost started, while her looks flashed scorn and ire. “Of course, it is Wednesday, the school- mistress’s half-day freedom from her drudg- ery,” she reflected, sneeringly. ‘He has gone to see her. Oh, how I hate her! How I begin to hate even him!” Then, turning, she passed beneath the large arched entrance, and crossed the marble-paved hall to the oe CHAPTER 15 a THE NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPH. THE school studies were over. With a shout and a rush, the pupils had trooped away in the warm air and sunshine. A blank, a. stiliness, had abruptly fallen over the school-room, where the young teacher, Ethel Vaughan, sat now alone. Her countenance was pale, and her hand supported her head, her elbow resting on her desk. The atmosphere, rendered close by the many assembled, was gradually being purified by the soft summer breeze, which came wafted in across the roses on the sill of the open window. All was still save for the musical hum of the bees outside among the flowers. “Tw’s tiring work teaching,” murmured the young schoolmistress, finally leaning back in her chair, and glancing round, ‘especially such uncongenial pupils. The children are good children. It is not their fault; but one feels one’s education thrown away—not only one’s education, but life, too. Ah me—ah me!” The soft tones had become tinged with bitter- ness, and as the schoolmistress ended, she dropped her face with a moaning sigh on her slender hands. In a moment, however, she rose quickly, ex- claiming, in self-reproach, “This is, indeed, ungrateful to complain. Is not my present lot better than I could have hoped? Is not my very mode of life my security—its humbleness my safeguard from discovery and ”—she shiy- ered before she added, almost in a whisper— “disgrace? Let me be thankful for that, at least.” Throwing off her depression, she busied her- self by collecting and putting away the dog- eared primers and Shabby copy books, which their careless owners, eager for freedom, had left about. If the duties were uncongenial to Ethel Vaughan, surely was she to that cold, white- washed room. Her attire was of the plainest, but the slim, well-carried figure imparted to it a charming grace, while the pretty head with its curls of golden hair, rested cn the firm, white throat with a dignity even easier than Ciarissa Harfield’s own. To conquer the depression possessing her, Ethel tried tohum a tune; but a sadness yet for some momeuts lingered on her features. Gradually, however, thoughts arose that a pelled it. “T am ungrateful to complain,” she mur- mured; ‘* for had I never come to Eaglehurst, should I have ever met Duke Sterndale? Yet, after all, better that we had remained stran- gers; for what can he ever be to me, or I to him?’ Once more she covered her face, while a shiver ran through her figure standing in the school-room flooded by an Atgust sunshine. Then the small hands dropped and clenched, a strange, half-despairing, half-angry expression rested on the delicate features as she added, “Oh, it is unjust! The world is very cruel. What have I done that I should suffer—that the disgrace should fall on my shoulders, cut- ting me off from my kind—condemning me to renounce happiness—-to pass solitary, alone through life, when I might be so happy? It is too hard, too cruel!” Her anger broke down, a sob burst from her lips, tears trembled on the long silken Jashes. But suddenly they were driven back, as Ethel Vaughan, white as a ghost, staggered, catching the table for support. “That voice!” she gasped, trembling in every limb. “Surely it cannot beimagination! Nu; there it is again!” Leaning breathlessly forward, she listened, She had been startled by a man’s voice speak- ing outside the window. It now sounded once more, aud Ethel’s face cleared somewhat as she listened. In a moment, softly she approached the case- ment, and cautiously glanced through the rose- trees. A man and woman stood conversing just out- side the palings. As Ethel’s eyes rested on the former, the revulsion of feeling from evident alarm to relief was so great, that she laughed hysterically. ** How foolish!’ she thought. been imagination. “ Tt must have The voices are not all ‘alike. Besides, how could he be here? It is impossible, thank Heaven!” The last two words were uttered very fer- vently. When the man whose voice had startled her passed on, Ethel Vaughan went to her room, and, putting on her hat and mantle, quitted the school-house by the back entrance. : The young schoolmistress had one delight at Eaglehurst—the organ. It was not a very good one, but it was better than not any, and Ethel generally spent some hours of her halt. holidays practicing in the organ-loft. The back gate of the school garden opened into a narrow, retired lane, bordered by haw- thorn hedges, a quarter of a mile down which was the sexton’s cottage, where the church keys were kept. Having procured them, Ethel went on to a turn in the lane, where a stile, arched by a pollard cak, led into the quiet, shady grave- yard, surrounding the gray, ivy-covered Nor- man church. At the first jingle of the keys Ethel carried, mM. a man rose up from the step on the other side of the stile, and faced round, waiting. A few seconds after, the young schoolmistress reached the place. As she became aware of the other’s presence, she drew slightly back, the color on her cheek hightened, while she ex- claimed, ‘‘Mr. Sterndalehere! Thisis wrong!” “Indeed, itis, Miss Vaughan!” laughed Duke, extending his hand to assist ber across, which, however, she did not heed. ‘‘ You are fully a quarter of an hour later than usual. It is cruel so to test my patience.” “IT asked you, Mr. Sterndale,” retorted Ethel, gravely, refusing td notice his Jighter humor, “not to meet me here again.” “And I, Ethel,” answered the young man, with sudden earnestness, ‘‘told you L could not promise that. 1 must see you; you know I must!” I threw myself on your generosity, and thought, then, that I was safe.” “You. put my generosity to too hard a test,” he answered. ‘Safe, Ethel? Can you from your heart say that you do not feel safe in my presence?” ‘You know what I mean, Mr. Sterndale,” she said, standing at one side of the stile, while he remained at the other. ‘‘ People wili Legin to talk. Indeed, you know they have begun already.” ‘‘ And what care I?’ he broke in impetu- cusly. “But Imust—Ido! You forget, Mr. Stern- dale, the burden falls on me, not you.” ‘“ Ethel ”— and he was over the stile by her side, ber hand in his—‘‘ what right have you to care—to beed the talk of any one? Bemine —my wife, Ethel—and in our happiness we raay laugh at all the world!” “This is adding cruelty to cruelty!” pleaded the schoolmistress, contro!ling her voice with difficulty. ‘‘Be more humane, Mr. Sterndale. HKave I not already answered you?” “He, despite her attempt to resist, bad now got possession of both her hands, and was fond- ly gazing down upon her. “Yes,” he rejoined, witha tremor in bis voice, yet firm decision in bis tones, ‘‘ you have refused me, Ethel—refused my effection; yet owning that I have your love. You have told me you cannot be my wife, and I have an- swered you, my darling, that I will not be- lieve it—that I will not accept a refusal, Send me from you with scorn; say youhate me, and Iwill go. But, Ethel, until you do that, 1 will hope!” Send him away with scorn! him! Asif she ever could do that! Especial- ly at this moment when he stood there so frank, so handsome, so noble, so resolute in his love, the depth of which the tremor in his voice told so plainly. “Tt is not wise,” she murmured, “They say ”—and now he laughed lightly— “that men in love never display wisdom in their actions. Ido not wish to be an excep-— tion. Listen, Ethel! I will tell you why f Say she hated ~
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ia jalabbard Wo dn less bese egies ao 23S came to-day. Yesterday you half refused me,” “Quite, Mr. Sterndale,” she interpolated. “No,” shaking his head persistently; “‘ half. I discovered, Ethel, that I had your love. That some absurd notion of difference in our position ; made you say ‘No,’ when I would relinquish } every shilling I possess to hear you say ‘ Yes,” / So, I have resolved to find out who will tire first. I to sue, you to reject. We will be friends—until the moment arrives when I shall say, ‘Ethel, dearest, will you be my wife?—a title, I swear, no other than you shall ever own! And you, placing your hand in mine, shall answer ‘ Yes;’ or let me’ read my happi- ness in your eyes!” “T fear, Mr. Sterndale,” retorted Ethel, shak- ing her pretty head, ‘‘our hair will be gray before that hour arrives!” “T will wait even until then, Ethel, if then I may call you mine! Is it agreed?—friends, good friends, while I am trying to win you?” “Yes,” she replied; ‘‘why not? There can be no harm in that. Now, please, let me go on to the church!” a He made no effort to detain her, but helped her across the stile. Only he went also, walking by her side through the green mounds, opening ‘the small side church door for her, and seeing . her into the organ-loft. Then he descended, and Ethel heard the re- verberation of his steps down the aisle. No sooner was she alone than the school- mistress gave way to her emotion. None but herself knew how difficult the grave composure she had assumed had been to maintain. Yes; Duke Sterndale was right. She did love him, and had refused him for the reason 1 he had said. : Was it the real one? , At any rate, Ethel Vaughan had told her own heart that Duke and she could never be other than friends. She was aroused by the ‘‘clump, clump,” of the heavy boots of the boy the sexton had sent to blow the bellows for the young organist; and, soon after, the quaint old Norman church echoed with the notes of the organ, which seemed never to have discoursed so well before. 2 An hour and a half passed; then Ethel j Vaughan quitted the loft, and descended, leav- ing the boy to lock the door. As she issued into the churchyard, she found Duke Sterndale in the porch. % ““Do not blame me for being here,” he said, apologetically. ‘‘It is your own fault, Ethel. You began to play before I was out of hearing; then to go was impossible. To-day you sur- passed yourself—youseemed inspired. Inever could have imagined any one could have brought such sounds from our old organ.” “Tt has been a good one,” smiled Ethel, ‘and yet retains some of its past merits.” “Nevertheless, Ihave, within the last hour, resolved to present the church with a new one,” __ he remarked, as they strolled toward the stile. “Kthel, if you will not accept presents from me—if you will not let me do anything to make your home—your life more comfortable, I will do so in a way you cannot refuse, and in a way, too, that I know will please you.” ‘You are very kind, Mr. Sterndale!” she - replied, with a little emotion. ‘I wish I could better prove my gratitude!” “TI can wait—wait until our hair is gray!” | laughed Duke, pleasantly, as he again assisted her over the stile, for he respected her wish that he should no further accompany her. “Stay!” he added, as she was about to move away; ‘‘I had forgotten this!” As he spoke, he drew from his pocket a news- 5 paper, — The young schoolmistress had once remarked, be - casually, the pleasure she had had from a news- | paper, though an old one, that the rector had lent her; since which time Duke had kept her _ supplied daily. As he extended it, their hands met, and for a f moment the Squire held Ethel’s. ¢ It seemed as if the paper united them! © 1a oc = _ Was it really to do so? How little did either know the effect the contents were fo produce, though Duke had read nearly every line? “The time for saying ‘ Yes!’ has not arrived yet, Ethel?’ he smiled. “* Not yet!’ she laughed, Then they parted. Reaching the school-house, Ethel Vaughan went at once to her room to remove her hat and mantle, Then, taking Duke’s paper from the toilet-table, she was about to leave the apart- ment, when she was attracted by the heading of a paragraph—“ Escape of Two Convicts from Portland.” Ethel’s color forsook her cheeks. stand, she sunk into a chair. seized ber. But, in a moment, eagerly she opened the paper—how it rustled in her trembling hands! —and hurriedly read the paragraph. It recounted how two convicts, during a thick mist that had rolled up from the sea, had eluded the vigilance of the warders, and effect- ed their escape. Their absence had not been discovered for some hours. As soon as known, the cannon signals were fired, and a pursuit commenced, with at present but partial suc- cess. One of the unfortunate men had not long enjoyed the sweets of liberty. He was found dead, face downward, among the rocks, having fallen evidently from a considerable hight. By his number he was known to be the convict Edward Vaughan, sentenced for life. The other, Gerald Ainsley, was still at large, although it was expected he would be captured before night. Ethel read the above, each letter of which seemed to burn itself into her brain, then fal- tered, ‘‘ Unhappy man! a bad end toa bad life! Dead! Well, better for him—far better. * And,” she added, rising, her countenance ex- pressive of great relief, ‘‘ better for me! Sure- ly Ihave no cause to grieve! Tears, could I shed them, would be hypocrisy, for am I not safe? The past is dead; none now live to call it into life! Iam free! The heavy burden of my miserable secret is taken from my shoul- ders!” Lifting the paper from the floor on which it had fallen, she cut out the account of the es- cape, and hid if in her desk; then, destroying the other pages, descended to her little sitting- room with an expression that for long had not rested on her features. She even, like the con- vict, Gerald Ainsley, seemed to have escaped the fetters that for nearly three years had bound her thoughts, her actions, her life, and was once more breathing the pure air of free- dom! Unable to A faintness CHAPTER III. DESPAIR AND VICTORY. WHEN Clarissa Harfield entered the dining- room, she found luncheon waiting, and her aunt seated in the large bay window, languidly busy with her crewels. ’ Mrs. Sterndale was a fair woman of between fifty and sixty, with high, aristocratic features, a due appreciation of her own comforts, and a temper irritable and irritating—especially so to her niece, whose character was both decided and energetic. The loss of her child, then her husband, had removed the only two objects that could win Mrs, Sterndale from herself. After that, she would have taken life very easily, so long as her own comforts were respected, had it >t been for the plans she had formed for Ler niece’s future. She loved her almost as she had loved her own darling, whose place Clarissa filled; and nothing seemed so natural as that Duke should wed Clarissa, and thus make the Hall her home forever. The contrary opinion her son tacitly express- ed produced the one distressing element of her existenca. Indeed, Mrs. Sterndale had been moved nearer to real passion than ever before in all her life by the rumor which Clarissa took care she should hear— that her step-son had so far forgotten what was due to his position and the race of Sterndale as to be truly and bonor- ably in love with Ethel Vaughan, the school- mistress. “Tt can’t be true, Clarissa. It is absurd, downright nonsense!” she had exclaimed. ‘‘Ethel Vaughan is pretty and ladylike, and Duke may be flirting with her; but as to love— serious love, I mean—it is all folly. J’ll never believe it. Duke knows better what is due. to himself; also what is due to me.” ‘Suppose, aunt, you were to ask him him- self respecting his attentions to this girl?” said the niece, Duke was one of the most attentive of sons; but Mrs, Sterndale felt that in any grave mat- ter she would have small power of influencing him. Perhaps it was her own fault when she visited upon him the loss of her little Maud. At any rate, she did not feel disposed to have her comfort disturbed by a scene in which she surmised that her maternal authority, though respected, would lack influence, so she answer- ed, ‘‘ The most absurd proceeding possible that would be, my dear Rissa. If, as I am sure is the case, Duke is only flirting, as young men will, with a pretty girl, my regarding the mat- ter seriously would make him doso,. In fact, it might drive him to take the step we fear. A scene would ensue, which, really, my nerves could not. support.” Clarissa Harfield bit her red lips to keep down her anger before she could reply; then, ‘‘But I think you ought to know, aunt, when all Kaglehurst makes common talk of it,” “ Waglehurst would make common talk of anything for a change in its monotonous exist- ence. Itis all the rector’s fault,” proceeded Mrs. Sterndale, irritably. ‘“‘I told him so. Miss Vaughan was far too pretty and distin- guished-looking to be selected for the post she fills. But he said he couldn’t help it, and the thing was done. Dear me, it’s all very tire- some.” “Yes, it’s done,” remarked Clarissa, seorn- fully, through her contracted lips. ‘‘ And I suppose you and I, my dear aunt, may prepare to remove into the Dower House, tomake room here for the future mistress of Sterndale,” “ Nonsense, Rissa; don’t talk like that. I repeat, Duke would never dream of such a marriage seriously. But I will tell you what —to-morrow he is going to ride with you to Ulmbrook; surely you, my love, who are so much cleverer than, and not so nervous as I, might manage to get at Duke’s real intentions.” So it had been arranged, and the result has been seen. When her niece entered, Mrs. raised her head quickly. “¢ Where is Duke?” she asked. “Need you ask, aunt?’ replied Clarissa, mockingly, as, plucking off her riding gloves, she threw them on a side-table. ‘‘Is not this Miss Vaugban’s half-holiday? Where should Duke be but helping ber to pass it agreeably?’ “Rissa,” ejaculated Mrs. Sterndale, grasp- ing the arms of her chair and half rising, “‘ you do not mean—” “That I have sounded Duke as you desired, aunt, and have to inform you that his atten- tions to the girl are most serious, and that he Sterndale openly declared it his purpose to marry her, if she will have him.” “This cannot be. Rissa, you have irritated him. He has said this only to vex you, It can’t be true.” “ Aunt,” exclaimed Clarissa, in quick, de-, cided tones, what is the use of saying that things that are can’t be? Don’t blind yourself to facts. Duke loves, or believes he loves, Ethel Vaughan, and would marry ber to-morrow if she would baye him.” “‘Tf—if—” echoed Mrs. Sterndale. ‘‘ Asif she—she would refuse!” , ‘‘ Duke says she has refused him,” replied the niece, shrugging her shoulders, She stood in the bay window, her hat not yet removed, and twisting her riding-whip in her white hands, as her dark eyes were fixed upon the parterre of brilliant flower-beds outside. . , “Tn that case, it is but the refusal of a co- es ow) ee
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ONLY A SCHOOLMISTRESS. | 5 quette, in order to make Duke more eager,”’ cried the lady irritably. ‘‘ Duke, the represen- tative of the Sterndales, so to disgrace himself, to wed a village schoolmistress, whose pay is forty pounds a year, with house,. coals, and candle! It must not be. It shall not be.” “‘ Aunt,”—and her niece turning, confronted her—‘“‘ what is to prevent it? Do you fancy your word will? You know Duke. He is not likely to be turned from any course he holds to be right, and for his own happiness.” “‘But is he so selfish, Rissa, that he will not think of our happiness? Imagine that girl rul- ing here at the Hall!” “*T can imagine it, aunt, easily,” was the re- ply. ‘Do not let us blind ourselves to the truth that Ethel Vaughan would not look out of place here. Far more in it than in her present position. By appeurance, manners, education, she isa lady. The question for us to consider is why, this being so, she has buried herself here at Eaglehurst, where her talent and educa- tion are wasted?” ‘*Exactly. Why?’ remarked Mrs. Sterndale, helplessly regarding her niece. “ Ah, if we could but find that out, it might stop this marriage at once. Aunt, as sure as we are in this room, there is some mystery in that girl’s history—something disgraceful, if ' not terrible, that she hides.” “Tt is possible, Rissa; but what is the good if we cannot discover what it is? This only makes matters worse. Imagine, if there be dis- grace attached to this girl’s antecedents, and it is only found out after Duke has married her! It would be fearful.” Fearful or no, Clarissa Harfield registered a mental vow, there and then, that it should be the one set purpose of her life to ascertain Ethel Vaughan’s past history, and make it pub- lie, whether she were Duke’s wife or not. Why should she respect the peace and happiness of the man who had slighted her for another? Such was not her nature. When Duke returned, he found his step-mo- ther alone in the drawing-room, though the first dressing-bell bad not yet sounded. His cousin's absence, and the expression of Mrs. Sterndale’s uaually placid countenance, warned him of what was pending. But Clarissa was correct in thinking her aunt’s will would have little influence cver her step-son, -He considered the course he was taking was not wrong; so instantly prepared for the coming interview, not, on the whole, sorry to get it over, and resolved it should not be of long duration. ‘“My dear Duke,” said the lady, her tones sounding a trifle constrained from the effort to conceal her nervousness, ‘‘ what is this report that is going about Eaglehurst? I never place eredence in rumors, and I should be the last to do so in this.” “Rumors, on the whole, are not generally credible,” answered Duke, quietly, “though from experience, I should say that, as a rule, they have some foundation to go upon.” “T trust that you do not mean this one has, Duke? I will not believe it until I hear it from your own lips.” “You have not yet informed me, mother, what is this rumor,” he began; but, suddenly changing his manner, proceeded, ‘ There! it is absurd to beat about the bush, dear mother, My conversation with Clarissa to day shows me to what you refer—my,love for Ethel Vaughan.” “Your love, Duke?” “« My sincere and honorable love.” “You are jesting—you wish to anger me?” ‘Heaven forgive me if I could do that on so grave a matter!” replied the young man fer- vently. ‘‘Rumor has told you rightly, mother. 1 love Ethel Vaughan, and I pray that one day she may be my wife.” “‘Duke,”—and Mrs, Sterndale rose from her chair—‘ do you remember who you are?” “My father’s son, and a Sterndale, who will never disgrace this roof. by giving it an un- worthy mistress,” was the quick response. ‘“‘ Have a care!” proceeded his step-mother, % trembling with anger and a nervous sense of her own weakness. ‘‘ What is this girl? A village schoolmistress; hence no match for you. Worse still; who is she? You know nothing.” “‘T know this. Her father was a clergyman, who, dying suddenly, left her penniless, friend- less, kinless,” exclaimed Duke. ‘‘I know that bravely she set to work to make an honest livelihood. I know her, as all do in Eagle hurst, to be a lady, and I ask no more than this with my wife.” “You know all this from her own lips. Isit likely, if there were evil behind, she would con- fess it?” “T trust her, mother. should not wed her.” “Mad, blind infatuation!” remarked the lady. ‘‘Duke, if you wed this girl, I will never—” “ Mother,” broke in the step-son, gravely tak- ing her hand, ‘‘say nothing rashly. Listen to me. We have been always the best of friends. Let us continue to be so. Be wise. I will be governed by your desires in much; but cannot in this. My whole happiness rests on Ethel Vaughan. I cannot have it wrecked. Oneday I hope to see her seated here as my wife. She is very, very dear to me; but my love for her shall never lessen the respect and affection I feel for my father’s widow.” This was the worst of it. . Duke had a man- ner and tone which Mrs. Sterndale, hating scenes and exertion, could never withstand. She began to cry. “Tt is very terrible, Duke! It makes me very wretched! I am disappointed! I did hope your selection would have been very dif- ferent. Cl—” ‘“‘Hush, mother! For my cousin’s sake, I fancy you had better not proceed. From me she shall ever receive the affection of a brother. The Hall, if she pleases, until she weds, shall continue to be her home.” Duke had led Mrs. Sterndale back to her seat, and was leaning over her thus, the lady’s eyes being covered by her pocket-handkerchief; If I could not, I neither saw the tall, graceful figure of Clarissa | Harfield, as she glided away from outside the window behind a group of syringas. “T live at Sterndale to play second to Ethel Vaughan?” she thought, her lips white, her small hands clenched in passion. ‘Never! I would rather act as schoolmistress myself! Ah! if aunt had only my spirit, Duke should not have had so easy a victory. But she is ag selfish as weak, As long as her comfort is cared for, all the rest may go!” Meanwhile, Mrs. Sterndale had proceedéd: “And when, Duke, do—do you think of mar- rying? It is right I should know. There is the Dower House to prepare.: If we are to be friends, it will be wiser for us to live apart.” “Perhaps, mother, you are not wrong,” replied her step-son, his handsome brows slight- ly contracting. “All I can say is, you shall be the first to learn. So far, Miss Vaughan has refused me, and I have refused to be re- fused. I shall continue to woo; so it will rest upon who yields first.” “Thank Heaven!” thought the step-mother. “Then there is a hope it may come to nothing, after all, and Clarissa may still have a chance,” At that moment the dinner dressing bell: sounded, and neither mother nor son were loth interview. When Duke returned to the drawing-r to seize the excuse for putting an énd to their Clarissa was already there, standing by the flowers at the window. At the sound of his step, she looked up with a bright smile. “Do you want a bouquet for your coat, Duke?” she inquired. ‘Here is one.” She held it toward him, adding in a lower tone, “T think I lost my temper rather to-day. For- give me, Duke.” “Forgive you, Rissa? I have nothing to forgive. I only regret that the subject should have annoyed you.” “Tf it did,” she responded, with a slight shrug, “it has ceased todo so. You are your own master, Duke; and if aunt can say ‘ Yes,’ what right have I to say ‘No’?”’ “Upon my word, matters are going far better than I hoped!” reflected the young man, with an elation of spirits, as he secured the flowers in his button hole, and the butler an- nounced dinner. The Saturday after, Duke Sterndale again stood at the church-yard stile waiting for the young organist. It was a calm, roseate sum- mer afternoon. The insects hummed drowsy requiems among the flowers planted by loving hands upon the graves; the birds twittered in © harmony in the branches of the tall trees; while now and again a rook, with deep caw, would sail across the blue sky to or from the Sterndale rookery. There was a sense of peace, of happiness over all which influenced Duke’s heart. That feeling many experience, but which none can explain, possessed his senses—the feeling that some gladness was on its way to him. The moments flew by. Again the rooks ap- peared in their circling flight. The insects hummed; the birds twittered; the church clock struck two. Ethel Vaughan was late. What would detain her? Another quarter of an hour. Still not here. Was she staying away to avoid meeting him? No; his countenance brightened. . She was coming at last. He could hear the faint jingle of the church keys. Only Ethel’s voice could have been sweeter music. As the young girl, coming in sight, beheld him, a flush rose to her cheek; something like a smile hovered over her lip. 4 Heaven alone knew the struggle that had been going on in the young schoolmistress’s heart since that Wednesday. The sleepless nights; the graceful figure prone on the floor in her agony of doubt—in her desire to do right; of her craving to accept the only hap- piness this world had to give her—Duke Stern- dale’s love. -»' Finally, Ethel Vaughan had decided, crying, ‘Ob, Heaven, pardon meif Ierr; but I can- not help it! My love is stronger than IL! ‘Have I not borne enough already in the past? Why should it ruin my future? I am young, and love, and am beloved. No; I cannot bear it! I cannot thrust longer away the joy that is offered. Why should I? Mine was not the sin! Iamalone! The past is dead—buried! Why should I resuscitate it?” What was it in Ethel Vaughan’s face that made Duke forget to chide her from her late- ness? What was it that made his pulses beat, as he assisted her across the stile, and caused him, extending his hand, to whisper, ‘‘ Ethel, dearest, has the time arrived?” The schoolmistress paused. For a space that fierce struggle reigned; then, with bowed head and tremulous tones, she answered faint- ly, ‘‘I am not worthy—indeed I am not! Who am I that I should be your wife?’ “You are the only woman I have ever loved, my darling!” he answered, fervently. ‘The only woman who shall ever bear that title. Of your worthiness I am content to be the judge, Ethel.” And he drew her to his heart with a great joy. ‘‘The time has arrived. I see it in your looks.” She did not say “‘ No,” nor resist the arms that so lovingly encircled her. Yet a shiver ran through her frame, as the idea would force itself upon her, ‘‘I who have not sinned before —am I sinning now?’ Duke only reached the Hall in time to make a burried toilet for dinner. As he threw off his morning coat, he did not notice the news- that fell from the pocket. It was the one he had taken for Ethel, but which, in his new happiness, he had forgotten to give. “What great events from little causes spring.” Descending to the drawing-room, he found his step-mother already there. He believed her to be alone, not perceiving Clarissa stand- ing just outside the window. Would she come? “My dear mother,” be said, trying to keep. Cid ae < 3 ed
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6 : - his elation within bounds, as he advanced and took her hand, ‘‘ my happiness has come to me sooner than I expected. AsI promised, you are the first I tell. In a month, Ethel Vaughan will be my wife.” Every syllable had reached Clarissa. Her lips tightened with fury, a red light shone in her handsome eyes. Her white, slender fingers rent the leaves of the delicate tiny bouquet, a moment back destined for Duke’s coat, to atoms, and cast them on the gravel. . “So,” she reflected, bitterly, “it is to be! J am to give place to this girl! But wait. Something makes me feel that sooner or later ap turn will come to be revenged on him and er! CHAPTER IV. THE SHORT CUT ACROSS THE FIELDS. OVER a-twelvemonth has elapsed, and there are some changes at Sterndale. Mrs. Stern- dale and her niece have long taken up their abode at the Dower House, a mile distant, to make room for the new mistress of the Hall. The young schoolmistress in her new capaci- ty has won favor everywhere. The gentry have gladly accepted graceful, beautiful, ami- able Mrs. Sterndale as one of themselves; while the poor, the recipients of her charity, adore her. Even the dowager Mrs. Sterndale would have followed with the rest of Hagleburst, and found it no gall to her pride to have re- mained at the Hall, but for the influence of Clarissa, Too idle to care for exertion, she allowed herself almost unconsciously to be guided by her niece, the wounded pride in whose heart was none the nearer being healed because that revenge she had hoped for had not come. In- deed, the sight of Duke’s happiness, and Ethel’s position in Eaglehurst, only irritated her tha more. Though silent, and keeping her senti- ments skillfully under control, she none tha less brooded over what she held as her wrong. , As to Duke’s happiness, he himself was the ong who had least doubt upon the point. Megning and night he was grateful for it, egpecially when a nursery had to be prepared fox:his infant son and heir. When he watched his ;pretty, graceful wife moving about him, with raj-bright light ever in her eyes, and a smile on her lip, he acknowledged that no man hadi mere cause to be thankful than he, -olp(faet, dais life had been all sunshine, and lessofayoxred couples knew scarcely which to enyyw.0phthe Squire or bis young wife. hit saras ufi three o’clock of a slaty March afternoon, when Ethel, clad in a sealskin hat andgvagm-<irs, entered the study where Duke Sai vbyi af blazing fire enjoying a pile of news- papers and, magazines which had just arrived. © oithel»wasubunming the refrain of a tune she had been “singing; to the wonderful baby, MastersMarmagduke;in the nursery, as she cae imfasteniag, her glove. iuffSanyowresraakly going, my dear?” asked Dukayslookingyrdund, he ,broad sheets of the cewspd peverri‘‘dit’sna disagueecable day—an east witidgrhtbhimkl”’ = yuf dese: “Tf people "ablowedy their outgoings to be guvernet by! the direction’ ofthe wind in this climate?’ IadchedsK thel,.they’d stay at home athothb usinter; Shere .ane-;one, or two pur- ohabted Leohave:ho omake:at Hagleburst, and I really must call on poot-eld; . Grew I bdmanié} semty hex sfer ofour, days, ad the poor th werefituae axill think, -herselficqyite meg- looted ij vito sou bib at saoo yui fifty ponnds:tovacchanitiysis, any MyRAPPAOD, & we —— ybhaw bo: listen.t ad om pl aan h »PSBS MPLS 7 hodhAchy” Jang a oe Ceesyet : S to. go HO i i JOB & : “at ite 4 your papers. Have you any news? 4 _ Bhe was standing behind him, her hand on es a Sem eNT 2 WARCRY IOS) : give the fifty tin ap distribatanyour bounty, sit, < » ONLY A SCHOOLMISTRESS. _ his chair, preparatory to kissing him before she went. “Not much, at present. Oh, by the way, another convict has escaped—this time, though, from Dartmoor. Singular, but those fellows broke prison just about this time last year. No, I recollect it was the August of the year before.” As he spoke, Ethel’s lips went as white as her cheeks, her hands griped tightly the chair-back on which she leaned. A dizziness for a few seconds seized her. “The fellow here made a hard fight for it,” proceeded Duke. ‘ But they captured him at last after peppering his jacket with shot. Upon my word, we can’t help, in a measure, pitying the poor men. it’s.so natural to strive for freedom. This case, however, is not half so interesting as the other, which was quite a sensational plot in itself.” How glibly—how carelessly he talked! How ignorant of the pale face and trembling figure of the young wife behind him! Nervous, lest her silence should attract atten- tion, Ethel forced herself to speak. ‘*In that other case one was killed; but the other was never captured?” ‘No; never, that I have heard,” laughed Duke, lightly. ‘‘If ever there was a cool, de- termined rascal, he was the man!” ‘* Good-by, dear,” broke in Ethel, kissing his forehead. ‘I must begone, or it will be dusk before I return. I shall not be more than an hour.” “How cold your lips are, Ethel!” exclaimed her husband. “ I wish you wouldn’t go this afternoon.” “‘ Nonsense, Duke!” And she gave a nervous laugh. “If I am cold, a brisk walk will make me warm.” Crossing to the window, opening one of the glass doors, she passed out, nodded cheerfully back at him, then ata quick pace, walked to- ward the lodge gates. Duke, rising from his chair, slowly advanced ‘to the window, and watched her moving with 80 quick and elastic a step. ‘*{ have half a mind to accompany her!” he pondered. ‘She's a brave, noble little soul! ‘Only, ’pon my word, in these pensioner visits I feel far more in the way than of any use. Let me see!” consulting his watch: ‘she said she ‘would be about an hour. Perhaps I'll go and _Ineet her.” Making this compromise, he returned to his easy-chair and heap of papers. * Meanwhile Ethel, exhilarated by the brisk walk through the cold March air, had thrown off the fear which any mention of that escape from Portland always occasioned. * Clarissa Harfield was right in her surmise that her cousin’s wife had a secret; but it was a secret untold—a secret which, now that that convict was dead, need never be told, and never could be discovered. No; there was small chance of that. When she died, the secret would perish with her. “ Ethel made her small purchases first, then visited Mrs, Grew, where the garrulity of the bedridden old woman, which the visitor in her good-nature could not check, though she had heard the same complaint twenty times at least already, delayed her longer than she had ex- pected. When she quitted the cottage, the first shades of twilight were falling about the trees. Ethel considered. There were two ways to the Hall —by the high road to the lodge gates, and by the fields to a side gate in the ring-fence. The latter was half a mile or more shorter than the former. ‘ “ Ethel rarely went that way when alone; but now she wished to be at home quickly, so re- solyed to take it. Scarcely, however, had she got half-way across the second meadow, boarded by high, straggling hedges, than she began to regret having taking ‘the solitary path, for she heard ,the quick step of a man behind her. A flutter rose in Ethel’s heart, and she re- flected how angry Duke would be. Then she h encouraged herself by remembering that, save during harvest time, tramps and footpads were rarely known at Eaglehurst, and ventured to take a furtive glance over her shoulder. The man coming along the path was tall and slight, and though shabbily attired, was evi- dently no footpad. A soft tourist hat was pulled over his brows, and the collar of his thin coat was turned up as protection against the nipping wind. He walked with a quick, sharp step, and with his head bent, as if to escape the bleak air. Of Ethel’s presence he seemed totally uncon- scious. Encouraged, instead of hastening her pace, she slackened it. She recollected that there was a stile to cross, leading into a narrow lane, and preferred that the man should take the lead, Her change of pace was, apparently, not no- ticed or not heeded by the other, who in a few minutes passed her swiftly, sprung over the stile, and disappeared. Ethel lingered a few moments to permit him to get well in advance before she followed. No sooner, however, had she entered the lane than she started back with a wild, terrified ery. The man had not gone on. He was there by the hedge, evidently waiting for her; but he no longer looked the same who had passed a mo- ment ago. The hat was raised from the hand- some but keen face, the collar laid down, the coat thrown open. , It had been years since they had met, but now the recognition was instantaneous. ‘‘Hdward! Great Heaven!” ejaculated Ethel, with a frightened cry. Then, “Oh, it cannot be!—it is impossible! Living!” ‘‘Not impossible, for it is true,” replied the , man, with a short laugh, taking a step for- © ward. As he did so, pale from a great dread, Ethel : retreated. Ske need not have feared. The } other, merely raising himself to the top of the stile, sat there confronting her. ““Why should I not be alive,” he proceeded, “though you evidently thought me dead?” By an efiort steadying her voice, trying to realize her position, Ethel answered, ‘I did. How could T think otherwise?” “¢ And wished it?’ he laughed. ‘‘ What reason had I for not desiring it?” she retorted. ‘‘ What but misery have you ever brought to me and mine? What,” she added, suddenly wringing her hands, “but relief could I feel while believing you dead?—what but despair to see you here alive, again to per- secute—disgrace me? Why are you here,” she continued, ‘‘ when they said you died on the Portland rocks? Oh, Heaven!” she almost shrieked, as the remembrance recurred to her; ‘“‘ how dared they deceive me?—how dared they say what was not true?” “What, then,” he remarked, with a half- sneer, ‘‘ you had not so entirely buried your-. self but that that report reached your ¢ars?” ‘‘T read it,” she answered, keeping down her emotion, which from experience she knew, un- less he had much changed, would have little effect on her companion. ‘‘I sawin a news- paper, a year ago last August, how two con- victs had escaped from Portland; how one had evaded pursuit; how the other, Edward Vaughan, had been found dead among the rocks upon which he must have fallen.” “Exactly. But did you not read that other paragraph, my dear Ethel, which appeared in the Saturday papers?” , “What paragraph?’ she demanded, a deadly faintness coming over her as she recollected that that was the day on which she had prom. ised to become Duke Sterndale’s wife. “That which stated that there had been an error in regard to the convict who was killed, On taking the dead man back to Portland, and washing his bruised, lacerated face, it was found by a peculiar mark on the left temple, that be was not Edward Vaughan, but Gerald Ainsley. In fact, that Edward Vaughan must have been with the poor fellow at the time of: the accident, and, ascertaining him to be dead, * hee he
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ONLY A SCHOOLMISTRESS. 2: ‘had changed clothes—that is, cap and jacket—- the better to destroy his own identity.” “ And—and—this was true?—you did this?” “I did, with success. You see, I am here.” “‘ And I,” moaned Ethel, beneath her breath, ‘never saw it! Ah! why did I ever see the other?—why did I ever believe this man dead, and bring sorrow and disgrace on Duke—on. my boy?” She was leaning against the hedge, head drooped and hands clasped. Could she have died at that moment she would have rejoiced. Yet no; she must live to keep her secret still— toavert misery, if possible, and at any sacri- fice, from those so dear to her. Suddenly she became conscious of the rapid- ly falling twilight, and thought of Duke’s anx- iety at her protracted absence. Suppose he should seek her? The idea roused her into ac- tion. By any means she must get rid of her companion—also must discover the purpose which had made him seek her out. That, how- aver, she believed she could guess only too easily. “So,” she said, looking up, ‘though at large, Edward, you are a hunted man, flying, hiding from justice?” “No less; with the honor of having fifty pounds placed as a reward upon my head,” he replied, lightly. ‘What a life!” she shuddered. “Tt is not pleasant,” he laughed; ‘‘ but pref- -erable, I assure you, to toiling in the Portland quarries.”’ . ‘Why have you sought me?” she went on. “How did you find me?” ‘By the merest chance,” he replied. « ‘ Na- turally following the instincts of affection ”— she made an impatient movement of her hand —‘ directly I could with safety after my es-- cape, I strove to discover you, but without suc- cess. Three weeks ago, however, I determined, my exchequer being on the verge of bank- ruptey, to make my way to Liverpool. I had reached as far as this, half tramping it and getting a lift when I could, when, yesterday evening, as I entered Eagleburst, footsore and weary, a handsome carriage passed me, in which you were seated, bright, comfortable, handsomely dressed by the side of a regular swell. Fancy, Ethel ’—and he laughed—‘ the dust of your carriage wheels fell over me, a tramp!” “ And whose fault is that?’ she exclaimed. ‘‘What have I ever done, Edward Vaughan, to merit the ill-fortune that has pursued me? What have you done to deserve a better fate? No, you have yourself to thank that your for- tune was not.a brilliant one. You are here— you have found me,” she proceeded, more rap- idly, her tones growing passionate in her fear, her pleading. . ‘‘ Klward, surely I have suffer- ed enough; you will not again destroy my happiness? You will not bring misery, dis- grace on those I love—those who have proved to me that there is still goodness on earth? The tie that binds us cannot be broken; but how would its being made public benefit you? I know you are bad, unprincipled, but will not believe you so bad as to harm one who never harmed you. Edward, if pity ever entered your heart, let it do so now for me!” She had small hope of moving him; but, carried away by her remembrance of Duke and her child, Ethel, sinking on her knees, ex- tended her. hands prayerfully toward him. Descending from the stile, he took her hands between his, and answered, “Rise, Ethel; I do not doubt we shall easily comy to an under- -standing.. To make public who I am, and who you are, would certainly not benefit me. No; far from plucking you down from your high estate, you can better serve me by remaining init. Last night, at the small inn yonder ”— and he jerked his handsome. head toward the town—‘‘I learned your history. How you came here, a kind of parish school-teacher, and finally married the young Squire Sterndale, who showed his taste by admiring your good- ness and beauty. Yes, Ethel, 1 am a villain; but I know goodness when I see it, and you f are good. I will not harm you further than I can help,” he added, ‘‘if you will aid me, for I want assistance, confoundedly. A man in hid- ing finds it difficult to get even bread and cheese enough to keep life together.” “What aid do you want?” she asked, faintly. His words had surprised her; but how could she put trust in them? The position of a straw was not more easily changed by the wind than this man, the essence of selfishness, by circum- stances. ‘* Money,” he answered, laconically. ‘*T thought so.” “Yes; the want with me is chronic,” he laughed. ‘‘The need of it has led me to be what Iam. But you will not rail against the purpose for which I now require it,” he went on. ‘‘I wish to get away to America. There, out West, San Francisco direction, I may make a living; here, leading the existence of a hunted dog, I never can.” He was right. The idea of bis leaving Eng- land made her heart beat with a sudden joy. There was feasibility, too, in this desire. There might be hope for him in America; there was not any here. “ How much will you require?” she asked, so readily that he smiled. ‘‘ But,” she added, “understand me, for [ speak truth. You must be reasonable in your demand, for I have con- trol over little money, and will lay myself open to no suspicion of my husband’s,” “There, Pll take care of that!” he laughed. “T will not kill. the goose that lays the golden eggs, my dear Ethel! And from your riches, who knows but you may find it a charitable deed now and again to inclose a bank-note to a poor fellow making his way in the world?” She shuddered. Did he mean this as a threat? That these demands would be fre- quently made a ceaseless trouble in her life? She replied, firmly, ‘‘ Keep the secret that binds us yet a secret, and as far asI can I will help you. How much do you require now? Be speedy, for I cannot delay longer. Gracious!” and in terror she glanced round. “How dark it has grown!” Yes; too late, I suppose, for you, the Squire’s young wife, to be abroad, for fear of footpads and other bad characters,” he re- marked, jestingly. ‘‘ There, I will no longer detain you. I do not wish to be other than friends. For my passage, outfit, and a little money to start with after I cross the great continent, I cannot say less than a hundred and fifty.” “A hundred and fifty!” she gasped. can never do it!” . “You must try, Ethel. Why, the price of that brooch and those earrings you wear would go far toward the sum.” ‘““T fear I cannot do it,” she rejoined. ‘‘If I could, I would. Listen, Edward!” she pro- eeeded hurriedly, growing more and more terrified at the increasing darkness. How should she account for her long absence to Duke? “ What I can do, I swear I will! To- morrow I can let you know what that will be. But how communicate with you?’ “Not by letter,” he put in, hastily. ‘‘Re- member, while in England I am always in hiding. I must be cautious; trebly so since I have a chance of quitting England, and giving my pursuers the slip. Any communica- tion between us, Ethel, must be verbal. Where can I meet you?” “Meet me? Impossible!” “No; reflect.. Surely there must be some place where you might do so in safety? Ah, Ihave it!” he added, after a brief reflection. “You, of course, know the old ruined mill on the moor. It cannot be half a mile from your place; that is, beyond the grounds. No spot could be safer. I passed the day there yester- day, not caring to enter Eaglehurst until eve- ning, when I could reconnoiter it and its police better. Say the mill after dusk.” Ethel reflected. It did appear the safest spot; for, as her companion had said, it was but a few minutes’ walk from the Sterndale | grounds. cy “Let it be there,” she said. ‘‘ At eight, to- morrow evening, you shall then know what I can do for you. Now I can stay no longer.” - “Thanks, and good-night!” he said. Then, as she passed to proceed on her way, he held out his hand. ‘* What!” he added, as she re- coiled quickly; ‘‘ you will not take it?’ “No!” she answered, firmly. ‘And you know why. Never, Edward Vaughan, shall my hand be willingly placed in yours!” “Oh, very well; as you please. Don’t think I intend to force you to it,” he remarked, carelessly, shrugging his shoulder. Then, abruptly striding toward her, leaning bis face, convulsed with sudden angry suspicion, for- ward, he exclaimed, “Listen to me, Ethel. You hate me; you have owned that the belief of my death brought no regret. Have you now any plan to give me up—to have done with me? Remember, fifty pounds is placed on my head. A secret word from you, and fifty people would be only too delighted to capture me.” Haughtily, scornfully she turned: her glance upon him. tty “Are you mad, Edward Vaughant” she remarked, coldly. ‘‘How would your benefit me? You know I dare not betray you! Do you forget who you are—what we are tw each other?” Then, without another word, she hastened down the Jane. When she had gone, and the man, re-cross- ing the stile, had returned toward Eaglehurst, a woman moved away from the other side of the hedge inclosing the meadow opposite that by which Ethel had come. It was Clarissa Harfield. Misfortune had brought her to the spot, and she had overheard nearly the entire interview. A smile of triumph was on her features as, crossing the meadow swiftly at am angle, she returned to the Dower House, ‘‘] knew I was right—that there was a dark spot in Ethel Vaughan’s life,” she murmured. ‘““T have her secret at last, and the cards ars in my hands, though I must be cautious hew I play them. What did she say?—‘Do you forget what we are to each other? I wonder what is the tie that connects her, and makes her subservient to the convict Edward Vaughan’s will? ‘Tie!’ she repeated, with a sneering laugh; “surely there can be but one!” Meanwhile Ethel hurried home. Her brain was in a whirl, so suddenly bad it all hap- pened—the reappearance of this man, whom she had believed dead—that it seemed like a dream. But she had only to look around her, at the darkness that was descending over the land, to feel how real it was. How should she account for her long absence to Duke? She was breathless as she entered the hall, bright with light. ‘Where is your master?” she asked of the footman. ‘In the study, ma’am, He was coming, I think, to meet you, ma’am when the rector called.” “Thank Heaven!” refiected Ethel, as she crossed to the drawing-room. Ringing for the maid, she removed her has and mantle; then drew a chair to the fire, to which she spread her hands, shivering as with cold. How bright and happy had been her life a few hours ago! And now it looked as drear and melancholy as the black March night without. In about five minutes she heard her hus- band’s. voice and the rector’s. Thon the hall-door closed, and Duke, a second after, entered. “Oh, you are back, Ethel!” he said, ad- vancing toward’ the fire. you so late, my love? When twilight set in I was coming to meet you, only the rector de- layed me.” “Tm glad; dear,” she replied, with a forced smile, ‘you had not the trouble. I can never get away from that old Mrs. Grew, and the night is so bleak.” “Bleak!” be repeated, looking ao at her. rs *~ iy “ Whatever made — ~~ oF re
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“Why, Ethie, you are as white as a ghost, end look as chilled as your hands feel,” he added, with concern. ‘‘I told you, my love, you ought not to go out in this east wind. You have caught a cold.” “T think I have a little,” she answered, glad to seize the excuse he offered. ‘ But it is nothing; a day or two’s imprisonment in the house will cure it. At the worst, Duke, it will only necessitate your dining at the Dower House to-morrow evening without me.” “You certainly shall not go out again in this east wind until you look better,” he said, as, stooping, he kissed her, attributing the shiver she gave when his lips touched her fore- nead to cold. “Oh,” moaned Ethel, mentally, ‘“‘if he only knew! How willit allend? Will Edward be true, and my secret safe?” CHAPTER V. THE RUINED MILL. Lirrue sleep visited Ethel’s eyes that night, and in the morning she had no need to assume indisposition that Duke might proceed alone to © Dower House, leaving her free. On the rary, she had to try to make him believe less ill than she really was. Her cheeks ‘were colorless, her eyes haggard. -Her mental suffering through the long night-watches had not been entirely occasioned by the idea of obtaining the money Edward Vaughan required, nor by any doubt that the Jatter would not use the sum as he had ex- } Jained. His safety depended on his quitting jJigland. It was terror lest by any unforeseen cireamstance Duke should discover her secret. Little did she dream ‘that it was already in the possession of an enemy who would be pitiless in her use of it. How that day went to Ethel she never dis- tinetly knew. Her brain felt dazed, while her sensitiveness to any sound was painfully acute, For the first time, Duke’s presence irri- tated her, and she could find no relief in ‘the society of her boy. It was easy for her to “attribute her depression to her cold, and the ' dull, wintry aspect of the day. It formed an exeuse for her to sit silently by the fire during the long afternoon. How. long it seemed to her! Would the evening never come?—and the morrow? Ah, then she might breathe again, for Edward ‘Vaughan would be far away. Lest Duke should carry out a half-expressed suggestion that he would send an excuse to his step-mother, and not leave her alone, Ethel roused. herself as evening drew on, eres even animated and lively. ‘* My dear Duke,” she laughed, “ you really must go. The idea! I should never hear the dJastof it from your cousin Clarissa, who, be- tween ourselves, does not, I fancy, favor me with very warm friendship. They would say you me, and I was willing to be spoiled. Were I really ill, dear, don’t think I would send: you away. But [ am so much better since ‘this morning that I might almost accom. _ pany you.” ~.. auinutes back.” They stood together on the long, white, silky vhearth-rug, before the fire, and while she spoke she lifted her face toward him. As the even- ing had-drawn on, a neryous excitement had taken possession of her. Her eyes were bril- liant, her cheek flushed. ‘* Accompany me?” exclaimed Duke, as he put his arm round her waist. ‘ Not if I know it, little wife. Yes, you are better; but I fear, love, itiis the excitement of your feverish cold. If you are not quite well to-morrow, I certain- ly shall call in Doetor Danvers.” “Ah,” laughed Ethel, ‘‘ we’ll wait. for to- morrow, then.. Now, Duke, you really must \start, or you will keep Mrs. Sterndale’s dinner (waiting, and that always makes her angry, kd know.» Harrison announced the carriage five “Well, good-by, love, Mind you go to bed warly.” » «Be assured D'll take care of myself, You will not know me to-morrow,” proceeded Ethel, CHOOLMISTRESS. not aware that her words might have been taken for a prophecy. ‘‘Stay; how carelessly you have made the bow of your tie. Let me arrange it.” He came back to her, and, with trembling fingers, she retied the small white strip of cam- bric. Why did she so linger over it? Why was she so loth to let him depart? Was she con- scious of that reluctance unknown to herself? Was she already under the influence of the dark cloud so soon to overshadow her? Finally, however, the tie was arranged. With another kiss he left her. She remained standing until she heard the door close, and the wheels of the carriage die away down the ave- nue. Then she dropped into her chair, covered her face with her hands, and burst into a fit of hysterical weeping. Surely, indeed, the cloud was descending upon her spirit. So she remained until past seven, when she ascended to ber room. As she came out again, she heard her baby’s voice. He was crying fretfully. Crossing the corridor, she opened the door of the nursery, which Duke had made quite luxurious for his son and heir. “What is the matter with Master Marma- duke?” she inquired of the nurse, a pleasant- featured woman, who was pacing the room with the child in her arms, jerking her body backward and forward in time to a nursery ditty. “T don’t know, ma’am. He seems a bit feverish, and won’t go to sleep—that he won’t.” Ethel, taking the infant, sat down on a low chair, and rocked it, gently humming a song. The child nestled closer to her bosom, and the large blue eyes, fixed on her face, gradually closed. In ten minutes he was asleep. “T can’t tell how it is, ma’am, he always goes to sleep with you,” smiled the nurse, as Ethel, after kissing the little pink cheeks, placed the baby in its cot—a gem of blue silk and lace. ** Are you better yourself, ma’am?” “Yes, thank you, Jenkins. I shall be quite well to-morrow. Iam going tomy own room now. Please see that I am not disturbed.” But, instead, Ethel glided quickly down- stairs to the drawing-room. Here she had al- ready brought her dark ulster, and a bat with a vail. Putting them on, she quitted the house by the drawing-room window, closing the glass door behind her. In her pocketbook were notes for a hundred pounds. It wus all she had at the time,.and that by chance, as she had happened a few days before to draw that amount from her banker’s out of the handsome allowance Duke made her. The night was as dark as that previous one, only now the wind, having veered to north- east, moaned and rustled among the leafless trees as Ethel sped beneaththem. Thesky was mottled by dark, stormy clouds, that flew swiftly over the heavens. The path she traversed led through the wood- ed portion of the grounds. It was a dreary, wild spot at that hour; but Ethel had no fear— her mind was too engrossed by her errand. In an hour she would be coming back, all dread removed, Reaching the gate in the ring fence, and lift- ing the latch, she passed through. The moor was now all around her, save to the south, where lay Sterndale, which she was leaving. In front, she knew, was the place of meeting, and proceeded onward over the uneven ground. In a few minutes the ruined mill rose up at a little distance before her, a bulk in the dark- ness. It hada weird aspect, for behind it in the horizon were some dashes of white cloud, where the:moon was rising, the light of which shone through the bars of the gaunt sails, about which the canvas hung in tatters. A little nearer, Ethel beheld, in one of the small lower irvine: the red reflection of ' a “ What madness!” she itough: who spoke of precaution!” Perbaps:he had done it as a beacon-light to her over the dark moor. Even then it was af He, toe, unwise. It was not likely any one would pass; at that hour. Yet supposing they should? _ Ethel hastened on, and soon stood at the foot: of the small flight of wooden stairs leading to. the door. Her light step had been heard by Edward Vaughan, who was waiting. The door was instantly opened by him, letting out a red glow upon his visitor. That day Clarissa Harfield had been scarcely less anxious than Ethel herself. Through the night she had Jain awake thinking and planning. Her time truly had arrived—she felt it, knew it—but the blow intended for her rival sbe de- sired to appear not to come entirely from her- hand. Before morning dawned, she had decided. Rising an hour later, she carefully penned a. letter, unsigned—with knaves, as cowards, it. is usual to stab anonymously. Then, before: the household was astir, she quitted the Dower > House, proceeded across the fields to Hagle- hurst, and posted her communication while- slumber yet held the little town in silence. If the day was long to Ethel, it was longer to Clarissa, who was of a more excitable, impa- tient nature. In the morning she acquainted Mrs Sterndale with a portion of what she knew. “What!” ejaculated the lady, dropping her work on her knees. ‘‘My dear Clarissa, think of what you are saying! Ethel, my son’s wife, meet a man clandestinely?” ‘My dear aunt,” replied her niece gravely, “for your sake, for Duke’s—though he cannot. say he was not warned—I wish I could recall my words. when I went over the fields to Eaglehurst, I came upon Ethel anda man talking together, and familiarly, as old acquaintances, in Blue Bell Lane.” “Good gracious! he?” “That I cannot tell. Tome he was a stran- ger, as Isuspect he is to Kaglehurst.” “Do you—do you,” asked Mrs, Sterndale, , who liked Ethel more than she had dared con- fess to her niece—‘‘ think, Clarissa, that he was: a former lover?” The niece shook her head. ‘*No, aunt; from ‘the words I heard there is a stronger tie binding them. © His oe was evidently no pleasure to Ethel. ‘She seem- ed terrified lest any one should’see her, Who- ever he is, aunt, he has a power over her she cannot resist; for I heard him demand a hun- dred and fifty pounds to enable him to emape to America.” **Good heavens! My poor Duke!” gasped : Mrs. Sterndale. ‘‘ Oh; this is dreadful, Clar- issa! Suppose this man is some bad‘character? —some relation of Ethel’s? pope ind the dis-. grace to our name! Clarissa slightly shrugged her shoulders: ‘‘Did I not warn Duke? Did I not say there was a mystery about:that Ethel Vaughan?— that she had a secret which could scarcely be to her honor, else she would hardly have held it untold to her husband?” “That is true. right,” whimpered Mrs. Sterndale. And the man—who was. * Dear, dear, what a ‘wretched, miserable ‘thing it is : that people should have-such troubles forced | upon them! ’Rissa, I suppose Duke must be in- formed of this?” “You, my dear aunt, must narely, be the best judge of that.” “OF course he must be told,” remarked the lady; petulantly. ‘‘It wouldn’t do to let things ButI cannot. Yesterday evening, - Yes, Clarissa; you were : go quietly, so that greater disgrace should come . of it. wife, and, believing him dead when he wasn’t, had married my pour Duke!” “Such things have been, aunt. Who he real- ly is Duke must ascertain.” - “ But who is to tell him?” “Who better, aunt,” responded the niece, ‘than’ his own mother? He will listen tothe story best from your lips, knowing ‘you love. Ethel, and that’ Sterndale honor isias: dear tov you as to him.” “Do you mean that I should drive over to. Just imagine if Ethel were this man’s * a
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ONLY A SCHOOL MISTRESS. 9 the Hall? Icouldn’t Rissa! My nerves wouldn’t let me!” “There is no occasion. Are they not com- ing here this evening?—or, rather, Duke; for I suspect Ethel will find an excuse to stay away.” “But there is another difficulty,” put in the elder lady. ‘‘ Duke adores his wife; he will never believe anything against her.” “That, aunt, must rest with him,” replied Clarissa. ‘If you mean he will doubt my word, he will have an opportunity of himself proving its truth, Why I said Ethel would find some cause for not dining here is because she has made an appointment with the man this evening at eight at the ruined millon the moor to take him the money he needs!” “What, Clarissal—a hundred and fifty pounds—and of poor Duke’s money? Why, if he is not told, she will ruin him! Besides, if there really be something wrong, it is only proper that Duke should be able to judge with his own eyes.” Clarissa and her aunt talked long over this threatened disgrace to Sterndale, and by the former’s suggestion it was arranged that Duke should not be told until after dinner; for, being of an impetuous disposition, he might hurry back to the Hall, and thus destroy all proof by putting his wife on her guard. When the young husband, arriving at about the same moment as the announcement of din- ner, entered alone, apologizing for Ethel’s ab- sence, a quick, meaning glance passed between the two ladies. Duke, however, having at the instant to give his arm to Mrs. Sterndale, fail- ed to notice it, or the rather cold fashion with which the news of his wife’s indisposition was received. ; At dinner he certainly thought his mother and cousin, though more than ordinarily kind, less pleasant company than usual; consequently, though alone, sat rather longer over his wine. “Now,” he remarked, as finally he crossed to the drawing room, “T’ll take a cup of coffee, and go back to Ethel. It’s a shame tv leave her by herself. Where is Rissa, mother?’ he asked, when, on entering, he found only Mrs. Sterndale there. “She will be hero directly, my dear Duke. But I want a few words in private with you. Come ”—moving her skirt—‘“‘ and sit by me.” “Why, what is wrong?’ answered her step- son. ‘I fancied something was from your and *Rissa’s manner. Has the cook again given warning, or the gardener spoiled your favorite orchids?” ‘Don’t jest, dear Duke,” said Mrs. Sterndale, gravely but kindly, as she placed her hand on his, “This is, indeed, most serious—that is, I fear so!” ‘What do you mean?” “Now, you mustn’t be angry with me, Duke, for it isn’t my fault. How could it be?” she proceeded, dropping into her nervous, whim- pering manner. ‘Heaven knows if I could make it different I would!” “What would you make different? Speak; you are driving me mad!” “But I can’t Duke, while you look like that! You frighten me! If you’ll sit down—” Duke threw himself into the chair, and then was told all. What his feelings were we cannot describe. He would not believe the tale—would not mis- trust Ethel—so pure, so fond, so good! “Tt is not true!” he cried, springing up again. “Tt is false! Ethel shall come here herself, if she can without lessening her dignity, and tell you it is false!” “Thank you! It is the first timethat I have had my word doubted! In future I will not trouble myself with the honor of others when my reward is insults!” Tt was Clarissa who had spoken. She had en- tered unperceived. Her tones were cold and haughty; the glance that met Duke's full of scorn. Slightly abashed, he answered, ‘‘I did not mean to insult you, Clarissa! But how can I believe this of my wife?” “Your wife, Duke, whose antecedents you never knew—remember that!” said his cousin, calmly. ‘‘ What interest would it be to me to concoct such a story, which, if false, could soon be proved so? On the contrary, you have the means of verifying my words. Ethel Stern- dale has not dined here to-day because she meets him I saw with her, at eight to-night; at the ruined mill, to hand him a sum of money to enable him to quit England, and to pay him for keeping her secret!” “* By Heaven!” cried the wretched husband, “T will test your words! I will unravel this cruel doubt!” “ And I will go with you!” said Clarissa. ‘‘I have a right, since you have refused to believe my words.” “Do so!” he retorted, as he hastened into the hall for his hat. ‘‘ Innocent or guilty, I care not if all the world know it! But guilty—no; I do Ethel wrong for a second to entertain the thought!” Shortly after, the two were making their way to the ruined mill. They had proceeded more than half-way when a distant church clock struck eight. On that same day there had reached the chief constable of Eaglehurst an anonymous, ill-spelt, ill-written communication, which ran thus:— ‘““Edwud Varn, the convick which escaped from Portlind las argust twelmonth is now in lehurs in idin afor he gets off to Liverpool. Ternight at a quorter pas ate he'll be at the ruined mill on the more, if you like to take him. Don’t come afore that time. Fifty pounds is offered to them as cap- tures him.” The chief constable turned the missive this way and that curiously, and examined the post- mark. “ Now,” he reflected, ‘‘is this a hoax, or the result of a falling-out between thieves? It’s. true Edward Vaughan did escape from Port- land last August twelvemonth, and it’s certain Eaglehurst lies in the road to Liverpool, if the chap’s bound for America, though I should ’a’ fancied he’d got clean off there long ago. Still, fifty pounds is fifty pounds, and I don’t see why it shouldn’t be in my pocket if I can get it. Besides, if it’s a hoax or if it ain’t, it’s my duty to take notice of the communication,” So that evening Chief Constable Follett and two of his men, at about a quarter to eight, started, with every precaution to avoid obser- vation, for the ruined mill. CHAPTER VI. WHAT HAPPENED THERE. ETHEL quickly ascending the steps, entered the mill, when the man closed the door. The room seemed of that description which for- merly had served as a kitchen and general sit- ting-room for the miller’s family and men. The plaster of the walls was stained and dilapidated; portions, fallen from the ceiling, leaving the rafters exposed. ; On one side was a flight of wooden stairs leading through an opening to a room above; opposite to the stairs was a deep, high chimney- place, with settles at each side, and where at the present moment burned asmall bright wood fire. ‘““What made you light that?’ asked Ethel, pointing impatiently at the hearth. ‘‘Do you court detection?’ As she spoke, she crossed to the window to close the shutters. “Tt’s no use, my dear,” smiled Edward Vaughan. “ The shutters have long been gone. Served, I suspect, as fuel for some poor beggar!” ‘‘The more unwise to have kindled the fire,” responded Ethel. ‘Could you not have borne the cold a little while, rather than risk your safety?” ‘*Tt’s all very well for those who are warm to talk of supporting cold,” he retorted, with a sneer, glancing at his thin, worn garments, then at her thick, seasonable clothing. ‘‘ Butthere,” he added, quickly, in a changed tone—‘‘ there's no fear, Ethel. I fancy many a tramp has found shelter and warmth here ere this, for there were the ashes of a fire when I came. And I don’t want to be rough or cross, for it’s kind of you to keep your word. Have you brought the money?” ‘* Not all!” she answered, drawing near the fire, and so standing as to permit its reflection falling as little as possible on the window. “I told you I feared Icould not. Ihave brought a hundred.” The man’s brows contracted darkly. “Only a hundred!” he remarked. ‘“ That’s awfully little to carry a fellow to San Fran- cisco. I don’t think I can do it.” ‘Don’t threaten me, Edward!” she answer- ed, meeting his glance calmly. ‘‘T told you I would do for you what I could. I can give you the hundred pounds now, and it is only by a fortunate chance I am able to do that. But leave me the name of some place where I can send to. you, and you shall have the fifty.” Edward Vaughan was Jeaning against the opposite side of the fire, which flashed up its bright light between them. His arms were folded, and his dark, handsome eyes were bent on the graceful, still rather girlish-looking fig- ure before him, with an expression of a! pity. ; See “That’s very kind of you, Ethel,” he sai “There is only one person in the world whos word I would trust, and you are that person. I don’t believe you ever told a falsehood in your life.” ‘‘Then you are wrong,” she answered, in a low tone. ‘Since last evening I have been compelled to tell many—for your sake.” ‘And possibly,” he putin, “for his sak too, Ethel. harmless ones, easily forgiven.” She did not immediately reply. Taking out her pocket-book, she drew from it some folded notes, and passed them to him. , ‘There are the hundred pounds,” she said. “Count them.” “No.” And he crushed them into his pocket. “Didn’t I say I trusted you, Ethel?” “You may. Ishould not deceive you. Now farewell; I need remain no longer.” She moved toward the door, but he checked her. ‘Don’t you feel curious at all about my fu- ture, Ethel?” he said, ‘‘ Are we thus to part? Remember, we may never—I don’t think we shall ever meet again!” “‘ Will it not be better? Have I not paid that it should be so?” she retorted. ‘¢ Who would have thought, Ethel,” he said, with a half smile, “‘that once we were very fond of each other? That I’d have gone through fire and water for you, and you held me as a hero—your idol!” : ‘*An idol you were not long in shattering, Edward,” she answered, sadly. ‘The love that once was between us died years ago!” Without the worm-eaten door stood Duke Sterndale, hearing, seeing all. There was a storm of passion in his breast that overcame his suffering. His lips were compressed, his face pale, his eyes gleamed withanger. By his side was his cousin, Clarissa Harfield. Twenty yards distant, three men were at) ~ the same time advancing through the darkness to the mill. Ignorant of the peril closing round her, Ethel, feeling some pity for her companion, stepped back. “Edward,” she said, “give me ground for feeling interest once again in you. Let the fu- ture make some amends for the past.” “Ethel, I intend, pon my word, to try,” he replied, ‘‘ It’s a difficult thing to be honest. Yet I shall soon begin a new life in a new land.” “T shall be glad to learn that you have suc- ceeded. But, for the sake of others, remem- ber your promise that you will never come here again. Now give me the address to which. I am to write, and Jet me go.” He was about to comply, when a sound with- out made him spring quickly back. The star- tled, desperate expression, habitual to the hunted, came on his features. Ethel also had heard, but hardly had she 7 Well, they were, I suspect, very = 4 4 | — ow a en : . : : i at aa - eo ee ee Ue;
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| “ z ; | : | ) z 10 turned than the door was flung wide, and, to her horror, Duke Sterndalestrode in. With a cry she recoiled, then took one step forward, with arms extended. “Duke, have mercy!” she ejaculated, in broken accents. ‘‘ Hear me!” ‘“‘Hear you!” he cried. ‘Yes, speak the truth. Who is this man? Answer,sand not falsely, or, by Heaven, Ethel, you and I are strangers from this hour!” “Oh, Heaven, have pity!” moaned Ethel, staggering forward. “I have wronged you, Duke, but pardon; that man is my—my—” ‘‘Husband!” broke in the clear, ringing tones of Clarissa Harfield. Whether Ethel heard or not, she had no op- portunity of proving, for she dropped insensi- ble at Duke’s feet. “‘ And,” concluded the rougher voice of Chief Constable Follett, running up the steps, ‘‘ Edward Vaughan, the escaped convict. Now, lads, there’s your prisoner; seize him!” . .. But the capture was not to be so easily ef- tected. Edward Vaughan, a hard, defiant ex- pression on his countenance, had, as the officers Bios ry , thrown one rapid glance round in of a means to escape. ‘There was but one—the stairs. In a mo- ment he had gained them, and had sprung up, disappearing through the opening. He stopped to close the trap after him, and to feel for the fastening. There was none. Turning, he ran —where, he knew not. Meanwhile his brain was busy. Who could have discovered him? Who put these men on his track? Could it have been Ethel? No; of that he was as- sured, It was as much to her interest as his own that he should escape. As he went, his hands groping his way through the dark mill, he heard the officers slowly following. Then it struck him how useless was his flight. Like the thief me rushes into a lane with no thoroughfare, when he got to the top of the mill he could go no further. Then he must be ~ taken. Suddenly he stumbled. Here was another stair, narrower than the others. He must either go up it, or wait to be taken. Never! With Portland before him, he would make a desperate fight for liberty. He went on, and panting, reached the top. ‘Here a moment, breathless, he paused. All was darkness. He heard the police searching the rooms he had passed. They were so sure of him they could take their time. Fiereely Edward Vaughan looked round. Had he reached the top of the mill? Could he _go no further? Was he to be taken like a rat in a trap? As he turned, he became conscious of a streai aig tee cold air blowing on his face. astened in the direction, and found a window, or rather the opening where the win- had been. e started with a cry of joy; for against the sky—now of a pale, leaden gray—he be- held the bars of the lowest sail of the wind- mill. Stepping nearer, he looked through the opening. The sail was within a few feet of him. Could he, had he the courage to risk the spring? The reward would be liberty; the failure, injury, death, perhaps. If he remained, he must bid farewell to freedom forever, and bet- ter death than life without that. The policemen’s tread was already on the stair. Hesaw the gleam of their lanterns in the room. — He decided. Drawing a little back for impetus, he made the — he failed? No. His fingers clutched gud the bars. Rapidly he planted his feet, to relieve the weight of bis hands, then swiftly descended, On reaching the last bar, he found the sail 2;.; anew ri ee See SS ae A ONLY A SCHOOLMISTRESS. far higher from the ground than he had ima- gined. But having done so much, he was not to be daunted by this. Hanging by bis fingers, he swung himself there awhile, then dropped. He fell on his hands and knees, for a second mutch dazed and shaken, but not otherwise hurt. The imminence of his peril caused him to rise quickly to his feet. A moment he paused to glance at the mill. All was dark. Only a faint gleam shone from the upper window through which he had come. The police were still searching, then. They had not guessed yet how he had managed to elude them. With the most rapid spsed he could com- mand, he made his way across the moor. Meanwhile, another scene was taking place in the mill-kitchen. When Ethel, with a moaning cry, had sunk to the floor, Duke had half sprung forward to her side; but his cousin’s words arrested him. “Her husband?’ he ejaculated, turning quickly, heedless of the fugitive and his pur- suers. ‘‘ How, Clarissa, can you know that?’ ‘From inference, Duke,” she answered, sadly, as advancing, kneeling by her rival, she gently raised Ethel’s head, loosening the hat and the ulster about the throat. ‘‘ Duke,” she proceeded, “‘ this is terrible for you. But do not again willfully blind yourself. Remem- ber the past; recall facts. This man and Ethel bear the same name; are both young. You heard hisewords—bow once love existed be- tween them. Recollect, too, that it appears this man is Edward Vaughan, the escaped convict, and Ethel refused to be your wife until after that paragraph falsely reporting the convict Edward Vaughan’s death. Then, before the week was over, she had said, *Yes,’” “Oh!” groaned Duke Sterndale. ‘ Clarissa, before I would not, now I must believe you. Aid me; help me! What can I do? What shall I do with this unhappy girl?” With passionate sorrow be looked down upon the pale, deathlike features of Ethel. ‘Leave her, Duke, to me,” rejoined his cousin. ‘* You are in no condition to speak to her now. Neither will sne be fit for such an ordeal. Return to the Dower House; send the carriage here, and I will take Ethel to the Hall. To keep this from becoming public is now impossible.” **Too true!” rejoined Duke, in a low, agita- ted tone. ‘Before to-morrow all Eaglehurst will ring with the name of Sterndale.” “The disgrace is of no Sterndale’s doing. Let that be a consolation, Duke. Now go; for Ethel shows no sign of returning consciousness, and I have no restoratives here.” The young man moved to the door, when his cousin’s soft voice recalled him. “Duke,” she said, plaintively, “I it was who unvailed this sorrow to you. Are you angry? Can you forgive me?” “Forgive you! Clarissa, certainly you have played that which is generally a thank- less part; but I know it was my honor, the honor of our family, which made you speak, and I thank you.” He extended his hand, and when she placed hers in it, raised it to-his lips; then he hurried from the mill toward the Dower House, leav- ing Clarissa in the dilapidated kitchen, kneel- ing in the red glow of the fire, supporting the unhappy Ethel in her arms. CHAPTER VIL. FRIENDLESS —HOMELESS. WovuLp she live? That was the question which was put nearly every hour, day and night, for a week at Sterndale, about which the wondering household went softly. Even Marmaduke, her boy, was removed to a more distiint room, lest his ery, reaching his parent, should turn the balance of life and death against her. Ethel had never recovered consciousness after that fainting-fit. It had but’ given place to hysteria and delirium. All the night Duke had paced the library, receiving each hour bulletins of Ethel’s state from the doctor attending her. Before dawn the latter’s fears were con- firmed. His patient had brain fever, and her life was in great danger. Duke felt it impossible to quit the Hall while this was so, but kept to his own apartments. He never entered Ethel’s room. There were moments when the recollection of his love made him yearn to do so; but he restrained the desire. The more he reflected upon the matter, the more he felt that his cousin Clarissa’s surmise was true. Ethel was evidently Edward Vaughan’s wife. No doubt taken by his hand- some appearance, she had, when young, con- tracted a marriage with a villain. When her eyes had been opened by his arrest and con- demnation, she had hidden from him, in the humble capacity of school-teacher at Eaglehurst. Aware of the ties which bound her to Ed- ward Vaughan, she had rejected Duke, though loving him, until she believed her wretched husband was dead. In that she had willfully committed no sin. Her crime had been in not trusting bim—in keeping her secret untold. Would he have wedded her had she spoken? How could he answer that question now? Edward Vaughan lived. Hence he, Duke, and Ethel must never meet again. None but himself knew how terrible was the thought. There were moments when he recalled those happy, joyous months of wedded life; the birth of his child—his child, of whom Ethel was the mother; and remembered how pretty she had looked’ nursing the infant, of whom both had been so proud, and the silent prayers of gratitude which he had breathed to Heaven for these, his two blessings, and then he feared that his brain would give way. ‘“No, no!” he cried, in agony; never see her more—I dare not! T must I have neither the courage nor the strength!” Once, however, he did. It was on the night when the doctor had said that whether Ethel would live or die would be decided before dawn. Then, the hired nurse only being in attendance in the sick-room—for Duke had refused both Clarissa and his step-mother’s help, feeling that Ethel would prefer it—he entered, and noiselessly approached the bed. The shaded lamp just permitted him to see the head, shorn of the golden wealth, resting motionless on the pillow, the delicate features so white, wan and thin. Would she live? Could ‘she, when now she looked so like to death?’ A terrible emotion seized him. He dropped on his knees by the bed, sobs bursting from his overcharged heart. He was aroused by the nurse, who, putting her hand on his shoul- der, warned him that ber patient’s life depend- ed on the strictest quiet. “ Would it not be better, perhaps, that she died, and felt no more of this cruel trouble?” he thought, bitterly. He rose, pressed his lips to the small, thin hand on the coverlet, and withdrew. “No; I must never see her again!” he moaned. ‘I have not the strength. For her sake, as for my own, we must not meet. Oh, my poor darling! How young, how delicate to bear this weight of trouble!” When dawn broke, Ethel lay prostrate, a shadow of her former self; but the fever had subsided. She was conscious, and the doctor said she would live; only great care must yet be taken to keep all trouble and excitement from her. Whether Ethel remembered as yet, in her weakened state, all the terrible occurrences of that night at the mill, Duke never knew. She lay so quiet, the nurse told him—dquite docile to the slightest order, but rarely utter- ing a word.
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ONLY A SCHOOLMI . > Yet Ethel’s brain was rapidly gaining power. If she did not speak, she thought, and frequently her hollow eyes would turn wistfully to the door when a step sounded in the corridor. Did she expect that Duke would come to her? If so, she bore his absence patiently. ‘““He blames me; but his blame cannot equal mine,” she reflected, ‘I have brought disgrace upon his name -upon our child! I merit his scorn, bis hate! Whatever my pun- ishment, I shall hold it just; and, bowing my head, bear it. It is the only atonement | can make.” Days passed on, and Ethel gradually ad- vanced toward convalescence. She strove to get strong, for she thought that then she would see Duke. “Surely, then,” she reflected; “for he will need some explanation. He keeps from me now, because he knows I am not strong enough to bear the interview.” She never asked to see him nor her boy. She bravely would do nothing that might re- tard. her recovery. Only once she had inquired where Mr. Stern- dale was, and had been told that he was down- Stairs in the library. As sbe grew stronger, she became nervous when she thought of the interview, for which she was, however, very anxious. She wished to know the worst. That Duke held her past forgiveness she had begun to fear by his never once coming near her. She was anxious, too, upon another point. In recalling the scene at the mill, the last part was as but a vague dream. She knew she had spoken, but not what she had said. Finally, the day dawned when, with the doctor’s permission she might leave her room. ‘Now the hour has come,” she reflected. **T shall seo Duke.” Her toilet took long arranging; her fingers trembled so. She wondered how much the household knew of what had happened, and what they thought. After all, what did it matter to her? What did any thing matter beyond Duke’s opinion? Nervously; at last, Ethel descended to the morning-room. It was one of the pleasantest in the house, and Duke generally passed the first hours of the morning there, reading the paper or his letters. Now he was absent. For the first time, a fear seized Ethel—a suspicion of the truth. Hoe would not see her. Recovering the momentary agitation the idea had caused her, she rung the bell. ‘Where is Mr. Sterndale, Harrison?’ she inquired of the footman, whose bearing she observed, with relief, was as respectful as usual. ‘¢He went out, ma’am, immediately after breakfast. He left that letter, ma’am.” The footman indicated one on the mantle- piece, which Ethel had not seen. “Thank you! You may go.” _ Then, when alone, with a sickness at tho heart, she approached the mantlepiece. Placing her hands on it, her head dropped forward on them; and, with a sob, she mur- mured, ‘‘He writes to me! He will not see me! I have disgraced him, and he will not hear my explanation! Oh, Duke, Duke! But I naust be brave! It is my atonement!” Raising her head, she took the letter, and sat down. Fora moment she had not courage to break the seal. Finally, with an effort, she tore away the envelope; and, through blinding tears, read as follows: “WTHEL | - “ By the time you are reading this, I shall be far from Eaglehurst. I could not leave while you were in danger; but I think it better—kinder to both, as we must that we should not meet again. The interview would be too inful, Yet, should ou wish it, I will see you; but how can the past e altered? Why did’ you so cruelly deceive me? Why keep so . a secret from him you intended to make your husband? Yet, poor child! I cannot but pity you; for you sinned in ignorance. You really imagined this man dead when you promised to be my wife. And on that very day when you said ‘ Yes,’ Ethel, I had in my possession the paper which explained the mistake that had been made between tr6-488 two men; but, in my joy, forgot to STRESS. i give itto you. Oh, if lhad not, this present misery would have been spared us both, ‘The happy days we have lived together, the good wife you were to me in those months, we each must try to forget. My bankers have orders to pay you three hundred a year. You may receive it quarter- ly, or how you please. ‘ Now there 1s yet another matter—our boy.” . The young mother paused to dash the tears from her eyes. She could not see for them. Then she proceeded: “His tender years make you his natural guardian; yet I leave it to your maternal love and wisdom to decide whether it will be better, kinder for the child, } for you to take him, or leave him under my charge, where he may benefit from every advantage wealth can give. “Should you desire to write to me in answer, my address for the next week will be the Hotel de 1’Eu- rope, Paris. But, if you would per to send any communication through my mother, she will readily receive it. Ethel, trust her. She likes you; she is your friend. You cannot have many, poor child; and surely you will want them. She will call on you to-day; she pities you. Farewell, oh, Ethel!—once I would have said my darling, but I may not—I dare not now! You know not~—will never know—the agony this letter has caused _me—the pg ms what I would for what I ought to say! Ch, Ethel! Heaven bless you; but would that we had never met!” With that cry of suffering, as it were, the letter terminated. By the time Ethel had read the last sentence her tears had ceased; her grief was too deep for them. The letter sounded unnecessarily severe; she hardly understood it. ‘*Oh, why is this burden mine?’ she mur- mured. ‘So young—-yes; so innocent—yet made to support so much! It is my punish- ment!” sho added—‘‘ it is my atonement!” Suddenly she remembered that sentence in the letter which said that Duke’s step-mother would be there during the day. Ethel would have gone through with an interview with him, but not with her. Somehow she saw the dark, handsome face of Clarissa Harfield over Mrs, Sterndale’s shoulder, as she had beheld it over Duke’s that night at the mill. The fear calmed, steadied her nerves. Duke must be answered, but it must be by letter, through no other medium. Crossing to her davenport, she wrote: “Tcannot blame you—I may not—yet your sen- tence is severe, [had no right, with that grievous burden of disgrace on my shoulders, to let even its shadow fall on a name so old, so time-honored as yours. It was my sin, and I bow with resignation to my unishment, ‘Had I aa excuse? Yes; my love, my adoration for you. I feared to lose you. "Silly woman! I had ve lost you forever. You hate me! am to you a woman who has disgraced you! Ah! present suffering exceeds past joy! Farewell! would I could hope you would soon forget me, and be happy! Farewell! When you think hardest of me, try to re- member that my only temptation to err was my love for you—that can never alter. As you say, an inter- view would be useless. I suppose I confessed all I had to on that fearful night at the mill, but regard- ing that scene my brain is yet in a daze, ‘As to our boy—our Marmaduke—I have already done him too much wrong, and will not stand in his way to advancement. Keep my name from him. Do not let him blush more for his mother than need be. Ileave him with you, though it breaks my heart to quit him. Heaven guard you both. ETHEL.” This being sealed and addressed, she placed it in her pocket, and ascended to her room. The nurse, glad of her liberty, was not there. Ethel’s intention was to leave the Hall without delay before Mrs. Sterndale could arrive. Her preparations were soon made, and she crossed the corridor to the nursery. The child’s nurse sat with the baby on her lap, amusing him by jangling together some_ bright-colored beads. As they clashed and rebounded, the little fellow jumped, clapped his tiny hands, and crowed with delight. His mirth sent a pang to Ethel’s heart. Stooping, she took him in her arms, and would have pressed him to her bosom; but the child, with a fretful cry, turned from her, extending his little arms to the nurse and the bright beads. “ He, too, turns from me!” thought Ethel, as, ete for a few short months of happiness; now I to) ‘with one passionate kiss, she gave him back to the woman. “He is very fond of you, Jenkins,” she said. “T hope Mr. Sterndale will keep you as Mas- ter Marmaduke’s nurse until he no longer needs one.” ““T hope so, too, ma’am,” returned the other, surprised rather at the remark. Then Ethel, quitting the nursery, went back to her own room and dressed. A fixed, stony expression was on her features, the effect of the violent repression of her feelings. She feared to give way. When ready, she passed down to the draw- ing-room, and from thence to the grounds. Crossing the lawn, she entered the avenue, and burried toward the gates. ° It was April now, and the trees were already putting on their spring attire. The air was fresh and pleasant, the sky blue, and the birds in the branches beginning with their sweet notes to practice for summer, Ethel, absorbed by her great sorrow, beeded nothing. Quickly she proceeded until nearing the lodge gates. Looking up, she halted, for coming along the road she saw the rector. Swiftly she passed between the avenue of trees, and concealed herself behind some high rhodo-, dendron-bushes. Breathlessly she waited. She heard the iron gate roll back and close with a clang, then the rector’s step on the firm gravel. Soon he passed. His hands were clasped behind his back, grasping his stick; his shoulders a little bowed; his eyes bent on the ground, a grave expression on his face. He was going to see Ethel. He knew that Duke Sterndale had left that morning; and though she might be to blame, he could not help feeling pity for the poor girl left friend- less and alone. ° “It was I who brought her here,” he reflect- ed. “TI cannot let ber go forth desolate; she — must have some place to go to.” But Ethel let bim pass. How different might the next ycars have been had she seen him! When he was out of sight, round the curve of the avenue, she hastened on to the gate. Open- ing it, she passed through, and as it clanged be- hind her, hurried down the road, crossed a stile in the hedge, and, by a field-path, proceeded to the railway station. The-whistle of the up-train sounded as she entered the waiting-room. Procuring a ticket, she stepped out upon the platform as the train arrived. The porter held open the door of an empty carriage. She got in, and a moment after was being whirled away toward London, CHAPTER VIII. LONG, WEARY MONTHS. THE events that bad taken place at the mill, and which had so affected the Sterndales, filled Eaglehurst. with excitement. In so smalla vil- lage such an affair was not likely to grow cold in the proverbial nine days. Secretly they were not a little proud of it, despite their cutspoken horror and sympathy for “poor Mr. Sterndale,” as the attempted capture and. escape of the notorious convict, Edward Vaughan, had given a wonderful im- portance to the place. Not a paper but bad a full account of it—of the daring descent by the mill sails, the flight across country, and pursuit. Over and ove again ‘‘the police had a clew,” and “‘ the police were on the convict’s track.” The newspaper notices never went beyond that. The ‘‘clew ” and the ‘‘track” both led to nothing. SJ Edward Vaughan had escaped; he was free; and Chief Constable Follett was, in lieu of ‘being fifty pounds richer, rather in disgrace for having let the convict slip through his fingers. This was rather aggravating to a man who had done his best. Chief Constable Follett determined to do something, therefore set about finding the writer of the anonymous letter be had received. The post-mark showed it had been posted in Eaglehurst itself. By whom? No suspicious persons bad been seen about, save Edward Vaughan himself. The writing was carefully inspected. If there were signs of disguise about it, the bad spelling at any rate indicated a most ignorant person. Who else except one who had an enmity against the convict would bave given the in-
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OS To SS Oe = aT. My } 12 ONLY A SCHOOLMISTRESS. formation respecting him? And who would have an enmity against him but one of his own associates? Hence it could be no one at Eaglehurst. Nevertheless, a reward of ten pounds was of- fered for the apprehension of the writer of the anonymous communication. Clarissa Harfield gave herself small concern respecting the matter. No one was likely to suspect her. What interest could she, in the public mind, have in the arrest of Edward Vaughan? She clothed her face with a suitable melan- choly as she moved about the Dower House, waiting for frequent balletins from the Hall, sometimes riding over herself anxiously to in- quire. But secretly her heart was full of triumph. The sun shone more brightly to her eyes than it had done for months. Her hope, waited for so long, had been at last accomplished. Duke and Ethel were parted. Never again could’ they be anything to each other. Even the publicity of a divorce was not necessary, for the schoolmistress had never been his wife. During Ethel’s long illness Clarissa’ almost wished that she would die. It would have ren- dered everything so safe with so little trouble. The honest chivalry of Duke’s nature at times made. her uneasy, for none could look at the change in him and doubt how deep had been his passion for Ethel. ‘But ber cousin soon set her mind at rest on that point. When the doctor announced that the fever had left and Ethel would live, Duke, appearing at the Dower House with the news, had stated it to be his intention to quit the Hall for the Continent, and, if Ethel left the boy with him, to confide Marmaduke to his mother and _ gousin’s care. “That is, mother,” said the wretched hus- band, ‘if you would not find the task too arduous!” ‘“My dear Duke!—as if I would not sacrifice anything for you, my poor boy!” sighed Mrs. Sterndale, ‘It would not be possible to de- scribe how my heart has bled for you in this calamitous affair!” ‘Thanks! I know that! And, mother, give some pity also to poor Ethel. If she is to be blamed, surely, too, she deserves a little sympathy!” “ T don’t know what there is about Ethel, but she wins people’s hearts whether they like it or no, and I am very, very sorry for her! I'll do anything for her in her lamentable position that I can! ‘¢ Heaven bless you for that, mother!” had replied Duke Sterudale, much moved. ‘‘I shall take care she does not want; and it will be a comfort to:me to know she has a friendin you. Poor child! she will sadly need one!” “I'll drive over and see her after you are gone,” remarked Mrs. Sterndale; adding, as the tall, graceful figure of her niece came to- ward them, “Clarissa, if poor Ethel will sur- _| render Marmaduke’s guardianship to his papa, Duke wishes us to take care of the darling.” “ Willingly,” responded Clarissa, with a pleased look, judiciously tinged by sadness. ‘You may be sure, cousin, the dear boy shall receive an aunt’s most loving attention from mé. The Dower House”—with a half-suppress- ed sigh—‘‘is not likely to be over gay. How could it be when you are far from us and in trouble? So the presence of Marmie will be a distraction—a bright oasis in our lives.” “YT knew I could trust in you, Clarissa,” Duke said, pressing her hand affectionately. ‘«T shall leave Marmaduke and everything un- der your care: andI am sure you will keep me constantly informed as to my boy, and—and all else.” “Rely on me, Duke. I will write daily, if you wish. But will you be long away?” “T cannot tell; I think so. England, and Eaglehurst especially, can have small charms or attractions for me.” ; 7 So Duke went, as it had been stated; and be- fore Mrs, Sterndale was ready to proceed to the Hall, the rector arrived with the intelligence that Ethel also had gone. Ordering the carriage, Mrs. Sterndale, with Clarissa, at once drove over to fetch the child. There was an oppressive stillness in the Hall, which so lately had been full of happy sun- shine. “Tt is very sad,” whimpered Mrs. Stern- dale; ‘‘ and all might have gone on so well but for that man. Why ever did he turn up?” ‘““My dear aunt,” ejaculated the niece, with virtuous horror, ‘‘surely you would not have had Ethel remain here as Duke’s wife, and her first husband s‘ill living?’ ‘* Goodness gracious, Clarissa! what are you saying?” cried the lady, with irritable snappish- ness. ‘‘How dreadful! Of course not. I meant I wish he had only been kind enough to have died, as it was believed he had, upon those rocks.” ‘¢Then you would have had no objection to Duke’s having had a convict’s widow for a wife?’ said her niece, with a scornful curl of her lip. ‘‘ How you do speak, Clarissa! Would it not have been better never to have discovered the truth than tohave the happiness of a family broken up, our name disgraced, and poor Duke, broken-hearted, banished from his native land?” ‘He will get over it, aunt. wounds,” ‘¢T don’t know that, Clarissa. He loved Ethel devotedly, as he ought, for she was a good, fond wife to him; and as things are, and can’t be helped, I don’t mind confessing I liked the girl far better than I appeared te do.” “Pll go and fetch Marinaduke,” broke in Clarissa, full of indignant contempt at her aunt’s weakness, She felt 20 regret as she passed through thé deserted rooms; on the contrary, a smile hov- ered over her lips. Clarissa. Harfield was by no means an unskil- ful schemer. The best way to tho father’s heart she felt was through the child. Hence Marmaduke became ber constant companion, while her letters overflowed with anecdotes of his infantile sayings and doings. The writer knew they would please; but it was not in her nature to divine the depths of the pleasure they gave. Dnke kept them always in his breast coat pocket, and read them a dozen times, especially that one in which, answering his question, Clarissa had to confess the boy slightly resem- bled his mother. His poor mother! What could have become of her? she doing? Duke would have given the world, had it been his, to know; but all the secret inquiries he had made had ended in failure. Often, in his lonely wanderings, he wondered if they might ever meet again. His pet hope, the offspring of the constant craving at his heart, said ‘ Yes!” His reason said, ‘‘ Better no—for both!” So months passed. The Hall, a landmark of the county, reflected in the silvery lake shut- tered and curtained windows. “Really,” remarked Mrs, Sterndale, com- plainingly, ‘‘ Duke ought tocome back. He has been quite long enough away for people to for- get that unpleasant affair. I do wish he would return. Clarissa, when you next write, do tell him I wish it. Holding the position he does in the county, he should not let the Hall be so long shut up.” Her niece said she would write the next day, and did not fail to keep her promise. She wrote from her heart, for she longed trebly as much as Mrs. Sterndale for Duke’s return. : The answer came in due course. ' The writer felt far too unsettled in mind to support the idea of returning to the Hall at present. ‘ Time cures all What was “Had I a brother to whom I could hand it and its | _two years, heard from or seen her. ce ee Re ee ee ee ee ee eee eee eee Ee ee eee ie eee ee ee ee EE again to England; for, when old enough, Marma- duke would join me here, where—poor little lad'— his and his parents’ disgrace would never be known. I shudder when I think the day must come—that day on which the Hall will pass into other hands than his —when he must be told it.” “Ah!” sighed Mrs. Sterndale; ‘‘the only thing that would bring Duke to Eaglehurst, I believe, would be if Marmaduke were ill and in danger.” Clarissa looked quickly up. She bad never thought of that, though pin- ing through these weary months for her cou- sin’s return. She had begun to think, with her aunt, that. nothing would bring him—that her schemes must fail; but of course, were his child in peril, he would fly to England at once. But Marmaduke grew strong and hearty, showing no disposition to catch illnesses. Twice did whooping-cough rage at Eaglehurst, and ho would have nothing to do with it. At last, however, measles came, and among the earliest to take them was poor little Mar- mie. At first they were so light that the doctor laughed at the idea of alarming Duke. But suddenly the illness took an unfavorable turn, and he said perhaps it would be wisest to in- form the father. With tremulous eagerness, Clarissa sat down to write. She was rejoiced. Duke was com- ing back, and surely he could not fail to be grateful for the care she had taken of his boy —her son. Hardly, however, had she touched pen to paper, than Mrs. Sterndale entered with a let- ter just arrived from Duke. It was written hurriedly, stating that he was about to quit Nice; that he had made the ac- quaintance of a lady and gentleman whose party he was going to join to visit Athens. ‘At present,” he wrote, ‘‘I am not aware where . we shall stop or what my address willbe; but ina few days I will let you know. By the way,” he added, ‘“‘my new friends have a daughter traveling with them so like Ethel that I was quite overcome on first seeing her,” The letter altogether was composed in a more cheerful spirit than he had ever written before since his absence. Clarissa, biting her lip, wondered if this “daughter” was the cause—if here was a new rival? Before Duke’s next letter arrived their son was out of danger, and progressing toward re- covery. There was no need to bring the father back. Other months passed away, and Duke was yet traveling with the Grays. “Of course,” reflected Clarissa, with angry bitterness, ‘‘ the daughter is the attraction.” She did not discover until much later that she whom she hated as a rival, was an engag- ing, beautiful little maiden of eleven. Soon after that Duke wrote, hinting, to Clar- issa’s great joy, the possibility of his return shortly to Eaglehurst. CHAPTER IX. THE LETTER FROM AMERICA. Over two years had elapsed, when, one fine afternoon, Duke Sterndale rode slowly up the avenue to the Hall. Only the day previously he had returned to England, and as yet not even his step-mother was aware of his arrival. He had felt that he must enter his own home without witnesses. Alone, he must accustom himself to the appearance of the rooms without Ethel. His baby eyes had opened at the Hall: he had grown from childhood to manhood there; but no recollection was so vivid as the presence of his young wife. In his imagina- tion she haunted every spot. Her graceful figure seemed to glide through every room, with a soft, golden halo about it, as though the spirit of one much loved and long since dead. And was she not dead to him? Since the re- ceipt of her letter Duke had never, during these The iden. of her being penniless, toiling for her daily bread, had filled him with deep concern and pain, for he loved her. Yes, no woman gould responsibilities,” he wrote, ‘‘save to visitmy mother . ¢ver be as dear to him as she had been,
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~> ON 13 All his search and inquiry, however, had proved futile. Ethel seemed to possess the art of hiding herself beyond discovery. Every window of the Hall was shuttered when Duke rung at the entrance door, which was opened by the gardener’s wife, who had been left in charge. The woman stared at him in surprise, and began to apologize for “ things not being prepared;’ but quieting her by say- ing he had not come to remain, Duke passed on, “Lor’, dear, now,” reflected the woman, glancing after him, ‘‘but how changed he is! He looks ten years older, if a day, and as grave as my old man when he’s a-reading them pol- lytic things in the paper.” The trees were throwing long shadows east- ward across the Jawn when Duke quitted the Hall, and rode now at a quicker pace to tho Dower House. Life and love were awaiting him there in his boy, who, he had heard from Clarissa’s frequent letters, had grown quite a tall, noble little fellow. The ladies were in the drawing-room, wait- the announcement of dinner, when Duke unex- pectedly walked in. “ Duke!” cried Mrs, Sterndale. ‘‘ Good gra- cious! Why, my dear, did you not write and let us know you were coming?” ‘Why should I have done so, and given you the trouble of preparing for my advent?” he smiled. ‘‘I dare say you can give me a bed here until the Hall is made ready?’ Clarissa had said nothing. She had risen quickly on her cousin’s entrance, first turning pale, then red; but as he took her hand, the light on her handsome features expressed tho joy she felt at his return better than words. ‘““Where is my boy?” asked Duke; and Clar- issa ran to fetch him, soon returning with the child in her arms. Poor Duke could hardly control his emotion, for the boy, much grown and very handsome, greatly resembled Ethel. “Doss Marmaduke know papa?” he asked, as he took the child and fondly kissed bim. “Oh, ’es,”’ was the answer, as the arms were put round the parent’s neck. ‘‘ Marmie knows papa—tors papa’s pitter der;” and the tiny hand pointed to the album on the table. : ‘‘ Tus- sin Rissa show Marmie it every day, and Mar- mie tiss it like diss.” Duke held his hand to his cousin, and said, gratefully,.‘‘ Thank you, Clarissa.” The latter’s cheek flushed, her lip trembled with pleasure. Duke thought she had never looked so beautiful. Upon such an occasion as the present, Master Marmaduke was permitted to be present at the family dinner. Duke would not have him out of his sight. He even kept him after the ladies had retired, and brought him afterward into the drawing-room, mounted on his shoulder, crowing with delight, Then noting would content Master Marmie but to be seated at the table to find papa’s “‘pitter in the bid book.” “Der —der ’tis!” he cried, in delight; “’stache an’ all! An’ der tussizn "Riss. An’ der papa’s mamma!” Suddenly he paused, and, lifting his large eyes, with an expression that was Ethel’s own, said, ‘But where Marmie’s mamma? Marmie no see her in bid book.” Duke turned quickly away to conceal his ‘motion. Clarissa perceiving it, bent over the child, and said, softly, ‘‘ Marmie’s mamma is dead.” “Dead!”’ ejaculated Duke, quickly facing round, ‘No; Marmie’s mamma isalive. One jday he may see her. Clarissa,” he added, “do you imagine I would prevent Ethel’s ever see- ing her child?” en the boy, wearied out, had been rele- gated to his nursery, Mrs. Sterndale said, “Duke, do you remember telling me that, did any letters come to—to Ethel, I was not to let you know without there was necessity, but was myself to open them?” A Yes,” Ke answered, ‘‘ Were there any?” “Yes, two; they came from America. They are here,” Taking them, he looked at the address and date. ‘To Mrs, Marmaduke Sterndale.” Tho ¥ <a LY A SCHOOLMISTRESS. | post-mark was the 30th June, and “ Private ” was written round the seal. The other was also marked ‘‘New York,” but of a much later date. The first ran: ‘“‘ Dear Ernet:—I haven't received that promised fifty yet. Perhaps you haven't been able to send it. Well, I must do without it. You’re a good girl; the only one I ever met who was worth anything, Iwas awtully sorry for you that night at the mill. Of course, all is known now; so there’s no need of se- crecy, else I shouldn’t have written. It wasn’t my fault; was it? I would have stayed to help you, and have been ready to swear to or deny anything to prevent the truth coming out, but how could I with the police at my heels? I’m anxious, though, about you. Iwantto know how Mr. Sterndale took the news; so, mind you write, dear. The address I for- merly gave you will find me. : ; “ Yours affectionately, “EDWARD VAUGHAN.” With compressed lips Duke opened the other. It contained but a few hurried lines. **My Dear Eraet:—Why have not you written? what has become of you? Has your husband for- given you? He might, for lam as dead to him and you as if I had reaijly died on the Portland rocks. I don’t know what address now to give you, as I’m off across country. Ethel, I have turned over a new leaf; I am pregicias honesty. As yet it promises success. Should Mr. Sterndale prove unkind, you shall always find a home with “EDWARD VAUGHAN.” Duke crushed the letters in his hand, then thrust them in his pocket. He needed to make no comment upon them. A fortnight after Duke’s return, he went back to the Hall, bringing with him his step- mother and cousin. A glow of exquisite satisfaction animated Clarissa when she once again took possession of her old rooms. Would she ever have to quit them again for the Dower House? She be- lieved it very unlikely. True, Duke was very reticent regarding his private feelings, but never had his manner been so kind; while Mar- mie loved her so dearly. Duke would natural- ly in time outgrow his grief, and, of course, for his family’s sake, marry again. Not only did this idea also enter Mrs. Stern- dale’s brain, but that of all Eaglehurst. Duke and Clarissa rode together, walked to- gether, drove together, as they had done before Ethel had come between them. Marmaduke could not have loyed her more, Eaglehurst affirmed, had she really been his own mother; while where could the young squire find a handsomer and more suitable wife than his cousin? Eaglehurst, in fact, considered it a settled affair, and whispered that they were engaged. The only one in total ignorance of what was going on was Duke himself. He liked Clarissa better than ever before. He believed that in what she had done in the past she had been actuated solely by her regard for him; he was grateful for her love and care of his boy, and the delicate way she avoided any remark that might seem like a reproach to Ethel. But the thought of wedding her had never entered his mind, and in all probability never would have done so but for Mrs. Stern-. dale, who, after affairs had proceeded thus for nearly a twelvemonth, thought it kind, for her niece’s sake, that an understanding should be come to. Duke listened with pain and annoyance when his step-mother, one morning, entering the li- brary where he sat alone, informed him of what all Haglehurst was saying. “Does Eaglehurst say that?—that we are en- gaged?” he exclaimed, angrily. ‘ What right has Eaglehurst to meddle in my concerns? If I ride and walk with Clarissa, is she not my cousin? Have we not been reared from child- hood together? I hate these gossiping country towns, and bave half a mind to go back to the Continent.” “My dear Duke, do be reasonable,” put in Mrs. Sterndale. ‘‘ What Eaglehurst says or thinks is really natural. You represent a county family which has reigned here for near- ly two centuries. You hold the rank, as it were, of a lord of the manor, and, as such, a certain number of receptions, dinners, and + parties are expected, at which a hostess is re- quisite.” “Cannot Clarissa, as my cousin, act the part?” ‘No one better, if matters could only remain as they are.” “Why should they not?’ queried Duke. ‘* Because, my dear, we are mortal. Were I to die—and I am far from young”—a sigh— “Clarissa would, of course, have at once to seek another home. Then poor Marmie, how he would miss her, if you did not!” ‘‘T should miss her very much,” cried Duke, irritably, rising and pacing the long room. ““She has been very kind and good. The Hall would go to ruin, I suspect, without her super- vision. Indeed, she is too good for me, mother. I like ker, but to love her would be impossible. With me, to love once is to love ever.” “You mean—” “That I Jove Ethel Vaughan still!” he ex- claimed. ‘‘ Battling against it as I will, her remembrance conquers me. I love her, and must while I have life. What would Clarissa say to such a husband?” “I fancy, Duke, she feels so sincere an affec- tion for you and your boy, that she would overlock it if being your wife would be to your advantage. Besides, by her amiability and af- fection she might hope to receive at last scme love in return. And, Duke, do think of your position as master of Sterndale—of the possi- bility of my death. Think, too, of poor Clarissa; her position may not be without pain.” ‘*What do you mean, mother?” he asked, swinging round, “Why should I not tell you?’ responded Mrs. Sterndale; ‘for, Duke, I know you to be a man of honor, and that, however you may decide, you will respect the secret I am about to confide to your honor. Clarissa loves you— loved you before you had ever seen Ethel Vaughan.” rei “Ts it possible?” ejaculated Duke. Then: ‘‘Leave me, mother! Let me think over what you have said! Give me a week to decide. Believe me, I will endeavor to pleasure you and Eaglehurst by doing my duty as a Stern- dale. At present, tell no one of this conversa- tion.” “Of course not, my dear.” But Mrs, Sterndale, without actually break- ing that promise, insinuated so much to her niece that the latter’s heart throbbed with joy and triumph. : Duke took the whole week nearly to con- sider. That any one—even Clarissa— should fill Ethel’s place was particularly repugnant to him. Yet Mrs. Sterndale’s arguments had been well chosen. Possibly it was his duty to act as his step-mother desired, not cnly for his position, but also for his boy’s sake. “1 will propose a ride, and speak to Clarissa to-day,” he reflected, one morning, when de- scending to breakfast. ‘I will confess—I will tell her the whole truth; then if she will have me— well, be it so!” , The first thing Duke always did on taking his seat at the breakfast-table was to open the letter-bag. 5 Doing so on the present occasion, he found a letter from America, addressed to Ethel, in a strange hand. Nervously he removed the envelope, and, with blended feelings, read the following, which, though evidently traced by a feeble hand, was in Edward Vaughan’s writing: “My Drar Ernet:—I am dying. I could not, however, part with life without’ sending a word to let you know—to ask you to forgive the past! You may not regret a death which removes such a black sheep as I was from your path—yes, ‘as I was;’ for Ethel—and this I know will please you—I have lived to become a respectable member of society, and to acknowledge that ‘honesty is the best policy.’ Lam married, too, to one of the best and kindest of little wives; and I have so worked that I do not leave her destitute. My sirenetle is going! The doctor was right; Iam not equal to the task! Good-by! For. give me! Heaven bless you, Eth—” The writing toward the close had become al- most illegible. At the end a blot followed the half-finished word, as if the pen had fallen from the fingers of the writer. —-———_ -—-~ | ,
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~ ff 14 A postscript was added in a woman’s hand, and tears had blurred the page: “My dear husband died two hours ago. Surely ete would forgive if you knew how good and iow greatly beloved he was! ‘“ KATHERINE VAUGHAN.” As Duke ended, he could not restrain a great ery of joy. “Good gracious, my dear! what is it?” ejac- ulated Mrs. Sterndale. “BKaward Vaughan is dead!” Duke, his voice broken with emotion, is free!” ' As Clarissa Harfield heard those words, and looked in her cousin’s face, she knew that all hope of being Mrs. Marmaduke Sterndale was gone from her forever. That day Marmie waited in vain for his ‘‘tussin ’Rissa” to visit him as usual in his nursery. She had something more to think of than ‘‘the pleasure ”’—they were her own men- tal words—“‘ of the child of that woman!” answered “ Bthel CHAPTER X. THE SECRET TOLD. DUKE took his step-mother by surprise when he asserted that, even if his inclination did not urge him, he should hold it asa matter of duty to find Ethel, and really make her his wife; that while she lived and was free he had no right to give another mother to his boy. This time Mrs. Sterndale argued in vain. Duke adhered to his resolution. “T hold,” he said, ‘that, save in keeping her ' story untold, Ethel is innocent of blame, and ‘merits pity. She never consented to be mine until she believed Edward Vaughan had ceased to exist; and when all was discovered, did she not meekly, without murmur, bow to my sen- tence? Did she not sacrifice her own affection for page advantage? Was ever mo- ther so unselfish or so brave? Think of the penury, the suffering, mental and physical, she must have experienced on leaving this } lace.” *« And you, Duke, will bring her back here?” * Most surely, if I find her,” was the reso- lute response. All that Duke had ascertained respecting Ethel, after she had quitted the Hall, was that she had gone to London. Therefore, he would make the metropolis the center of his search, He proceeded thither on the same day that he had received Edward Vaughan’s letter, tak- ing with him his boy, of whom he could not bear to lose sight even for a moment. No sooner had he installed himself in rooms in Wimpole street, than he began his search. There was not a paper in which he did not advertise, not a governess institution to which he did not apply, while he procured the ser- vices of two of the ablest private detectives. All, however, was in vain. Not a trace of Echel could be discovered. Ten months went by, when a new trouble was added to Duke’s burden. Marmaduke was taken seriously ill, and the doctor declared him to be suffering with scarlet fever. Then for a time Duke forgot Ethel. Now he never left the house, but either sat by the bed of the little sufferer, or paced the room be- neath, listening to every sound. “Pl tell you what it is, Mr. Sterndale,” remarked the brusque but kindly medical man, ‘‘if matters go on like this, I shall have two patients on my hands instead of one. I shall send a nurse to-day, and you must consent to leave every thing in her hands. Cease so frequently to visit the sick-room, and take proper rest.” ! It was hard for the father to surrender his charge to another; but he saw the wisdom of the advice, and consented. That same day the nurse, or “Sister,” as she was called, arrived. She was a woman of about five and thirty, with a pleasant, kindly countenance; and somehow as, attired in her plain, neat costume or garb, she moved about ONLY A SCHOOLMISTRESS. = - _ fell over it, that brought hope to the other watchers, Days passed, yet the hot gripe of fever was on the child. Sister Alice had forbidden Duke’s presence in the apartment, save at those times when he had received her permission to enter it; and Duke quietly obeyed, for he had a reverence for this pleasant fresh-faced wo- man, who seemed to hold his son’s life in her soft, plump, white hands. It was a terrible period for Duke, seated alone in the room below, waiting hour after hour for the verdict, listening to every step on the stair that was to bring him news, for in a day or two, the doctor had affirmed, the result —life or death—would be decided. Mrs. Sterndale, who had a horror of conta- gious diseases, had but faintly offered her ser- vice, which Duke had declined. Clarissa bad made no offer at all. One evening, Duke, as usual, sat by himself, too anxious for any thing save thought. Doctor Pelham had taken his departure half an hour ago, promising to call first thing in the morning, as before midnight the crisis would have passed, The clock had just struck ten when Duke, unable to remain where he was, rose, and stole noiselessly up-stairs. For some little while he had heard no sound in the sick-room. What could it mean? Was Marmaduke dying, and they feared to tell him? Placing his ear to the panel, he listened. Not a sound—all silent. Hark! what was that? It seemed like a sob! Duke staggered, leaning against the wall for support. Then, turning the handle, entered. The room was darkened, but the shaded lamp gave sufficient light to show the little bed, from which all drapery had been removed, the small, fair, baby-head on the pillow, and the figure of the nurse kneeling by the couch. Her hands were clasped, her face buried on the coverlet, Was she praying for his dying child? Slowly he approached, when, the floor creak- ing beneath his tread, the Sister turned. With a low ery of alarm, she rose quickly; then recoiled from him, ejaculating, her hands clasped, ‘‘Oh, Heaven! my husband! Pardon, pardon! I heard he was dying—I could not help but come!” Duke Sterndale was transfixed, but only for asecond. Ere she could fall on her knees he- fore him he had darted forward, taking her in his arms. “Oh, Ethel—oh, my darling!” he cried, gaz- ing on the pale, sad features beneath the Sis- ter’s cap. ‘‘Is it you? Have I found you at last? Do we meet by the bedside of our boy?” ‘“‘What words are these?” gasped Ethel. ‘““AmI dreaming? There is great joy in your looks, Duke. Can it be that you forgive the past? Oh, my husband—” “Dearest,” whispered he, as he drew her closer, ‘‘he, your husband, is dead. Ethel, you are free, and I have the right to love you now.” Seeming bewildered, she freed herself from his embrace, and gazed at him. ‘‘Duke,” she exclaimed, ‘‘ what are you say- ing? I donot understand! My husband dead! Are you not here before me?” ‘“‘ Yes, darling,” he answered; ‘* but I meant the man who came between us—your first hus- band —Edward Vaughan!” “Edward Vaughan my husband!” she ejac- ulated. ‘‘Oh, Duke, Duke, what terrible mis- take is this? Who has so dared to deceive you? Edward Vaughan was my sinful—my unhappy brother!” “Great Heaven!” exclaimed Duke; then, stunned, could say no more, There was silence in the apartment for some minutes. It was broken by the light footfall of Sister Alice. Ethel moved quickly back from Duke. As the nurse entered, her pleas- ant face showed anger. ‘““What is the meaning of this, Sister Ven- the sick-room, a feeling of peace and calm! ner?” she said. ‘I permitted you to come here to-night at your earnest pleading, condi- tional on your following my directions, and keeping every one from the room.” “You must not blame her,” said Duke. ‘«Sister Alice, you have done a great service to both of us, and have earned our eternal grati- tude.” Sister Alice looked from one to the other. “She is the child’s mother?” she said. ‘I suspected it. I always at the hospital knew Sister Venner was a lady. But, Mr. Stern- dale, I have a duty here that nothing must in- terrupt—my patient. Silence, or quit the room.” So saying, Sister Alice, approaching the bed, leaned over the little occupant. Rising quick- ly, she stepped to the table, removed the shade from the lamp, then came back. Breathlessly the parents watched her. In her fear, Ethel almost unconsciously clung to Duke’s arm. Had the child died during their great joy at meeting? Sister Alice turned, and said, ‘‘The crisis is past. He sleeps; the fever is gone, and he will live.” Ethel, uttering a low cry of gratitude, sunk into the arms cf Duke, opened to receive her. Half an hour later, in the sitting-room, by her husband’s side, the young wife. disclosed the secret that, long since told, would have prevented so much misery. “The Reverend Archibald Vaughan, minis- ter of Sefton-on-the-Moors, had had. two children, the favorite being his handsome, in- telligent son Edward. As, the fond father watched the boy’s quickness and_ intellect, his pride increased, and he marked out a brilliant future for the lad. That no obstacle might be placed in the way of this son’s ad- vancement, he sacrificed many of his own comforts and Ethel’s advantages, save in edu- cation, to rear Edward as a gentleman. . “He was sent to Oxford. His appearance, talent, and especially his sociable qualities, soon made him a favorite with those who pre- ferred dissipation to study. ‘“‘Wdward Vaughan was not one to think of those at home. He had been sent among gentleman, and must live like them. Debts poured in, which the clergyman found it diffi- cult to pay. His letters of remonstrance were not heeded. His one hope was the coming ex- amination. Edward, who had stood with ease at the top of every school in which he had been, would surely prove successful now. “ The examination arrived. Edward Vaughan was plucked. The next term owing to his misconduct, he was rusticated. “Either from shame or disinelination to face the dull humdrum life of Sefton-on-the- Moors, he refused to return there, but went to London. ‘The only times when the disappointed, heart-broken father and loving sister heard from him were when he asked for money. ‘““Mr. Vaughan indignantly refused. Then the request took the character of threats. Why had he been reared like a gentleman when he had not the means to live like one? If the money were not sent, he might try to obtain some in a way that his father might not think quite reputable. ‘““The money was sent,” proceeded Ethel. ‘¢But papa, though much shattered in health, made a secret journey to London to learn what Edward was doing—how living. ‘‘When he returned he looked ten years older. All that he had discovered he would not tell me. He said I could not understand; and it was well I could not., It sufficed for me to know that he was a gambler, a tavern-fre- quenter, living on his wits, and utterly unwor- they of either his love or mine. “Two months went by, during which my poor father grew weaker. He was the only one I had to love—my sole friend; and, when I looked upon him slowly fading awaly, oh, you cannot tell how I hated Edward! I would have given my life willingly could I have said that he was not my brother. Being his sister, I believed his disgrace equally rested on me, i nee eee eee ee
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< SONY 9A SCHOOLMISTRESS. and that, if known, the world would shun nie, too. “Well, a letter arrived demanding a certain sum to keep him (Edward) out of the work- house. My father returned it, saying he would live more honestly there than ‘out of it. “Two nights after, while I sat at work, I heard acry from the little study where my father prepared his sermons. Then came a heavy fall. “In terror, I rushed in, and found my father on the floor in a fit. i was too alarmed to notice at the moment that the glass doors were wide apart, and the escritoire open. “My screams brought the only servant we had, who, after assisting me to raise my father onto a chair, ran for help and a doctor. Be- fore either came my father had recovered. “First he looked wildly round; then into my face as his gray head rested on my bosom, and, pointing to the open window and escri- toire, whispered, ‘ Edward—here.’ ¢ “Dear father,” Icried, ‘what do you mean? Edward been here? ‘¢ ¢-VYes—money—robbed!’ ” “Then the truth flashed on me, All his lit- tle savings my father kept in a drawer of the escritoire, with some articles of jewelry that had belonged to my mother. Edward knew this, and had, coming down to Sefton, taken them, or was taking them, perhaps, when my father, unhappily for him, came upon his un- natural son. ‘“*AsI remembered how I had found my father, I turned cold, for I feared Edward had committad a far greater crime, ““¢Qh, father,’ I cried, ‘did he strike you? “¢Not with his hand, ? he answered; ‘but, - Ethel, he has struck me a mortal blow here,’ pressing his hand over his heart, ‘that I shall not long survive. Oh, Edward!—ob, my son!’ he added with a bitter ery; then lay with closed eyes upon my breast, breathing heavily. Suddenly he looked up and spoke: ‘Ethel, my darling, what is to become of you? Oh, my child! Yet, you are so good, I feel that Heaven will protect you. Only leave here! Hide yourself from him! Do not let his shadow longer darken your path! Disown him—forget him! _ You will have to work, poor child; but it will take you among new people and new scenes. Never mind how humble the employ- ment, if it be honest. Only hide from Edward, for he would bring upon you ruin and disgrace. ' Heaven bless you, dear!’ “Those were his last words,” said Ethel, who was crying quietly. Duke drew her to him, as he said, fondly, “Dearest, your father was right. Heaven has cared for you, for it has restored you, I trust, to happiness!” After a space, Ethel proceeded: ** After my father’s funeral, I immediately acted on his advice. I determined to hide my- self from my brother. 1 had seen in my father’s parish how retired was the life of a country national schoolmistress. It was the very last capacity in which Edward would ex- pect to find me. So I entered myself in one of the Government training schools, and bad not been there a week before I heard, by accident, that Edward had been arrested for forgery, and sentenced to a long imprisonment at Port- land. Now, Duke, you know all. Would that you had learned it long before!” “Not all, love. When you left the Hall?’ he said. “My mind was already made up. I felt too broken-spirited for teaching, and thought I should best find alleviation of my own suffer- ing by assuaging that of others. So I entered one of the hospitals as a child's nurse. , I pre- ferred childr en, remembering my boy. Sister Alice was one of the nurses I had always liked for her pleasant and amiable manner, and when by chauce I heard who it was that she was nursing here—how my Marmaduke was in danger—I felt that I should go mad if I did not see him once again. “T called and saw Sister Alice, aud pleaded go carnestly to be allowed to assist her for a » é * ” 415 few hours at atime, when there was no likeli- hood of my meeting you, that, as you have heard, she half suspected my secret,” As No secret now, dearest. Never again must there be any between us,” said her “husband. ‘“‘ Ethel, my wife, will you come back to the Hall?” “Duke,” she manrmured, joyfully, “‘you are too good. But think—” “Why should you be made to suffer for a brother’s crime? Ethel, would you doom Mar- maduke and me to live there alone?” ‘“‘No, Duke,” sbe answered; ‘not if you will let-me come too.” Five years have elapsed. Clarissa Harfield is married, and gone far away to reside. The Dower House is again shut up, or let, for Mrs. Sterndale thinks it more comfortable to sit on the pleasant terrace of the Hall in the sunshine, busy with her crewels or other work, and watching the gambols of her grandchildren— there are three now—on the lawn. To Ethel it was rather strange coming home at first; but the good rector—always her friend—prepared Eaglehurst so skillfully for her reception, that she found kindly sympathy and pity awaiting her, instead of coldness arin Thus has "the dark shadow of untold secret passed from her life, which, abs a proud mother and happy wife, promises to be curiosity. as bright as the sunshine, which ever seems me ey brilliant when it rests on Sterndale Hall. THE END. Half-Dime Singer’ § Library 1 Waoa, Exma! and 59 other Songs : Captain Curr and 57 other Sones: 3 Tae Garnsgoro’ Har and 62 other Songs. 4 Jonnny Morean and 60 other So 5 Pi fone You Wirn A Frarurr and 62 other on: 6 GroRGE THE CHARMER and 56 other Son 7% Tue BeLLe or Rockaway and 52 other Songs. 8 ie FrevLaAu, You’rReE Too Fresu and 60 other sn, 9 Soy Youne Grew and 65 other Songs. 10 I'M THE GoveRNoR’s ONLY Son and 58 other Songs. 11 My Fawn and 65 other Songs. 12 Comin’ THRO’ THe Ry# and 55 other Songs. 13 THe RoLiickine IRIsHMAN and 59 other Songs. 14 Op Doe Tray and 62 other Songs. 15 WHoa, CHARLIZE and 59 other Songs. 16 IN THIs WHEar By AND By and 63 other Songs. 17 Nancy Lre and 58 other Songs. 18 I’w THe Boy THAtT’s Bounp To BLaze and 67 other Songs. 19 Tor Two OrpHans and 59 other Songs. 20 WHAT ARE THE Witp Waves Sayina, SIsTER? and 59 other Songs. 21 Inpienant Potty Woe and 59 other Songs. 22 Tur Otp Arm-Cuarr and 58 other Songs. 23 On Coney IsLanp Bracu and 58 other Songs. 24 Op Simon, THE Hor-Corn Man and 60 others. 25 I’m in Love and 56 other Songs. 23 PARADE OF THE GuARDS and 56 other Songs. 27 Yo, Hrave, Ho! and 60 other Songs. 28 "I'wILL Never vo to Gisir up So and 60 other Songs. 29 Buve Bonners Over tom Borper and 54 other Songs. 80 Tae Merry Lavcuine Man and 56 other Songs. 81 Sweer Foreet-me-Nor and 55 other Songs. 82 Lert LE Basy Mine and 53 other Songs. 83 Du rae AM DE INsTRUMENT FoR ME and 58 other Songs. 84 Tarry and 50 other Songs, 85 Just To PLEasE THE Boys and 52 other Songs. 86 Skating oN ONE IN THE GuTTER and 52 other Songs. 87 KoLorep Kranxs and 59 other Songs. 88 Ni~ DesprRANDUM and 53 other Songs. 39 Tur Grew I Lerr Benryp Mr and 50 other Songs. 40 ‘Tis nur a Lrrrne Fapep Frower and 50 other Songs. 41 Prerry Warnyermra and 60 other Songs. 42 DANCING IN THE Barn and 63 other Songs. 43 H. M.S, Pinarore, compnere, and 17 other Songs. Sold everywhere by Newsdealers, at five cents per copy, or sent post-paid, to an ‘address on re- ceipt of Sia: cents per number, ‘ : BEADLE gi ADAMS, PubrisrErs, —— SrrRexr, New Yorr. - es 2 ane —— hus BEADLE & ADAMS’ STANDARD DIME PUBLICATIONS. Speakers. BrapLE AND ADAMS have now on their lists the fol- lowing highly desirable and attractive text-books, prepared expressly for schools, families, etc. Each volume contains 100 large pages, printed from clear, open type, comprising the best collection of Dia- ate, ramas and citations, (burlesque, comic and otherwise.) The Dime Speakers for the season of 1880—as far as now issued—embrace twenty-three volumes, viz. : 1. American Speaker. - School Speaker. 2. National Speaker. 4, Tudicrous Speaker. 3. Patriotic Speaker. | 15. Komikal Speaker. 4. Comic Speaker. 16. Youth’s Speaker. 5. Elocutionist. 17. Eloquent Speaker. 6. Humorous Speaker, 18. a Columbia Speak- 7. Standard Speaker. 8. Stump Speaker. 19. Serio-Comic Speaker. 9. Juvenile Speaker. . Select Speaker. 10. Spread-Eagle Speaker | 21. Funny Speaker. 11. Dime Nebater. 22. Jolly Speaker. 12. Exhibition Speaker. 23. Dialect aker. These books are replete witii choice pieces for the School-room, the Ex ibition, for Homes, ete. They are drawn from FRESH sources, and contain some ot the choicest oratory of the times. 7% to 100 Declama- tions and Recitations in each book. Dialogues. The Dime Dialogues, each volume 100 pages, em- brace twenty-six books, viz.: Dialogues No. One. Dialogues No. Fourteen. Dialogues No. Two Dialogues No. Fifteen. Dialogues No. Three. Dialogues No. Sixteen. Dialogues No. Four. Dialogues No. Seventeen, Dialogues No. Five Dialogues No. Kighteen Dialogues No. Six. Dialogues No, Nineteen. Dialogues No, Seven. Dialogues No. Twenty. | Dialogues No, Hight, Dialogues No. Twenty-one. . Dialogues No. Nine. Dialogues No. Twenty-two. Dialogues No. Ten. Dialogues No. Twenty-three Dialogues No. Eleven. | Dialogues No. Twenty-four. Dialogues No. Twelve. | Dialogues No. Twenty-five. Dialogues No. Thirteen. | Dialogues No. Twenty-six. 15 to 25 Dialogues and Dramas in each book. These volumes have been prepared with especial reference to their availability mm all. school-rooms. They are adapted to schools with or without the fur- niture of a stage, and introduce a range of ae ters suited to scholars of every | ne. oth male ant female. It is fair to assume th offered to schools, at any price, contain so many available and useful dialogues and dramas, serious and comic. Dramas and Readings. 164 12mo Pages. 2 Cents. For Schools, Parlors, Entertainments and the Am- ateur Stage, comprisi n Original Minor Dramas, Comedy, Farce, Dress Pieces, Humorous Dialogue and Burlesque, ‘by noted writers; and Recitations and Readings, new and standard, of the greatest celebrity an interest. Edited enteritis f Prof, A. M. sseli, DIME HAND-BOOKS. Young People’s Series. BEADLE’s Dime Hanp-Booxs ror Youne Propin 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. ‘| Gents’ Letter-Writer. Fortune-Teller, Book of Etiquette. ‘Lovers’ Casket. Book of Verses, Ball-room Companion. Book of Dreams. Book of Beauty. Hand-Books of Games. BEADLE’s Drage Hanp-Books or GAMES AND PoPULAR Hanv-Books cover a variety of subjects, and are (OSs, | pone adapted to their end. re of Croquet. Yachting and Rowing. Chess Instructor. Riding and Driving. Cricket and Football. Book of Pedestrianism. Guide to Swimming. Base-Ball Player for 1880. Handbook of Winter Sports. Manuals for Housewives, Beapie’s Dimas Faminy Series aims to sup class of text-books and manuals fitted for eve ae s use—the old and the young, the every et 1. Cook Book. They are et conceded value. 0 ‘amil i 2 Recipa * mily Physician. 3. Housekeeper’s Guide. linery. Lives of Great Americans. < Are presented complete and authentic biographies of many of the men who have added luster to the eyo by their lives and deeds. The series em- VII.—David Crockett. VITI.—Tsrael Putnam, TX.—Kit Carson. X.—Tecumseh. XI.—Abraham Lincoln. -—Pontiac. I.—George Washington. Nea ee —a nthon ayne ~ -—Ethan Allen. is V.—Marquis de Lafay- ette. V1.—Daniel Boone. The shots ee og th sale by all newsdealers or wi sent, post- on receipt BEADLE & ADAMS, 98 Wituias Sa Ny! iene! ps po dy od 5. Dressmaking and Mil- — no volumes Beh - Se “~<
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size numbers. 1 Was Sue His Wirs? Mrs. Mary R. Crowell.... 10c 40 Ovma’s Love. By Henrietta E, DeConde... . 10c 2 Fiserme From Love. By Hans ot ifyings:7 22. 10e | 41 Lost: A Wire. By Corinne Cushman..,.,.... 10¢ 8 Dm HE Love Her? Bartley T. Campbell,.... 10c 42 Winnina Ways. By Margaret Blount ...... 10¢ 4 A SrrancEe Woman. By Rett Winwood. .. 10¢ 43 A Woman’s Heart. By Mrs. M. V. Victor... 10¢ 6 Two Girts’ Lives. By . Mary R. Crowell. 10¢ 44 Tue Deap Letrer. By Seeley Regester. .. 10c 7-8 Lavy AUDLEY’sSmereT Miss M. E. Braddon. 10c 45 Lorp Lisue’s DauauTER. B SL: M. Braeme, : 10¢e 9 Taz War or Hearts. Corinne Cushman, ... 10¢ 46 A Woman’s Hanp. Author of ‘“ Dead Letter. 10¢ 10 LeraHTon GRANGE. Miss M. E. Braddon. ..... 10c 47 Vrats or Wratu. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.. 10¢ 11 Tue Fatse Wipow. Mrs. J. D. Burton. ...... 10¢ 48 A Witp Girt. By Corinne Cushman..... . . 10e 12-13 Lost ror Love. Miss M. E. Braddon....... 10c 49 Tae Mappesr MarriaGe Ever Was. Burton. 10 14-15 Torers or THE Sea. By Victor Hugo. .... 10c 50 Love in A Maze. By Mrs. E. F. Ellet.......... 100 16 Tue QcapRoon. By Catharine A Warfield.... 10c 51 Carnorrva. By Dr. J. H. Robinson..,.... .. 10e 17-18 Uncite Smuas. By J. S. Le Fanu............ 10e 52 A RoMANcE or A Poor Youne Giri. Mrs. Ellet 10c 19-20 Deap-SeA Fruit. Miss M. EB. Braddon...... 10c 53 Tae Lockep Heart. By Corinne Cushman... 10c 21-22 Lirrue Kare Kirpy. F. W. Robinson....... 10c 54 Tur Prive or THE Downes. M: rgaret Blount. 10c 23 SowInG THE Winp. Mrs. Mary R, Crowell..... 10c 55 A Srrance Gru. By Albert W. Aiken, ... 10¢ , 21-25 Birps of Prey. Miss M. E, Braddon ...... 10c 56 Tur PReTry PURITAN. ~ Parson’s Daughter.. 10¢ 26 Tuat Boy or Norcort’s. Charles Lever. .... 10c 57 Dip Sue Sry? By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell... 10c 27-28 CHaR.Lorre’s INHERITANCE. Miss Braddon. 10c 58 Dousiy Drvorcep. By Jenny Davis Burton.. 10c 29 A Giru's Heart. By Rett Winwood .».... 10e 59 A WickEpD Woman, By Lillie Devereux Blake.. 10c 30-31 Rep As A-Rose 1s Sue. Rhoda Broughton. 10¢ 60 Buinp BarBAra’s SECRET, —«..--*-. ques os. 100 32 Tae Lity or St. Erne. By Mrs. Crow ....... 10¢ 61 AN AMERICAN QuEEN, By Grace Mortimer. 10c 33 STRANGELY WED. By Mrs. J. D. Burton....... 10 62 Marcoun, THE STRANGE.. By Wm. M. Turner. 10c 34 Tue Gipsy BRIDE. M. E. O. Malen......... 10 Ready April 22d. 6 35 ANNIE TEMPLE. B v. J. H. In am,.... 10¢c 63 Wure or Winow; or, ErHeninp Eart’s Enemy. 36 Wirnout Mercy. By Bartley T. Campbell.... 10c By Rett Winwood. Ready May 6th........ 10ce. 37 Buack Eyres anp Biug. Corinne Cushman.... 10¢ For sale by al! ody bore gua sent, tad per 38 BRAVE BARBARA. By Corinne Cushman....... 10c on receipt of twelve cents. BEADLE ‘AND MS, 39 A Dangerous WomMAN. By Margaret Blount... 10c Publishers, 98 William street, N. Y, The Only First-class American Copyright Library ublished! Novel for Five Cents. In the Popular Library Form. Each Issue Complete and Unabridged COVERING THE FIELD OF Love and Society Romance. Perfectly pure in tone, spirited and ca: Mee in Story, as the title ‘‘ WAverLey”’ implies. Everything } to a ease and nothing to ayoid— Wholesine, Vigorous and Fresh! 1 Tue Maskep Brarpr. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell, 2 Was Ir Love? By Wm. Mason Turner. \ 8 Tue Girt Wire. By Bartley T. Campbell. 4 A Brave Heart. By Arabella Southworth. 5 Bessre Raynor, THE WorK Giri Wm. M. Turner. 6 Tar Secret MARRIAGE. By Sara Claxton. - % A Daueurer or Eve. Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 8 Heart to Hearr. By Arabella Southworth, 9 ALONE IN THE WorLD, Author of ‘ Clifton.” 10 A Parr or Gray Eyes. By Rose Kennedy. 11 ENTANGLED. By Henrietta Thocheras: 3 12 His Lawrut Wire. By Mrs. Ann §, Stephens. 18 Mapcap, THE LirrLe QuAkERESS. Cushman, 11 Way I Marrmp Hix. By Sara Claxton. .A Farr Face. By Bartley T. Campbell. _ 16 Trust Her Nor. By Margaret Leicester. 17 ALoyat Lover. By Arabella Southworth. 18 His Ipou. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 19 Tax BrokEN BrrrorHat, Mary Grace Halpine. 0 OrpHAN NELL, THE ORANGE GirL. By Agile Penne. 21 Now anp Forever. By Henrietta Thackeray. 22 Toe Brive of AN Actor. Author of “ Clifton.” 23 Leap Year; or, Why She Proposed. By Sara Claxton. Ready April 20th. 24 Her Face Was Her Fortune By Eleanor Blaine. Ready April 27th. 25 OnLy A ScHoou Mistress; or, Her Untold Secret. Ready May 4th. 26 Wirnour A Heart; or, Walking on the Brink. Ready May 1ith. 4 A new issue every week. : For sale by all Newsdealers, price five cents each F or sent, postage paid, on receipt of six cents. BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, 2 98 William street, N, Y. % ae a i Lr i _ THE Half-Dime Singer's Library 1 WHoa, Emma! and 59 other Songs. 2 Caprain Curr and 57 other Songs. 3 Tue Garnsporo’ Har and 62 other Songs. 4 Jounny Morean and 60 other Songs. 5 [un Strrxze You Wirn A FreatHer and 62 other ngs. 6 GroreE THE CHARMER and 56 other Songs. 7 Tue BeLte or Rockaway and 52 other Songs. 8 Your: FELLAH, You’RE Too FreEsH and 60 other ngs. 9 Say Youne Giri and 65 other Songs. 10 I’m THE GovERNOR’s ONLY Son and 58 other Songs, 11 My Faw and 65 other Songs. 12 Comm’ Tro’ THE Rye and 55 other Songs. 18 THe Ro.iickine IRISHMAN and 59 other Songs. 14 Op Doe Tray and 62 other Songs, 15 Waoa, CHARLIE and 59 other ee 16 In THIs WHEAT By anv By and 62 other Songs. 17 Nancy Lee and 58 other Songs. 18 I’m THE Boy THAT’s Bounpd To Biaze and 57 other Songs. 19 Taz Two OrpHaANS and 59 other Songs. 20 WHAT ARE THE WILD Waves Savina, SISTER? and 59 other Songs. 21 InpiegNant Portiy Woe and 59 other Songs. 22 Tue OLD Arm-CHAIR and 58 other Songs. 23 On Coney IsLAND Bracu and 58 other Songs. 24 Oup Simon, THE Hot-Corn Man and 60 others, 25 I’m rn Love and 56 other Songs. 26 PARADE OF THE GuARDs and 56 other Songs. 27 Yo, Heave, Ho! and 60 other Songs. . 28 "Iwi. NEVER Do To GipiruprSo and 60 other ongs. 29 Biur Bonnets Over THE Borper and & other ngs. 30 Tae Merry Laventne Man and 56 other Songs. 31 Sweet ForGET-ME-Nor and 55 other Songs. 82 LerTLe Bapy Mine and 53 other Songs. 33 De BANJo AM DE INSTRUMENT FoR Me and 53 other Songs. 34 Tarry and 50 other Songs. 35 Just TO PLEASE THE Boys and 52 other Songs. 36 prion ON ONE IN THE GuTTER and 52 other ongs, 87 KoLorep KRranks and 59 other Songs. 38 Nit DesPERANDUM and 53 other Songs. 39 Tue Giru I Lerr Bexryp Me and 50 other Songs. 40 ’Tis hl A Litre Faprep Fiower and 50 other ongs. 41 Prerry We ersnee and 66 other Songs. 42 DANCING IN THE BARN and 63 other Songs. 43 H, M.S. PINAFORE, COMPLETE, and 17 other Songs. Sold everywhere by Newsdealers, at five cents per copy, or sent post-paid, to any address, on re- ceipt of Six cents per number. BEADLE AND ADAMS, PusiisHers, 98 Wiad epaenne, New York. +, fy ~~ Aly oe SIDE LIBRARY . Of Notable Works by Notable Authors. 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